A cup of espresso
later, Scott examined and hung the wet negative to dry, then left the office.
A short
distance away was the restaurant, Sushi Mas. Scott described it as the best
little sushi restaurant in all of L.A. He sat down at the counter and the sushi
chef, Mas, came over.
“Hey there,
Mas, can I get two California rolls to go, please?”
“Why you
not let me make you something else? Always California roll, California roll.”
“It’s what
I like, Mas. And you make the best. I’m kind of in a hurry, can you do them
fast?”
Mas
scowled and growled at him. “California roll. Fast, fast. This is art, not McDonald’s.
If you want fast, you go get French fry.”
“I really
appreciate it, thanks,” Scott said.
As he
started the rolls, Mas grumbled, “Two fast California roll for peeping Tom.”
“I’m not a
peeping Tom, Dammit!”
Mas
furiously yelled, “And this art . . . not fast, Dammit!”
Scott
threw his hands up in surrender.
~~~~~~~~~~
At the
house where Scott heard the gunshot, two burly men wrestled a large black
plastic bundle into the trunk of a car. An even bigger man stood in the doorway
smoking a cigarette and watching. As the trunk slammed, he flicked the smoke
out toward the street, handed one of the men a gun, sighed heavily, and went
back inside.
One of the
men tossed the gun into the glove box, picked up the hose, and squirted the
driveway. The other thug washed his hands off under the spray. When they were
finished cleaning up, they drove down the hill.