H Is for Homicide

license plate. A chill puckered my scalp and rippled down my spine, the cold wedging like a pillow in the small of my back. The plate read PARNELL. Raymond must have had Parnell Perkins's car ever since his death, probably using it to collect phony damage and injury claims.
    Raymond spotted a black-and-white in the southbound lane. It was possible somebody'd called the cops to report his erratic driving because the officer gave the Ford a quick startled look as we passed. Raymond cut over two lanes to the right and took the nearest off ramp. Even if the cop circled back, we'd be gone. He found a darkened side street, pulled over to the curb, and parked. He sat back and expelled a breath of air.
    I had started to shake, from fear, from relief, from visions of Bibianna's fate and bloody images of Bibianna's mother, whom I'd never even laid eyes on. I thought about Parnell facedown in the parking lot with a bullet in his head. I pressed my hands between my knees, teeth chattering, my breath coming in gasps.
    Raymond was looking at me with puzzlement. "What's the matter with you?"
    "Shut up, Raymond. I don't want to talk to you."
    "I didn't do nothing. What'd I do?"
    "You didn't do anything? I don't believe this…"
    "Chick stole my car and I chased her. What'd you expect?"
    "You're crazy!"
    "I'm crazy? Why? Because I won't let that bitch take me for everything I'm worth? You better believe it."
    "What's going to happen?"
    "Beats me."
    I sat up, irritated with his attitude. "Don't play dumb, Raymond. What's Chopper going to do to her?"
    "How do I know? I'm not a fuckin' psychic. Don't worry about it. It's got nothing to do with you."
    "What about her mother?"
    "What do you care? Quit acting like this is my fault."
    I looked at him with astonishment. "Who's fault is it, men?"
    "Bibianna's," he replied, as if it were self-evident.
    "Why is it her fault? You're the one who cut the woman."
    "Who, Gina? She's alive, isn't she? Which is more man you can say for Chago. I got a brother dead, and who do you think did that?"
    "Not her," I shot back.
    "That's my point," he replied patiently. "She didn't do nothing. She's innocent, right? Just like him. Tit for tat. It says so right in the Bible – an eye for an eye – and that's all this is about. Lookit, I could have killed the bitch, but I didn't, did I. And you know why? Because I'm a good guy. Nobody gives me credit. Bibianna has to learn not to fuck with me, I told you that. You think I like this? She'd done what I said to begin with, we wouldn't be here."
    "Which is what?"
    "Quit horsing around and get serious. She shoulda married me when I asked her. I'm not stupid, you know. I don't know what's going on, but I've been as patient as I'm gonna be. And that goes for you, too. You got that?"
    I stared at him, at a loss for words. His view of the world was so skewed there was no reasoning with him. He really seemed to see himself as innocent, the victim of a circumstance in which everyone was responsible for his behavior except him. Like every other "victim" I've known, he clung to his "one-down" position as justification for his abuse of other people.
    Raymond picked up the car phone and punched in a number. " 'Ey, Luis. Raymond. Put some clothes on, we're swinging by to pick you up." He glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes. And bring the mutt."
    He started the car then and pulled out, hanging a left onto a main artery as we headed south again. I glanced out the window. Raymond was driving at a sedate forty miles an hour. We were now on Sepulveda, not far from the airport. Not a wonderful neighborhood, but I thought I'd be safe until I could get a call through to the cops. I opened the car door. Raymond speeded up.
    "Please stop the car. I'm getting out," I said.
    He picked up the gun again and pointed it at me. "Close the door."
    I did as I was told. He turned his attention to the road again. In the glow from the streetlights, I studied his profile, hair still damp from the shower, the tousle of curls, dark eyes, long lashes, the dimple in his chin. He was bare-chested, barefoot, his skin very pale. I could see the faint scarring in the crooks of his arms. My guess was that after the intensity of the chase and the rush of adrenaline, the euphoric effects of his shooting up were beginning to wane. His ticcing had returned. The mysterious connections in his neurological circuitry were touching off a series of reactions, as if he were enduring tiny jolts of electricity. His mouth