dispatch
by Nolan Knight
The detective flashes his penlight over a slick of blood. Eyes the busted back door, scans the yard. Body was moved. That’s three this week. Or was it last week? Stacking homicides faster than during the riots. He snaps off rubber gloves, climbs into his unmarked on Cahuenga. Palm trees crackle. Three this week and last week? Catches a glimpse in the rearview: gray, bald, moustache like steel wool. He was thirty-three during the riots. Two years on the force. Jane had Ally the summer before. Mack the year after. If Jane could see him now—gum instead of Camel Wides, iced tea instead of Mountain Dew. She’d bawl her eyes out—tease him to hell. Should call Ally. Mack too. They’re probably busy. He’d have to deal with LAX just to see them. Jane, why’d you have to go? He tries to refocus. Can’t. Was it last month? Jane’s hand with the IV blips his brain. Then the new body—hands bound, crusted red. Last year? Time melts into a blur. Sirens blare, jarring him back. He pops Juicy Fruit. What did Jane used to say? Snaps a bubble. Smirks. The light’s dwindling, old boy.
Photo of Nolan Knight
BIO: Nolan Knight is the author of THE GORGON OF LOS FELIZ, GALLOWS DOME, THE NEON LIGHTS ARE VEINS, and BENEATH THE BLACK PALMS. He is a fourth generation Angeleno and former staff writer for Los Angeles’ Biggest Music Publication, the L.A. Record. His short fiction has been featured in various publications including Akashic Books, Thuglit, Shotgun Honey, Starlite Pulp, and Action, Spectacle. His work has been met with praise by luminaries such as Barry Gifford, James Sallis, Allison Anders, and Lydia Lunch.