Dog Beach by John Fusco Page B

on a ladder rung and the other suspended in the air, like Harold Lloyd in the silent Safety Last! But his painting skills were awful; he made an unholy mess of things, ruined a good pair of pants.
    Still, he replenished his wallet, paid his rent. Had enough to eat. A month later, Sean King called him, said he had finally made it back to Vancouver. Some shit had gone down in Romania, he said; his crew hadn’t been paid for the extra work, so he got caught up in politics and accounting and finally collected a rucksack full of cash, under the table. Paid his boys off and came home.
    Louie warmed to the story about getting paid in cash. Especially when it was delivered in rucksacks. Romania sounded ideal.
    â€œLet’s meet for a dram, mother,” Sean said. Louie said he didn’t have wheels, so Sean told him to name a place where they could grab a drink and talk shop.
    â€œMonkey King,” Louie said, not sure why he suggested the gaudy place that wouldn’t hire him. It just seemed convenient and the only name he remembered.
    At five that night, Sean King walked into the Chinese restaurant wearing his leather jacket and tennis shoes that made him light on his feet even as he limped like most stunt veterans. He hugged Louie, they laughed, then sat at the bar and ordered tall glasses of vodka, no ice.
    Mean Lady turned from her cash register and squinted at Louie for a long moment. He gave her the sweetest smile he could muster and she curled her lip in disgust.
    â€œDid you wrap the Mandarin Films gig?”
    â€œYeah. All done.”
    â€œYou usually overlap, mate, you’re never available.”
    â€œTired of Hong Kong.”
    Sean sipped his vodka and studied Louie up close. He seemed to be able to read him, could tell something wasn’t right. Sometimes a stunt gone bad could have that effect, turn a man dark for a while.
    â€œTV series starting up in about two months,” Sean finally said. “Cop show.”
    Louie looked at him with keen interest as Sean lit a cigarette, then lit one for Louie.
    â€œNo kung fu, though,” Sean said. “Straight-up fighting. Cop shit.”
    â€œCop shit, I like,” Louie said.
    â€œHow’s that knee, man?”
    It was then that Louie’s eyes picked up something in the mirror near where Mean Lady was straightening bottles of alcohol and little jars of umbrellas. A young Chinese man entered from the street, a beanie on his head, sunglasses, hands jammed into the pockets of a sleeveless jacket. One of his thin arms bore a tattoo that Louie couldn’t make out. Behind him, three more teenagers followed, so closely they touched one another. Something both nervous and angry in their steps.
    â€œThe knee, Louie, you still getting those shots?”
    Louie could see all four teens looking at him from behind. He could see Mean Lady turning slowly, then fully, as if she recognized the youths and didn’t like their faces.
    The guns came up at the same moment Louie’s adrenaline surged. Bullets smashed the mirror and Mean Lady yelled. Deep, almost like a man. Sean went to the floor, shielding his head. Louie went over the bar, rolling, and launching himself toward the kitchen area door.
    Mean Lady took a bullet in the forehead and was pitched back against the bar bottles. People were screaming from the tables. Louie passed through the kitchen, overtook a running chef and a dishwasher. Both men dove to the ground, thinking that Louie might be one of the shooters.
    In the back parking lot, Louie kept running. He knew that Sean was all right. Only four shots had been fired. Three had hit the mirror and one had struck Mean Lady. Sean was savvy enough to stay low and still. A professional. Louie was certain of that.
    So he didn’t look behind him as he slowed his run to a casual jog and made his way to the motel. The phone in his room was ringing off the night table. Could be Sean, he thought, but could be trouble. People