The Bloody New Yorker

A story about people, a freeway, LA and ultimately a murderer.

    The red shoe prints marked a gory path leading away from the beautiful corpse that lay on the kitchen linoleum of an upscale condo in an affluent community. The bloody path led through the large laundry room and out the carport door to the far side of the space and ended where a showroom condition chiffon yellow 1966 Chrysler should have been.

    Paul pulled the visor down. The late afternoon sun was drilling a hole through his eyes. He had another one of those headaches. This was the kind he always got after being upset, and Paul was certainly upset. He tried to focus on the traffic and forget this afternoon, forget the look of disbelief on her face as he struck his sister a second and final blow and how he fled like a coward afterward. The five o’clock traffic on the northbound I-405 was helping. He adjusted the VW’s mirror and happened to notice the beautiful Blonde behind him and almost hit the car in front.

    Jordi stomped the brakes on his old car, just missing the bumper of the sea-foam green Beetle in front of him by only a foot. He stuck his hand out the window lightning fast and flipped off the driver in front of him. A hot breeze blew through the classic car’s open window and played with the surfers’ bleach blonde hair. Jordi then slipped into his own world again. This time he was splitting the skull of the bug owner in a private parking lot where there were no witnesses. He saw himself clearly pulling the ax out slowly, watching the f*g’s brain matter slide off the razor sharp ax head and smearing the gore across the Pride stickered back window. He lived in this hateful and violent world more often lately. Jordi was lost in this grisly scene and didn’t noticed the gawking driver passing beside him. The driver couldn’t help but stare at his disturbing grin.

    Julie couldn’t help staring at the beautiful surfer dude’s disturbing grin as she passed his oxidized red Corvair. ‘I knew a man with a creepy grin like that once.’ She looked forward again through the expansive windshield and laughed at that thought. He would never smile at her that way again. She had made sure of that. His beauty and ego were his ultimate downfall. She crushed him and took everything he loved, including his stupid old car. Now she was dating his lawyer. She laughed out loud. Traffic had sped up enough for her to shift another gear. The late afternoon light shone on her lovely ringless left hand. The tan line on her finger long faded. She glanced at it again as she made a quick lane change and cutting off the redhead in the old yellow sled.

    Dana was a b***h and Dana reveled in being a b***h. She smiled as she held the horn ring down on her classic land yacht when the powder blue Olds’ 4-4-2 slid in front of her. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she saw a beautiful woman with perfect skin, makeup, gorgeous red hair and big black Ray-Bans looking back at her. She made a kissy face at herself and pressed the horn down two more long times. She was in a particularly good mood today. Dana had just set herself free. Five years of grief and a box of desktop bullshit, currently resting on the huge back seat, was all she had to show for it. Well, that and the car. She had just taught Mr. Grabby Hands a lesson he’ll never forget. ‘Leave ‘em laughing or leave ‘em bleeding.’ she thought “That was fine.” she said out loud to her reflection in her ex boss’s car ( A private arrangement she made with him. She called it a severance package). “The DNC would hire me in a second.” She said and gleefully laid on the horn again.

    Chela wondered what good it did honking the horn at anyone. She mentally slapped the redheaded woman driving the old caddy in front of her and felt a bit of satisfaction. She regretted taking the I-405 but it was the fastest way back to the valley. Back where she came from, Van Nuys. Chela hated Pelican Hill and the rest of Newport Beach. She hated handsome rich a******s who thought they owned you and could beat on you just because. ‘Not any more!’ she thought and started to cry again. “He’ll never hit me again!” she yelled out to no one and to the scared young Latina inside herself. The redheaded woman in front of her hit the brakes hard. “Perra!” Chela screamed at her and laid on the Buick LeSabre’s horn.

    

    “Wow!” Richie said. “Freaking nut-balls are out here in force today.” he laughed out loud and shook his head. Richie loved sunny southern California. He loved the air, the crazy people, the chilled pace of life and the beautiful old cars. ‘You just don’t see the old classics back east. They all rusted away a long time ago.’ he thought. Richie scanned the traffic and found five classic cars within a stone’s throw from where he sat in traffic. He smiled to himself and turned up the volume when he heard Michael W. Smith’s comforting voice sing “Mighty To Save” on his favorite cruising station, KFRN AM 1280 “The Christian Blow Torch”. Richie sang the chorus out loud “Savior, he can move the mountains, My God is mighty to save, He is mighty to save.” The gay guy in the bug next to him smiled and said “God bless you, Brother.” in a mocking tone. Richie just nodded back and sang on “He rose and conquered the grave, Jesus conquered the grave.” He readjusted himself in the plush bench seat after an hour and only ten miles on the San Diego Freeway. Richie’s foot kept sticking to the Chrysler’s brake pedal and floor mat. Who knew blood was so sticky?