The Little Death

The Little Death
Written By: P.B. Tedrow

White mushroom head slammed the taxi door. Two people sat in it. The taxi perched on the alley like a bird on a tree. Looking for shade in the abysmal city of LA. Los Angeles, city of angels. Today there will be no angels - the men knew this.
The day had been busy. Things began to slow. The man with the white mushroom on his head wore a chef’s hat. A chef that worked for a hotel. Hotels were boring, no thrills, no glory meant no girls. In the hotel there was a man that needed to be killed. Catching a bullet would be easier then catching a taxi or any source of help from LAPD. The taxi sat silently. Los Angeles stirred.
The driver said: “You nervous kid?”
Mushroom head said nothing.
The driver took out a pack of Marlboros. “Feel like a smoke?”
The chef ran his hand through his hair knocking off his hat.
“Well?”
The chef grabbed a cigarette. The driver smirked. Both men laughed. “Ole girl Marlboro helps cool the nerves. The job went well a few years back and part two begins today.” The driver lit up his Marlboro and took cancer to the sweet welcome mat of his lungs.
“…” Mushroom head searched for words to express his feelings.
The driver tried to tune the radio in but it was fuzz. All fuzz. “You like baseball, kid?”
Finally something arose from little Mushroom head. “Yeah.”
“Dodgers? Of course you do, anybody with a damn brain roots for those damn Dodgers. Beat the Pirates today. Five nil. Not much on offense but, Drysdale pitched a shutout with eight K’s. Roberto Clemente, stupid nigger, went oh for three.”
The chef began to drift away from the conversation.
“Anyway, they don’t have a chance for the pennant but you have every chance – today. Win the pennant for-” Mushroom head interrupted the driver.
The chef said: “You got the piece or not?”
The driver said: “Don’t get your turban in a bunch.”
“It’s a chef hat.”
“Same indifference.”
“You mean same difference?”
The driver took out the piece. He pistol whipped ‘Shroom on the head.
“There’s the piece - .22 Caliber.”
A welt formed. Mushroom head with a welt took the pistol. It found a home, a home – a killer. “Tonight he’s dead.”
“Dead man walking… wouldn’t want to be one of those.”
“.22 Caliber. Six bullets. Kill shot.” ‘Shroom said.
“Damn straight.”
“The job will be done.”
“Big bucks.”
The taxi sat in the alley. The taxi watched people walk by.
“What?”
“Big bucks – it’s how we’re getting paid so kill the fucker.”
“We weren’t paid to sit - to kill, like you said.” The chef wiped the stub of the cigarette on the arm rest. Chef opened the door and left the taxi.
The chef walked in the backdoor alley. Inside were many other workers. They cooked. The time wasn’t right and it had to be successful. The plan, mission could fail due not to being ready.
Cooking food for a hotel. Business was slow at night. In the night real predators howl and prowl. Chef happened to be a predator and the prey was close. Six cylinders sat in his pocket. The kitchen grew hot. Not to long now.
Doors opened and exited the hotel kitchen. Burgers flipped. Burgers sizzled.
Intensity grew.
The situation could fall apart quick. Keep a level head, thoughts such like this passed through his head. Cows continued to be cook. Vegetables boiled. Food was served. Dinner was done.
The new day was coming to LA.
New crimes. More murders.
Chef cooked and cooked. He thought about the contract and the kill. Unnecessary build up began to build in his head. Fingers could slip and bullets could miss. Cooking before a killing, ironic but the job was a job. LA was just as crazy as the situation. Plans to memorize, if one doesn’t happen the other one will. Trouble, torture, treason trickled through his mind.
Just kill him. Kill him.
Thoughts passed as did plates to customers.
The kitchen was hell’s kitchen. Labor, hard cooking, working, drugs, illegal aliens, the smell of the Dodgers locker room – LA was not mistakable.
Doors opened.
Right on time. Shower of bullets. Shots were fired. Bullet line went from doll face to .22 caliber holder - Sirhan B. Sirhan. The man bled. His face cracked like a porcelain doll that had just fell off grandma’s shelf. Robert F. Kennedy, Bobby a catholic saint, dead. Dead in the city of angels.