The Speed Chronicles by Joseph Mattson Page A

in sweat, caught in the frenzied, possessed grip of fanatical religious conviction. I recognized one of them as an acclaimed actor who’d been in the papers on drug charges, pornography scandal, and spousal abuse. To the right of the sacrificed dog was a much smaller cross with a fanged marmot crudely driven into it, caught sneering in its death. To the left, an empty cross the same size. On a table next to it sat a tray of pulverized methamphetamine, a giant syringe, the necessary means to fire, and a Bible. There were tufts of hair stuck to the bloody rig.
    â€œYou’re just in time. I guess Judas is next,” Harv said, and nodded toward a cage where a handsome white domestic short-hair cat lay apprehensively licking its paw. The dancing freaks of the New Church of Zoom paid us no attention at all.
    â€œJudas wasn’t crucified,” Jim Grace said. “He killed himself.”
    My heart sputtered and my gut folded. I have never been one to stomach the slaughter of innocents. I gave Grace a piercing leer, a silent command that it was time to go. He looked pallid, confused, knocked silly from the scene. Before either of us could fully comprehend the massive severity of it: “Now isn’t this a surprise,” someone cooed from behind, just outside the clubhouse door. I recognized the voice but I couldn’t place it. Grace and I turned around and found a thick, sculpted bulldog of a man walking firmly toward us.
    â€œShit,” Grace mumbled.
    â€œWhat?” I whispered.
    â€œNothing,” Grace said. “Nothing.”
    The zealots continued, praising the Lord and singing “Blessed All Ye Faithful.”
    â€œWhat the fuck is going on?” I gasped.
    The man offered his hand. “Roy Mendoza. Dozer.”
    It immediately struck me that Detective Dozer was doing absolutely nothing to curb the sacrifice—felony animal cruelty to the highest degree—nor making any attempt to bust Harv or anybody else on enormous drug offenses.
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. I turned to go.
    â€œGive me a minute, Will, please,” Grace said.
    â€œAh, William O’Sullivan,” Dozer said.
    â€œYou here on a call for domestic aggravated assault?” I asked Dozer, regarding Nettles. Harv hissed a clicked tongue at me and spat on the ground.
    â€œLet’s have a seat,” Dozer said.
    Jim Grace, Dozer, and I sat at a picnic table in the area between the clubhouse and the pool. Dozer faced the New Church of Zoom, and Grace and I faced the house, yet I couldn’t help turning my head back to look. The congregation clamored further with song. The detective remained unfazed, and Harv retreated into the angry womb of his manor.
    â€œI haven’t heard from you.”
    â€œLook, Roy, it’s done, man. You can’t keep living in the past, right? You’ve got to move on. I can’t do anything more for you. I’ve gotten on with my life,” Jim Grace said.
    â€œYeah, getting along well, aren’t you,” Dozer mocked. They talked as old friends gone sour long ago, presently uncertain of what it all amounted to.
    â€œShe’s gone, man. Gone for good. How many years has it been? Five? Seven? You’ve got to give up the ghost,” Jim Grace said.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on?” I burst in.
    Jim turned, his face wrung with guilt and sympathy, not for Dozer, but for me. “Shit, Will, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was going to be here.”
    â€œJust damn good timing,” Dozer chimed.
    â€œRoy—Detective Dozer—was on my case, hard, years ago, when I was a driver. Until he discovered his wife was a lesbian. He found her in bed with Cammy. Strange turn of events.”
    Cammy—Camille—was Jim Grace’s ex-wife. He’d talked to me about her from time to time, how he had not known much true happiness since, and about getting into using afterward, but never exactly why