The Wolf of Los Angeles

Chapter 42: Gaining a Few More Holes

Santa Monica, Third Street Promenade Parking Lot

In the dark confines of his Mondeo, Hawk adjusted the Midnight Entertainment press pass around his neck one last time and checked his handheld video camera. Everything was ready.

Moments later, his burner phone buzzed.

“Are you there?” came Cole’s voice. “We’ll be there soon for the deal—five minutes at most. Our car is a champagne-colored Cadillac.”

Hawk, maintaining his fake persona, replied smoothly, “The quantity you’re asking for is too risky. LAPD and DEA are fishing hard these days. I need Downey himself to handle the transaction alone.”

In the Cadillac, Cole sighed, glancing at Downey. “These guys are out of line. No respect for protocol...”

Downey, overhearing the conversation, was too far gone to care. High and desperate for more, he waved it off. “It’s nothing. I’ve done this before. It’s exciting! Call it method acting—prepping for a future role!”

“Fine,” Cole relented into the phone. “No problem.”

Arriving at the parking lot, Cole parked the Cadillac. Hawk’s Mondeo trailed discreetly behind, taking a parallel route through the lot.

Once the Cadillac stopped, Hawk parked a short distance away, his camera trained on the scene.

Downey stepped out of the car, his movements unsteady from his earlier high.

“Wait,” Cole called after him, concern etched on his face. “They said you should go alone, but what if it’s a setup?”

“They want money, not trouble,” Downey dismissed. “Do you know who I am? I’m Robert freakin’ Downey Jr. They wouldn’t dare touch me.”

Playing the part of the overzealous driver, Cole handed Downey a Glock 26 from the car’s compartment. “Take this, just in case.”

Downey accepted it absentmindedly, shoving it into his coat pocket before swaggering off toward an SUV.

Hawk’s camera tracked Downey as he handed over a bag of cash to a sunglasses-wearing man who examined its contents under the light. Satisfied, the man passed Downey a bag in return.

Downey opened it, sniffed the contents, and nodded approval.

The dealer muttered something in Spanish, disdain coloring his tone. “These addicts live like kings. Why?”

Moments later, Downey stumbled back to the Cadillac, the dealer muttering curses as he drove away.

Back in the Cadillac, Downey tossed the bag onto the center console.

“Let’s head home and party!” he declared gleefully.

Cole, feigning casualness, suggested, “Shouldn’t we test the new stuff first?”

Downey’s face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Great idea!”

Cole prepared a small dose for him, politely declining to join in. “I need to keep a clear head for driving.”

Downey indulged enthusiastically, and soon his high spiraled further out of control.

From his Mondeo, Hawk continued filming. Every frame focused solely on Downey.

Inside the Cadillac, Downey’s manic energy escalated. He banged his head against the headrest, muttering darkly, “That b**** Deborah. I’ll kill her! I’ll kill that b****!”

Cole attempted to calm him. “Relax. She won’t take your money. We’ll figure it out.”

Downey alternated between sobbing and laughing hysterically, his threats growing louder.

Cole eventually pulled onto Santa Monica Boulevard, parking near a McDonald’s.

“I’ll grab your favorite burger,” Cole said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Might take a while.”

Downey, too absorbed in his delusions, barely nodded. “I’ll kill her... that b****...”

Cole slipped into the McDonald’s front door and exited through the back, climbing into another car. His mind was already on his escape to Brentwood and, beyond that, Mexico.

Hawk, parked a safe distance away, filmed every moment. He adjusted his camera as two LAPD patrol cars, lights flashing, entered the scene.

The first officer, a brown-haired man, approached the driver’s side cautiously, one hand on his holster.

“LAPD! Step out of the vehicle for inspection!” he called.

Noticing the driver’s seat was empty, he peeked into the passenger side. Inside, Downey rocked violently against the headrest, mumbling incoherently. A bag lay on the console, white powder scattered around it.

The officer immediately drew his weapon. “LAPD! Temporary inspection! Sir, show me your hands and exit the vehicle!”

His partner, a tall, sharp-eyed female officer, mirrored his movements, holding her Glock low but ready as she approached the passenger side.

Downey’s fogged brain registered their commands. He shakily opened the door and stepped out.

“Hands up! Against the car!” the female officer ordered.

To Downey’s twisted perception, she was no officer. She was Deborah, the woman trying to take everything from him.

“I’ll kill you, b****!” he screamed, drawing the Glock from his pocket.

“Drop the weapon!” the female officer shouted, her Glock snapping into position.

“I’ll kill you!” Downey screamed again, raising the gun.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Gunshots echoed through the parking lot as the officer emptied her clip into Downey’s chest.

The man who fancied himself untouchable hit the ground, a new set of holes punctuating his body.

From a distance, Hawk recorded the entire scene.

Satisfied, he turned off the camera and murmured, “That’s a wrap.”

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