The Wolf of Los Angeles

[Chapter 6: Stir-Fried Calamari]

"California billionaire, founder and chairman of Ackerman Films, Mr. Buddy Ackerman's health had taken a turn for the worse last year." Freddy, barely holding it together through immense pain, started spilling the beans. "While prepping for the film, I overheard executives mention he was considering an organ transplant."

Hawke coldly replied, "Keep going."

Freddy, now sweating the details, continued, "Since the New Year, companies under the Ackerman family have been using welfare and charity as excuses for comprehensive health checks. But with a blood type like Hh, finding a match for organ transplants is incredibly difficult, and you just happened to fit the criteria."

He took a few deep breaths, quickly adding, "I was just following orders. I had to do this, or I'd lose my job -- and without income, my house, my car, and my wife would all go up in smoke."

Hawke stared at him. "Get to the point."

Freddy changed his tune. "It was all Broderick and Barack Bernanke pressuring me. If I didn't comply, they would fire me!"

Hawke knew Broderick was the producer on the film. He asked, "And who is Barack Bernanke?"

Freddy explained, "He's one of us -- Jewish, just like Broderick and me. He's currently the chairman of the Ackerman Charity Foundation."

Hawke felt no sense of disbelief; the American charity system had always been intertwined with organ donation and transplants. He inquired, "Where are these two now?"

"Barack already took a flight back to Los Angeles." Freddy clung to hope. "When I left the set, Broderick activated all the crew security. You think you can kill someone with more than a dozen people protecting him? I'm out of reach here, but he'll be back in L.A. soon."

"Los Angeles!" Hawke nodded slightly.

The risk of returning to the set was too high; a billionaire's Hollywood film crew shooting in Provo would certainly attract the attention of local law enforcement and city hall. Moreover, his out-of-shape body wasn't in the best condition.

Hawke had originally planned to move to Los Angeles, and now his destination aligned with that decision.

Freddy once again tried to distance himself. "Really, they forced me to do it; I've got no grudges against you..."

Hawke put away his knife and pulled out a Glock.

Freddy shouted, "You promised God you'd spare me!"

Without saying another word, Hawke shot Freddy in the head, grabbing the collected spoils and heading toward the parking area.

On the hillside, the scent of blood attracted more coyotes. With the dangerous two-legged creature gone, they ventured down one after another.

Hawke first placed the items in his pickup, then carefully searched the Mercedes, finding Freddy's wallet in the storage compartment, which indeed contained a fair amount of cash.

He pocketed the cash, disposed of everything else, and then discovered a drum of green gasoline in the trunk.

Just in time, as the pickup was nearly out of gas, Hawke refueled the vehicle and thoroughly checked the loot, even disassembling the two Glock handguns to ensure they had no tracking devices.

As for the Mercedes, Hawke had heard from David that the crew had rented ten of them, which likely had GPS tracking.

The pickup turned around and headed back.

Down the hillside, the coyotes were gearing up for their calamari feast.

[T/N: Jews are referred as Squids. Squid dishes are often referred as calamari.]

...

Hawke got back on the road, not heading toward Provo, but rather continuing north.

The heavy snow buried any remaining traces.

At one point, nearing Utah Lake, a desolate area without anyone around beckoned. Hawke stopped the car, retrieved a plastic bag, and packed away the cleaned revolver, the fired Glock, the bloodied jacket, and other items that needed to be discarded. He sealed the bag with some rocks and climbed the steep lakeshore, tossing it into the deep water.

He continued his journey north, reaching the small town of Highland before darkness fell.

The snow was lighter here, and the pickup drove around the town finally parking at the outskirts of a Black neighborhood.

Nearby was an auto scrapyard run by Black owners.

Hawke packed up his belongings, cleaned away traces, and left the area on foot.

Given the community's reputation, they would certainly handle "processing" that vehicle well.

As the snow stopped, a few men from the neighborhood stared at the pickup, observing it multiple times before decisively prying open the door.

However, the pickup was quite old, requiring significant refurbishment to sell, and that could cost more than it was worth; they all agreed to send the vehicle for parts.

...

By this time, Hawke had already hitched a ride, arriving late at night in Midvale. He entered a small supermarket in the suburbs, buying a new jacket and various food items.

The cold and heavy snow meant fewer people outside, so he found an old, unlit house, watched for a while to ensure no one was inside, climbed over the fence, entered through the back door, and rested inside for the night.

After more than ten hours of exhaustion, Hawke was worn out.

At dawn, he was jolted awake by loud howling sounds. He quickly sat up on the couch, pointing his gun toward where the noise emanated.

With the dim morning light, he realized it was just the wind outside.

Sleep eluded him, so he checked the house inside and out, seeing nothing unusual. After a quick wash, he grabbed the items he'd bought the night before and sat in front of the vanity.

He took out a razor and shaving cream, carefully shaving off all his facial hair, then pulled out the Hawke Osment driver's license he'd acquired, using clippers and scissors to trim his messy long hair into a buzz cut to match the picture.

Next, he shaped his eyebrows slightly, prepared the hair dye, and dyed both his hair and eyebrows to the black color of the photo.

No longer did he have the unkempt brown beard and hair, and with slightly adjusted brows and expression, he looked like a new man.

"Hello, I am Hawke Osment." Hawke adjusted his speech, striving to mimic the Wyoming accent, saying, "My name is Hawke Osment, I'm from Wyoming."

Out in the world, one's identity was self-assigned.

Remembering that some Jewish guys wanted him dead, he put on a big pair of horn-rimmed glasses, maintaining a calm, sophisticated demeanor. "My favorite dish is stir-fried calamari."

The reflection in the mirror no longer looked disheveled and defeated; instead, it appeared humble and unassuming.

Hawke pinched his face and tapped his slightly protruding belly -- he knew he needed to lose weight and change his physique.

He put away the driver's license on the vanity and retrieved the one belonging to Downing Ward, cutting it into tiny pieces and placing it along with the hair clippings into a tin cookie box. He set it ablaze, flushing the ashes down the toilet.

The night prior, he'd bought a sandwich and some sausages, and Hawke quickly ate a little, then opened a map for a while, deciding he would spend the next few days changing his outfit and hitching rides to different places, all while losing weight and practicing the Wyoming accent.

He intended to head to Los Angeles with a completely new appearance, identity, and persona.

But to achieve all this, he needed cash.

Opening his wallet, Hawke laid out all the cash he had. Before his original $17, he had also managed to collect an additional $472 from Freddy and the others.

That kind of money wouldn't be enough to whip up some stir-fried calamari.

Besides, the main course was still four extra-large squids.

It had been 24 hours since his rebirth, and making money was still an urgent matter.

Hawke stared at the map, pondering how to earn some cash.

Ideally, he could combine it with the persona he was crafting of "Hawke Osment."

His gaze settled on nearby Park City, where David had mentioned yesterday that the St. Denis Film Festival was just about to kick off.

In his past life, Hawke had worked on online reputation management and was familiar with the St. Denis Film Festival, one of the largest independent film festivals in North America, drawing huge crowds of media and film fans every year.

Thousands of outsiders would be there, making it hard to stick out.

With so many opportunists, it would be easier to find something.

Hawke pondered carefully for a time, recalling ways to make money at the film festival, soon deciding he would go to the St. Denis Film Festival.

He meticulously cleaned up any traces he had left and left the area.

*****

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