Runner-up 2

Hans screeched onto Ventura Boulevard, headed west. As a rule he stuck to motorcycles, so the blue minivan was a shock to his already fragile system. The thing hogged practically a lane and a half, and had almost zero visibility on the rear right side. So this was where his jagged path had landed him -- stuck behind the wheel of a car only a mother could love, speeding for his life to a hit job on a pole-dancing broad.

The pain in his shattered left leg made him swerve, and he nearly bashed into a Prius in the adjoining lane. Concentrate, he told himself. He doubted the gal would be dumb enough to hang out in her apartment, waiting for him to return and off her, but he had to head there first and try. At the very least, ransack the place for the boss and see what he could uncover. If he couldn’t find her anywhere, maybe he could save his sorry ass by producing some tidbit from her dirty laundry.

Meanwhile, he would swallow his pride and make that phone call he’d been dreading. Stopped at Ventura and White Oak, he fished the cellphone out of his pocket and punched in the numbers. It rang once, twice, three times. Come on, Rogers, he thought. Come on. Pick up, you son of a. . . .

“Yeah?”

“Rogers?” Hans was confused. The guy always greeted him with “What’s cookin’?” In addition to thug work, Brad Rogers was training to be a chef.

“I’m here,” the strange voice went on. “Where are you?”

“Ummm. . . .” Pain from his throat mingled with pain from his leg, like a drizzle of red rain. He struggled to think through it.

“I said, Where are you?” the voice demanded again.

“Uh, Ventura and Zelzah.” Something was not right. Whoever was on the other end of the line talked like a barking German shepherd, sharp and loud. Whereas Rogers, the guy spoke so gently you could hardly hear him.

He’d hoped Rogers could give him a clue to Carmen’s whereabouts. Hans had counted on some embarrassment at his botched job -- but not this.

“Oh, you’re in the Valley,” the man said, with what sounded strangely like relief. “Now listen, Hans buddy. . . .”

And with that, Hans snapped the phone shut and shoved it back in his pocket. Something somewhere had gone badly wrong. He’d have to figure things out for himself from here forward.

Because whoever this was, it wasn’t Rogers. Rogers always called Hans by his last name -- Hauser.

On the other end of the line, Hermann Hauser yelled into the now-dead phone line. “Hans? Buddy? Talk to me!” Tears welled up in his eyes. So this is what happened -- his own Hans, one of Palmieri’s henchmen. He hoped he was safe -- he knew he wasn’t. A wave of fear, worry and a sickening sense of failure crashed over Hauser.

“Hans?” he said into the phone. “Son? It’s your dad. Talk to me! Please.”

But wooziness began to fur his head again, and this time he let it overtake him. Sleepily, he felt a pair of hands grab him under his arms and drag him into the house, as he passed into the bliss of the unconscious.

Constance Sommer is a former journalist who freelanced for The Times.