Runner-up 3

“You idiot!” Palmieri screamed into his cell phone.

The taxi driver turned around, eyes wide.

“Not you,” Palmieri said to the cabbie. He held the phone close to his mouth. “Listen to me, Hans,” he whispered, “I want that girl alive.”

“I wasn’t . . . gonna . . . kill her,” Hans panted, out of breath from his scramble up the riverbank.

“That’s your problem, Hans. You have no subtlety. I send you to her apartment to scare her straight, you bring a knife and get slashed in the neck. Now you’re shooting at her. What part of DON’T KILL HER do you not understand?”

“OK, OK, Where are we meeting at the stadium?”

Palmieri cursed. He wanted Hans for support at the Stadium Club, but the man would attract Dodger security like rednecks to a rodeo. Forget him. Palmieri didn’t need any more complications.

“The plans have changed. Just cool off for now.”

“What do you want with this girl anyway?” Hans said.

“An animal like you wouldn’t understand,” Palmieri said, and ended the call.

Palmieri had met Carmen only once, at Jumbo’s Clown Room. She came on stage, began her routine and he simply froze, like a lion staring at a gazelle. It was as if he had never seen a woman before. Beyond her hair, her eyes, her body -- which were all spectacular -- some primal, magnetic force drew him to her. She was shorter than some of the dancers, and a little older, but she absolutely bewitched him.

Palmieri swore that someday he would possess her. And as his taxi fought its way through the traffic in Elysian Park, he sensed that his moment was coming.

Back in Griffith Park, Hans was also thinking about Carmen. He had been so close to wasting that piece of trash when Palmieri called him off. The girl had eluded him twice, and had put him in the hospital. Hans refused to concede victory to a washed-up, low-life stripper. He would have his revenge.

Hans heard police sirens. Beach cruiser boy must have dialed 911. He ran back down the riverbank, slipped on the mossy concrete, and landed on his butt in a splash.

The water was shallow on the sides but thanks to last weekend’s storm, the river ran nearly waist deep in the center of the channel. Hans looked up and saw flashing lights coming up Riverside Drive. A few more seconds and they would nail him.

Hans crawled to the middle of the channel, ducked under, and let the river take him. The current carried him downstream and he kicked his legs to pick up speed. The water was cold and his lungs began to thirst for oxygen. He went as far as he could, then raised his head to breathe and look around. Happily, the Los Feliz overpass was behind him and the cops had crossed over to the eastern side.

Hans knew the river paralleled the 5 Freeway and would take him close to Chavez Ravine. He also knew traffic was bad getting into the stadium so close to game time and he had little chance of finding a cab. The river might be ugly, marred by graffiti, and unnaturally encased in concrete, but at least it had no traffic or stoplights. He took a deep breath and went back under.

Damon Feldmeth is a commercial real estate broker who says his wife will be glad when this contest is over.