It was after nine o'clock in the evening, and the Los Angeles night was low and cold.
At the end of the narrow, dark alley, Bruce wears a hood, hiding his entire body under a wide sweatshirt. He pulled out a disposable cell phone, stuck an easy-open pull-tab to his throat, and dialed the number.
The phone rang a few times before connecting and a raspy voice came out, “Who?”
Bruce lowered his voice with a cold, mechanical timbre, “You don't need to know who I am. But if you don't make it to the back alley of the Hollywood Bar in half an hour, you'll never see your son again.”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, followed by an angry growl, “Son? Are you f*****g kidding me? My son is dead this afternoon, long dead! f**k off, who the hell are you?”
Bruce's heart shook
