Chapter 14: How the Other Half Lives
Portola Drive
Rockford Hills
Later That Day
Detective Harrison turned his unmarked 2011 Chevrolet Impala police sedan onto the infamous Portola Drive in the very affluent Rockford Hills neighborhood. He passed a variety of perfect-looking mansions, the driveways packed with high-end convertibles and sports cars. He eyed each one with considerable envy as he looked for the De Santa Residence.
"Holy shit", he muttered to himself as his look switched intermittently between both the front and passenger-side windows looking for the specific house, "So this is how the other half lives. What a fucking cliché."
It was then that the automated female voice of his cell phone's GPS application finally gave him some useable guidance. "Your destination will be on the right", the voice said.
Harrison then eased the car into a leisurely and careful right-hand turn and he soon found himself at a security gate, behind which sat a very immaculate-looking mansion with a roof that was completely decked out in what looked to be Spanish-style tiles. Seeing an intercom speaker and security keypad nearby, the detective rolled down his window and reached an arm out, pressing the intercom button. A small buzzing sound was then heard for a brief instant.
"Yes?" A woman's voice said from the speaker roughly a second later. As the always observant Harrison mentally noted, her accent seemed to indicate that she was most likely a native of Central America.
"Is this the De Santa house?" Harrison inquired.
"Sí", the unknown woman briefly replied in Spanish from her end of the speaker, "All visitors must be announced, please."
"I'm Detective Harrison with the Los Santos Police", Harrison said into the speaker, "I'd like to speak with Mister De Santa if I could, please. Police business."
Roughly a second or so later, a louder buzzing sound was heard just before the large security gate retracted open. Harrison rolled the Impala onto the premises, parking it carefully in front of the garage door. He then exited the vehicle and strolled up to a very ornate front door decked out in black metal with emerald-colored stained-glass panels. He knocked three times.
The door soon opened and Harrison was greeted by the De Santa family's housekeeper, Maria. Maria was a tall dark-haired Venezuelan woman appearing to be in her early fifties with very pretty brown eyes who was dressed in the proverbial black and white housekeeper's uniform. "Buenas tardes", she greeted in Spanish.
"Hola", Harrison politely replied also in Spanish as he displayed his badge for the woman, "Soy el Detective Harrison con la policía de Los Santos. ¿Michael De Santa está disponible?"
Though she very much appreciated the man's show of respect for her native language, Maria chucked in retort. "Yes", she replied in English, "Mister De Santa is here. You speak very good Spanish, Detective, but I speak fluent English as well."
"My apologies, Miss" Harrison said as he clipped his badge back onto his belt clip, "I certainly didn't mean to offend you with my obviously misplaced assumption."
"That's fine", Maria replied, "Mister Michael is out by the pool."
With Maria's guidance, Harrison made his way inside the house. He briefly admired the furnishings and art occupying the walls as they passed through the foyer area, and as he entered the kitchen, he realized that he had inadvertently walked into a family dispute of sorts.
Michael's wife, Amanda, and daughter Tracey were engaged in what appeared to be a very heated argument. Amanda was dressed in a zippered white sweatshirt, a white skirt, and tennis sneakers with a pink tennis visor on her head. Tracey, meanwhile, was dressed in a blue bikini and matching flip-flops. The dueling relatives stood on either side of the large island in the center of the kitchen.
"You're such a fucking dictator!" Tracey profanely shrieked at her mother, "Why the fuck not?"
Amanda seemed to hold her ground. "He is not staying the night!" she sternly yelled in reply, "He's a bum!"
"Oh my god!" Tracey shrieked in the same high-pitched octave.
"I don't even know why you're with him!" Amanda continued in the same unsympathetic tone, "He's a bum!"
"I don't give a shit!" Tracey yelled, "Are you kidding me?"
This dispute seemed to momentarily pause when the two feuding women turned to see Maria and Harrison enter the kitchen. "Maria", Amanda said to their housekeeper, "Who is this?"
"The detective is here to speak with Mister Michael", Maria replied nonchalantly.
"Detective?" The still shrieking Tracey inquired, "Goddamn it! who called the cops?"
The tension was once again broken when Harrison put his hands up, mimicking the gesture made by football referees when a time-out is called during a game. "No one called, ma'am" Harrison said before holding up his badge for them. "I'm Detective Troy Harrison, LSPD" he continued, "I'm here to speak with Mister De Santa about a routine matter, and I honestly don't plan on taking up much of anybody's time. However, if you ladies don't calm down, I'll have to call for backup, and on a beautiful day like today, I don't think you want more drama."
With that, the two women sighed and both left the kitchen in an unresolved huff. Tracey headed back toward the foyer, presumably going upstairs. Amanda, meanwhile, crossed into the nearby living room and plopped herself on the couch in disconcerted silence.
Harrison then looked to Maria and nodded to her thankfully. "Gracias", he softly said to her, "I'll take it from here." With that, Maria nodded back to him before turning around and leaving the kitchen.
Harrison was about to step outside into the back pool area and make his formal introduction to Michael De Santa, who stared off into space in his lounge chair beside the pool. Michael was a tall white man appearing to be in his late forties who was dressed in an open button-down light blue shirt with a white undershirt underneath, khaki shorts, and slippers with aviator sunglasses. However, the detective stopped short when he saw Franklin Clinton enter the premises, apparently having made his way in through the side door that Harrison had seen on the way in. Franklin was dressed in a white button-down shirt, gray jeans, and white sneakers with a backwards brown baseball cap on his head.
Harrison just stood back silently in the doorway of the French door between the dining room and the exterior pool area, listening to the exchange between young Franklin and older, weary Michael. He doubted the two of them were even aware of his presence.
"You look like a good kid", Michael said to Franklin, "If you want my advice, you give this shit up. You work hard, screw over anybody that you love, hurt, rob, kill indiscriminately. And maybe, just maybe if you're lucky, you become a three-bit gangster."
An evidently confused Franklin just shook his head in response to Michael's impromptu speech.
"It's bullshit", Michael continued, "Go to college. Then, you can rip people off and get paid for it. It's called 'capitalism'."
"Hmm", Franklin said, "So what I saw the other day was like when a corpse briefly reanimates and terrorizes everyone, right?"
"What you saw the other day", Michael replied, "Was a guy dealing with pests."
Harrison finally decided that Michael's statement was his cue to enter the conversation. "It's funny you should talk about pests", he said as he walked through the doorway out into the pool area.
The two now mutually startled men turned to see Harrison standing there. "Who the hell are you, pal?" Michael asked.
Harrison briefly held up his badge for the man. "Detective Troy Harrison", he said, "LSPD." He then nodded to Franklin. "What's up, Franklin?" he continued, "Fancy meeting you here, bud."
Michael looked to Franklin. "You know this guy?" he asked.
Franklin stood up from his chair before going over to Harrison and bumping fists with him. "Shit", he said, "my man Harrison here is one of the few good cops we have here in Los Santos. He's alright."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence" Harrison said as he took Franklin's seat in the lounge chair beside Michael, "But you and I need to talk, Mister De Santa."
"Should I just go ahead and roll out?" Franklin asked.
"No, kid" Michael replied, "Stick around. Things might get interesting."
Harrison smirked before looking back to Michael. "Look", he said, "The reason I'm here is because your son Jimmy got arrested a little while ago and it seems that you and your family's checkered past has gotten my partner in some trouble with our lieutenant and the U.S. Attorney. I'm here to try and make things right."
With that, Michael set his drink down and sat straight up in his chair, looking the detective directly in his eye. "What the fuck do you know about our past?" he barked.
"Full disclosure", Harrison replied, "I pulled some strings to get access to your FBI file. I know enough."
"Hold up", Franklin interjected, "What past?"
Michael then moved his gaze to Franklin. "Another story for another time", he candidly said.
"This checkered past of yours seems to be the 'pest' I was talking about", Harrison explained, "It got my partner in trouble just for doing his job, and now our lieutenant has him sitting on his ass behind his desk instead of out there with me catching killers."
"Killers?" Michael asked.
"I'm a homicide detective", Harrison clarified.
Michael nodded and stood up from his chair. "Then let's go have a drink and talk about it", he said, "Come on, Franklin, you can come, too. Let's take Amanda's car."
As the three men passed through the kitchen toward the foyer area, Michael's cell phone rang. "Hey Jim", he answered, "I'm going for a drink with…"
Michael's voice abruptly trailed off. "What?" he excitedly said a few seconds later, "The yacht's been stolen?"
After a few more moments of silence as a now much more anxious Michael listened to whatever the person on the other side of the line was saying, he finally replied. "You're insane!" he continued, "Alright. I'm coming! For my boat!" He then just as hastily hung up.
By this time, the trio had reached the De Santa driveway and the brand-new cherry red 2013 BMW M3 convertible sitting in it. Its San Andreas vanity plate read: "KRYST4L".
"What the hell's going on?" Harrison asked Michael.
"Change of plans", Michael replied, "My darling boy is in trouble. I don't exactly have the time to explain right now, but I think we could use your help. We've got to get to the Western Highway right away."
Harrison was already headed for the Impala. "Okay", he said, "I'll follow you guys. We can fill in the blanks later, I guess."
Both the convertible and the Impala hurriedly headed out of the driveway at the same time. Though still slightly confused as to what exactly was going on, Harrison diligently followed behind Michael and Franklin as they drove at the same breakneck speed toward the Western Highway, which sat beside a very charming view of the Pacific Ocean.
By the time they reached an intersection at the tail end of the highway, Harrison was startled when a large semi-truck sped through the intersection pulling a large blue and white yacht on a flatbed. Michael and Franklin made a very sudden right-hand turn in the BMW, apparently now pursuing the truck and yacht. Harrison's cell phone suddenly rang, at which time he saw that the caller ID screen read: "FRANKLIN CLINTON". He pressed the speakerphone button and answered.
"Franklin!" Harrison eagerly answered, "What the hell's going on, man?"
"Michael's yacht's been stolen and his kid is on board", Franklin answered, "He wants me to jump on and save him."
"You sure that's a good idea?" Harrison asked.
"Shit, bro" Franklin said, "I don't know. I can't just let him hang."
Harrison sighed. "Alright", he said, "Fine. Do what you've got to do. I'll try to pull over the truck."
He then grabbed the mic of his police radio off of its cradle and keyed it. "Unit Twelve-A to Dispatch", he said into the mic, "Be advised, I'm attempting to execute a Ten-Thirty-Eight traffic stop on a black semi-truck pulling a yacht on a trailer on the Autopia Parkway near the airport. This is a possible kidnapping situation in progress with a hostage on board the towed vessel. Requesting Ten-Seventy-Eight backup, Code Three, over."
"Copy that, Twelve-A" The voice of a male dispatcher replied from the radio a few seconds later, "Be advised you have two Ten-Seventy-Eight units responding Code Three from Little Seoul, over."
"Ten-Four", Harrison said before setting the radio mic back on its cradle. He then pressed the "Lights" and "Wail" buttons on the vehicle's control console. This activated not only the red and blue strobing light bars mounted on the Impala's windshield, but also the wailing function of the police siren.
The detective raced the Impala forward toward the driver's side of the semi-truck just in time to catch sight of Franklin catapulting himself from the convertible to the rear of the yacht. "Holy shit!" Harrison exclaimed to himself before taking an immediate sigh of relief when he realized that Franklin had boarded the towed vessel safely.
Harrison sounded the car's air horn to catch the truck driver's attention. A tall bald white man with a dark goatee rolled down the truck's driver's side window. "LSPD!" Harrison called out over the sound of the wailing police siren, "Pull over the truck now!"
"Fuck you!" the driver hollered back. His voice had a very noticeable Eastern European accent.
Harrison grunted with frustration as his eyes went back to the highway in front of him. He then realized that his cell phone and its speakerphone were both still on. "Hey!" he heard Michael say from the speakerphone, "Stop throwing assholes at me!"
The detective then looked out his window as he saw Franklin struggling with a short Hispanic man. The sudden loud sound of a gunshot sent Franklin's opponent careening off the side of the yacht onto the hard concrete of the highway. His view then alternated between the highway and the sight of Franklin heroically retrieving Jimmy De Santa from wherever he had been hiding on board.
Harrison was then stunned to see Jimmy De Santa plummet off the boat's swinging sail boom and land across the back seat of the red BMW convertible. This spectacular sight was then followed up by Franklin very skillfully jumping off the rear of the boat and back into the front seat of the BMW.
"Harrison?" Franklin said over the speakerphone, "You see all that shit, man?"
Harrison scoffed. "Did I see it?" he said sarcastically as he momentarily glanced at his cell phone on the center console, "Hell yeah, I saw it! You should give up vehicle repossessions and start a new career as a Vinewood stunt man!"
Franklin scoffed on his side of the line. "Thanks, man" he replied.
The semi-truck picked up speed and headed further up the highway. "Shit!" Michael was heard exclaiming over the phone, "They're hauling ass away from us! And they shot the fucking engine of the car!"
"It's okay!" Harrison said into the speakerphone, "I'll try to catch up! You guys go get the car checked out. Franklin has my business card and my cell phone number is on it. One of you guys call me in the morning and we'll meet up somewhere."
"You sure, bro?" Franklin asked.
"Yeah!" Harrison replied, "Just go! I'll catch up with you guys later!" With that, Harrison ended the call and shut off the speakerphone.
Parting ways with the three men and the BMW, the now even more determined detective swerved to realign himself with the front cab of the semi-truck. He was almost precisely aligned with the still-extended and still-swinging steel sail boom when he heard a very loud metallic crunching sound.
"Oh fuck!" he yelled just as the entire steel boom detached from the side of Michael's boat and came tumbling down onto the front end of Harrison's Impala. He slammed the brakes just as the huge, dense steel boom made a very ironhanded impact with the hood of the car.
The resulting impact was so heavy that it not only cracked the bottom center of the windshield, but also tripped the sensors for the vehicle's front dual airbags. Harrison promptly had all the wind knocked out of him as he was struck hard in the chest by the rapidly deployed driver's side airbag. Dazed, he strained to get himself out of his jammed seatbelt as he heard the incoming wails of the arriving LSPD patrol cars coming to back him up. "Oh fuck", he muttered under his breath, "Oh fuck me…"
With his left hand pinned by both the airbag and the jammed seatbelt, Harrison wriggled his right hand free enough to grab the radio mic and key it. "Unit Twelve-A to Dispatch", he said into the mic with his voice strained in pain, "Send Fire and Rescue to the tail end of the Elysian Fields Freeway for a Ten-Fifty involving a police vehicle. Additional patrol units arriving on scene now. One victim pinned."