by Jeff Johnson
That got me a sharp look, and then he was gone.
I looked back out at the dark trains. I was tired. Tired and wet and cold. Something about the conversation with Dessel had hit me in a strange way, and I’d already been in a strange mood. It was his eyes. The way he said the name “Loretta,” maybe. I didn’t think Dessel was a piece of shit. It was more complicated than that, and also a great deal worse.
Men like him, even boy men, seemed evil to me in a special way. The death of the City of Roses was a prime example of that evil. The tide of blandness. The encroaching quality of white bread with no crust. Pill sleep, with no dreams, for one and all. It was hard to make art in the world anymore, to exist on the fringes of the machinery of convention, to be the lone singer in an endless, faceless chorus of voices making the telephone busy signal sound. Many people think that dreams come out of nothing, that they’re born from the vacuum inside empty heads, but that isn’t true. And bold dreams come out of people brave enough to think differently, people like Delia, even Chase, even Hank fuckin’ Dildo. It took more than guts to light fireworks in the mundane shopping mall the world had been transforming into. The developers like Oleg Turganov, the rich thieves like Dong Ju, they were money men, bad to the bone, but real menace came in the form of misguided do-gooders like Dessel. He wanted the world to be without color. His job was to press down the bumps in the carpet, to smooth out the unsightly wrinkles in the fabric of society. Guys like that, in the metaphorical sense of the word, didn’t have souls. And most importantly, they didn’t want you to have one either. Deep in his heart, where shit was hard to change, Dessel believed it was his calling to enforce normal.
And that was what really bothered me. If a clear blue zero like Dessel blew it with a woman named Loretta on the grounds of passion for anything at all, then the rest of us, with clouds in our skies and the occasional rain, with thunder and lightning and tornadoes and meteorites, we had no chance at all.
I don’t remember how I got home.
I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing. It was on my chest, and that couldn’t be good.
“Wha? Oh god.”
“You did it!” Delia squealed. “I can hear it in your voice! I bet you don’t even know how you got home.”
“Shit. I think I got so wasted I called Suzanne.”
“Ha ha. Cue sad clown song. Rise and shine, dumbass. It’s seven a.m. and you have a fun day of all kinds of fun shit to do. I just called Chase and woke him up too. Dudeboy’s all psyched to wear his red pants, the nimrod.”
“Oh god,” I repeated. I sat up. I’d made it to the bed again, and I’d even taken off one boot. The cats were staring at me, unsympathetic. I looked around for evidence of night chaos. Keys, wallet, change, all on the nightstand. No strange murals on the walls, so that was good. No foreign panties, either. Double damn good.
“You want me to come over? Hank is still asleep, the poor baby. Band practice ran late last night.”
“Nah. I gotta get my shit together.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “My hangover is bad, but not snake-bite-to-the-melon bad.”
“Okey dokey. Remember your outfit. I packed you and your new little brother a lunch. And I want you to take one of the vitamins I left in the fridge. Don’t try to chew it or you’ll barf, just—” I hung up.
I stripped, fed the cats, got the coffee started, and while it was brewing I put a cup of cornmeal and water on low heat and took a shower. Santos. A massive frozen dog. Evading feds in a sinister lowrider. Misadventure. Mayhem. Therapy of some kind, true. I couldn’t help it, but the feeling that I was doing something with the potential for fun in it again made me feel better. I dismissed all thoughts of Suzanne for the moment. I hadn’t checked the call log, but if I’d drunk dialed her at two a.m. she was sure to have made a list of some kind, charting and ranking my violations, then cross-indexing them with the latest studies in Emotional Scientist Magazine, and I’d get the results both barrels. The text message button had a miniature six above it, so her first essays were already in. They could wait.
So could my morning workout. I’d be humping around a hundred pounds plus of frozen meat under crisis conditions soon enough, and then I’d be digging a big muddy hole in the ground. I dressed as Delia instructed, which I felt sure she had included in the plan just because, and then I made the kind of breakfast I needed to fortify me through the experience.
The cornmeal was polenta by then. I fired up the cast iron skillet and dropped in some bacon fat, and while it went from translucent to runny I stirred some milk and olive oil into the cornmeal and added half a can of green chilies, making a thin batter. The cats watched me do this, bored, waiting to go outside. Then I poured a big burp of it into the pan and watched it sizzle. When the first pancake was done I put it on a plate and doused it with hot sauce, eating it while the next one cooked.
“No going outside today, dudes,” I announced. “Nothing personal. Some lunatic is out there and I don’t want you to fuck him up before I do.”
Chops lay down right in the middle of the floor in protest. Buttons sniffed my boot and then stared up at me with wide, imploring eyes. I tore off a crunchy piece of green chili pancake and offered it to him. He sneezed on it dramatically and lay down, too.
“I’m going to bury a dog today,” I reminded them.
When I was done, I washed the dishes and packed my change of clothes in a backpack, then thought for a moment. What might I need on a day like this? I used to carry big ball bearings on questionable outings, but I’d stopped doing it some time ago. A knife seemed excessive. I didn’t own a gun. A sword? No. I had one under the bed, but it would send the wrong kind of signal to the kid. In the end, even though I knew it was a mistake, I decided to bring no weapons at all. We’d have shovels, ostensibly, and that would have to be enough.
This is the kind of logic that creates my most lasting problems.
The cab ride to the Lucky was uneventful. The Prius was in the rain behind me somewhere, but I didn’t bother looking for it. Dessel’s late-night appearance left me assured of their participation. The driver dropped me off in front, and Delia opened the door before I could unlock it. She looked me up and down and nodded her approval.
“Nothing gone wrong yet?” I went inside and she locked the door behind me. The shop was dark except for the spill from the neon. I could see the glowing outline of the door to the employee lounge, so the party was back there. It smelled like Delia had just mopped, and of course it smelled like Delia. Birthday cake frosting and margarita mix.
“Not quite yet,” she said, “but you have to be patient.”
We headed for the back room, quiet for some reason. Chase looked up from the comic book he was reading when we entered, smiling, not a care in the world. He was wearing red pants, red wingtips, and a bright red shirt with a big collar, which he instantly fingered.
“Hey boss. You sure you don’t want to trade jammies straight up? The red don’t get you laid, you’ve gone extinct.”
“Please,” Delia said.
“Jammies?” I rolled my eyes and Chase laughed.
“Okay, boys,” Delia said, dropping into her lecture mode, “here’s the drill. Gomez and Flaco are about a half hour out, maybe less. They pull up to the back door and start loading in crap from WinCo. Bag after bag of it. About halfway through, Gomez hangs back long enough to drag the dog out of the freezer and position it by the back door, then he starts helping Flaco again. With me so far?”
I nodded. Chase shrugged and glanced at the comic book. Delia picked it up and put it behind her back.
“Right. As soon as they’re finished, Gomez calls my number. Their ride is idling, doors open, trunk up like they’re still unloading. We get the call and our team goes. The shop lights fire up. I go out and start yelling on my phone, totally made up, and that will draw attention to the front. Thirty seconds later Chase, wearing Darby’s fetching ensemble, blows out at Olympic speed and sprints to the parking lot, gets in Darby’s car and t
ears out, straight to Burnside and then to I-5, head down. I’m out front watching because I was already out there having my phone conversation. The instant I see Chase exit the parking lot I call you, Darby. You get that fuckin’ dog into the waiting ride and casually drive away, go pick up that kid and do your thing. Questions?”
Chase politely raised his hand.
“Chase Manhattan,” Delia said formally. “The floor is yours.”
“Where am I going again?”
“North or south,” Delia replied. He nodded and held his hand out for the comic. Delia shook her head. “Get changed. The clock is ticking.”
Chase and I began stripping. He had a huge owl tattooed on his stomach that I’d never seen before. I handed him my shirt and he put it on without sniffing the armpits, which was unexpectedly courteous, and as he was about to take his red pants off he glanced at Delia, who was watching us, arms folded.
“You, ah . . .” He trailed off.
“Delia.” I tossed my thumb at the door.
“I’m about to get married, you assholes. Like I care what you two look like naked. Plus, this might be my last chance to see a man other than Hank without his clothes on.”
“Beat it,” I said. She stormed out and slammed the door. Chase winced but said nothing as I handed him my pants.
“Your car have any problems?” he asked casually.
“Nah. I’d head south if I was you. Traffic eases up sooner. CDs in the glove box. Doobie Brothers, Ramones. Some Creedence.”
He made a face. “So, ah, where you takin’ this dog? So we don’t head in the same direction.”
“Maybe don’t ask too many questions in these situations, homie.”
“Unasked.” But he said it with a smile. Pants on, he held his arms wide. “I look like you or what?”
“Kinda.” I started lacing my spare boots on. “Pull the hat lower. Don’t let Delia whip out her makeup kit. She’ll do it just to fuck with us.”
As if on cue there was a knock on the door.
“Time to do your faces,” Delia called.
“No,” Chase and I called back together.
Silence. Then, “T minus five minutes. Anybody has to pee, do it now.”
We looked at each other. Chase shrugged. I did, too. We lit cigarettes instead. I sat down. He sat down, too. My phone rang and startled us both. I took it out and looked at it, put it back in pocket.
“Suzanne,” I told him. He nodded.
“Ah.”
“Pretty sure I called her last night after I’d been drinking.”
“It happens.”
“Yeah.”
“Shit already tense?”
“Totally.”
“Huh.”
We smoked. And then suddenly it was on.
“We are go, people!” Delia screamed. “Darby! Back door position! Chase! Prepare for evacuation!”
“Luck, dude.” Chase rose and straightened my pants.
“Back at ya.”
He went out and I went through the side door down to the bathroom and our back door. I could hear an engine idling, then Flaco cursing. A moment later he was joined by a cursing Gomez. Then it was just the engine. The shop lights went on and I heard the front door open and close. Thirty seconds later it opened and closed again as Chase barreled out. Ten seconds after that my phone rang.
“You know what you’re gonna say to the kid?” Delia asked quietly.
“Do you? Do I go now?”
“Soon as you tell me, I give you the thumbs up or down.”
“Stay true.” It just came out of me.
“Go.” She whispered it.
I opened the back door and peeked out. A white minivan was squatting by the back door of the Rooster Rocket. Gomez had selected the worst ride in his entire car collection, the supremely pitiful 2001 Chrysler Town & Country EX his seventeen-year-old niece had rejected as offensive. The doors were open and waiting. Flaco’s head appeared. He looked both ways and gestured for me to hurry.
I scrambled to their back door and then took a step back toward the van, appalled. The dog was huge, as described, but the army blanket had slipped off its head. The frozen tongue was projecting out at a right angle, almost straight up and dark purple, and the eyes were open in a lazy, sleepy way, glazed with freezer rime. Flaco elbowed me.
“Move it, culo!” He retreated back into the bar as fast as he could.
Cursing, I grabbed the cold front legs and leaned back, dragging the carcass over the trim. The blanket tore free as the body hit the alley surface and the friction increased. I clambered into the van and in one huge heave I pulled the body up inside and on top of me. Flaco reappeared and threw the blanket over us in a flash and slammed the bar door.
Cursing, I crawled out from under the dog and pulled the sliding door closed, then clambered into the front seat. There was a straw cowboy hat on the passenger seat no one had told me about, but I put it on, slouched low, and put the van in reverse. Just then, my phone rang again. I stopped and dug it out. Suzanne again. I tossed it on the passenger seat and let it ring as I backed out of the alley. Without a glance in either direction, I put it in drive and headed for the Broadway Bridge and the freeway that would take me to the owner of the frozen dog behind me.
Suzanne called twice more as I drove. I didn’t answer. Once I was safely out of Old Town I called Delia instead.
“They followed Chase,” she reported. “Flaco says you got the dog in the van? They gave you a fuckin’ van?”
“Sure as fuck did. The little white one nobody wanted.”
She laughed. “Please take a selfie. I know you don’t do that kind of thing, but if you could do it just this once. For my scrapbook.”
I had to smile. “This dog? It’s even bigger than I thought. Also, no shovels. And I’m wearing a cowboy hat.”
“They forgot the shovels.” Delia made a tsk sound. “I told Flaco to put the lunch I made for you and your psycho-in-training in the glove box and he swore up and down he did. But then he forgets the shovels. Right here is where everything starts to go to shit. You have a plan?”
“Not yet. Suzanne called, like, three times.”
Delia laughed again, but ominously said nothing.
“Alright,” I growled, cutting her off. “Call me if anything develops.”
“You too. As far as shovels go, maybe—”
I hung up and drove. It was overcast and drizzling, but the uniform gray sky was the kind that didn’t have real rain in it. It wasn’t cold, so at least we wouldn’t be freezing while we dug. I lit a cigarette and considered the kid, but the closer I got to the hospital the less I had in the way of camp counselor material. I’d managed to convince myself that half of the rules I lived by were dangerous bullshit by the time I turned into the parking lot. My heart sank instantly.
Santos stood out in every way, a shining, glossy beacon of East LA gangster apparel, his slender, dapper frame radiating casual violence, intelligent reproach, and too much dick for his own good. He was beautiful, but in a terrifying, demented, Catholic way. He’d left the protective overhead of the Emergency entrance so he could smoke. There were signs everywhere indicating there was no smoking at all, anywhere, including one right behind him, but his demeanor made clear that he considered the warnings to be for other people or merely polite suggestions. White button-up shirt, all the way to the throat, black slacks, patent leather shoes, no jacket. He looked like he was on his way to a fashion show or a bank robbery, but not a hole digging. Santos must have weighed in at an even one hundred pounds, but every teaspoon of it was prizefighter. I pulled up and zipped down the passenger window. He swayed back to peer in.
“I help you, white boy?” Quiet, like he expected me to read his lips.
“Santos?”
In answer, he flicked his smoke in the general direction of the no smoking sign and got in. Then he stared straight forward. He smelled like aftershave and hair tonic.
“I guess you don’t have a shovel either,” I con
tinued. He turned and looked back at the lump of dog under the army blanket, then back. He made a wan flick of his hand in the general direction of forward.
“I-5 South.”
I smiled. We were already bonding.
“Santos,” I began as we headed out of the parking lot, “your uncle tells me you did some time in juvie awhile back.”
Nothing.
“You, ah—” I searched for the right words. “Fuckin’ raw news, little dude. Teen years, you think about pussy more than you’ll think about anything else for the whole rest of your life. Not that you don’t keep thinking about it, but not like that. You crazy? I mean, that shit drive you nuts? I’m just trying to get a handle on how fucked in the head you are.”
That got his attention. He swiveled his head and stared at me, his face carefully blank. He said nothing.
“I’m a fuck-up, too,” I continued. “But I never got caught. Different time. Different town.” We came to a stoplight and I took out my cigarettes, shook one loose and lit it. “No bragging, not exactly. But that’s, ah, you know, some information. To get us started.”
“White boy,” he began, “my uncle—”
“Don’t call me white boy,” I interrupted. “Name is Darby.”
“Darby,” he repeated. “My uncle says that some of the shit that comes out of your head sometimes makes sense. Now, this dog back here?”
“Jesus!” I said. My phone was ringing. I dug it out and tossed it to him.
“You want me to answer this?”
“Fuck no. See who it is.”
He looked. “Suzanne.”
“Well. That’s another problem. But let’s start at the beginning. Shovels.”
“What about ’em?” He sat my phone in a cup holder in the divider, took out his cigarettes.
“Where are they?”
“Dunno.” Santos fired up. “Store, I guess.”
“Lemme guess, you’re broke.”
“As a joke. Fuckin’ janitor at a hospital, yo.”
I drove. He had a point. We needed supplies anyway. The kid smoked in silence, not exactly brooding, and it occurred to me for the first time that he might still be upset about his dog.
