South of Bixby Bridge

by Ryan Winfield

  I sink into my chair. I check my BlackBerry—there’s one new message. I hit the voicemail button. A garbled message. Paul talking in the background. He pocket-dialed me again. I press the BlackBerry to my ear and listen. He must be talking with Mr. Chapel, his CFO who works on 31, because Paul says,

  Quit with those fucking calf raises. They make me nervous.

  Then I hear Mr. Chapel’s squeaky voice. You’re already nervous, he says, and so am I, that’s why I do them.

  I’m not nervous.

  I didn’t like that man’s questions, Paul. Other people are asking questions too. I’ve held off on redemption requests as long as I can. We’re out of money. It’s time to talk to the attorneys.

  I hear something slam down on a desk, a fist maybe. Paul says,

  You talk to anyone and I’ll cut your throat! You got that? Put the redemption requests on ice. CalTEARS will come through—

  The message ends with a beep.

  I hit the button and replay the message. What does Mr. Chapel mean we’re out of money? People are asking questions? It’s time to talk to the attorneys? It doesn’t make any sense.

  I walk down the hall in a daze. I push the button, step onto the elevator. The doors close. A minute passes before I realize I haven’t swiped my key-card, haven’t pushed the lobby button. What was I just thinking? Elevator surfing!

  ~~~

  I remember elevator surfing at Sac State. My crazy roommate Tom wanted to take the party onto the roof of our dorm one night. He said the chicks would dig the view. The roof access was locked and that’s when we learned how to elevator surf.

  Tom was an engineering major. He figured that if we got in the elevator and pried the doors open mid-floor, the elevator would have to have a safety mechanism that stopped it. It did. Then we reached up and sprang the latch on the outer doors. They opened and the floor separation was waist high in front of us. Tom told me to jump out onto the floor above. I shook my head. I said,

  What if the elevator drops when I’m half in, half out, Tom?

  Tom laughed. Then you’ll be on two floors at the same time, he said, and that’s pretty cool.

  Pretty cool? I said. You’re the engineer, but I don’t think being on two floors at the same time is compatible with life.

  Tom called me chicken and jumped up himself. The elevator didn’t drop and Tom stayed in one piece. Then he stepped onto the roof of the elevator. On top of the elevator, he found a service light and a control box. From the box, he switched the elevator into service mode and ran it up using the controls on the box. He found a vent and climbed onto the roof from the top of the elevator. Of course, the chicks had long since left. But we didn’t care. We had discovered a new sport and we called it elevator surfing.

  We tried it next on Solano Hall. It worked the same way there. All the elevators had similar setups. I don’t think there’s an elevator on the entire Sac State campus that we didn’t surf.

  ~~~

  I look at the panel in the Valombrosa elevator.

  There’s no reason it should be different.

  I swipe my key-card and push 29.

  The elevator drops and the doors open on the trading floor. It’s the day after New Year’s and the office is deserted.

  I swipe my key-card again and push 30.

  The elevator starts moving.

  I pry the doors open—the elevator stops.

  I crawl onto the 30th floor.

  I roll onto my back and let out my breath. It’s surreal to see Britney’s empty desk from the carpet and then the open elevator jammed halfway between floors.

  I stand up and step onto the roof of the elevator.

  I find the safety panel.

  Flip the light switch—a single bulb comes on.

  I pull the doors to the 30th floor closed.

  In the silence of the elevator shaft, I can hear the building shifting in the winds at 30 stories. The cables strain and creak. I can feel the hollow shaft dropping beneath me. A breeze blows through. I smell conditioned air and grease.

  I press the safety panel up button.

  The elevator rises to the 31st floor.

  I release the safety latch.

  Pull the outer doors open.

  Step from the roof of the elevator onto the 31st floor.

  The after-hours lights are on and the 31st floor is dim. Several offices line the windows but they’re all empty. No chairs, no desks, no computers. At the far end of the hall, I find Mr. Chapel’s office—the only office with a desk. The left side of his desk is stacked with Valombrosa Capital account statements waiting for envelopes. The right side has a postal box filled with sealed envelopes. Why would the Chief Financial Officer stuff and mail statements himself? Why would he need a floor to himself?

  I hear a sound in an adjacent office.

  I duck and listen—sounds like a printer.

  I creep into the hall.

  Slide against the wall.

  Look in.

  The office is empty except for a network of blinking computers stacked on shelves against one wall. On the other wall, a giant printer spits statements from its feeder. I step into the office and grab a stack of statements. I flip through them.

  My arm hair stands up, my throat tightens. All the statements are the same. The shares traded, the options exercised, they’re all the same. Only the amounts are different. Statement after statement of the same trades with different totals. And every account shows it was liquidated, parked in Treasury bills at year’s end. That’s impossible. It’s too much money to liquidate. And why would you do it? Why would you pretend to do it? I guess it would show investors that their gains are safe. It would take the fear of loss away. It would make them leave the money in the account.

  A vein of worry pulses in my mind. I grab hold of the thought and follow it deeper to its source. Why is Paul so desperate for the CalTEARS account? Because Valombrosa Capital is out of money. Why is Valombrosa Capital out of money?

  The realization unfolds itself in my mind like a paper origami flower unfolding in a glass of water—

  Valombrosa Capital is a Ponzi scheme!

  I RUN TO THE ELEVATOR, step back on top.

  I pull the outer doors closed.

  Drop the elevator.

  Stop halfway between 30 and 29.

  Pull the outer doors open.

  Switch back to Normal Operation.

  Flip off the light.

  Stepping down onto the 30th floor, I pull the inner doors closed to unfreeze the elevator. Then I close the outer doors. I press the elevator call button and stand in front of the doors like any other day waiting to leave the office.

  The elevator rises, the doors open and I step on. Relieved, I lean against the wall and sigh. Now to get the hell out of here. I swipe my key-card and hit the lobby button.

  As the elevator doors close, a hand reaches in and stops them. The doors open again and Paul is standing in front of me. He smiles at me. He says,

  I’ve been looking for you.

  PAUL PUNCHES the elevator garage button. You don’t mind giving me a lift home, do you sport? he says.

  What happened to Tony?

  I fired the wop bastard.

  We ride down in silence. The elevator opens on the garage, we walk to my Porsche. I grab the door handle, and Paul grabs my hand. Mind if I drive? he says. I shrug and hand him my keys.

  I climb in the passenger seat. Paul starts the engine, revs it to redline. Then he backs the Porsche from its space and tears sideways out of the garage.

  34 He Doesn’t Belong

  Paul pulls my Porsche up to the closed Valombrosa mansion gates. He lowers the jerky-power window, pushes the call button on the box. It rings several times until Tara’s recorded voice picks up—

  This is Tara and we’re not in right now.

  Paul slams the box. He looks over at me. I’m nervous. I say,

  Don’t you have a code that opens the gate?

  Paul’s glare burns through me a
nd I sink back in the passenger seat hoping to hide in the shadows. Why should I need a code to my own fucking house? he says. I shake my head.

  Paul throws his door open and says, Give me a boost.

  Then he storms over to the stone wall next to the gates and raises his foot. I get out and walk over. Cupping my hands, I boost Paul up. He’s heavier than he looks. He climbs on top of the wall. I head back to my car.

  Where you going? Paul says.

  I turn around.

  Paul grins down on me. He’s holding my keys. Wait there, sport. He disappears over the wall.

  Not knowing what to do, I pace in front of the gates. It’s almost nine. Even if I left now I might miss Tara. I pull out my BlackBerry and dial Tara’s cell. The gates swing open. I hang up. Paul stands in the shadows on the other side. He says,

  Sorry about being short with you, buddy. Been a rough day and I just need your help with a little something. Won’t take long.

  Relieved by his new demeanor, I force a smile. I say,

  Sure. Anything, Paul.

  He leads me to the stables. My BlackBerry vibrates. I check it on the sly, the caller ID says it’s Tara.

  Paul doesn’t even look back, but he says,

  Who’s calling you?

  Nobody. Just a friend.

  Paul stops at the stable doors, turns to me and says,

  A nervous friend?

  Without waiting for an answer, he turns back and slides the stable doors open. He clicks a switch and starting from the door and running down the long hallway, the lights snap on. Horses whinny, hoofs scratch at hay.

  I follow Paul down the hall to Conan’s stall. He grabs a halter off the wall, throws the stall door open and loops the halter over Conan’s head. Then he pulls Conan from the stall and hands me the lead rope. He says,

  Follow me, kids.

  Paul walks out the other side of the stables. I lead Conan clopping along behind me. The eerie, hollow sound of Conan’s hoofs striking the concrete echoes in the silent hall and then disappears as we pass from the stable into the arena. Crossing the arena, we follow Paul into a field. The skies are clear in Napa tonight and the moon floods down washing everything in silver shades of gray. Paul says,

  Ava birthed his foal this morning. Crooked legs. Son-of-a-bitch foal had crooked legs and this son-of-a-bitch cocksucker had crooked legs and that cocksucker Irish son-of-a-bitch had them straightened.

  Where are we taking him?

  Paul spins around.

  I stop short and Conan’s head bumps into my back. Paul flops his arm over my shoulder and leans in close. He lowers his voice to a whisper. He doesn’t belong here, he says. Tara mothered him, but he doesn’t belong here. Nobody can change DNA.

  I can’t tell if he’s talking about Conan or me. I say,

  What does that mean, Paul?

  It means I should’ve kept my 11 grand and left the betraying cocksucker out in the cold.

  Paul grips my wrist and pulls me farther into the field. Conan resists at first but then I feel the rope go slack in my other hand as he falls into step behind me. I remember the envelope with 11 grand in it—the envelope Paul gave me to blackmail Benny Wilson. Paul must be reading my mind because he looks back and drills me with a penetrating stare. Then he laughs and continues pulling me along.

  Anyway, he says, Tara’s bored with her baby. Or if she isn’t yet, she will be soon. She’s like that you know. Always falling for the flavor of the month.

  Paul steps quick to the left. I catch myself just in time and pull my foot back from the edge of a black gaping hole in the middle of the field. The pit is deep, wide, 10 feet across. Grass roots hang from the ledge and then give way to red clay. On the far side of the pit, a compact excavator sits idle next to a six-foot pile of dark earth. I lean over the edge and look down. The moon shines into the hole like a searchlight and lands on the slick coat of a dead newborn foal.

  When I look up, Paul is pointing a silver revolver at my belly. Its fat barrel glints in the moonlight and the jacketed-bullet tips shine in the cylinder like copper bees crouched in honeycomb. Paul cocks the revolver, the cylinder ratchets and then stops with a click. I gasp and hold my breath. Conan blows his lips and stomps his hoof in the grass behind me. Paul says,

  You know what kind of gun this is?

  What are you doing, Paul?

  It’s a Smith & Wesson revolver. Not just any Smith & Wesson revolver either. A Model 610. It’s rare. Know why it’s rare, sport?

  Paul, don’t do this.

  This baby’s rare because it chambers 10-millimeter Auto slugs. Not them pussy 40 shorts. They use these fuckers in Greenland to drop polar bears.

  Paul, I don’t know what—

  Call me sir.

  Yessir.

  Paul releases his grip on the revolver—the handle drops, the barrel rotates up, the revolver hangs upright with Paul’s finger in its trigger guard. Paul laughs. He says,

  You shoulda seen your face right there, sport. You didn’t think I was really gonna shoot ya, did ya, kid?

  Paul turns the revolver and pushes the rubber grip to my chest. He nods to Conan. Kill him, he says.

  Conan?

  Shoot the fucker.

  No way.

  I’ll pay you.

  Not a chance, Paul.

  I’ll pay you $100,000.

  I turn away from Paul. Conan blinks at me. Patting his head, I strengthen my grip on the rope and lead Conan toward the stables.

  I take three steps—gunshot. I freeze. The lead rope strips from my hand. A thunderous thump, Conan hitting the ground.

  I spin around. Conan lies on the ground in front of the pit. Blood spurts from a hole in his belly. Paul stands with the revolver dangling limp at his side. He leans his head back and lets out a lunatic laugh. Then Conan screams in pain and Paul laughs louder. Together they sound like hell’s harmony.

  Paul tosses the revolver on the grass. Then he tosses my keys next to the revolver. He says,

  This horse is a broke-dick pussy. His foal is a broke-dick pussy. The guy who sold him to me is a broke-dick pussy. And you’re a fucking broke-dick pussy.

  Paul walks toward the house.

  I watch him disappear into the shadows.

  I bend over.

  Pick up the revolver.

  It’s cold and heavy.

  I grip the handle.

  Slide my finger over the trigger.

  Start after Paul.

  Then Conan screams again. A haunting human scream that echoes back across the field. I turn around and look at his face. He wrinkles his nostrils. Stretches his lips. Wooden teeth glow in the moonlight. His upward eye rolls and spasms in its socket. He sucks at the air like a cribber. His legs kick. His muscles ripple with sweat. Blood pulses from the hole in his belly, pools in the trampled grass, runs over the clay edge and into the pit.

  I approach Conan.

  Hold the gun to his head.

  His eye stares up at me.

  He gets quiet.

  His lips relax over his teeth.

  I pull the hammer back.

  Slide my finger over the trigger.

  Turn my face away.

  Squeeze back my tears.

  Then I squeeze the trigger.

  First gunshot—moan.

  Second gunshot—whimper.

  Third gunshot—silence.

  Fourth gunshot.

  Fifth gunshot.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  35 Just Like Paul

  My hands are still shaking and they smell like gunpowder. I’ve been replaying what Paul said about Tara always falling for the flavor of the month and I wonder if I’m just another in a long line of men Tara’s offered to run away with to Malibu.

  Runway lights flash outside the black windows of the empty airport Supper Club. A janitor is already vacuuming. I’m too late.

  I turn for the door then stop—a man’s laugh is coming from the far side of the restaurant. I
follow the sound. An open door leads into a dim lounge. I stop in the doorway and take in the room.

  Tara sits at the bar, a handsome man in a blue suit sits next to her. The bartender counts his till. Tara drains her martini glass. The handsome man waves a $100 bill at the bartender. He says,

  We’ll take two more.

  I size up the handsome man. He’s fit, his shoulders wider than mine. He moves smooth even though several empty martini glasses sit in front of him. He’s well groomed, his suit athletic cut. It will take a nose shot to put him down. Better be a surprise nose shot too.

  The bartender spots me in the doorway and nods. Tara follows his gaze and turns around. She says,

  Hi, Trevor! What kept you?

  Elevator trouble, I say, stepping up to the bar.

  I’d given up on you.

  Nodding to the handsome man, I say,

  Yeah, looks like it. You didn’t waste any time finding another stiff prick either, did you?

  The handsome man straightens up on his stool. He says,

  Hey, watch it, buddy.

  I grab the back of his stool and strip it out from beneath him, forcing him to stand. I square up to him. I say,

  I ain’t your buddy, okay pal.

  The bartender looks nervous. He sets two martinis on the bar—one in front of Tara, one in front of the handsome man. I grab the handsome man’s martini, tip it back and throw the liquor down my throat. I slam the empty glass on the bar. Tara says,

  What’s gotten into you, Trevor?

  I seize Tara and kiss her. She plants her hands on my chest and pushes free. I say,

  What’s the matter, Tara, bored with me? Already moved on to a new flavor of the month?

  Then I grab her martini and gulp it down too. I set the glass back and wipe my mouth with my hand. I say,

  You make me sick.

  The handsome man grabs my shoulder from behind. I spin around and smash my fist into his nose. He backs away cupping his nose. He mutters from behind his hands. He says,

  You’re fucking crazy.

  I laugh at him and say,