South of Bixby Bridge

by Ryan Winfield

  You’re a broke-dick pussy!

  Tara grabs my raised fist before I can hit him again. She says,

  You’re no different from Paul!

  Oh, yeah, at least I’m not a fucking fraud!

  Who’s a fraud, Trevor?

  You. Paul. Everyone.

  What are you talking about?

  Valombrosa Capital is a Ponzi scheme, Tara. And I think you know it. I think you’ve known it all along.

  Did Paul tell you that?

  What does it matter what Paul told me? I thought you were divorcing him. I thought you were flying me to Malibu tonight—or was that just another lie?

  Tara’s eyes widen. She puts her hands on her hips. She says,

  I was flying tonight, until you smashed my pilot’s nose.

  I look over at the handsome man. He’s Tara’s pilot? How would I have known? Aren’t they supposed to wear hats or something? Then I see silver wings pinned on his blue suit. He’s holding a white bar towel to his nose. He pulls it away, inspects the thick, clotting blood, moans, and presses the towel back. I look at Tara. I say,

  Well then, now you can go home and ask Paul about his billion-dollar fraud. And while you’re at it, have him show you the new foal. Have him show you Conan.

  What are you talking about, Trevor?

  I’m talking about you and Paul. You two deserve each other.

  Tara looks away from me. She takes a breath. Her jaw quivers. When she looks back, her eyes are welled up with tears. She says,

  Damn you, Trevor. Just when I thought I’d found somebody different. I actually fell for you, you know. And I have changed. I really have. I wanted us to escape this shit. Find some peace together in Malibu. I wanted to have your baby. But you know what? You’re not different at all. You’re just like Paul.

  Tara finishes and the bar is silent. She bites her lower lip and breaks my heart with a look. Then she turns and rushes from the bar. I listen to her heels clacking away across the empty restaurant.

  Tara’s pilot pulls the towel away from his face. He looks at the bartender and says,

  Does my nose look okay?

  The bartender inspects his nose, and then shrugs. He says,

  Has it always been crooked?

  The pilot turns to me. He says,

  I’m gonna sue you for this!

  I shrug too. I say,

  Well that’s what you get for drinking and flying.

  The pilot flinches when I reach past him to grab a bottle of Stoli from behind the bar. I tell the bartender to put the bottle on his tab. Before I leave, I look back at the pilot and say,

  Sue me for the Stoli too.

  36 Get Yourself Together

  No idea where I’m heading, I swig the Stoli as I drive. I need to tell someone what I know about Paul. My boss, my mentor, my friend—a fraud. Valombrosa Capital—nothing but a Ponzi scheme. But whom do I tell? The only person I can think of is Mr. Strawberry. He was nice to me and he set me up with the interview where I bumped into Paul. He needs to know that Mr. Feldman is just a shill feeding clients to a Ponzi scheme. But it’s late. I have no idea where to find Strawberry. Maybe Mr. Charles has his number.

  Then I remember that today is Tuesday. Mr. Charles meets the senior Edward & Bliss brokers in the Sus Barbatus chophouse bar in Sacramento on Tuesday nights. We met at Sus Barbatus rain or shine, even on market holidays.

  Jameson Canyon Road dumps me onto I-80 and I burn gas blazing east to Sacramento.

  I RIDE THE ESCALATOR from the parking lot up to the heavy chophouse doors. The captain recognizes me right away. He opens his mouth to say something but I walk right past him into the bar.

  Pig-shaped pewter oil lamps cast glows on brown-leather club chairs and crystal snifters of amber booze and in the corner, just as if nothing in the world has changed, sits bossman Charles swelled up in his signature double-breasted suit and holding court over cognac with the Edward & Bliss guys.

  I walk up. Mr. Charles sips his cognac, ignores me. He blathers on with some bullshit story about how he surmounted impossible odds, beat every competing broker, and landed a tomato farmer’s fifty-million-dollar account. The brokers, some new, some familiar, notice me and, one by one, they stop listening to the story.

  Mr. Charles sets his glass down and looks up at me. He says,

  What do you want, Trevor?

  I need to talk to you, Mr. Charles.

  Call the office for an appointment.

  You won’t return my calls.

  Mr. Charles laughs. He says,

  Hey, I’m busy.

  I step closer, lean down. I say,

  Just three minutes.

  You’re drunk again, Trevor.

  I’m not leaving until I get three minutes.

  Mr. Charles heaves himself up from his chair. He grabs my arm and herds me through a wasteland of white-linen tables littered with cracked lobster carcasses, bloody bones of prime rib, and heaps of glistening oyster shells—

  Heads turn.

  Dripping mouths smirk.

  Spoons dip, knives saw, teeth tear.

  Moist hands pat swollen bellies.

  Glasses rise into the air.

  Mr. Charles pushes me through the bathroom doors. He grips my jacket lapels and slams me against the tile wall. He says,

  You thought you could go over my head? Who’d you think Mr. Strawberry was gonna back, you skinny punk? You’re pathetic. You always were. Now this is my place and if you come back here again, I’ll kick your teeth in. You hear me?

  I nod agreement. Mr. Charles stares at me, the folds of his face scrunched up like some sad sumo Shar-Pei. He sucks his teeth. His breath stinks, his fat chin wiggles. The bathroom is silent except for Tony Bennett crooning “Anything Goes” through the hidden ceiling speakers. Mr. Charles loosens his grip. I say,

  It’s just that I need Mr. Strawberry’s number—

  He slams my head against the wall—lights dim, Tony Bennett fades, and I slide to the floor. The music fades back in, the lights brighten, and Mr. Charles’s shadow looms over me. A warm wet stream hits my face, my jacket, and my pants. Mr. Charles’s voice echoes, seemingly from far away, and he says,

  I vetoed your ass, punk. You’re pissing up a dead tree.

  Then he throws something at my face, some paper. Take this you sorry-fuck, he says. And get yourself together!

  The bathroom door swings shut behind him. I pick myself up off the floor, wash my face in the sink, look in the mirror—my waxy skin is gray, my bloodshot eyes retreating into my thinning face.

  I look at the floor and see the wad of money that Mr. Charles threw at me, three $100 bills soaked in piss. I look at my jacket, my pants—Mr. Charles pissed on me.

  I pick the wet bills up off the floor and head back to the bar to shove them down his throat. When I get to the bar, Mr. Charles and the other brokers are already gone.

  The captain grabs my arm and leads me out. His grip is soft and I can tell he’s sorry to be doing it so I don’t fight back. At the door, I stuff the 300 bucks in the captain’s hand. He looks at the money, smells it, his face sours. What’s this? he says. I smile and say,

  It’s a tip from cheap-ass Charles.

  37 She Closes the Door

  Redlining third, the party lights closing on me fast, the Stoli half empty, I knock back another swig. The lights hit me, I hit my blinker and ooze into the right lane. The CHP cruiser blazes past me. Relieved, I keep it under 60 the last five miles to Barbara’s house.

  Stephanie’s Honda Civic is in the drive. I park across the street in the dark. I screw the cap on the Stoli and fish around in my glove box until I find some spearmint gum. I chew the flavor out of two pieces while I decide what to say. I’m hungry now.

  ~~~

  Before the wheels fell off our relationship, Stephanie and I came here every Sunday for supper. Barbara always had a pot of hot mantapour soup ready on the stove. She served me lamb manti with sour cream and broth and I would dip those dumplings until I co
uldn’t imagine ever needing to eat again.

  On warm nights after dinner, we moved to the backyard and sat beneath the cherry trees sipping raki or mulberry vodka freezes. When Barbara switched our after-dinner drink to tarragon-flavored soda, I knew Stephanie had told her about my drinking. It wasn’t long after that I started finding other things to do on Sundays.

  ~~~

  I miss those Sundays now.

  I take three deep breaths and get out of the car. I walk to the door. I knock. Someone pulls a curtain aside and a triangle of light lands at my feet. A moment later, the door opens and Barbara steps out. She pulls the door closed behind her. She says,

  Hello, Trevor.

  Hi, Barbara, is Stephanie here?

  Trevor, you’re drunk.

  I know. I know. But is Stephanie here?

  Barbara cups her hands together and bows her head as if she’s praying. She looks up and her face is solemn. She says,

  Trevor, I’m just gonna say it—she doesn’t want to see you. And as long as you’re drinking, neither do I.

  Then Barbara opens the door and steps back inside the house. I jam my foot in the door. I say,

  But, Barbara, I just need—

  Barbara holds up her hand to stop me. She says,

  You need help, Trevor. And you can’t get it here.

  I remove my foot.

  She closes the door.

  The deadbolt turns—clicks.

  38 The Crash

  The Doc is waiting for me at the yacht. I called him from the road. He didn’t have any GHB but he suggested ecstasy instead. I told him to bring it along with a half-ounce of coke. Before we make the exchange, he looks at the bottle of Stoli in my hand—there’s only a finger left.

  Maybe you oughta slow down some, guy, he says.

  I don’t want to piss him off so I just nod and hand him the cash. He stuffs the drugs in my hand and walks away up the dock.

  I unlock the door and stumble inside the yacht. Stripping off the piss-soaked Armani jacket, I throw it on the floor and fall back onto the couch. The coke is twisted into a ball at the end of a sandwich baggie and closed with a rubber band. The ecstasy is zip-sealed in a small baggie with a grinning cartoon face printed on it. I open the baggie, dump three purple pills into my hand—the words GET LOST stamped on their face. I wash the pills down with the last of the Stoli and toss the empty bottle in the corner. Then I spread the rest of my money on the table to see how long I can run. I must have four or five grand but my brain won’t do the math.

  I give up counting and grab my BlackBerry. I dial Kari. She answers on the second ring. Screw you, Trevor! she says, and then hangs up. I call back but she bounces me to voicemail.

  I grab the baggie of coke.

  Tear the bottom open with my teeth.

  Dump the powder onto the coffee table.

  Using my empty prepaid Visa, I carve out a nine-inch line. I snatch a $100 bill, roll it into a straw, and snort the entire rail. The coke burns my nose and drips into my throat, gagging me until it makes me numb.

  I head to the galley to find a drink. One bottle of Pétrus left. I search the drawers. No corkscrew. I scoop up one of Paul’s Mark Anthony boots from the floor. I slip the Pétrus in the boot shaft with the base of the bottle at the heel. Then I smash the boot against the counter. Five hard whacks force out the cork. I pull it free with my teeth. Spit the cork. Swig from the bottle.

  I look at Paul’s boot in my hand, his left boot, the same boot that stood on my résumé that day—the day I first met Paul. I look at Paul’s portrait staring at me from the wall. His coiffed hair gloating above his shit-eating grin, his lips curling into a sneer, and I hear him say, You’re a fucking broke-dick pussy.

  I set the Pétrus down, kick off my left shoe, and tug Paul’s boot on. I march to the portrait, pull it down, and lean it against the wall. I step up and kick the boot through Paul’s pompous painted face.

  I grab the Pétrus and Paul’s other boot on my way out the door.

  I COME TO, the Porsche spitting rocks in a shallow ditch.

  I steer back onto 101 North. The Pétrus bottle rolls against my foot. Reaching to the floor, I nab it. A neck-width of wine didn’t spill and I drain it down, my throat burning, and then closing one eye to navigate the lane, I rush north in a rage. The ecstasy pills kick in and the roof of the world lifts off.

  The steering wheel turns to rubber in my hands and a hundred million stars burst through the windshield and the smells of leather and vanilla and red wine fill my nose and the hum of highway rolling by beneath me grows into a river of sound and floats me past wastelands of moonlit grapevines that blur behind me into blackness. I’m rising, higher, twisting, sinking down, and now I ratchet uphill, lift weightless to the crest, and slip over the summit rushing down the face of a dark wave toward the light of a golden V growing like the open mouth of an approaching sea creature.

  The wheel jerks hard from my hand. I bump and bounce across a dark ocean. Waves swallow me. Something smashes against my face. My head rests on the wheel. A horn blasts into the blackness. A light blinks on somewhere far above. I sink down, down, down.

  39 Do It Again

  I’m lying on a bed in a green room. My eyes ache, my head throbs with pain. My mother leans over me brushing my sweaty hair away from my brow. I raise myself up to see her face—Tara smiles down on me. She says,

  Your pupils are dilated, Trevor. Here, drink this, it’ll help.

  She holds a warm mug to my lips. I brace for more of Carlos’s secret recipe but instead, honey-flavored tea spills from the edges of my mouth. I take the mug from Tara’s hands and struggle onto my elbows to get a better angle. And there, sitting on the foot of the bed grinning at me, is Paul. He winks and says,

  ’Morning, killer.

  I look back to Tara. My eyes fill with questions. She takes the mug of tea from my hand and sets it on the table beside the bed. Then she brushes my hair again. She says,

  I’m flying to L.A. to see a man about a new horse. A prince of a horse too. Paul’s taking me to the airport. Then he’ll be coming back.

  Tara leans down and kisses me on the forehead. Then she cups her hand under my chin and whispers in my ear. She says,

  You are different. I’m sorry. Get out of here.

  Paul holds the door open for Tara. She stops to look back one last time. Our eyes connect, an understanding between us, and then she smiles at me—a genuine smile. She turns and walks away from me into the hall. Paul flashes me a toothy-pretend grin before easing the door closed.

  Lying back, I rest my head on the pillow and listen. The front door opens and closes. Feet on gravel. Car doors click open then slam shut. The car starts, rolls down the gravel drive, and then fades away. In the distance, I hear the rumble of a working tractor engine.

  I stare at the ceiling above the bed. I’m going to get up and go, get out of here. But first, I’ll just close my eyes for another sip of sleep. Just for a minute.

  I BOLT UPRIGHT in a sweat. I listen—silence—nothing, not even the tractor working. Paul’s red boots stand beside the bed again. For a moment, I imagine everything since the sex club to be a nightmare, a nightmare I’m just now waking up from, but then the moment is gone and I remember tugging on the boot and kicking in Paul’s face last night on the yacht.

  I part the shutters and peer down on the drive—it’s empty. No tour bus, no horse carrier, just the pink-combed gravel leading down to the broken Valombrosa gates and then I see my Porsche. It’s 20 feet off the drive smashed against the trunk of a live oak. I pat my pockets for my keys, search the bed, search the table next to the bed—no keys. I pull the boots on in a panic.

  Dying for a drink, I stumble downstairs to Paul’s study and search the liquor cabinet but it’s empty and then I see the pig-hair sofa in the corner and I remember the wine in the woods and Paul holding the wineglass beneath my nose and saying, It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me, Trevor.

  I walk into the great room.
I remember seeing Tara for the first time. I remember her standing here purring out directions to her workers as they hung Conan’s portrait but now the room is dim and empty and when I raise my head to look—the portrait is gone.

  I spiral downstairs to Paul’s office and find the door ajar, a light on inside, the office empty. I remember Paul leaning over his ship-in-a-bottle and saying, Everything loses its magic when you realize it’s just a trick.

  The desk lamp shines on an open bottle of cognac. I rush to it, snatch it up—empty, and so is the glass sitting next to it. Then I see a memory book on the desk and I flip the cover open and see photos of Tara in bed with other young men, young men like me, young men wearing Rolexes just like the one Paul gave me. Page after page of young men with Tara and then I come to a photo of me in bed with Tara on Christmas Day. I turn the page again and see an 8x10 color photo of me passed out naked on the sex club floor-bed. Twisted with red ribbon next to the photo is a thick lock of my hair. My left hand jumps to my head and I slam the memory book closed.

  I run to my Porsche where it sits crashed against the tree. I climb in and search for the keys. I search the glove box, center console, backseat, and floor—nothing. Frustrated, I sink into the seat and pound my fists against the steering wheel.

  Then I notice the open stable doors, the lights on inside.

  Walking to the stables, I poke my head in. Silent horse heads hang out from stalls as still and unblinking as mounted heads on a wall. A mechanical throbbing whirls from an open door. I walk to the door—the tack room. A refrigerator hums in the corner, a sign that says MEDICINES, a padlock. I grab a hoof-pick, break the clasp, open the fridge, search the vials and jars and then I find an amber bottle that says ADMINISTER ORALLY FOR PAIN. Fuck it.

  I twist off the cap, dump fat horse pills into my hand, and toss them down my throat—the pills catch. I rush into the hall, turn on a hose, hold it to my mouth and choke the pills down. Then I notice Conan’s stall. Staggering to it, I grip the bars and look in on its clean-swept floor. I remember Conan’s scream last night, his staring eye, blood bubbling from his mouth, and I remember holding the gun to his head, I remember the white flash of rage when I pulled the trigger again and again wishing it were Paul I had been shooting.