The Best Bad Dream

by Robert Ward

  Kim Walker’s hand began to shake a little. She poured a glass of white wine and sipped it.

  “Now those are tough sentences,” Jack said, “but what is really tough is if the kidnapping victim is killed. Then the miscreants become candidates for a first-degree murder charge.”

  “Murder?” Kim asked.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Jack said. “That you wouldn’t have anything to do with murder. But see, if you’re an accomplice to murder, meaning if you don’t tell us what you know about Jennifer Wu and if, tragically, she happened to be killed, then you would be a full accomplice to murder and suffer the same fate as the actual killers. Which would be life in prison. Many people think that might actually be worse than the death penalty.”

  Kim Walker’s face looked pale as she quickly drank her wine. She pulled her robe up to her neck, as though she were trying to disappear.

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t think this has anything to do with me.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Jack said. “I’d hate to see you in jail as a lifer. They don’t have many massages in prison, unless you count the ones you get from the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound dykes who share your cell.”

  “And to think I really liked you,” Kim said.

  “Did you?” Jack responded.

  He walked toward her and stared down at her.

  “I liked you, too, until I started wondering why you were so anxious to meet me. Listen, Kim, we know something is going down tomorrow night. You tell us what it is and we’ll talk to the district attorney for you.”

  “You have no idea what you’re getting into,” Kim said. “This isn’t a criminal gang you’re breaking up. It’s the most important discovery since . . .”

  “Go ahead and say it,” a voice said from behind them. “Why be falsely modest? It’s the most important discovery since the beginning of human history.”

  Jack and Oscar turned and saw Lucky Avila and two of his goons walk into the room. They held pistols in their hands.

  “Drop your gun, Jack. I’d hate to have to kill you before you had a peek at what we’re talking about.”

  Jack gave Oscar a quick look but neither of them had a real chance. They did as Lucky demanded.

  Lucky smiled and went over to Oscar.

  “I don’t know you, friend, but you’ve chosen the wrong side in this battle. Turn around.”

  Oscar was slow to do it, so Lucky cracked him on the side of the head with his gun butt. Oscar went down hard on the condo floor.

  Jack stepped forward to help him but was bludgeoned by one of the other boys and fell on top of his partner.

  “Don’t they look peaceful there?” Lucky commented. “Well, they wanted to know what was really going on and now they’re going to find out. Roll them up in that rug and get their asses down the stairs to the car.”

  Kim shook her head. “They’re FBI,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Lucky said. “If they weren’t, they would already be dead. This has to be handled with some tact and discretion.”

  “Not your strong suit,” Kim said.

  “Shut the fuck up before I decide to make you the star of the show.” Kim didn’t need to be told again.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Even Wade had noticed how much Kevin was dragging. He asked him how he was doing and Kevin said he was just tired from studying for finals, but the look Pop gave him said it all. He flat out knew Kevin was holding something back.

  Which made Kevin think he should just break up with Vicki and go back to being a kid again.

  But he just couldn’t do it. Not yet. Every time he thought of not seeing her again it drove him crazy.

  Leaving her there with her creepy husband, James. He’d learned a lot about him. James was a crazy man, wildly impulsive. Sometimes he beat Vicki up when he came home loaded and she’d said that once he’d even tied her up and threatened her with a gun!

  When he thought of that, how weird James was, Kevin would forget all about leaving her. Instead, he would go the other way, and start thinking about leaving with her. Maybe they could just get the hell out of Los Angeles, go to New York or someplace where they would never be found. Why the hell not? She could work and maybe he could still go to school. The thoughts floated through his overheated brain like pieces of scrap paper.

  He cradled his lacrosse stick and looked down the road.

  And there she was, coming toward him in her car. Waving to him from behind the wheel. Even a half block away he could see her smile and thought he could already smell her perfume.

  She stopped the car next to him with a screech, then rolled down the passenger window and leaned across the seat toward him.

  “Hey, buddy, you’re looking kind of lonely standing there in the dark.”

  “Maybe I am,” he said.

  “Well, maybe you should get in with me, then.”

  “You think so, miss?”

  “I do,” she said. “I just can’t resist a man with a big stick.”

  Kevin laughed and felt the wonderful sensation of illicit joy. Within two seconds he was in the car, putting his hand on her white thigh as they drove toward a golden moon.

  In bed she was wilder than ever. Long ago he had seen some old Western with his dad and one character had called a woman—Jane Russell or someone like that—a “regular wildcat,” and Kevin had laughed at how lame the metaphor was. But not anymore. Because that was exactly what Vicki was: a regular wildcat, a mountain lioness. The way she arched her back when she was coming, the way she scratched at him . . .

  Never let this end, he thought. Never, ever let this end.

  Then, just as he was shooting off in her mouth, the bedroom door opened.

  “Well,” James Hastings said, “isn’t this cozy?”

  He was wearing a herring-bone overcoat, which gave him a very East Coast, preppie look. He also had stylish glasses, and his haircut looked like it had cost five hundred bucks. When he smiled the whiteness of his teeth practically blinded Kevin.

  On the bed Vicki scrambled under the covers, peeking out like she was a little child terrified of a whipping from her father.

  Kevin reached for his shorts and quickly put them on.

  “James,” Vicki said, “I can explain.”

  “Of course you can,” James said. “How about you, kiddo? Can you explain?”

  Kevin felt as though someone had lit a Bunsen burner under his head. His cheeks and ears were flaming hot.

  “I’m sorry,” Kevin said. “No, wait. That’s not true. I love Vicki.”

  James Hastings unzipped the briefcase he had with him and took out a gun.

  “Oh, God,” Vicki said.

  James laughed and aimed the gun at Kevin’s crotch.

  “I can shoot you right in the balls and no one would ever blame me.”

  Kevin felt himself shaking but he reached over and took Vicki’s hand.

  “You couldn’t get away with it.”

  “Yes, I could,” James said. “I’m the CEO of my company. I’m the head of three notable charities. I play golf with the mayor at the Brentwood Country Club. There’s no jury in this town that would convict me. But I’m not going to touch you.”

  Kevin heard the words but noticed a cruel smile on James Hastings’ face.

  “Vicki is going to do it.”

  Kevin was so astonished by what James had said that for a second he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard it.

  “You’re crazy,” he finally said.

  “Am I? Get out from under the covers, Vick.”

  She was whimpering now, but crawled out from under the quilt like a slave.

  James handed her her short, sexy, silk robe, the one she’d used to drive Kevin crazy during their first few liaisons.

  Funny, he thought, she doesn’t look sexy in it now.

  James handed her the gun.

  “Shoot him,” he said.

  She was crying. “I can’t, Jim. I can’t.”

 
; Kevin was shaking with fear but he also wanted to laugh. This was so absurd. James Hastings had no idea of what his wife was like. The very idea that she would even consider shooting him was so ridiculous. They were in love, for Chrissakes.

  “You can shoot him, and you will,” James said.

  She shook her head violently back and forth.

  “No, no, no,” she said. “I can’t. I don’t want to.”

  James smiled and shook his head as if to say, “These darn kids. No discipline anymore.”

  “Well then, what do you want to do?” James asked, in a sugary voice.

  She looked up at Kevin then, and there was something so achingly beautiful in her eyes that Kevin wanted to put his arms around her and take care of her. Now and for always.

  “Did you hear me, Vick?” James asked. “What do you want to do?”

  “I can’t use the gun,” she said.

  “No?” James asked.

  “No,” Vicki said, “I want to use the knife.”

  “Ohhh,” James said. “Like the one in Chicago. What was his name?”

  “Simon,” she said lightly. “His name was Simon. Now will you please tie him up, James?”

  “What are you saying?” Kevin asked, incredulous. “Vicki, I love you.”

  She looked at him and shook her head in a sad, reluctant way.

  “No, you don’t. You’re just like all the other ones. So young. Never had an older woman. Oh, it’s all so exciting at first but soon you’ll start seeing how deep the wrinkles are on my face and you’ll start comparing them to the girls at school. Their flawless faces. Their perfect, nonsagging breasts. Their legs with no ugly broken veins, and you’ll ditch me just like all the other boys did. And what will happen to me then? I’ll be left alone, weeping, broken-hearted.”

  “I won’t do that. Not ever,” Kevin cried.

  Vicki’s face was all exposed teeth as she screamed into his face.

  “Yes, you will. All that matters in this world is youth and beauty. Once it’s gone you’re nothing. Less than nothing. You’ll laugh at me!”

  I won t!

  “Yes, you will!” Vicki screamed. “You all do. And you’ll tell other people about this old freak who fucked you for a while. And you’ll laugh at the weirdness of it all.”

  “But I won’t,” Kevin said.

  “That’s right,” Vicki said. “You won’t. None of my lovers will ever laugh at me again!”

  “It’s time, Vick,” James said.

  Kevin felt as through an electric shock was passing through his body.

  God help me, he thought.

  He saw James reach into the briefcase and take out a tightly wrapped coil of nylon rope.

  “Oh, Dad. Dad . . .”

  But then he thought of his dad. And somehow just seeing him in his mind’s eye made him just a little less afraid. He remembered something his father had told him about the Clutter family, the ones that Hickock and Smith had murdered in their own home. They had been watching In Cold Blood, with Robert Blake, and after the killings Kevin had been badly upset and said, “All along I thought they were going to let them go.” But his father had shaken his head and said, “No, son. If you learn one lesson from this movie it should be this: if you’re ever facing someone with a gun, never, ever let them tie you up. Once they do that you’re already dead. Clutter thought that by cooperating with them he would save his and his family’s lives. But he was dead wrong. Once they tie you up, they feel contempt for you. You’re no longer a person to them but a thing, like a rabid dog or a sick animal that has to be put out of its misery. That’s how the mind of a murderer works. They like to see you sitting there waiting for them to gut you.”

  Holy shit, Kevin thought. Time to make a move.

  He lashed out at Vicki, knocking the gun to one side. The gun went off and he heard James Hastings scream.

  There was a brief second when they both looked at James to see what had happened. The bullet had passed though his left forearm. Blood streamed down his overcoat.

  “You little bastard,” James said, and reached down to grab the gun but Kevin kicked it away, knocked him over, and ran out the bedroom door.

  He ran down the steps toward the front door but it was locked from the inside. With a key.

  He heard James screaming at him from upstairs and he headed to the back of the house. His lacrosse stick was in the kitchen and he picked it up as he went by and out the back door.

  He was running through the yard for the gate when he heard James come outside.

  Kevin dove behind a tangle of bushes and watched as James came toward him, the gun in his hand.

  “C’mon, kiddo,” he said. “C’mon. It was just a little joke we were playing on you.”

  Kevin held his breath. A little joke. Yeah, real funny, motherfucker.

  He reached down and felt a rock in the dirt. He dug it out with his hands.

  James was getting closer, looking around in the moonlit garden. Kevin could see the blood dripping down his left arm and hand. The gun was in his right hand.

  “C’mon,” James said again. “Come back in and we’ll all have a little drink and a few laughs. Really.”

  Kevin picked up a handful of pebbles, said a small prayer, and threw them to the left, near the garage.

  James turned, aimed his gun there, and as he did Kevin got up with the rock in his lacrosse stick.

  He aimed it at James’s head and flung it exactly as he would a lacrosse ball. The rock sailed through the air and crashed into the back of James’s skull.

  There was a crunching sound and James fell down in his garden, his eyes still open.

  Kevin ran to him and grabbed the gun. He felt for James’s pulse. It was beating steadily, but James wasn’t going anywhere for quite a while.

  He found her in the house, lying under the quilt with the steak knife sitting on the table next to her.

  She looked up at him and smiled.

  “It was going to be so beautiful,” she said. “If you were a little more objective, even you could see that. Besides, no matter what you say now, I know you would have laughed at me. The young hate the old.”

  Kevin reached down and picked up the cell phone. He dialed 911. She started to get up but he shook his head.

  “You leave that bed, you fucking die,” he said.

  It wasn’t his voice that said it, it was his dad’s. She didn’t move a muscle until the LAPD showed up at the front door.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Johnny stood by the bright blue door of Marty’s condo. Looks as though it was hand painted, probably by the old broad Millie Millwood, he thought. Yeah, Johnny had seen those hand-painted doors before, in Provence. These old boho types always liked to think of themselves not just as Americans but as “citizens of the world.” Boy, that just pissed Johnny off. What the hell was wrong with America? Not a goddamned thing. Where else could a guy like him flourish like he did? He loved his country and he hated those old boho assholes who ran around talking about cheese and wine and fucking baguettes! Oh, no, a loaf of Wonder Bread wasn’t good enough for them. They had to eat a freaking baguette. Fags! And what was wrong with French’s mustard? Not a goddamned thing, but the Martys and Millies of the world had to eat Grey Poupon, and special mustards made with some kind of rare fucking mustard seed that probably came from Arle and was pissed on by van Gogh or something. Well, fuck them. Fuck all of them.

  Asswipes.

  He rang the doorbell, waited, and seconds later Marty let him in.

  “Hello, John,” Marty said, smiling. “You look particularly well tonight.”

  “Thanks, Martster,” Johnny said, turning on the charm. “You’re looking very sharp yourself, man.”

  Actually, John thought, Marty did look pretty good, considering he was ripe for a permanent rest in a coffin. The old man had some color in his cheeks and his blue eyes were clear and focused.

  Of course, the fact that he wore an absurd boho-type ascot, circa 1925 Paris, made him
seem more than faintly ridiculous. And what was with the maroon velvet smoking jacket? He looked like some character out of an old detective novel Johnny’s mother used to pretend to read while covering her face with Noxzema and smoking Camels in the hundred-degree D.C. backyard heat.

  From behind Marty emerged Millie, dressed in her vintage Victorian black lace number with a real blood rose corsage. Christ, Johnny thought as he stepped inside, they were doing the Addams Family. Where the fuck were Lurch and Cousin Itt?

  The condo was something right out of the Gilded Age. The chairs were all ancient, cane-backed babies, and the walls seemed to be papered in some kind of crushed velvet. It was so absurd. They had come all this way to Santa Fe only to re-create a lame version of nineteenth-century fucking Paris.

  Johnny didn’t know enough about history or interior decoration (a fag hobby) to be able to tell the difference, but the important thing as far as he was concerned was it wasn’t now, and it wasn’t American.

  They were a couple of phony old assholes and deserved what he was going to give them.

  But this gig might be a tad more complicated than he had figured. They had invited a bunch of their friends, lamesters of all kinds. People who looked seven-eighths dead.

  “Johnny, we’d like to introduce you to the people who are known as the council. All of these people have been civic leaders in Santa Fe for many years. This is Alex Williams, the president of the Blue Wolf council. Alex has been one of the great patrons of the local O’Keeffe Museum.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Johnny said, looking at the old stick figure who thrust out an awkward, veiny hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Williams said in a friendly baritone.

  Johnny took the man’s hand and pressed it tightly. And he was more than a little surprised when the old man squeezed his hand back. Really squeezed it. God, the old bastard was strong as hell.

  “Over here,” Millie said, “we want you to meet Don Dietz.”