Ralph struts into the room wearing a red leather jacket over a crisp white T-shirt, a pair of tight, pegged Levis, and brown penny loafers, his blue-black hair combed back into a fifties-style pompadour—a Levantine version of James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. He takes Clyde’s hand and strikes a bad-boy pose.
“Oh, Jimmy,” Clyde whispers, tears standing out in his eyes, “we’re magnificent.”
“Yes, we are.” Ralph kisses Clyde on the mouth and settles up with the proprietor with a credit card. Then the two of them run out of the shop holding hands and hop back into the Porsche.
Ralphs discreetly snorts a couple of lines of cocaine before revving up the engine and tearing out of the parking lot entrance, tyres squealing, narrowly missing a white station wagon driven by a soccer mom.
“Be careful, Jimmy!” Clyde punches Ralph in the arm.
“Relax, baby; everything’s under control.”
Ralph gets back onto the freeway, and they drive in silence for about twenty minutes before exiting onto San Ysidro’s main commercial drag and cruising past a small bank at the far end of a near-deserted strip mall. They crane their necks in the direction of the bank as they drive past, then glance at each other. Ralph nods sombrely at Clyde. Clyde smiles and hugs Ralph, who circles the block then creeps into the parking lot and parks at the side of the bank on the backside of the mall out of view of the main road. Then, reaching under his seat, Ralph pulls out the plastic bag, and he and Clyde don their masks.
“I’m shitting my panties, Jimmy.”
“Me too.”
“But we’ve come this far.”
“We don’t have to do this. Remember, I can get you the money for the sex change.”
“We’ve been over this already, Jimmy. This is about us taking control. After today, everyone will be talking about us the way they’re meant to. They’ll finally know who we are.” Clyde squeezes Ralph’s hand. “This has never been about the money or the sex change.”
Ralph stares at the bank out of the eyeholes of his mask, mentally rehearsing his exit strategy. Clyde will wait in the back of the bank covering the door; he’ll hand the teller a note explaining everything, stalling until the police arrive. No threats, no demands for money. Just a crazy Jap in Marilyn drag and an innocent, well-meaning film student bamboozled into pretend-robbing a bank. All great fodder for his documentary exposé about a delusional fan. As long as Clyde doesn’t blab about his father, everything should work out perfectly.
“OK, remember,” Ralph says, “this is going to be a quick in and out like we planned. You cover the door; I’ll talk to the teller. Then when it’s all over you run out, bring the car around front, and I’ll jump in. Then we’ll drive straight across the border, which is literally right there, and head for the Rio district.” He points at the US-Mexican border complex a couple of blocks away and tosses Clyde the keys. “It’s almost closing time, so there shouldn’t be anyone in there besides the employees.”
“I got it, Jimmy. Let’s get this over with already.”
“And we abort at any sign of trouble.”
The two of them push through the door of the empty bank and stroll casually in the direction of the teller windows at the other end of the small building. As they cross the floor, they spot a security guard in the corner sitting backwards in a chair sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Clyde frowns and elbows Ralph in the ribs, then breaks rank and dashes forward. Ralph’s heart leaps into his chest as he watches Clyde rush the windows waving his gun and screaming orders. The security guard’s eyes spasm open, and he jumps out of his chair, tossing aside his coffee and pulling out his service revolver. Ralph runs up to him, holding out his gun, and the guard nervously lowers his weapon. Ralph takes it from him and babbles an explanation of what’s happening—the delusional patient, the fake guns, the planned surrender—as Clyde calls forward each teller, one after the other, demanding that they empty their cash drawer into a plastic bag. But all that comes out of Ralph’s mouth is an unintelligible babble of Hebrew, English, and Nadsat.
“Bring him over here,” Clyde screams, now finished and holding the tellers in a huddle at gunpoint.
Ralph escorts the security guard to where the tellers are standing, and Clyde grabs him by the arm and pushes him into the group.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Ralph whispers to Clyde. “This wasn’t our plan.”
“Neither was he.” Clyde points his pistol at the security guard. “You stay here.”
Clyde grabs the security guard’s revolver out of Ralph’s hand and orders the supervising teller at gunpoint to show him the vault. When they disappear from the room, Ralph tries to reassure the hostages that nothing is going to happen to them, but the wild looks in their eyes tell him they don’t understand a word he is saying. Perspiration streams down his face inside the hot rubber mask and mixes with his tears. For the first time in years, he chants a prayer, begging God for mercy and forgiveness, vowing to return everything he has stolen and to dedicate the rest of his life to the service of others. If only… But all he hears in his head is kipur—the Hebrew word for atonement—and he accepts his fate.
Clyde returns with the supervising teller, his bag brimming with cash, and breathily orders her to rejoin her colleagues. Then he blows a kiss at the group, curtsies, and quickly exits the bank, pirouetting as he goes, cash flying everywhere. A few moments later, the roar of the Porsche’s engine is followed by a sound of a car horn. Ralph backs away from the crowd and bows dramatically, then dashes out of the building. The security guard immediately disengages from the group and signals one of the tellers to sound the alarm, then chases after Ralph, grabbing a spare sidearm out of his desk as he goes.
Ralph sprints toward the Porsche Spyder as it pulls away from the kerb. The security guard bursts out of the bank as Ralph leaps toward the automobile. He drops into a squat and fires off a couple of shots at Ralph, who tumbles over the side of the car into the passenger seat just as the Porsche tears out of the lot, leaving the guard huffing and puffing in a cloud of smoke and dust.
Ralph screams out in pain; Clyde rips off his mask.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“He shot me, you imbecile. Oh, God, oh, God.” Ralph reaches around, and his face contorts from the pain. He pulls back a blood-soaked hand.
“Oh, my God,” Clyde screams. “What should I do? What should I do? Should I take you to a hospital?”
“No, no… just keep driving. We’re almost there.”
“Are you sure, Jimmy?”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure. Just go.”
The Porsche roars toward the crossing point. As it reaches the customs and immigration kiosk, the Mexican border guard suspiciously eyes them. Clyde tosses him a hundred-dollar bill, which the guard nonchalantly stuffs into his pocket before waving them through.
They cross into Mexico and mount the overpass that leads to the various districts of the sprawling border city. They follow the signs that indicate the Distrito Rio and exit onto a major boulevard with a series of large traffic circles, one after another, honouring the heroes of Mexican history with gargantuan bronze statues, just as dusk descends and the lights of the city blink on. As they round the traffic circles, Ralph wordlessly points the way, his face pale and tense.
They turn off the main boulevard and rumble down a dark side street pitted with potholes and littered with discarded tyres. The stench of burning rubbish wafts over the neighbourhood. Ralph points out a large, nondescript brick building at the end of the street with a blinking sign on the roof that says Hotel Don Quixote. Clyde pulls up to the kerb, just off the driveway leading to the registration office, and shuts off the engine. He leans over Ralph and passes a hand over his sweating forehead. Ralph waves him off weakly.
Clyde runs to the reception office. He pulls open the door and looks inside but doesn’t see anyone.
“Hello? Buenos dias?”
He steps into the office and, as he reaches the desk, he catch
es the sound of laboured breathing in the background.
“Hello?”
Noticing a call bell hiding behind a dying fern, he snatches it up and bangs on it repeatedly.
“Buenos dias, hello,” he yells.
A moment later a pillow-creased, middle-aged woman with a greasy mane of black-and-grey hair peers around the corner from a back room and squints at Clyde.
“Sí?”
“I need a room.”
The woman moves into the office, buttoning her blouse, and pulls out a guest register. She puts on a cracked pair of half-glasses and arches a pencil-thin eyebrow at Clyde, who is still dressed in full Marilyn drag. A bare-chested teenager pokes his head around the corner from the back room for a moment, then hides again. The woman senses the teenager’s presence and glances over her shoulder in his direction. Keen to return to her young man, and not caring if it shows, she turns back to Clyde.
“En que te puedo ayudar, eh… señorita.”
“I need a room, please.” Clyde drums his fingers on the counter nervously.
The woman looks up and down at Clyde for a moment and shakes her head.
“Lo siento. No tenemos habitaciones. Adios.”
She turns to leave, and Clyde slaps down a hundred-dollar bill on the front desk. The woman eyes the money, then looks back up at Clyde and shrugs. He frowns and slaps down another one, then another.
A moment later, Clyde dashes out of the office, a room key dangling from his hand. He runs to the car and checks on Ralph, who smiles at him weakly. Then he drives up to the nearest stairwell, grabs Ralph’s trench coat out of the trunk, and drapes it over him before helping him up the stairs to their room on the second floor.
The hotel clerk peers out at Clyde and Ralph from behind a tattered curtain. The teenager stands behind her in his boxer shorts looking over her bare shoulder at the pair as they ascend the stairs. At one point, Ralph stumbles, and Clyde helps him up. The woman turns and looks quizzically at the teenager. He shakes his head and grabs her by the waist, pulling her away from the window. Then he kisses her passionately on the mouth, and they fall on the bed entwined.
Clyde helps Ralph into the darkened room and lowers him on to the hastily made bed. He finds the light switch, flips it on and moves to Ralph’s side. Ralph’s eyes are open, but glazed over. He removes Ralph’s jacket and T-shirt and turns him over. His back is oozing blood, and the mattress underneath is already quite stained.
“Shit,” Clyde hisses.
Grabbing an empty ice bucket from the desk, he runs to the bathroom and fills the bucket with scalding hot water, staring intensely at the stream gushing out of the faucet. Suddenly he hears a breathy whisper.
“Psst, hey there.”
Clyde looks up at the steamed-up mirror and sees Marilyn staring back at him. She smiles and blows a kiss and beckons for him to join her. Clyde frowns at the mirror and looks back down at the overflowing bucket, then turns off the faucet.
He carries the bucket back into the room together with a few towels and sits at Ralph’s side. Dipping a hand towel into the hot water, he gently cleanses Ralph’s wound.
“Ahh, fuck!” Ralph reaches around and grasps at Clyde’s hand.
Clyde grabs his wrist. “I’ve got to clean it before I can tend it.”
“It hurts!”
“I’ve got to try and stop the bleeding; then I’m going to find a doctor.”
Clyde continues washing Ralph’s wound.
“No doctors,” Ralph snaps. “I don’t want us to get caught.”
Clyde looks closely at the wound. “Jesus… you’re oozing blood out of two places. The bullet probably went in here and went out there.” He grabs Ralph’s hand, places a dry towel into it. “Hold this against your side while I make a tourniquet.”
Clyde tears off his dress and pulls his hair back into a tight ponytail. Then he opens the closet and pulls out a folding bed. He unlatches it and removes the fitted sheet. Casting about the room, Clyde spots a small wooden desk. He drags it away from the wall and tries to fray the sheet by rubbing it back and forth against a rough edge while Ralph watches.
“Where’d you learn to do this stuff?” Ralph croaks.
“In the Boy Scouts. Keep still.”
“In the Boy Scouts?” Ralph laughs, then winces in reaction to the stabbing pain it provokes. “Marilyn Monroe was in the Boy Scouts?”
The sheet frays in Clyde’s hand.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Clyde rips the sheet into long strips. Then he pulls Ralph’s hand away from the wound and confirms that the oozing has abated before wrapping his torso in strips of cloth. When he finishes, he helps Ralph onto his stomach, then goes into the bathroom and refills the bucket and a couple of plastic cups with cold water. He returns to Ralph’s side and places the water on the nightstand within easy reach, then examines the wraps. He frowns at a thimble-sized spot of blood in the middle of the wrapping.
“It’s too tight,” Ralph says.
“The bleeding hasn’t stopped completely. But it’s under control for now.”
“I’m hungry.”
“That’s a good sign.” Clyde sits on the bed next to Ralph and strokes his hair.
“I’m in pain, but I’m hungry. Go find something for us to eat.”
“I’m not going to leave you.”
“You’ve got to stash the car anyway if it hasn’t been stolen already.”
“God damn it. I’d forgotten about the car.”
“There’s supposed to be a body shop around the corner according to the map. Give whomever’s there a couple hundred to store it for a few days. Promise more for when you pick it up. Don’t forget to bring up our stuff before you go, including my strongbox.”
“What if they’re closed? It’s already night-time.”
Ralph stays quiet for a few seconds. “If it’s closed, ditch the thing anywhere. Then go bring us something to eat.”
“But I barely know any Spanish. Besides, I hate Mexican food.”
“Then look for some Japanese food. But I’m warning you, I don’t know how to use chopsticks—” Ralph is taken with a sudden fit of painful coughing.
Clyde stands and looks down at Ralph, his face tense with fear. After a moment, Ralph recovers and breathes more easily.
“I’m OK, really. I’ll be all right, I promise. I’m feeling better.”
Clyde rechecks the wraps and is relieved to see the blood spot has not grown. He returns an hour later, his arms laden with brown paper sacks and finds Ralph sitting up in bed mesmerised by the blue flicker of the TV, which is tuned to a San Diego English-language station. He rushes to his side and covers his face in kisses. Ralph snaps out of it and smiles weakly as he watches Clyde pull white takeaway containers from the paper sacks.
“Look what I found.” Clyde opens one of the containers and shows Ralph some steaming yaki-soba. “I couldn’t believe it. Japanese Mexicans. And just two blocks from here.” He sets aside the container and pops open another one that is full of rice.
“Did you speak to them in Japanese?”
“Hell, no. I just pointed. This one’s vegetarian. I made sure, you know, because of the Jewish thing.”
He feeds Ralph yaki-soba with a pair of chopsticks. After the first few bites, Ralph looks away and grimaces.
“No more. It’s too greasy.”
Clyde pulls Ralph’s head back around by the chin.
Ralph pulls a face at the food dangling from the chopsticks. “What did you do with the car?”
“The body shop was closed, so I ended up parking it around back in a field. But forget that for now. I want you to eat something if you can. You need to build back your strength.”
Ralph nods at the TV as the pre-broadcast graphics of the eleven o’clock news play out on screen. “Turn it up, please.”
Clyde points the remote at the TV and ratchets up the volume as the programme cuts away to the anchorman, who launches into the top story.
Good evening
. Marilyn Monroe and James Dean rob a San Ysidro bank this afternoon.
“Will you listen to that,” Ralph says, wiping the grease from his lips with a paper napkin.
Clyde sets aside the food container and sits up.
That’s right, folks. Two suspects, one disguised as Marilyn Monroe and the other as James Dean, held up the border branch of Jacaranda Bank late this afternoon just before closing time.
The broadcast cuts away to a grainy CCTV video of the actual robbery as it transpired. It shows Clyde ordering the tellers into a huddle.
“Oh, my God.” Clyde jumps to his feet and points at the TV. “Look, Jimmy. I’m a star! I’m really a star!”
Ralph’s hand shoots up at Clyde. “Calm down. I can’t hear.”
The video cuts to another shot showing Ralph escorting the security guard into the teller’s cage.
“Look, Jimmy, it’s you. This is fucking fantabulous!”
Ralph shoots Clyde a sidelong glance, which silences Clyde, then he looks back at the TV as it cuts to the anchorman.
It’s believed one of the suspects was injured while fleeing the scene when a security guard fired live rounds at him. The automobile in which the two fled, an unidentified silver sports car, was last seen speeding toward the US-Mexico border. Anyone with information leading to the capture of the two suspects, both of whom are considered armed and dangerous, is requested to call the following number.
“Turn it off, please.”
Clyde frowns and switches off the TV. “What is it?”
Ralph scoots down the bed and rests his head on the pillow. “Lie down next to me.”
Clyde gets back into bed and passes a hand through Ralph’s damp hair. Ralph gazes at him for a few moments.
“We have a long road ahead of us, you and me. You know that, right?”
Clyde nods.
“I need you to promise me something.” Ralph closes his eyes. When he opens them a moment later, they are burning with emotion. “I want you to promise you’ll never hate me, even if I turn out not to be the guy you think I am.”
“I could never hate you, Jimmy.”
“Don’t put me on a pedestal. I did that once, and it ruined me.”
The Death of Baseball Page 38
