by Mark Pepper
‘Sure,’ Dodge said, and touched a button on the booth wall. An electric pulley whirred overhead, reeling in the old target, while John began loading from the carton.
‘So why didn’t things work out?’ Virginia asked. ‘What happened?’
‘Dunblane. March ninety-six.’
She winced. ‘God, of course; those kids in Scotland.’
‘Gun ownership in Britain was always a house of cards. Dunblane brought it down. The right to bear arms isn’t a very British concept. We don’t have the history like you do.’ He pressed in the last round, slotted the magazine in the butt and worked the slide. The riddled target arrived and Dodge exchanged it for a fresh one, then sent it back out.
‘You want these?’ Dodge asked, pointing to the ear-defenders.
‘Nah. I like it when my ears ring.’
‘Why didn’t you move someplace else?’ Virginia asked. ‘Learn your new trade where guns are allowed?’
John shrugged. ‘Dunblane was certainly sobering, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t a moral choice. I suppose it just gave me the chance to reassess. Maybe I should move on. Maybe I’d been around guns for long enough. Problem is, I can’t settle. I’ve been globe-trotting for nearly twenty years, taking one job after another.’
‘Doing what?’ she asked.
‘Security Consultant, mostly. And that’s not a euphemism for anything more dangerous; it’s just advice. If you get the right client, it pays well. Lots of paranoid rich people out there. I advise and I move on. Leave the briefcased Uzis to other people.’
Dodge had stopped the silhouette twenty-five yards downrange. John waited for it to hang still, adopted a two-handed point, aimed and squeezed the trigger. He proceeded to empty the clip, then placed the Colt on the table and brought the target in. As it approached, he realized his mistake. He had gone for head shots, putting a tight bunch of holes through the silhouette’s black face.
It stopped in front of them. They all stared at it. They stared for no more than five seconds but it seemed to John like an hour.
‘French Foreign Legion, you say?’ Dodge said severely.
It sounded like the sort of question you weren’t meant to answer.
‘You’re sure not DEA?’
Gallows humor: a soldier’s last line of defense. John looked on as Dodge began tittering like a child, making hysterical squeaks that became roars of bass laughter. John knew it was okay to join in. In truth, he couldn’t help himself. Dodge might break down in a few moments, but they could all howl until then. Life was demonstrating one of its more quirky truisms: the worse the tragedy, the sicker the joke.
Spluttering his amusement, John glanced at Virginia who was trying to maintain some decorum, scowling at both men. He turned his back fully on Dodge and indicated with his eyes that she should join in; however unseemly, this was a necessary release for her father, perhaps the only one he would allow himself. She got the message and started smiling. It seemed an effort and John understood why. Dodge’s laughter was maniacal, somehow ugly. Virginia couldn’t look at her father, but John saw her listening, using the sound of his laughter to spur her own.
In defiance of death she came alive, and John could not take his eyes off her.
At the end of their shift, Officer Larry Roth took his rookie partner for a beer. Joey DeCecco didn’t want to go but that was irrelevant to the final outcome. Larry chose a bar some distance away from their station. He reckoned a heated discussion was on the cards and he didn’t want any other off-duty cops being a party to it.
Larry led the way in his silver 1980 Corvette Stingray. Aside from Hayley, it was his only true passion. Unlike Hayley, it didn’t suffer his moods. The 5.7 liter V8 happily took all his anger and turned it into speed, whereas his wife simply absorbed it. She had no release. She shopped, kept house, and waited interminably for Hollywood to throw her a crumb from its table, which she would scrap over with a dozen other failed actresses. Her monthly visits to the cemetery seemed to have a cathartic effect, but he didn’t approve. Ultimately, such morbid fixations had to be unhealthy. As her husband, he was aware that his love should have been easing her burden, but since Frank’s death it had been buried deep inside him under an avalanche of fear and confusion. He had lost touch with his finer emotions.
Behind the ‘Vette, DeCecco followed on his black Harley Low Rider. Watching in his rear-view mirror, Larry had to admit he looked cool.
His eyes returned to the road, his thoughts to Hayley. They were a world apart. Her job was fiction, in more ways than one. His was hard fact. Once, that difference had provided an essential counterpoise. Her enthusiasm could lift him; his pragmatism could ground her. Now ...
Larry shook his head to dispel a growing sense of futility. They were approaching the bar. He had to think clearly. He parked the Corvette on the street and got out. DeCecco pulled in behind, removed his open-face helmet and ran a hand through his black crew-cut. Larry offered a counterfeit grin, then held open the bar door.
There were fewer than ten patrons. The place was small with redwood cladding on the walls. A collection of neon beer signs – dazzling palettes of color in the gloom, glinting off the line of chrome beer taps.
‘Joey, what are you drinking?’ Larry said amiably, settling on a stool.
‘I’m gonna call my wife. I don’t want her getting worried.’
Larry offered what he thought was a winning smile. ‘Sure. Coors?’
‘Just a soda.’ He set his helmet on the bar and went back outside onto the street to make the call in private.
Larry’s jovial façade vanished. ‘Asshole,’ he muttered. He ordered the drinks and waited. Two minutes later, DeCecco ambled back and sat down.
‘You tell your wife you’re with me?’ Larry asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘What did you say? You’re having a brew with a psycho cop and if you’re not home in a couple of hours to call the station?’
DeCecco shook his head. ‘I told her an hour, then call.’
Larry forced a laugh. ‘Joey, Joey. You’re concerned about Eddie? Don’t be. File and forget. It didn’t happen.’
‘So how often should I expect these things not to happen?’
Larry barely maintained his smile. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but the only reason you got a problem with what I did today is you’re a rookie. You don’t know shit. But that’s okay. I can make allowances for that. Get it off your chest, and then I’ll explain how it is.’
‘Okay. You pulled your piece, stuck it in a man’s face and threatened to blow him away. Because you’re a cop that makes it okay? That stinks. You ever notice what’s written on the door of the black-and-white?’
‘Police?’ Larry said facetiously.
‘To protect and to serve.’
‘Oh, that.’ Larry calmly took a draught of his Coors. ‘You’ll learn,’ he said.
‘Meaning?’
‘One day soon you’ll walk into a situation, play it by the book and wind up real sorry.’
DeCecco smiled crookedly. ‘Why? Because I don’t get off on playing Dirty Harry?’
‘It’s the principle. You take control. If criminals can’t respect the law, they gotta be made to fear it.’
‘Oh, my mistake. I thought Eddie was some shitbird CI you were meant to look after. I didn’t realize he was El Chapo in disguise.’
Larry couldn’t think of a fast enough retort, so he supped his glass dry, burped, and ordered another.
‘Listen, Larry, I appreciate your partner died recently, but that’s no excuse. If you’re hurting, get help; don’t take it out on some innocent.’
Larry leaned in so they were almost butting heads.
‘Did I hit the little fucker? Did I even touch him? No. I do not have a hand problem, Joey. Never have.’
‘Well, you sure as hell got a head problem,’ DeCecco said, and took his first taste of soda.
‘Oh, fuck you. Tell me: why did you become a cop? It’s pretty fucking obvious y
ou don’t have the stomach for police work.’
Looking straight ahead at the spirit shelf, DeCecco reacted calmly with a strange smile. ‘I got the guts for more than police work, pal.’
Studying his partner’s expression, Larry noticed something he’d never seen before. Despite the smile, a cold glint in his eyes that made him seem more self-assured. Larry’s bristling attitude suddenly flattened. Instead of arguing, he decided to take DeCecco at his word and use it for his own ends.
‘That’s good, Joey. Maybe I underestimated you. So maybe you won’t find my next proposition too shocking.’
DeCecco looked sideways at him.
‘Remember what Eddie said?’ Larry asked.
‘Yeah. You tell Captain Gilchrist yet?’
‘No, we’re gonna deal with this one ourselves.’
‘Say again.’
‘Another beer!’ Larry called to the bartender.
‘Jesus, you are one soup sandwich,’ Joey said.
‘I thought you had the balls.’
‘I do. What I don’t have is any inclination to play Russian roulette.’
‘Aw, don’t fucking exaggerate.’
‘I see, we’re back to cursing at the rookie.’ DeCecco stood up. ‘Forget it. I’ll talk to Gilchrist myself.’
At their apartment in Sawtelle, Hayley was torturing herself as she always did. It didn’t help. She never clarified anything in her mind. The truth was, she could never tell. Sometimes she could read well and fail, other times think she’d screwed up and still get the part. But that didn’t stop her mentally replaying every interview on a continuous loop, searching for some hook to hang her hope on.
Today it was worse. The stakes were higher: fame and fortune. Opportunities like this for female bit-part players of her age were increasingly rare. She was on the cusp of perpetual oblivion.
The burning incense sticks had not soothed her. Layers of smoke hung thickly in the living room, making her eyes smart. Her books on PMA were useless this evening. A major disappointment might be looming, and it was hard to maintain a Positive Mental Attitude alongside the thought of what might have been.
She viewed Malibu Mischief as a panacea. It would cure her career, heal her husband, mend her marriage. With the boost to their joint income, Larry could get out of law enforcement, perhaps open a business, maybe even retire. They could live happily ever after like people did in the movies.
A headache was pounding in her skull; she had to get some air. She went outside onto the walkway that overlooked a communal pool in need of a clean. She unbowed the ribbon in her hair, pulled off the cinch and let her curls fall free. The patterned material in her hand bore the repeating motif of Mickey and Minnie Mouse inside a love heart. Recently, her childhood seemed to belong to another person; it felt like she’d been a failing actress all her life. Yet she was still naïve enough to believe a childhood memento might bring her luck.
She wanted to scream. The yearning to succeed was unbearable. Her mood had degenerated over the day into one of unprecedented foulness. She could feel this despite the lack of anyone to bounce it off. When Larry came home, she would have to be extremely careful.
An hour later and her headache was as bad as her mood. The physical pain fuelled the mental agony and vice-versa. Hayley was still on the walkway outside her front door, the ribbon from her old dress weaved between her fingers. TVs were on in surrounding apartments, an assortment of muted sounds from the various channels. Across the way, the couple in number thirteen were having one of their regular disagreements, which Hayley reckoned would one night end with a gunshot.
Down on the street, Larry arrived home, the Corvette’s V8 announcing his presence. A couple of roars as he revved the engine, then silence. He was late. She hadn’t noticed the time, but now she did it annoyed her. Before he entered the courtyard she retreated into the apartment and quietly closed the door, then dumped herself on the sofa and zapped the TV into life. If Larry was not in a vastly better frame of mind she would feign interest in a movie. A clash on this particular evening might prove too volatile.
He came in and shut the door behind him.
‘Jesus, Hayley, it’s like a fucking opium den in here.’
He was bombed; she could tell without turning round.
‘Why d’you burn that shit?’
The past month, such comments had become standard. Any other day she would have ignored it. Tonight, despite her best intentions, she switched off the TV and challenged him with a look.
‘Now I gotta open all the fucking windows – Jesus.’
‘I can’t believe you drove home like that.’
‘Believe it,’ Larry said, his eyes all bloodshot and defiant.
‘In case you’d forgotten, you’re a cop.’
He paused at the curtains. ‘And now I’m a shit-faced cop. Hayley, no more fucking incense.’
‘Do you think you could talk to me without cursing?’
‘Yeah, but I ain’t fucking about to.’ He drew the drapes apart and threw open the window.
‘You’ve changed,’ she said sadly.
‘Frank died.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t I know it.’
‘No, you don’t. You only think you do. I was there. I watched it happen. One second he was standing there, the next ...’
‘And I suppose you’re the only person in the history of the world to have lost someone you cared about.’
With utter contempt, Larry said, ‘What? You mean your old man? You didn’t even know the guy.’
‘So I shouldn’t feel any loss, is that it?’
‘Loss maybe, but you’re fucking obsessed.’
‘Stop cursing at me!’ She got up and went into the kitchen, purely to escape the other room.
‘You are!’ he shouted, and tailed her in. ‘You go to his grave every fucking month.’
She stood at the sink, showing him her back. ‘I like to remember,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
Larry howled a laugh. Hayley heard the fridge door open and guessed he was after a six-pack. He returned to the living room and she followed to see him tear off a tin of Budweiser.
‘I like to remember ...’ he mocked. ‘Jesus.’ He cracked the tin and guzzled some beer. ‘Remember what, Hayley? You never even met the guy. Exactly what memories are you referring to?’
She was livid. He had often questioned the frequency of her visits, but he had never maliciously undermined her devotion in this way. She should have gone to bed at that point. She knew how obtuse he could be after drink. She knew there was no point reasoning. But he had prised the scab off her most vulnerable wound on a day when her head ached like pity and her career hung in the balance. She was about to start yelling, but a surge of sadness stole much of her intended volume.
‘Maybe that’s the whole point. I don’t know anything. All I have is that gravestone with his name on it. If being there makes me feel close to him, is that so wrong?’
‘And how about being close to me?’ he said pathetically.
Hurt and amazed, it was Hayley’s turn to howl a laugh. She might have gone on to spell out the irony had her head not emptied of all thought as her vision filled with bright jags and shards, then did a quick-fade to black-out.
In the end, John didn’t get a cab back to Beverly Glen. The three of them perforated over a dozen targets, and Virginia was a match for them both. Emptying firearms was perhaps a strange thing to do on such a day but it passed the time and united their focus elsewhere. Virginia seemed grateful. When her father whooped at a perfect heart shot, she gave John a little smile. Dodge was engrossed in their friendly competition, spending difficult hours in relative relaxation. After a tense start, the two men had gelled. There was a generation between them, they had fought different wars, but they were both old soldiers.
And they could both drink. After locking up at DODGE CITY, Virginia drove them to a nearby bar. The two-seater Audi being somewhat impractical, she took her father’s Jee
p, and while she stayed sober they held a private wake for Donnie. They sunk beers, shot pool and talked about old times, but it was clear that certain topics were taboo and no amount of alcohol would change that. Donnie’s recent history was off limits, likewise any mention of the problems Dodge had been suffering for years. But, even without Virginia’s warning, John would have known not to probe. As he recounted tales of his years with the Legion, Dodge had ample opportunity to offer military anecdotes of his own. He didn’t, and John had never been more curious about another man’s past. Finally, when Dodge began looking seriously morose and neither man could sink a ball except by accident, Virginia suggested it was time to leave.
Dodge fell asleep on the way back, a disturbed doze full of nonsensical mutterings. Virginia took no notice and John gathered she had heard it before – her father’s demons loosing their insidious poison.
‘Where are you staying, John?’
‘Best Western on Sepulveda.’
These were the first words between them and they were already on Mulholland Drive, nearing Beverly Glen. As before, John had felt no need to force conversation. Some odd intuition told him they would have all the time in the world to talk. He only hoped she felt the same.
After a moment, she said, ‘Well, you can’t drive.’
‘I’ll get a cab.’
‘If you like. Or you can stay at my dad’s.’
John nodded. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m staying. He might need me tonight.’
They put Dodge to bed then came back downstairs. The buffet was still there on the kitchen counter. The foil had been peeled back on several of the platters but the mourners had made little impression on the food beneath. Most of the glasses were unused, the bottles undisturbed. John wondered how long they had stuck with it, awkwardly swapping condolences when the closest bereaved were not even there to hear them. What was a respectable amount of time? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? Did three or four sidle off before they all got the message and filtered out to their cars? Or was there an honest spokesperson among them? Dodge and Virginia aren’t here and Donnie was an asshole. Let’s go.
