Dangerous Games

by John Shannon

  “I’d rather strangle the little fuck. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  Luisa Wilson went into the back bedroom and shut the door quietly so no one would hear. She had made it into her own private space, like that wonderful red-tailed hawk’s nest she had watched for years from a taller hill back in the Owens. She had a single mattress with two sheets and an old blanket, her old army surplus B-4 suitcase laid out next to it on the floor as a closet, an upended red plastic crate for a bedside table that held her three romance novels. The only thing in the room not hers was a big poster on the wall that she couldn’t do much about and was finally getting used to. It was from one of Rod Whipple’s movies, Coming Traction, and showed a nude Amber Lynn driving a tractor away from three dungaree-wearing men in hot pursuit of her. Luisa had set one of the last of her Owens rocks in the corner of the room, a small rounded nondescript pebble, by its presence tying this place to the one she had left behind.

  It was amazing, she thought, how little you really needed to create a refuge. She’d only been here three days, after crashing at various other unlikely L.A. pads, and yet she felt such an immense sensation of comfort in her nest. Rod didn’t even insist on sex very much, just that first night when he was bored really, and he didn’t ask for anything weird at all. She was coming to like him. He was lively and fun, when he wanted to be, and he seemed to be a protector.

  She leaned back, turned on the light, picked up Treasure Chest Ranch and opened it where she’d sheep-eared the page.

  Ashton had dark hair that wasn’t always tidy, thanks to his outdoor lifestyle as a rancher and broncrider. He seemed to be gittin’ over his mother’s messy divorce and his father’s new 18-year-old blond trophy wife. His eyes were a piercing blue and steady as sapphire now. He was always active, squirming a little where he stood, and he had a great body—strong shoulders, muscular thighs, tight pecs and abs.

  Yum! Teresa thought. Oh, yum!

  She was just sinking into it when a knock came at the door. “You busy, Lu?”

  She didn’t answer right away, but apparently it wasn’t really a question because Rod came in and sat on the end of the bed, grimacing as he gave out a big theatrical groan. “Oooh. You have no idea, kid, the headaches. The director wants me to shoot second unit, no extra money. The editor complains we don’t cover him. The cameraman says he can’t stand shooting video, it’s too flat and soapy, and he’s never going to do it again. The famous Keith is gonna finally bring the money tomorrow. But, of course, Keith’s not gonna bring the money tomorrow.”

  She folded the page back over and set the book down.

  “Whatcha reading?” He took a look at the cover, with its impossibly dimpled cowboy clasping a blonde beauty and frowned. “You finish high school? I’ll get you something good to read.”

  “I was second in my class.” She didn’t tell him there were only twelve students in senior year.

  “That’s great. Why don’t you save up a little money and start in at a JC? Look what it did for me!” He chuckled at his own expense. “But I’m serious, you know. Unless you’re dumb. Are you dumb?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “There you go.”

  She worked up her courage. “If you went to college, why are you making these kind of movies?”

  He laughed. “You mean, why am I only AD on fuck films when I could be directing The Godfather, Part IV? You’re wrong, kid. The system is crap—it’s all killer robots and things blowed up real good. Why not bypass it altogether? We get to be the last rebels in the world. We film people going down on each other and how many Tarantinos out there actually dare do that? Who’s the real indie filmmaker? I’m a cattle prod up the world’s ass, and it’s all a gas. Anyway, the serious feature I made on the cheap right out of college failed so miserably I dare not mention its title lest the movie gods hit me with a lightning bolt. I couldn’t get a distributor. I couldn’t even get a screen at Slamdance.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, though she understood little of what he’d just said.

  “Aaah,” he said dismissively. “It was pretentious crap. I mean it, I love what I do. I’m a juvenile delinquent writ large, and I get to stay this way as long as I want. I even get laid as much as I want.”

  She folded the covers down suggestively, though she was still dressed. “Do you want to now?”

  He patted her knee. “Lu, I was wrong to jump your bones the other night. In my house, you only have to do what you want to, when you want to, though it did seem like you were into it 100%.”

  “It was just nice you didn’t want anything weird,” she said. “It was okay.” The fact that she’d been giving it to boys on demand since she was thirteen, not figuring she had much choice about it, she kept to herself.

  “All that acrobatic stuff we shoot is crazy, but it would get pretty dull without it. The girls doing reverse cowgirl, the poor guys having to stand on one leg like storks so the camera can see their weenies going in. Can you imagine middle America watching and trying to copy all that stuff. I bet I’ve personally made a million bucks for the American Chiropractic Association.”

  She couldn’t help but smile.

  “I mean it, Lu. You’re your own woman here. When the money comes, I’ll pay you, and then you can rent your own pad, do whatever you want.”

  “How come it’s Keith who’s got the money?” She didn’t like Keith much. She’d met him only for a minute, and though she couldn’t put a name to it, he had something about him you couldn’t trust, like a guy with a habit of nasty surprises.

  Rod shrugged. “I think he’s just the messenger, the golden moneybags for the golden eggs. He claims it’s his money, but I doubt it. You know what I think, I think he’s found a group of doctors and dentists or something like that, and I just don’t ask. He knows somebody. He hands us $25,000 to put together an hour and a quarter video in two days of shooting, and, as far as we need to know, that production money just falls from heaven, even if its far more likely it’s come up from the other place.”

  “Why don’t you save up and make movies for yourself?”

  “Because it’s not what I do. I don’t have a clue how to promote or sell stuff. There’s a lot of people doing this, three hundred tapes a month, and if you don’t know the ropes it’s just going to sit there on your kitchen table. And, to tell you the truth, it’s just possible I could get my fingers broke in the process. This business used to be dominated by a lot of Italian guys with silver suits, and even though it’s changed a lot these days, what with cheap videotape and all, I still think Keith’s moneybags might have a vowel at the end of his name. Whatever, he’s not somebody to mess with. Truth is, when I get ambitious, maybe I’ll go out on my own and direct, but I’ve only been doing it a year, and I’ve got another iron in the fire, anyway.”

  “I think you’re a nice guy.”

  “Nah, your standards are just too low. Look around you, everybody in this business is at least a little bit pissed off, a little crazed, everybody comes from some kind of dysfunctional family—moms ran off with a salesman, daddy used to do them, they had to lick the floors clean for the wicked stepsister. This pays the rent for now. It’ll buy me a big Harley and a lot of coke. What you see is what you get, kid.”

  “I still think you’re nice.”

  Dear Diary,

  My protector came to talk to me & he didn’t even ask for sex tonight. I wonder if this is a compliment to my dignified manner or if I look too Indian for him to want me. I was never very popular in school except when boys wanted you-know & the white girls didn’t talk to me very much. I dont believe his real name is Rod but he just laughed when I asked him what his real name is. He could have any of these beautiful blonde women in his movies & he came to talk to me & then he bought me a hamburger at the Jack-in-the-Box. He even asked me to go back to school & said he would get me some books. My heart is filled with the warmth of gratitude for this kindly man. I wish I had someone at home to write a letter to & tell th
em about him. I live now mainly for the time at the end of the day when I can read about other times & places. Maybe one day I will go somewhere like that.

  THREE

  Put It Behind Me

  The gang unit apparently liked its autonomy. They worked out of a nondescript storefront on East Third a mile east of the Hollenbeck station. There, amid the wanted posters and other notices, a mysterious bumper sticker was taped to the inside of the window: There is a wide universe of love and pain and death.

  Padilla sat with his feet up on an open drawer, going over paperwork. Facing him was a big map with colored pins extending out of the City into County territory, with a key identifying the colors: Marianna Maravillas, Greenwood, Little Valley, Sangra, Lomas, 3 Innocentes, Inez Locos, Barrio Heroes, Quatro Flats, The Magicians, Dogtown, Orphans, Terrace, Obregon, Bluff Boyz. Gloria Ramirez studied the pastel shadings for a moment. Her house was well imbedded in the zone that had been cross-hatched with a light green magic marker—Greenwood. She noticed a white pushpin just about at her house on Greenwood Avenue and guessed it was for Maeve. White for drive-by, nonfatal incident.

  Beside the gang map was the station’s homicide board: forty or fifty Polaroid photos of the heads and shoulders of young Latino corpses, bloody and glassy-eyed, clearly deceased and lying on sidewalks or wood floors, although a few were shown still hanging on with tubes coming out of their mouths. There were others of some of the young men still alive, obviously taken by patrol cops. They stood looking defiant against walls or cars. Each photo had a typed caption with the boy’s name and nickname—Popeye, Chivo, Stick, Largo, Huffy—then a date and the circumstances of death. One showed only a head, crudely decapitated. Gloria studied this one: “Bad Dog” David Solis—the date a few weeks earlier—Veterano of Dogtown. Head found Pine Hill, north of minimart, fifty feet down culvert from body and machete. Presumably done by the Magicians, likely doer “Trumpo” Rodolfo Carillo.

  “Dean,” she said. He looked up, and she showed her badge wallet casually.

  “I know who you are,” he allowed. “Sorry. It was your boyfriend’s kid, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Why do you think they hit a gabacha? They never do that.”

  “I don’t know if they even realized she was there. Maybe the perp was just capping off a couple of warning shots, trying to freak the guy. The best thing we could do for this town is give everybody some lessons in marksmanship.”

  “So then it’s just pure genocide,” she said not caring how angry she sounded. “All the gangbangers kill each other off.”

  “That’s super-duper in my book, Sergeant. These guys don’t deserve to use up oxygen resources. Not one of these skells is gonna contribute shit to the world.”

  She decided to go easy. He had a Latino name, after all, and wasn’t just another racist cop like her partner. “I hear Jack gave you a pretty good description of the car.”

  He rolled his eyes, then laughed. “Big old lowered Chevy. Yeah, that ought to narrow it down a lot. Guy inside with brown skin, T-moustache, used a revolver. Uh-huh, sure. Your Jack told us a gold-on-black plate and they went out in 1969, and from his description the Chevy had to be at least a 1973. The plate’s just a junkyard special.”

  “You could consider it a family matter, a cop’s daughter.”

  Dean Padilla raised a palm. “Hey, we’re on it. We’re talking to the Greenwoods, see what they might tell us. They can’t like this happening in the middle of their tierra, real dis for them.”

  “Jack is really upset, and if nothing happens he might do something stupid on his own.”

  Dean Padilla stared at her for a while. “The girl isn’t even dead, Ramirez. Can you explain the facts of life to this boyfriend? We’re not gonna roll SWAT because an Anglo got hurt in Boyle. It’s pattern, it’s background, white noise, it happens ten times a night.”

  “Not at my house, it doesn’t.”

  “And don’t you horn in, either, Sergeant. You work in Harbor. I’m not coming down there trying to clear your 245s.”

  She left her card on his desk. “I’d just appreciate a call on anything you get.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Ay te miro, ruca.”

  Kathy came out of the hospital room, sniffling a little and blinking the tears away. She nodded to him. “Your turn. She’s going to come home with me when she’s ready. I just want that clear.”

  “Sure,” he assented. But seeing Maeve was all he could think about. Kathy was a blur.

  He went in slowly, full of trepidation. There was far too much apparatus for his taste, all of it attached in some way to his little girl, as if every one of her body systems required artificial ministrations—which was probably the case for the moment.

  He peered down at her bleary gray eyes, her face colorless as parchment.

  “Looking good,” he said.

  He noticed tears dribbling down her cheeks and wondered if it was something her mom had said. She wasn’t convulsing with the emotion but something had left her steadily weepy.

  “Hi, Dad. It’s great to see you.”

  He rested a hand softly against her shoulder.

  “Does it hurt, hon?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m sorry, I just can’t seem to stop crying. Nothing hurts. It’s weird. It feels like I did something wrong.”

  “Good people always cry when they get attacked,” he said mildly.

  “Really?”

  “Somewhere deep inside, you believe you live in a just universe, against all the evidence. So you can’t help feeling you must have done something to deserve what happened.”

  She offered a pale smile. “Is that it?”

  “Do you remember, we were talking existentialism just before … it happened?”

  “Not really. I remember coming down the steps to talk to you while you were raking up the leaves. Then my memory’s pretty much gone. There’s a blank, is all. So I’m feeling guilty? Go over that part again about the just universe.”

  “Let’s let it go for now, hon. You might get a wee bit angry, too, after the weepiness. I’ve seen it, and it would be understandable.”

  She tried to shake her head but ended up rolling it a little instead.

  “Don’t be too expressive—please.” He moved his hand to her thin warm arm, and was reminded for the millionth time how delicate she was in this violent universe. He couldn’t help thinking that a strong man could snap her arm like a carrot.

  “What’s wrong with me? Mom wouldn’t say.”

  He thought about it for a moment, but the doctors hadn’t issued any taboos. “The bullet hit one of your lower ribs and spun around inside you. You’ve got very tough ribs, it seems. The bullet tore up some internal stuff.”

  “Define stuff.”

  He grinned as best he could. “They managed to save the kidney, they’re pretty sure. It seems to be functioning fine today. You lost about two feet of large intestine. You’ll never have to have an appendectomy. I guess that’s the bright side.”

  “Too bad it didn’t get my tonsils, too.”

  He thought she was herself again at that minute, and he felt his face flush with the relief of it.

  “Wait, what’s this?”

  She had lifted her right arm painstakingly, strapped as it was to a board to immobilize it for a drip, and he could see that she’d felt the bag attached to her side. Fortunately, it was under a sheet so she couldn’t see it.

  “While your intestine is healing, you’ll have to wear a bag for a while.”

  “Oh, gawd.” She closed her eyes and shuddered.

  “Yeah, hon, I’m sorry, but it’s only while you’re healing.”

  “Oh, ugh. Double ugh.”

  “Triple ugh,” he commiserated.

  “Now I’ve got a reason to cry.”

  “You won’t be doing any sliding into third base or boxing or jumping off the roof, but they say you can drive sled dogs just fine.”

  She didn’t say anything. H
e could see she was shaken.

  A middle-aged nurse looked in and called time. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Give me one minute,” he told her.

  Maeve lay there and watched him. He couldn’t read her expression.

  “Mom wants you home with her for a while. Let’s not fight her on it. I’ll come see you or take you on trips. She’ll relent after a while, and things will get back to normal soon enough.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, and we won’t say anything about Mom calling your neighbors gun-crazy trash.”

  “You know she didn’t,” Jack Liffey said. He knew Kathy wouldn’t. She had subtler ways to say it.

  “She might as well have.”

  “We’ll get through this, hon. It’s upsetting.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Dad, I’ll certainly be glad when I can put all this behind me again.”

  Until she started giggling maniacally, he didn’t realize she’d made a horrible pun about the ostomy. His heart melted, the way it always did when he got a glimpse of her staggering strength. She was going to be okay.

  “All the better saints did it,” Kenyon Styles insisted.

  The old wino leaned close and confided, “You know I ain’t no saint. I been a mackerel snapper, and I know. For weeks I been balling that girl with the torn red sweater.” His breath gave off a whiff of something fleshy and rotten, some premonition of the grave.

  “It’s okay, you can do anybody you like. You just got to ask forgiveness for it.”

  “It’s not right with the Lord. It’s fornication!” The last word was bellowed forlornly into the night, and the tall young man looked up to see if his partner was rolling, and Rod Whipple flashed him a thumb’s up, his face buried behind the little Panasonic DC352.

  “The Lord won’t be so upset with stuff if you make it up to him and do your penance. Look, there’s the hammer.”

  As if suddenly discovering where he was, the old man noticed the rough man-sized wooden cross construction on the park grass behind him. “Anyway,” he said, his gravelly voice suddenly wistful and faraway, “balling’s not the same as it was, not for neither of us.”