by Mike Monson
Paul wanted a drink too. A stiff vodka would be just the thing right now. Put a warm soft light and feeling over all his dark visions and anxiety. It’d be so easy, too. Just go into the kitchen and grab one of Mavis’ many bottles of Smirnoff and take a couple of nice long swigs. Boom. Instant cure for all of his ailments.
But no. Unfortunately (or fortunately, he didn’t know for sure) for him, that’s not what would happen. In real life. What would happen was that as soon as he took the first swallow he’d be gone and free floating into a rapid river of alcohol and drunkenness leading to blackout after blackout and one bad decision after another. He’d proven this to himself time and again. He’d lied to himself just like he wanted to so many times that it had stopped working. Could no longer conjure up the ability to believe that whiskey-loving voice inside his head. He may have been a loser and a total failure the way Fagan said, but he wasn’t a complete fool. For him, alcohol was poison. End of story.
He wasn’t some perfect clean and sober AA guy. For the first three years or so he was: he’d had sponsors (went through about six before he quit trying), and bullshitted his way through all twelve steps like a good little sober gentleman. But, once he’d discovered it, he couldn’t stay away from his beloved Robitussin (though he kept promising himself he would quit), and he could never keep himself from compulsively overtaking pain pills like Oxy or Vicodin if they were prescribed by a dentist after a toothache or by a doctor for his back pain. And he wasn’t above a bump of coke if presented in a casual, natural manner, in just the right setting. No weed or speed for him, though. That shit’d never worked for him as advertised.
The best he could do was not drink. He still went to meetings from time to time—they were kind of fun, and there was something going on in those rooms that he couldn’t seem to stay away from even if most of the people were full of shit with all their talk of rigorous honesty and their higher power—while still being just as big a liar as they ever were. A lot of them were still thieves and swindlers and the sex between members in the groups, whether married or not, was rampant as hell. He went because he wanted to be reminded as often as possible of why he’d stopped drinking in the first place. Forgetting that could be fatal.
He looked back at the computer screen and clicked on the message board at the end of the article.
First comment from some young guy name Pete Scorra: “Soon as I seen this I knew it was gang-related.”
Paul thought it was drug or gang-related too. Though he really had no idea. Just some kind of Pisko fuck-up was all he really knew for sure. That was a no-brainer. No way anyone went there to kill Tina.
He clicked back to the article. Two more comments.
One from an older women bemoaning how all the BATS (Bay Area Transplants) had ruined Modesto and this crime was just another example.
The last was from Bethany’s husband Pete Fish, who usually only used his Facebook page to promote his fledgling church and the real estate sales company he owned with Bethany: “For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
Great. What a stupid asshole.
He grabbed the remote and hit play. Longmire was investigating the death of a young Mennonite woman living nearby with other Mennonite kids while on Rumspringa—the time they take like the Amish to explore the bad old outside world before deciding whether to keep playing video games and listening to rap music and smoking weed, or go back home to their parents and the community. Apparently the murder victim was working as a stripper, which, of course, meant that Katee Sackoff had to go to the strip club and get all sexy by taking of her khaki sheriff shirt and dancing at the pole wearing just her white tank top. Just like any cop would do. So dumb.
The show got Paul thinking more about Pete Fish and his sister Bethany and all the religious people in Modesto. There was a local group called the Dunkard Brethren who were a lot like the Amish or the Mennonites with their rules and dress. Paul didn’t think they had Rumspringa. The women had to wear dresses and blouses that completely covered their skin, and they kept their long never-cut hair all tucked into this weird hard, square cap that tied under their chins. The men dressed normally except that once married they had to wear a beard with no moustache. While most Dunkards were (famously to local Modestans) well-off farmers like the Amish, they had no problem with using electricity and plumbing. They didn’t go around in horse-drawn carriages, but instead usually had big fancy pickups for the men and slick minivans for the wife/mothers. And the wives could wear sexy underwear because they were notorious for buying up all the lingerie at the Victoria’s Secret at the mall. There was something hot about that.
Modesto also had one or more of each of the mainstream-type churches. Google “Churches Modesto” and you’ll get 481 listings.
For years, Bethany and her husband Pete Fish attended Big Valley Grace. Pete had started his own church and taken to calling himself Reverend Fish. It sickened Paul how much being a pastor’s wife seemed to thrill his stupid sister. He’d brought with him a couple dozen other Big Valley congregants who agreed with Pete that their former church was just too liberal and too tolerant. Pete was one of those assholes who was not only against same-sex marriage (instead of hate the sin, love the sinner, he was ‘hate the sin, hate/bash/kill the sinner’), and he thought the moderate and establishment-oriented President Obama was a socialist Muslim born in Africa out to nationalize businesses and take everyone’s guns. Pete had a lot of guns. Miranda told him that Fish’s church had been growing too big to meet in the Fish house and was about to expand to a bigger facility. Paul couldn’t believe how any human could ever think Pete Fish had anything worthwhile to say. Dude was an evil bastard and full of shit.
All this thinking caused Paul to lose concentration on the show. No problem. He rewound back to Officer Vic writhing on the stripper poll, trying to get male patrons to identify a suspect from a photo. Hit play and tried to relax and get lost in the plot.
Mavis and Miranda came in giggling. It was time for Miranda’s AA meeting. Miranda didn’t have a driver’s license or a car, and since Logan had left in his own vehicle to do some of his unholy mischief, Mavis volunteered to drive. Miranda was ordered to go to three meetings a week for six months, following a DUI arrest. She didn’t think she was an alcoholic and if she was, she didn’t care. Mavis didn’t think Miranda had a drinking problem either, but then Mavis had no idea about all the shit Miranda was into.
Couple of minutes after they left, Paul’s phone rang. He looked and saw that it was Mavis. The show was really getting good now, so he let it go to voice mail. About ten minutes later, the phone beeped that he had a new message. With the mystery still unsolved, Paul paused the show and listened to the voicemail.
At first, all he heard was rumbling and static. He laughed. It was Mavis, once again purse-dialing. She did it all the time when she was driving.
He kept listening. Sometimes what he heard could be pretty funny.
“Grandma, what’s the name of the Detective that talked to Uncle Paul?” Miranda said.
“Fagan,” Mavis said.
“And what did he say to you?’
“Well, he mostly asked me questions about Paul. You know, about his finances, his debts, his workers’ comp claim, and what he’d said about Tina and Mark and whether I’d heard him make any threats. Stuff like that.”
“Wow. What didja say?”
“Well, I told him about Paul’s credit card debt and—”
“No shit? You told him?”
“Sure, what was I going to do? They’d find out sooner or later anyway.”
“True, I guess.”
“What else? Just that he had a lot of debt and child support and was behind in everything. And, that, yeah, sure, I’d heard him threatening Tina and Mark. I mean, when he moved out of her house and in with me that was all he talked about for weeks.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh huh. But I told him that after a while he stopp
ed. He seemed still hurt, but resigned to the divorce, lately.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“Don’t be silly, it’s Paul you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, I know, Grandma, but he did say he was going to, right? And, he was so pissed when she left him for Mark, wasn’t he? I know you think he was over it, but people can do some strange shit, you know what I mean? You should know that better than anyone, right Grandma?”
“But Paul said that after Detective Fagan talked to him he decided he wasn’t really a big suspect.”
“But that’s what they’re telling him now, see what I mean? Who knows what they’re really thinking. The police lie. All the time.”
“He also asked if Paul had a shotgun and I told him it just wasn’t possible. I really think Paul is afraid of guns. I can’t see him getting one or firing it. No way.”
“Grandma?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Don’t tell Uncle Paul I told you this, okay?”
“Of course. What is it sweetheart?”
“Paul doesn’t know I know, but a couple of weeks ago Logan and I were driving down Yosemite, you know out there past the Gallo Winery, there’s this gun shop?”
“Uh huh …”
“We saw Uncle Paul coming out of there with a long cardboard box. Could’ve been a shotgun, right?”
“That just doesn’t sound like Paul.”
“Might be something the police should know….”
What the fuck? Now there was silence and he imagined Mavis pulling into the crummy strip mall where the meeting was held at an AA club called The Hole in the Wall. Before the meetings, people hung around outside, smoking, drinking coffee, and eating free donuts.
“Those people are so sad,” Mavis said.
“Tell me about it,” Miranda said. “There’s some great stories though. It’s not that bad.”
“Well, it’s good they have a place to go.”
Paul heard what sounded like a car door opening.
“Did you bring your attendance card?” Mavis said.
“Of course, Grandma.”
“Okay,” Mavis said, “See you in ninety minutes.”
Mavis, as usual, didn’t want to go all the way home and back. Paul was sure she went to the nearby White Hawk bar over by the Walmart to have a couple of drinks. She met a lot of her boyfriends at that place.
He kept listening but there was only the sound of wind and cars.
Wow.
He didn’t know what to make of what Miranda told Mavis. Too weird.
He thought and thought and thought about it and couldn’t think of any instance of being anywhere near that gun shop on Yosemite. Of any time he might’ve been doing something in that parking lot that would’ve looked like what Miranda said she and Logan saw. He’d never been there. Why would he go to a gun shop?
Was she mistaken, or lying? If she was mistaken, why would she even say anything about it today? To Mavis? And if she was lying, why the fuck would she lie about something like that? He’d always been convinced Miranda loved him. That he was her favorite uncle. Shit. There were so many times when she felt scared and hurt by her parents that Paul’d let her come over to wherever he was living with whatever wife he had at the time and he’d stay up and talk with her way into the night. No matter what. He knew that was part of why Bethany and Pete hated him so much.
He decided to go to The Hole in the Wall, have a little talk with Miranda.
His back was stiffer than ever. Took him several minutes just to stand straight and loosen himself up enough to walk. Decided to get rid of the Robitussin bottle from the night before on his way to The Hole in the Wall. He gingerly got down on his hands and knees and reached under his bed for the plastic bag.
It really hurt to do this—especially to reach far enough to grab the bag. When he got a hold of it, he was surprised at how weak he felt, at how hard it was to drag the thing out. He kept pulling and when he got it out from under the bed, he saw that it wasn’t the Walgreens bag, and that it contained a thin object, like maybe a baseball bat. He looked inside and saw that it was a shotgun, one with a very short handle and a sawed-off barrel.
TWELVE
Miranda was a couple of minutes early for the meeting. She needed to make a quick call. Didn’t want to use her phone, in case they could trace her somehow. She walked up to a guy she’d seen there before who was always staring at her from across the room. Everyone called him Yamaha Bob.
“Bob, dude, can I use your phone real quick?”
He hesitated, then reached into his pocket.
“You’ll bring it right back?”
“Come on, man, I can ask someone else. What’re you afraid of?”
He gave her the phone.
She went out and walked to the back of the mall to another parking lot. She already knew the Modesto PD number.
“Could I talk with Detective Fagan, please?” she said. “It’s about the murders of Tina Dunn and Mark Pisko. Uh huh … no … are you serious? Fuck! Sorry … sorry. Could I leave a message, like an anonymous tip? I can … great. The message is … the murder weapon is under Paul Dunn’s bed. No, that’s it. I just hope you arrest that sonofabitch.”
THIRTEEN
The AA clubhouse was a shit hole. It was in one of the most decrepit, ugly strip malls in one of the worst neighborhoods in north Modesto. On the far end of this strip was a cheap liquor store, the kind where random characters loiter out front giving out threatening looks and begging for money. The employees were a family of huge tatted Middle Eastern dudes with a steroid/bodybuilding passion who never smiled and who took no shit from no one. Paul once saw one of the owners (his name tag inexplicably read: Steve) pick up and carry an unruly customer out the front door before throwing him, head first, into the right front headlight of the guy’s own pickup truck. Steve then called his brother out so they could both watch the guy bleed.
Next to the liquor store sat a Fiji-Indian delicatessen and restaurant called Fiji Market. Who would’ve thought that for years there had been a large population of Indians living on Fiji Island and that Modesto had one of the highest populations in the U.S. of Indians who’d emigrated from there?
Then there was a neighborhood dive bar called Murphy’s. This tavern’s pool tables, electronic dart games, cheap drinks, big screen TVs showing the Raiders and the Niners and the Giants and the A’s, and the sweet, raspy-voiced bar maids attracted a combination of bikers, working people out for a quick drink after work or a long drunk on the weekend, younger adults out to have fun and maybe cause some trouble, the occasional single woman, and a faithful contingent of middle-aged un- or underemployed drunks. (Murphy’s was convenient for so many denizens of the Hole who’d had enough of being dry without finding any serenity, and the other way around. Places should’ve had a common passageway.)
Next was a mystery business. There was just a glass door with the words “BJ’s Electronics–Consultations, Repairs, Video Production” printed in small letters. The glass was darkened. Paul’d never seen anyone go in or out.
The Hole was between BJ’s and the Living Waters Evangelical Revival Church. The church had no cross or marquee or signs, just a large piece of poster board leaned against the front wall, proclaiming its name and that services were twice on Sundays, once on Wednesday nights, with a prayer meeting every Monday afternoon.
This church was a new addition to Paul. The last time he was there for a meeting, the space held a Hispanic Catholic book and religious supply store. Paul was briefly obsessed with buying the big round candles decorated with images of Mary and Jesus with their hearts dripping blood. He’d lit dozens of them in his room while meditating on the flames of each in turn because some hot, new-age type hippie lady at the bead shop on J Street downtown told him that that was a way to achieve some kind of blissful feeling. It worked, sort of, and sometimes the candle seemed to grow bright and huge and he’d get lost in its light, but most of the time he’d get distracted because he�
�d think about Jesus and Mary and why their hearts were bleeding. Paul often got off more on thinking than he did feeling.
Living Waters Evangelical Revival Church, he realized while staring at it, was the name of his brother-in-law Pete Fish’s church. So this was their new space. What a dump.
In the corner of the parking lot was a small, stand-alone ugly beige-colored cement building that housed Mr. Tokyo’s, which served both donuts and a variety of rice bowls. The rice bowls tasted rancid, while the donuts were sublime. Even though he was still full from the Sugar Frosted Flakes, Paul figured it wouldn’t hurt to get a glazed and maybe a maple bar before he left. Should be a little hungry again by then.
The Hole was behind a deceptively small, splintered, jerry-rigged brown wood door, the kind of door that had been kicked in and repaired several times. Inside lay about 3,000 square feet of gross stained carpet (there was always a donation can being passed around at meetings “for New Carpets”).
The place was packed for a noon meeting. Paul had to sit in the row of chairs in the back, by the coffee bar, away from the main table. He didn’t see Miranda anywhere. Happy Harry, a man with twenty-seven years of sobriety (Paul knew this because he always said that he was “twenty-seven years clean and sober,” or had since his last birthday) was on a roll.
“One thing I’ve learned from all my years in these rooms,” he said, “is that nothing that happens to me is any of my business. It’s my higher power’s concern, not mine. My job is to just do the next right thing and let all that other shit go, to let my high power, who I choose to call God, take care of the results of my actions. Now, you may be all into the Serenity Prayer and shit, and sure, it’s a good prayer and all, but I prefer the short version, which is this: Fuck it. And that is why I’m Happy Harry, grateful sober alcoholic for twenty-seven years.”
Paul looked around for Miranda as everyone clapped enthusiastically for the popular Harry. He knew that she couldn’t get her card signed until the end of the meeting—AA people took that seriously, so she must’ve been around somewhere.
