The next time he woke it was one in the afternoon. He looked at the calendar next to his bed. It was time to get moving toward his target. The bastard would be taking his early vacation, before taking his official one. Corbin made a phone call to an old friend who kept close tabs on everybody who was anybody from their school. She told him nothing had changed in the senator’s summer vacation plans that she knew about—and Gloria knew everything about everyone who was anything from their town.
Somewhere around four in the afternoon, Corbin got his act together enough to shower, rehydrate. It came back to him about his new friend. The one-time reporter. How much had he spilled to the guy?
Then he remembered how excited the guy was and how much he wanted to be a witness to it all.
Corbin poured another short drink, mixed in a little juice, and tried to remember clearly what had transpired and why he felt so positive toward a stranger whom he’d maybe revealed way too much to. Sometimes he couldn’t remember all that much after a bender, but this was different. He remembered the conversation and he needed to find the guy. What the hell was his name? Evan. Yeah, that was his name. Lived in a camper and hung out at the South Park bars.
He wasn’t worried that his new buddy would rat him out to the police or feds. Not this guy. He wanted in. He seemed almost as hungry as Corbin to do something important in his last stages of life on this damned planet.
D-day for the hit was fast approaching and Corbin had to get it together, get moving. It was a long drive. If this Evan character came along, that would be the icing on the assassination cake. He’d tell this reporter everything about what had happened, and what kind of guy this man was and why he had to go.
He left the motel figuring never to come back. He took a suitcase with what little he cared about, then got in his wreck of a nineteen-year-old Datsun pickup and left the motel for good.
First he stopped at the self-storage where he kept the important things in his life. Including his scoped rifle, handgun, some cash. He was leaving tonight, with or without his reporter friend. He’d had a mechanic check out the belts and fluids just the week before, but it was still a worry. If the damn Datsun broke down crossing Colorado, or out in the middle of nowhere, he might just miss the opportunity, and right now that was unthinkable.
Corbin drove to the South Park bar where he’s first met Evan. On the way, he got more and more excited about having a reporter ride along recording how Corbin was saving the world from that bastard ever getting to the White House. It would make the whole deal all that much more sensational. Instead of people speculating, called the shooter an insane person, making some kind of martyr out of the senator, they’d know the truth.
The bar was nearly empty. His friend wasn’t there, and the bartender had no idea where he was. Frustrated, Corbin combed familiar haunts in the sketchy world of barrios and struggling artists’ enclaves in the outback of San Diego. Then, at a little dive called the Hideaway, he ran into a guy who’d been at the bar where Corbin and Evan had been drinking the other night
“Hell, yeah, I know Evan. Hey, thing is, he’s been looking for you. He wanted to talk to you about something.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“He’s a night guy, so won’t be running around till after dark. He’ll be at home. He lives in his camper. Somewhere near the freeway where the shipyards and those big warehouses are.”
“Can you be a little more specific? I got to find the guy.”
“He moves around down there between the tracks and freeway where Barrio Logan is, south of the Coronado bridge. Cops don’t let guys livin’ in motor homes or campers stick to one spot too many days, but it’s better than most places. Hell, I couldn’t live there—traffic below, trains going by, and overhead, the landing path for the fucking military base on Coronado. I mean, it’s better than havin’ nowhere, but Jesus, I’d rather camp in a fuckin’ Walmart parking lot.”
Corbin put a five on the bar to buy the man a drink. “Thanks, partner. I ‘preciate it.”
“No problem, guy.”
3
Corbin roamed the streets between Cesar Chavez Parkway and Samson Street. He was almost ready to give it up and leave with his reporter buddy, but then he spotted the camper parked on an empty little byway. It was a desolate area of broken buildings and warehouses, closed at one end by cement barriers.
Evan, sitting out on an aluminum-framed fold-up lawn chair, looked to be enjoying the evening. He actually has a partial view of downtown San Diego. He sat smoking a cigarette and drinking from a coffee cup.
Corbin parked behind the camper and got out.
“Enjoying life, I see.”
“Hey, Corbin, how you doin’? Been looking to talk to you. Pull up a chair, I’ll pour you one. How’d you find me?”
Corbin unfolded a chair that was leaning against the camper. “I heard you were in an exclusive area of America’s formerly finest city. I thought we might chat about what we were talking about the other night.”
Evan poured vodka in a coffee cup for Corbin, who took a strong pull, then he said, “I been thinking about it. I was afraid you were already gone.”
“You talk to anyone else about that?”
He hadn’t seen Evan in daylight. Looking at him, it was like looking at death warmed over. Man’s face an ancient cracked set of ruins.
“I was a reporter once, if you remember,” Evan said. “I don’t divulge sources or information. I may not be in the game, but I still play by the rules.”
That’s exactly what Corbin wanted to hear. This was his guy. He looked around. “Nice little area you got here. You ever get any sleep?”
“Not much that’s real. Drunk sleep doesn’t really do that much good for the brain. What makes this a good spot is nobody else wants it. Cops don’t care because you’re out of the way and not bothering anybody. And you can move whenever you’re tired of one place or whoever’s in the area. Where you stay?”
“Formerly. I’m out and never coming back. It’s a shit motel over in North Park.”
Evan lit another cigarette and offered one to Corbin.
“I gave it up,” Corbin said. “Watching my health.”
They both laughed at that.
“So,” Evan said, “this thing you were talking about, you’re doing it for real?”
“Real as wet in a rainforest. And it’s gonna happen soon. Which is why I’m here. Guy who told me how to find you says you’re looking to talk to me. So I figured you were interested.”
“I am. The idea of taking out an evildoer is really intriguing. I’ve been thinking about it. Man, I gotta tell you, I love it. Something I could do a great story on. The way I see it, I’d say in the aftermath, so as to verify me, that you forced me to witness it at gunpoint. I had no alternative. That way, I’m not implicated, which leaves me free to be the genuine witness, the inside reporter. You might not see it that way, but believe me, it’s gonna work towards story bona fides. If I’m part of the assassination, I’m hamstrung. See what I mean?”
“Absolutely. Excellent,” Corbin said. It was exactly what he wanted to hear. “This relationship is going to be epic. The moral assassin and the comeback reporter. Are you kidding me? It’s great. I love it.”
Corbin watched a Mexican woman and her two kids coming up the sidewalk disappear down a narrow alley. “I didn’t mention exactly who was to be the recipient of my intent, did I?”
“No. Not that I can remember. You said he was somebody who gave you a lot of trouble as a kid, the leader of some gang, and now he was the only survivor of your tormentors. And he’s famous and a danger to society. Maybe end up president someday. Something like that.”
“Exactly,” Corbin said. He hadn’t felt this good in a very long time. History coming back to absolve him and punish his tormentors. He turned to his new associate. “You were a reporter. Where was that?”
“Small paper of no consequence. Had a couple good assignments after the towers came down. Wen
t overseas for a time during the Iraq war. But my habits got the best of me. A lot of people fall off the wagon from time to time. Me, hell, I couldn’t never quite get up on it. Sides of that wagon were too high.”
They laughed.
Evan then asked, “So, when is this going to happen?”
“I’m leaving from here. Heading east through Vegas up to Mesquite. Spend the night there and continue on. Here’s the deal—if you’re for real, then you need to get serious fast.”
“I can’t know who the target is?”
“No. It’s better that way. Believe me, the bastard is a big deal. So if you’re interested, serious, I gotta know. If not, I’m outta here.”
Evan stared off, glanced at Corbin, took a drink and a drag. “I ain’t got nothin’ else on the burner, my friend. Life’s over quick. What the hell? I’m in.”
Corbin stared at traffic on the long sweep of the Coronado Bridge. “If we take my pickup, we’ll have to crash in motels. It’s a long way. Two, maybe three days driving slow.” He gave Evan a look.
Evan said, “Then leave it.” He reached back and patted the Ford pickup with camper. “Runs like a charm. Hell, I don’t put any miles on it. Fill the tank about once every couple months. Bought it three years ago after an accident settlement. Some guy rear-ended the old station wagon I was living in. Got me a little cash. Been living in it ever since.”
“You’re sure? Once you make the decision, there’s no backing out. No changing your mind. This is going to happen. You’ll be involved.”
“I’ll be your prisoner. Forced at gunpoint. I’ll tell them that even if I had a chance to escape, I didn’t because I had to know who you were going to take out; otherwise, who would believe me? A drunk goes to the cops and says, ‘Hey, some guy kidnapped me. He’s going to assassinate somebody important. I don’t know who that somebody is,’ they kick me out or turn me over for psychiatric evaluation.”
“You’ve been thinking about this. I like that.”
“Hell, yeah, I’ve been thinking about it. Thinking about John Lennon. Why in hell shoot somebody who is good for the world when you can shoot so many who are bad. Shoot the George Wallaces, not the Kennedys or Kings. It should be a requirement of a decent end to one’s life. Am I right?”
“You are one hundred percent right,” Corbin said. “That’s exactly the message we need to deliver. You want to commit murder, don’t kill good people. What a stupid, pathetic waste. Find the assholes and kill them.”
Corbin reached over and they bumped fists. He smiled at the whole concept of two failures, two drunks, getting to the essence of things. Something normal people couldn’t even imagine.
“Traffic’s slowing now,” Corbin said. “We can make Vegas and then up to Mesquite in about seven, eight hours.”
Corbin took the truck key off the ring and put it in the ignition. “It’s a piece of junk. Leave it with the keys in it. Somebody will get something out of it. Let me get my stuff and we’re on our way.”
Evan helped him get his bags and rifle case, and they put them in the camper.
“You do this,” Evan asked, “you have some sort of endgame figured out? Where you going after?”
Corbin shook his head. “That is the endgame. Then it’s going to be your turn to deliver the message. We do this right, it’ll be epic.”
Corbin could see it. The media, the impact, the power of it in the hands of a journalist like this guy. Any anxiety he might have had about the guy vanished. They were like minds. “You and me, we’re not done in this life yet,” Corbin said. He opened the rifle case to show his friend the weapon he intended to use. “Not by a long shot, so to speak. This is a Remington 783. I got the best night scope I could afford fitted to this baby.”
Then he showed his backup piece. “It’s a Taurus PT-25. Fits into your pocket, doesn’t have much of a profile. I carry it around sometimes. It’s getting sketchier around here all the time. I don’t know how this is gonna work out, so I’m ready if it’s a rifle shot, or if I got to move in for a close-up.”
Evan seemed highly impressed. If there was any doubt in his mind about Corbin’s seriousness, it was gone now.
Corbin was beside himself that he had a buddy, a co-conspirator who was also a reporter. It couldn’t get any better than that. It was like the stars had finally aligned properly. A lone gunman could never get credibility. This was perfect.
4
They made a stop for gas, coffee, and sub sandwiches before jumping on the freeway. Headed toward Vegas up the 163 to I-15, they made a pit stop in Barstow, then didn’t stop again except to switch drivers at a rest stop just outside of Baker. It was fully dark now.
They talked about bad people. About a world gone to hell. Terrorists, inner city blacks, the Chinese taking over the world and that kind of thing. Heavy traffic slowed them a bit going past the Vegas Strip, but then it was smooth sailing.
In Mesquite, an hour’s drive north of Vegas and the last gambling town before heading into Utah, they found a good spot at the CasaBlanca Hotel parking lot. They ate a late dinner, used the restrooms, had a few drinks at the bar, dropped some cash at the blackjack table, then went back to the camper, where they crashed for a few hours, Evan using his bed in the back, Corbin up in the top bunk over the cab.
It was uncomfortable, but he was high enough on the drinking and the joy of the hunt that it didn’t matter. He put in his earplugs to block out Evan, who not only snored, he snorted his snores.
But taking a piss in the middle of the night was a problem. Finally, in pain, Corbin surrendered and climbed down, went outside, and pissed against a palm tree, keeping an eye out for security. Corbin figured, among all his other physical breakdowns, he surely had prostate cancer. He also thought his liver was going fast, and he had on-again, off-again pain that might be a kidney stone or worse. He just needed to last long enough.
All in all, Corbin was glad to see morning. They rebooted on heavy doses of caffeine and a shot of Irish Whiskey, a combo that Evan said he couldn’t even imagine starting the day without. “This whore in Reno turned me onto Irish Whiskey. We were together about two weeks. About twenty-five years ago, I think. The glory days. Gamble all night, wake up drunk, get a dose of Irish Whiskey in my coffee, a blow job, and start all over again. But ‘yute,’ as Vinnie put it in that great movie My Cousin Vinnie, goes away, and you’re left with the whiskey, the coffee, and a limp dick.”
Corbin laughed. “You never think the stuff you’re doing at thirty will come back to bite you in the ass, but it does, and with a vengeance.”
They left Nevada, crossed the corner of Arizona, then drove on into Utah through St. George and Cedar City before picking up I-70 and heading east toward Colorado. When they began to climb into the Rockies, they used the truck lanes whenever they could. At rest stops, Evan set up little practice interviews, getting Corbin comfortable with explaining himself.
“Rambling is only good if it’s actually very calculated,” Evan said. “Good interviews are well rehearsed. When done right, it’s a win-win. A very smart reporter once told me when I was a newbie that, in this age, it’s never about lies versus the truth. It’s all about lies and their purpose. He didn’t believe there was truth. Only subjective evaluation. He liked to quote Benjamin Disraeli, who once said, ‘There are lies, damn lies, and statistics.’ And in politics and reporting these days, that’s pretty much the ballgame. But the thing is, you use lies to get at your truth.”
“You liked being a reporter?”
Evan nodded. “Loved it. My whole dream in life was to become a famous war correspondent. Then I got my big chance and convinced the paper to let me follow my dream, and that fool Bush, into Iraq. I wasn’t there three weeks when I got hurt in a goddamn traffic accident. Busted my knee and a few other things. I came back and had all kinds of surgeries. You believe the rotten luck? Three weeks I’m there, gonna make my mark as a correspondent, and I get into a fucking wreck between a Jeep and a truck. Both ours. I couldn’t eve
n have the good fortune to get blown up or something decent, like with an IED. The guy I should kill is the fucking truck driver, if I knew who he was. Jesus. It got me hooked on pain pills. My dream went down the tubes. I lost my job, got into drinking pretty hard. Got divorced. The usual downhill run.”
“That’s tough,” Corbin said. “Terrible luck.”
Evan smiled. “Effective lies, my friend.”
“That’s all a lie?”
“Of course not,” Evan said. “It’s a bit of exaggeration, but you need that to achieve the right narrative flow. It’s got sympathy built in. It’s a technique.”
“What part of it is true?”
“The part that convinces and has a touch of meaning. It’s like mixing a good drink. Not too strong, but not too weak. Now I want you to tell me your true story. Just don’t bore me. It’s all about the dramatic narrative. And narratives are the spin you want in order to create the effect you want, which is the truth beneath the truth. That can even be a lie if it’s moving toward the truth.”
“True lies?”
“You got it. That’s what it’s all about.”
Corbin liked how his friend’s mind worked. He was pretty damn smart.
So with an eye on dramatic narrative, Corbin related an embellishment of his bumpy downhill ride. “I was scrawny as hell as a kid and in this tough place my mom lived. Not poor, just tough. I wasn’t jock enough. Kinda small. An easy target for a lot of shit from the assholes in the town. Especially the four and their leader. But it was this one incident that summed it all up and took me down the road I’ve been on ever since.”
Corbin was behind the wheel. He pulled over to the fast lane for a moment as they passed a state cop giving a ticket. “They got me in the backyard of my friend’s house. He wasn’t home yet and I was just messing around, shooting some hoops when they showed up. Maybe it’s not that big a narrative deal, but they had been on my case for some time. They finally got me good. They pulled my pants off and took pictures of my dick and balls being blasted by a garden hose. It was a powerful goddamn hose. You think that doesn’t hurt, believe me, it does. There was no Internet like today or they’d have sent it around the world. One of the guys worked in the department store developing film. He made copies, and they got all around. I was the laughing stock of the whole goddamn town. My mom eventually got one in the mail. We moved right after that about twenty miles away. But I never really left. Not in my mind.”
The Murder Option 2 Page 5
