This Wicked World

by RICHARD LANGE

  “What are you saying to me, boy?” Unc replies.

  Boone grabs a bottle of Courvoisier off the bar and hurls it across the room. It explodes on the wall with a crash. Unc and the couple duck and turn their attention back to him.

  “What, was that you getting all badass?” Unc says.

  There’s pounding on the door. “Unc? Unc?” Tim calls.

  “Everything’s cool,” Unc says. “Get your ass back behind the bar.”

  Boone gives everybody a second to calm down, then says, “So, who’d you sell the dog to?”

  Unc exhales loudly through flared nostrils. “Some cracker name of Taggert,” he says.

  “That his first name, last name?”

  “I don’t know, man. Taggert, motherfucking Taggert. Lives out in the desert, Twentynine Palms or some shit, out by the Marine base. Puts on a dog fight now and then. Me and the crew been out there a couple times. He liked one of my dogs, made me an offer, and I sold it to him right out the pit.”

  Twentynine Palms. Boone’s sure he’s on the right track now. Both Maribel and Oscar’s roommate said Oscar’s last job was somewhere in the desert, working with dogs.

  “You got an address for Taggert? A phone number?” Boone asks.

  Unc draws back his head and smirks. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he says. “Let me get right on that for you, boss.”

  Boone swings the Beretta over and squeezes the trigger, putting a round into the karaoke machine. The girl on the couch claps her hands over her ears and closes her eyes.

  “That was me getting all badass,” Boone says. “And next I fuck up one of your pretty poker machines.”

  “All right, all right,” Unc says. “Get me my phone. It’s over there where you are, with my keys.”

  Boone picks up the phone from the bar and walks it over to Unc, then moves out of reach. Time to get a move on. Someone’s bound to call the cops after the gunshot.

  Unc pushes a few buttons, stares down at the screen. “You know you’re putting my life in danger,” he says. “Taggert finds out who gave you this information.”

  “Your name won’t come up, I promise,” Boone replies.

  “He a stone killer. You fuck with him, and there ain’t gon’ be none of this nicey-nice we got going on here.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  Unc snorts derisively and says, “Warning? Boy, I hope that crazy motherfucker rips you in half.”

  Boone pulls the wad of napkins away from his forehead. They’re soaked through with blood. The cut’s a real gusher, the kind of thing that might need stitches. Doesn’t hurt though. Not too much. Not yet.

  “Here,” Unc says, holding out the phone. There’s an address and number for Taggert on the screen. Boone copies these onto a napkin, using a stub of pencil he finds on the bar, then picks up Unc’s gun from under the craps table and slips it into the pocket of his hoodie.

  “All righty then,” Boone says. “If you’ll escort me out, this meeting is adjourned.”

  Unc rises grudgingly from the couch and walks to the door. Boone stands behind him as he unlocks it, lets him feel the Beretta against his spine.

  The main room is empty now, except for Tim behind the bar, pointing a shotgun.

  “Tell him to put that thing down,” Boone says to Unc.

  “You heard the motherfucker,” Unc says to Tim.

  Tim sets the gun on the bar and slides it out of his reach. He thrusts his arms into the air, bent at the elbows, a look of pure hatred twisting his face.

  It’s a long twenty feet to the door. Boone shifts the Berreta between Unc and Tim all the way. Unc pushes the door open, and the sunlight claws at Boone’s eyes. He squints and steps around Unc so that he’s facing him.

  “Let the door close behind you, and stay in front of it,” he says.

  Unc stands in the doorway as Boone backs across the sidewalk to the Olds. A woman steps out of Kisha’s Hair Affair and lights a cigarette but hurries inside when she sees the gun in Boone’s hand.

  Boone moves around to the driver’s side and tosses the bloody napkins into the street. He takes Unc’s pistol from his pocket, drops it and kicks it under the car, then grabs his keys. Still covering Unc with the Beretta, he unlocks the door and swings it open. In one motion, he ducks inside, shoves the keys in the ignition and starts the car. Just as he’s pulling away, he throws the Beretta out the window.

  In the rearview mirror he watches Unc charge out of the doorway and pick up his pistol. He goes into a crouch and points it two-handed at the Olds but doesn’t fire. Boone cuts loose with a victory whoop and slaps his palm against the steering wheel. That was a close one. The best kind.

  THE CUT ON Boone’s head is still oozing blood, but the flow has slowed considerably. He reaches into the backseat for the towel he uses at the gym and presses it to the wound during the drive home. The towel is still damp with sweat from his morning workout, and the salt stings.

  He stops at a pay phone in the parking lot of a gas station and punches in the number he got for Taggert, just to see what happens. After one ring a message comes on saying that the number is no longer in service. Of course it isn’t. Which means there’s nothing to do but drive out to Twentynine Palms and talk to Taggert, the stone killer, in person.

  He knows he’s nuts to put himself in that kind of dangerous situation, but at the same time there’s a fire burning inside him that he hasn’t felt in years. “You’re so goddamn stubborn,” Carl used to say when Boone kept coming at him in the ring even though Boone was so exhausted he could barely keep his gloves up, and Boone always took that as a compliment. Finding out what happened to Oscar Rosales has turned into a bigger-than-life quest for truth for him, and even though everything about it stinks of trouble, he’s going to keep moving forward until he runs headfirst into a wall.

  Back at the bungalow, he uses a butterfly bandage to close the gash on his forehead and covers it with gauze. He’ll need to come up with a story to explain the wound to Amy when he picks her up. The cut is throbbing some, so he pops a beer and downs a couple Advil. Joto pokes his head into the kitchen, ever hopeful.

  “It’s not time to eat yet, you greedy bastard,” Boone says.

  The dog follows him into the bathroom and watches as he turns on the shower. Boone bends down to pet him, feels the scars marring his hide. He’s surprised at the anger that wells up so suddenly in him.

  “We’ll get them,” he tells the dog. “Every last one.”

  14

  WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” AMY ASKS AS SOON AS SHE opens the door of her bungalow and gets a look at Boone.

  He reaches up to touch the bandage on his forehead and says, “Sparring accident at the gym. Dude went high; I went low.”

  “You boys should be more careful,” she says, stepping out onto the porch. She’s wearing a yellow sundress, and her hair is loose around her shoulders.

  “It’s no fun if nobody gets hurt,” Boone says.

  He begins to feel anxious on the drive over to Carl’s place. He tries as best he can to keep up the small talk with Amy, but his mind is elsewhere.

  When Anderson hired Ironman to guard his family, Carl and his wife and two boys were settling into their dream house in Pasadena. Great neighborhood, great schools, great life. A year later, after the beating, after Boone went to prison, after business at Ironman tanked, they had to move to a two-bedroom condo on the bad side of Culver City, where they’re still living today.

  Boone doesn’t know how to apologize for this or if he should even try. He’s put together a dozen different speeches expressing his remorse, but that was never how he and Carl were with each other. At this point he wishes he’d never said he’d show up for the fight tonight, the way his stomach is twitching.

  “Are you okay?” Amy asks.

  “Me? Sure. Why?” Boone replies.

  “I just asked who was going to be at this shindig and you said, ‘Sure.’ ”

  The Robertson exit is coming up. Boone tightens his grip on t
he wheel and moves out of the fast lane. “I guess I’m nervous,” he says. “I haven’t seen Carl since I was released, and I don’t think his wife ever liked me much as it is.”

  “What’s her problem?”

  “I was the single friend, the one who was going to lead her man astray, push hookers and blow on him.”

  Amy reaches over and squeezes his arm. “Jimmy, this guy was your partner for years,” she says. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  THE CONDO IS in a gray stucco building with rounded corners that was built around the time of the ’84 Olympics. It looks like all the minimalls that sprang up back then, with pale green balcony railings and pale pink trim. Someone has tagged the wall next to the front door in big black letters, some ragged nonsense. Boone bets that kind of stuff doesn’t happen in Pasadena. He pushes the button next to Carl’s name on the intercom. A few seconds later a child’s voice blasts out of the speaker.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Jimmy Boone.”

  A buzzer goes off, and the lock on the door clicks.

  Carl lives on the third floor. Boone and Amy take the elevator and get out in a hallway that smells faintly of bug spray. Boone’s knock triggers a stampede inside the condo. Carl’s sons, Dennis and Warren, are still squabbling over who gets to answer as the door opens. Dennis was five when Boone went away. He’s nine now, trim but sturdy like his dad. Warren, who wasn’t even a year old back then, is five. He’s wearing a bright red football helmet and carrying a cheese grater.

  “Remember me?” Boone says.

  Dennis shakes his head no and steps aside to let them in.

  “I’m Jimmy, an old friend of your dad’s, and this is Amy.”

  “Nice helmet,” Amy says to Warren. “What position do you play?”

  He makes a fart sound with his mouth and runs off.

  Carl pokes his head into the entryway. “Hey, Jimmy,” he says and rushes over to give Boone a hug. “Long time, man. Too long.”

  He looks the same: a running back’s body, skin the color of coffee with two creams, hair cut close to the scalp, a thin mustache. “It’s great to see you too,” Jimmy says, a little choked up, all the good years coming back to him at once, then the bad ones.

  Carl extends his hand to Amy.

  “Carl Wright,” he says. “Welcome to our home.”

  “Amy Vitello.”

  “My man treating you right?” Carl asks.

  “Can’t complain yet,” Amy replies.

  “Well, you let me know,” Carl says. “I’ll whip his ass into shape if need be.” He points to the bandage on Boone’s forehead. “You been scrapping?” he asks.

  “Only in the gym,” Boone replies.

  Carl takes them into the kitchen to see Diana, his wife. She’s darker than Carl, has her hair braided. She kisses Boone on the cheek and greets Amy warmly. If she’s upset about all the trouble Boone has caused her family, she’s too classy to show it.

  Warren is standing on a step stool at the counter, grating cheese, more of which is ending up on the floor than in the bowl.

  “Jimmy Neutron,” he says to Boone.

  “Gotta blast,” Boone replies. He ends up on Nickelodeon now and then while channel surfing.

  Diana takes Amy up on her offer of help and gets her started making a salad. Carl hands Boone a beer and walks him into the living room, where a couple of the current employees of Ironman are watching a baseball game on TV.

  They look like straight-up thugs: shaved heads, warm-up suits, lots of gold. A black guy and an Armenian. Carl has to prompt them to stand and shake hands. Times must be hard if he’s hiring humps like these. In the past, anyone working for the company had to have at least enough manners to get by in polite society. These two would scare the shit out of Ironman’s old clientele.

  “Come on with me while I check these ribs,” Carl says to Boone.

  Boone follows him out to the condo’s small balcony, most of which is taken up by an enormous gas grill.

  “I hauled this over from Pasadena,” Carl says. “Had a hell of a time getting it up here.” He opens the lid and bastes the meat with sauce from a bowl on the grill’s counter. “Di parboiled these, so it shouldn’t take too long,” he continues. “Why don’t you close that door so we don’t smoke everyone out.”

  Boone slides the glass door shut and leans against the wall.

  “Things coming together?” Carl asks him.

  “Yeah, man, they are,” Boone says. “You probably heard that Danny found me a bartending gig and hooked me up with a place in Hollywood.”

  “He’s a cool old dude, Danny is.”

  “I’m just trying to keep my nose clean, you know, get back in the groove.”

  Carl lowers the lid of the grill and drops the basting brush into the bowl of sauce. “Got yourself a nice girl,” he says. “That’s a good start.”

  “You believe she used to be a cop?” Boone says.

  Carl grins and raises his eyebrows.

  “I know, man,” Boone says. “It’s some crazy shit.”

  He sips his beer and watches Carl’s back as he fiddles with the grill, adjusting the temperature and checking the propane connection. Busy work, like he knows what the next question is going to be.

  “How about you?” Boone asks, not because he wants to but because he’s got to.

  “Oh, we’re doing fine,” Carl says, his back still to him. “Not as good as before, but pretty damn good. Business is picking up. I’m branching out.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. You know, someone needs talking to, dude hires me to do the talking, that kind of thing.”

  Rough stuff. They were offered those kinds of gigs all the time back in the day, but Carl always turned them down. He wanted Ironman to be a legit operation, no arm twisting, no leg breaking, nothing shady. Things must be worse than he’s letting on if he’s stooping to muscle jobs.

  “Just be careful,” Boone says.

  Carl whips around to face him, and Boone can feel the heat coming off him from six feet away.

  “I thank you for that advice,” Carl says, “but things ain’t like they used to be. You heard that saying ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’? It’s no more Bahamas and Maui and Aspen, Jimmy.

  Those folks don’t call no more. There ain’t no more office, neither. I run shit out of my bedroom now, dealing with all these so-called rappers and so-called self-made millionaires. Half the time they flat-out refuse to pay their bills, and the other half they try and nickel and dime me to death.

  “I had to make some hard choices in order to keep my family fed, and I ain’t so high and mighty anymore. I ain’t so philosophical. These days I’ll bust a head if I have to; I’ll deliver a package.”

  He opens the lid of the grill and slops more sauce on the ribs. Boone keeps his mouth shut. He deserved every bit of that. A car alarm goes off somewhere, turning the silence toxic. Boone recalls a time when Ironman was just getting going and he and Carl were working security at a party in Newport Beach. A crazy drunk pulled a gun on Boone, and Carl took the guy out with one punch before he could squeeze the trigger. And that was only the first time he saved Boone’s ass.

  After a few tense seconds, Carl’s shoulders slump, and he bows his head. “Sorry about that,” he says.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Boone replies. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I screwed everything up by beating that man down, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Carl turns to him again, softer now. “Maybe so and maybe not, but I never doubted you,” he says. “I believed you saw what you thought you saw in that house, and later I believed that bitch set you up. Shit, you tell me today that the sky is pink instead of blue, I’m still going to believe you, because you’re an honest motherfucker, Jimmy.”

  Boone shuffles his feet and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Not really,” he says. “But thanks for saying it.”

  “I ain’t letting the past tear me up, and you shouldn’t either.”

 
“I’m trying not to.”

  Carl chuckles and shakes his head. “We are a couple of sorry pieces of shit, ain’t we?”

  “Hey,” Boone replies, “at least we’re still pretty.”

  “There you go.”

  A muffled shout rises on the other side of the glass door, one of the thugs reacting to the game. “We best take these ribs in there before those cavemen eat my babies,” Carl says.

  Everybody squeezes in around the dining-room table and fills plates with ribs, beans, salad, coleslaw, and macaroni and cheese. The thugs wolf down their food and head back into the living room for the undercard, the kids pick at their macaroni then ask to be excused, but Boone and Amy and Carl and Diana take their time, eating and talking.

  Carl and Boone tell Amy war stories about Ironman, crazy stuff that clients said and did. Like the Japanese businessman with a thing for ghetto poon who would fly into town every few months and hire two guys to accompany him to the nastiest South Central strip joints. He was like an alien popped in from outer space, sitting there in his business suit, drinking watered-down Hennessy and dropping thousands of dollars on the very appreciative dancers. And then there was the guy who hired a man to stand next to him while he told his wife that he’d wrecked her car, he was so afraid she was going to kick his ass.

  When the main event begins, they grab fresh beers and move into the living room. It’s two Mexican fighters, quick little men, one with a particularly sweet right hook. Boone gets into it, the first fight he’s watched in a while, and pretty soon he’s yelling at the screen right along with Carl and the thugs.

  The kids come out of their bedroom to see what the commotion is all about and stand silently for a while, a bit uneasy, watching the men get loud and jab imaginary opponents as they re-create the action. At one point the Armenian yells something about one of the fighters being a motherfucking pussy, and Carl shouts, “Hey!” and jerks his head toward the boys. The Armenian grits his teeth and clamps a hand over his mouth.

  The bout goes all twelve and gets gory in the later rounds. Boone turns to check on Amy now and then — she’s sitting beside him on the couch — but she seems to be fine, rooting quietly for the underdog and rolling her eyes at the men’s boisterousness. He decides it’s silly to worry about her. She probably saw more blood in her years as a cop than he’s seen in his entire life.