This Wicked World

by RICHARD LANGE

  “Tank you,” he says sharply as she and Virgil walk away.

  “No, thank you,” Olivia says, carefully enunciating each word.

  Virgil leads the way up the path to the house. They climb the steps, and Virgil tilts a shriveled potted cactus on the porch to retrieve the spare key hidden under it.

  He holds out his hand and says, “I’m shaking.”

  “What, do you need me to open the door?” Olivia snaps, sick to death of gutless men.

  “I’m just saying it’s weird,” Virgil replies. “Coming back after what happened here.”

  He inserts the key, twists the deadbolt. The door opens, and a gust of Lysol-scented air trapped inside since Spiller, T.K., and Virgil scrubbed the place clean whooshes out.

  Olivia enters first, steps into the living room. You can’t even tell someone was murdered here. An ornate cobweb cuts the room in two. It glistens in the sunlight streaming through the open door. Virgil walks to the couch.

  “I was sitting right here,” he says. “Eton was over there. They took the chair he was in because it was all bloody.”

  The place looks the same to Olivia as it did last time she stopped by, a couple of years ago. Same creepy knickknacks and paintings, same old-lady furniture. The flat screen is new, the Xbox. She raises her bag and uses it to break through the spiderweb on her way to the kitchen, which is as filthy as ever. A pot on the stove is caked with dried refried beans, and the trash is overflowing.

  A bunch of photos are stuck to the refrigerator door with skull-and-crossbones magnets. One of them is of her and Eton way back when. She has blue hair and a nose ring; he’s sticking his finger in her ear and making a funny face. The one time they tried to fuck, he couldn’t get it up. Sad. Her anger at Taggert flares again, hot and bright, and the plan she’s been putting together begins to solidify.

  She and Virgil walk through the rest of the house, the three bedrooms upstairs. Eton’s looks like a teenager’s hideout. Mattress on the floor, computer, two guitars on stands, amps, and posters of old punk bands tacked to the walls.

  Virgil grabs a key ring off the nightstand. “Sweet,” he says. “Now we can use his van.” He moves to a three-drawer file cabinet, tries the top drawer and finds it locked. It takes him a few tries before he hits on the right key. Inside the drawer is a stash of marijuana divided into eighths, quarters, and ounces — a pound or so — a small quantity of black tar heroin and orange prescription bottles containing various pills.

  “We’re rich,” Virgil says. “We move this shit, we could make, like, thousands.”

  Olivia rolls her eyes. The kid’s so small town. He doesn’t even know how close he is to real money.

  The second bedroom contains a bed, a dresser, and a bookcase full of dusty old books. Hanging above the bed is a painting of a glowing angel watching over two kids as they cross a rickety bridge. Someone has drawn a Hitler mustache on the angel and scratched 666 across her forehead. Virgil drops his gym bag on the floor and says, “I call this one.”

  “Whatever,” Olivia says.

  The last room is Eton’s grandma’s, the one left untouched as a kind of shrine to her memory. Her clothes are still in the closet, her gray hair tangled in the hairbrush, and there’s half a pack of Marlboro Lights on the nightstand and an ashtray full of lipstick-smeared butts.

  It used to creep Olivia out back in the day. She’d get high and sit in the hall, put her ear to the door and listen for ghosts on the other side. What a dipshit she was. There’s nothing in here but a bunch of junk that smells of mothballs and mildew. She picks up an old-fashioned perfume dispenser from the dresser, leaving behind a perfect circle in the dust, and squeezes the bulb a few times. Roses. She carries the dispenser with her when she and Virgil step back into the hall and close the door behind them.

  They go back downstairs to the living room. Virgil dumps a bag of Eton’s weed on the coffee table and sets about rolling a joint. He’s got one of the Glocks sitting there, thinking it gives him that gangster lean.

  Olivia runs through her scheme to get back at Taggert once more in her mind, and excitement rises like a piston from her belly to her throat, crowding out everything else. It could work. It could definitely work. But they have to move fast.

  “Yo, hold up,” she says to Virgil as he’s about to light the spliff.

  “What?” he snaps, irritated.

  “We’ve got stuff to do yet. I need you to be on the ball.”

  “What stuff?”

  She reaches out and snatches the joint from his fingers and says, “Is that any way to talk to the girl who’s about to change your life?”

  20

  BOONE SITS IN A FLIMSY PLASTIC CHAIR IN THE WATCH-repair shop that serves as Doc Ock’s waiting room. The shop, barely the size of a walk-in closet, is wedged between an Armenian bakery and a Thai restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard, near Western. The old man behind the counter peers down at an antique pocket watch through a pair of magnifying lenses clamped to his regular glasses and uses what look like dental tools to poke at the timepiece’s works. Russian folk music plays softly somewhere.

  Boone reaches down and squeezes his ankle. It hurts most at the top of the joint, right below the shin. That’s where the dog’s teeth dug in, tearing through everything. He hopes it’s something Ock can fix.

  Ock — née Aleksei Sokolov — came over from Russia ten years ago. He was a doctor in Moscow but hasn’t yet gotten around to taking the courses and doing the paperwork that would allow him to practice legally in the U.S. Instead, he works out of the back room of his uncle’s shop, cash only.

  In addition to poor families from the neighborhood, his patients include gangbangers, mobsters, and other shady types who sneak in to have bullets removed, knife wounds stitched up, and broken bones set without the scrutiny they’d face at a hospital or clinic.

  Boone first visited Ock in the Ironman days. Carl recommended him when Boone dislocated his shoulder fending off a photographer for a client, and Ock patched him up for fifty bucks. The price was right, and Boone liked the guy, so he kept coming back even after he could afford a legit doctor.

  Ock’s uncle’s cell phone beeps. He glances down at it, then whistles and jerks his thumb over his shoulder, the signal that the doctor is ready. Boone steps through a gap in the counter and opens the door to the examination room, which is tricked out with the usual paper-covered table, scale, blood pressure apparatus, and cabinets full of supplies.

  “Hello, Jimmy,” Ock says with a thick Russian accent. He’s about fifty, as tanned and handsome as a movie star, with gleaming teeth and suspiciously black hair. His white coat is spotless, and a stethoscope hangs around his neck. “How are you?”

  “Not so good,” Boone replies.

  Ock pats the table to indicate that Boone should sit and says, “Tell me the problem.”

  “I got hit a couple times, bit by some dogs,” Boone says.

  “Such excitement. When did this happen?”

  “Last night.”

  “Show me.”

  First, Ock looks at the lumps on Boone’s head, and then, after Boone takes off his T-shirt, pokes at his bruised collarbone and has him raise his right arm two or three times.

  “Does that hurt?” Ock asks.

  “Like a mother,” Boone replies.

  Boone pulls the gauze away from the bite on his stomach, and Ock probes the wound with his fingertips.

  “What else?” he asks.

  “I’ll have to take my pants off,” Boone says.

  Ock raises his eyebrows and motions for Boone to stand. Boone slides off the table, removes his shoes, and drops his jeans.

  “Here,” he says, pointing to the teeth marks in his thigh, “and here,” at his ankle.

  “Ahhh,” Ock says. “When you say take off pants, I am thinking…” He cups his crotch and grimaces.

  “Nope. Got lucky there,” Boone replies.

  “You have been drinking?” Ock asks. “Your breath.”

 
“Couple shots,” Boone says. “Makes the Advil work better.”

  Ock examines the ankle, twisting it this way and that and asking, “This hurts? This?” Finally, he stands and says, “Okay, not too bad. I can x-ray ankle and shoulder if you like. New machine. Digital. But it will cost you more.”

  “What do you think?” Boone asks.

  “I think is fine. If I wrap, should be okay.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty dollars for treatment, twenty for antibiotics. You want pain pills?”

  “Bourbon’s cheaper.”

  “Also, we should to think about rabies. I have no vaccine here. I can get, but is very expensive.”

  “The dogs weren’t rabid,” Boone says.

  “They should be tested.”

  “They weren’t rabid.”

  “Okay, then,” Ock says with a sigh. “Seventy dollars.”

  “Deal.”

  Ock shakes Boone’s hand, then sets to work on the bites. The stomach wound first. Boone grits his teeth as Ock rinses it, slathers it with antibiotic ointment, and covers it with fresh gauze. The puncture on his thigh gets the same treatment, and then Ock cleans the bite on his ankle and wraps it tightly in an elastic bandage. A tetanus shot, a dose of penicillin, a sling for Boone’s arm, and he’s finished.

  Boone looks at the photos hanging on the wall while he’s dressing. Ock’s wife and kids; his house in Glendale; his cars, a Mercedes and a Land Rover; and a big sailboat.

  “That is new,” Ock says, pointing at the boat. “Svetlana, same name as my wife. Someday we will sail to Hawaii together, the whole family.”

  Boone ties his shoes. The American dream. He’s glad somebody’s living it.

  Ock hands him a bottle of pills. “Two of these every eight hours, and change the bandages often.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Boone says.

  “And stay out of the doghouse.”

  “What?”

  “A joke,” Ock says.

  “Oh, the doghouse,” Boone replies. “Good one.”

  A Latina cradling a crying baby is waiting in the watch-repair shop when Boone passes through on his way to the street. Ock’s uncle waves her into the back of the store.

  Outside, Boone tests his ankle, stands on one foot. It feels better already. A bus pulls up to the curb and discharges its sweating passengers in a cloud of exhaust fumes. The sky is a worrisome shade of brown, and a dead bird festers on the sidewalk. Hawaii. Boone wonders if he’ll ever get back there. Seems a million miles away today, that’s for sure. He limps to the Olds. Another drink would set him right, but he’s due at work in three hours. Better to grab a nap. He takes the sling off his arm. Can’t tend bar one-handed.

  AT 11:00 A.M. Amy drives to the Short Stop in Echo Park. She’s meeting Tom and Karen Takeshi, friends of hers, teachers at her school. They have an extra ticket for today’s Dodgers game and have invited Amy along.

  The Short Stop was a watering hole for Rampart cops before turning into a divey hangout for neighborhood hipsters. The bar opens early when there’s a game because the stadium is just up Sunset. It’s pitch dark inside and packed with fans in Dodgers drag who are excited to be sucking down two-dollar PBRs before noon. The din of all their voices raised at once is topped off by the Stones’ “Midnight Rambler” blasting out of the jukebox.

  Amy squeezes her way to the bar and orders a Coke. She’s pacing herself so she can do a yoga class after the game. She spots Tom and Karen back by the wooden gun lockers, where, in the old days, patrons were required to stow their sidearms before getting shit faced. There’s someone with them, a tall, skinny guy in a Dodgers cap and black-framed glasses. He smiles at Amy as she approaches.

  “Hey, girly, how you doin’?” Karen shouts over the music, already a little buzzed.

  “Great,” Amy replies.

  “This is Dean,” Tom says. “Dean, this is Amy.”

  “Hey, Amy,” Dean says.

  Dean. Right. Karen has mentioned him a couple of times. Friend of Tom’s, does something in computers at one of the studios. They shake hands. He’s got that glint in his eye that says that he thinks he knows more about her than she knows about him. Karen must have been talking her up. Too bad, because Amy can already tell he’s not her type, just by his slouch. Looks like his bones are too soft to hold him up.

  Coming here wasn’t a great idea. She’s still off balance after what happened with Boone this morning, wondering how something that seemed to be going so well went south so quickly. She liked Boone from the moment she met him. He was handsome and funny, sweet with Joto, and there was something kind of noble about his determination to get beyond the mistakes of his past. All good stuff.

  But then he goes and lies to her face about those people at his place, about what he’s been up to. Does he think she’s some kind of idiot? She’s looking to the future now, not just playing around, so if he doesn’t get back to being real next time they talk, if he tries to snow her in any way, that’s that.

  “Did you come here when you were on the force?” Dean leans in to ask. Yep, Karen’s been running her mouth.

  “That was a little before my time,” Amy says. “I heard lots of stories though.”

  “I like cops,” Dean says with a smile, and Amy wonders how she’s supposed to respond to that.

  Pretty soon they leave the bar to join the parade of fans walking to the stadium. It’s a hot day. Too bright, even with sunglasses. Tom and Dean take the lead while Amy and Karen hang back.

  “You guys hitting it off?” Karen asks.

  “I’m kind of out of it today,” Amy replies.

  “He’s cute though, right?” Karen says.

  “Sure.”

  “Makes good money too. Drives a Benz.”

  “Woo hoo!” Amy hoots with false enthusiasm.

  “Hold on,” Karen says as she drops to one knee to tie her black Converse. There’s a red tint in her hair that lights up when the sun hits it. She looks at Amy and says, “You’re not in the market for a handsome rich guy?”

  “That’s creepy, ‘in the market,’ ” Amy replies.

  “Nothing wrong with setting parameters.”

  “You sound like one of those people on TV.”

  Karen stands and brushes the dust off her jeans. “So you’re an ‘It’s gonna happen when it happens with whoever it happens with’ kinda girl?” she says.

  They turn onto Stadium Way and start up the hill. Tom and Dean are waiting for them.

  “No, I’m an ‘I’m gonna kick your ass if you don’t change the subject’ kind of girl,” Amy says before they reach the guys.

  “I used to believe in magic too,” Karen says. “I really did.”

  At the top of the hill they cross the chaotic parking lot, which reflects the heat like the bottom of a skillet. The shade of the stadium is a welcome relief, and Amy is happy to find that their seats are in a kind of cave, well back under the upper deck.

  She drinks a beer, eats a hot dog, and feels better. The players loping across the green, green grass, the excitement of the crowd, the palm trees in the distance — there are worse ways she could be spending today. And Dean isn’t a bad guy, just a little dopey.

  Unfortunately, he gets dopier by the beer. During the third inning he tells her all about his last few girlfriends, tossing around the word bitch a little too freely. In the fifth inning he slips while trying to bat a beach ball that’s making its way across the section and spills his beer on the woman sitting in front of him. He’s slurring by the seventh, when he moves in close and asks Amy if she’d like to frisk him.

  She says her good-byes then, fibs about suddenly remembering that she has to be somewhere by four. Dean offers to walk her down the hill to her car, but she insists he stay for the rest of the game. She looks at her watch as she crosses the parking lot, a roar rising from the stadium behind her. If she hurries, she can still make that yoga class.

  * * *

  VIRGIL IS ASLEEP in the driver’s seat of Eton’s van
, reclined all the way back, mouth agape. Olivia is in the passenger seat, watching the bungalows across the street where Boone and Amy live. They’ve been here since noon and seen Boone leave twice, once for about an hour, and then again twenty minutes ago, dressed for work in a white shirt and black slacks. Both times they ducked and kept quiet until he got into his car and drove away.

  Still no sign of Amy though.

  Olivia decides to stretch her legs. She grabs a cigarette from Virgil’s pack, his lighter, and steps out of the van. While she’s pacing up and down the sidewalk, smoking, she remembers coming to a party around here once, some rock star’s place. The guy was shooting coke and screaming about Ozzy Osbourne.

  A car turns onto the street from Franklin. Olivia ducks behind a truck and watches it pass. A silver Honda Civic. It pulls over to the curb in front of the bungalows, and Amy gets out and runs up the stairs.

  Olivia hurries back to the van. Virgil moans and rolls over when she climbs in. He’s been no help at all since they left the house, dragging his feet every step of the way. When this is done, she doesn’t care if she ever sees the little shit again.

  “She’s here,” she says, slapping his arm.

  Virgil sits upright, the seat springing up behind him. He yawns and rubs his eyes. “Finally,” he says.

  Olivia reaches for her bag, opens it to make sure the Glock is there. She’ll knock on Amy’s door and pretend to be looking for Boone, say she left something behind at his place. As soon as Amy opens up, she’ll show her the gun and lead her out to the van.

  “Oh, great,” Virgil groans.

  Olivia looks up to see Amy come down the stairs and return to her car. She starts it and flips a U, heading back to Franklin.

  “Follow her,” Olivia says.

  Virgil cranks the van to life and chases the Honda down the hill. He reaches the intersection just as Amy makes a right onto Franklin.