After cleaning up I felt better. I sat behind the wheel and searched through my purse for a piece of gum or candy to take the taste out of my mouth. My purse was crammed with stuff I suddenly didn’t understand why I kept, melted lipstick, compact case, eyeliner, perfume, wadded-up tissues, ticket stubs, a self-help psychology book I’d wanted to read but never did, old parking tickets, loose tampons, keys I couldn’t remember what they fit, a broken rabbit’s foot, a DON’T WORRY BE HAPPY button Mom gave me, not a single lousy stick of gum or piece of candy. I dumped it all onto the seat. Half stuck to the bottom of my purse was a lint-covered Certs only a couple years old. I popped it into my mouth, shoved everything except my wallet onto the floor.
I knew Wrex crashed sometimes with this guy I said before was named Dan out in this small town north of where I lived. It wasn’t much of a town, more like an outpost for white trash and young kids without much money, living in beat-up old houses. Dan’s place was a one-bath, three-bedroom shack with a big old oak tree in the middle of a dirt yard. I parked down the street so I could watch the house. Saw nothing move except the neighborhood dogs, decided to walk up, check it out. The back door was wide open. I called, “Hey, anybody home?” a couple times, stepped inside.
At first I thought it was just the usual bachelor experiment in animal behavior, but half into the living room I knew different. The place was trashed. The sofa slashed, turned upside down. Shelves pushed over onto the floor. The TV set toppled onto its side. Clothes, records, CDs, magazines scattered over the carpet. I knew the house hadn’t been ripped off because the stereo was there. Smashed to hell, but there. It looked to me like Wrex burned somebody in a drug deal. He told me drug dealers sometimes trash a place if they feel ripped off. The drug deal had to be connected to the briefcase blowing up at the airport, it was probably heroin or cocaine in the black case now packed into the back of my Honda. Drug dealers trashed the place because Wrex didn’t deliver the merchandise. If they caught him, they’d do worse to his body than what they did to this place. They’d do the same to me if I was caught.
I drove south again on the Interstate, wanted to go home, puil the blankets over my head, make the world go away. If the drug dealers hadn’t caught Wrex yet, they wouldn’t know who I was or where I lived. It was too early to worry about the police. The police couldn’t already know I was the one carried the bomb. They’d figure it out soon enough, because no way they were going to let anybody get away with bombing the airport. The FBI would come in, find a scrap of leather from the briefcase had my fingerprint on it. I had a couple days at least, no reason I couldn’t go into my apartment, collect a few things, maybe even sleep for the night.
I parked down the street from my apartment building, watched the neighborhood, looked for anything different, any cars didn’t look like they belonged, any people I didn’t recognize. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just the usual summer evening in a small town, stereo blasting somewhere down the street, kids cruising by in jacked-up Fords and chopped Chevys, a few guys drinking beers in the front yard. Everything seemed safe and familiar.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment, dreamed about a hot bath, a tall glass of Jack Daniel’s on ice. I looked carefully at my apartment window. The curtains were shut, just like I’d left them. I put my key to the lock, was about to turn the latch, when I noticed scratch marks on the door near the dead bolt, a wedge-shaped indentation in the door frame. I didn’t remember the marks being there before, and as I continued to rattle the lock, the marks looked more and more shaped like the head of a crowbar somebody might use to pry open the door.
I’ve got a sixth sense tells me when a guy is watching, and it said an eye in the peephole watched every move I made. Some bastard was in my apartment, waiting for me to open the door. I backed away, spun toward the stairs, tried to keep fear from popping the thoughts out my head. One of the guys from the airport was coming up the front walk, Frick it was, which meant Frack was behind the door watching me. Frick raised his hands like he meant me no harm, smiled, hoped this would make me trust him. But there was a menace behind the smile I’d seen before in men who wanted to hurt me, and there was something about his pasty skin, lank hair, and skinny mustache that made me think he was a spadeful of earth away from the living dead.
He said, “Hey, little girl, you get curious, open that briefcase once when you were all alone?”
I shook my head, listened to the door opening behind me.
“Wasn’t supposed to go off, you see, the first time. Was supposed to go off the second time, which means it was you or your boyfriend opened it.” His eyes drifted over my shoulder to where I could hear Frack slipping out the door. He took two steps up, said, “Just stay right there little girl and I won’t hurt you.”
No way they were going to take me without a fight. I turned, swung hard on my heels, keys fisted like a brass knuckle. Frack ducked, afraid of getting raked, slipped on the welcome mat. Frick charged up the stairs to get me, yelling I was only a girl, for Chrissakes. I jumped the railing, fell forward after I hit ground, scraped elbows, knees, hands. The impact rattled every bone in my body and I knew it should hurt, but it didn’t. Truth is I was so pumped full of adrenaline I didn’t feel anything but fear. I rolled upright and ran to my Honda. Frick and Frack were slow coming off the stairs. I cranked the starter and the engine caught with a loud pop sounded like backfire. Hondas never backfire. There was another pop, a planking sound in the hatch. I looked back. Frack stood in the middle of the street. The bastard had a gun, he was shooting at me. I stomped on the accelerator, wove all over the street as I took off. I didn’t know whether to duck or just drive. I hunched over the steering wheel, shoulders rounded like when you expect to get hit from behind. When I didn’t hear another shot, I glanced in the rearview mirror, saw Frick hopping into a complete citizen car, a tan Chevy Caprice, something you’d never pick out as suspicious on any street in the world.
My Honda didn’t have the horses to outrun the Chevy if it got on my tail. I whipped left onto the first cross street, left again to double back. A Winnebago camper, big as a house, loomed up ahead, mid-block. I snuck around in front of it, fast as a rabbit going to ground. Nothing I could do after that but wait it out, the idea they would see the first left turn but not guess the second, would figure I’d gone straight or turned right or done anything but double back. A couple minutes ticked off the clock. I started moving again, stuck to back streets, snaked around the canyons to the Palmdale Freeway. I had a choice to drive east to Las Vegas maybe, or west the back way into Los Angeles.
I got off the Hollywood Freeway at Highland. Didn’t know how to gamble, been to Hollywood a couple times with the gang on trips where we’d load up in somebody’s car, pretend we weren’t small-town hicksters. I followed Highland down to Sunset Boulevard. My stomach growled. There was a strip mall off to the right. I pulled into the lot, read the smorgasbord of choices advertised on the signboard, pizza, hamburgers, submarine sandwiches, Chinese take-out, frozen yogurt. Yogurt sounded about right, because my stomach was still pretty uptight, I wasn’t sure how much I could eat.
The frozen yogurt shop was clean and bright. The girl behind the counter wore a pointed yellow hat and striped brown and yellow smock. The shop uniform. Looked like an overripe banana. She asked, “Hello, may I help you?” Her voice was cheerful, I could tell the manager made her practice. The manager would say, Gotta make the customer feel special, happy he came in here, you’re not just a yogurt scooper, you’re in the happiness business. I felt so sorry for her I almost walked out. But I needed to eat something, ordered a chocolate banana frozen yogurt, hid in the corner booth. I took a couple bites, set the spoon aside, thought, Okay, I’ll turn myself in, tell the police it was all a big mistake, I’m really innocent, please don’t throw me in jail. Yeah, right. I was pretty naive in those days but not completely stupid. They gave the death penalty to assassins, terrorists, cop killers, drug murderers. I guessed I was two of the above. If the law could fi
gure a way to execute somebody twice, I was going to be their girl. There was an outside chance I could cop a plea for testifying against Wrex, but he looked like small fry in this whole deal. Wrex would be the one they’d get to cop a plea, he could nail Frick and Frack. And if the law didn’t catch them, the only person they’d have to persecute for the crime would be me.
But I couldn’t think of any alternative. It didn’t seem realistic that I suddenly could turn into a desperate fugitive, this sweet Mary of a girl I’d been my whole life. Most likely, Frick and Frack would track me down and that would be the end of it. They’d put a bullet through my head and I’d be toe-tagged Jane Doe in the county morgue. The police option didn’t look so bad compared to that. I was bound to get caught anyway. If I turned myself in, maybe I’d only get ten to twenty years. With time off for good behavior, I’d be somewhere in my thirties when I got out, not too late to find some guy, maybe have a family, lead a normal life again. The frozen yogurt melted to soup.
There was a pay phone outside. I flipped to L for Lawyers in the yellow pages. The heading read, “See A for Attorneys.” I turned to A. Most of the pages were ripped out. Made perfect sense. Thieves need attorneys. Four names escaped at the end of the alphabet, last one named Zimskind looked like my man. A woman behind me said, “You gonna read the whole fucking book or make a call?”
I said, “Excuse me?”
“I need to use the phone.”
“So do I.”
“Looks to me like you’re reading the yellow pages.”
I checked the woman out, tried to figure where her attitude came from. She was about my age. Jet black hair all bangs and shaved up the back of her neck. Mad Hatter hat, red paisley vest, black t-shirt, patched and faded blue jeans, mid-calf Doc Martens. Six earrings of different shapes and sizes in one ear, three in the other. Nose pierced with a gold ring. A chain connected the ring in her nose to a matching ring in her ear.
She said, “You mind hurrying up? I don’t wanna die of old age waiting.”
I asked, “Where did you get your clothes?”
“Go back to the Valley,” she said. Big insult.
“What would you do if the police wanted you for murder?” Just asking, wondered what she’d say.
“Look, all I wanna do is use the phone.” She didn’t expect this. Her feet shifted back and forth. Hold here, or try a phone down the street?
“Would you give yourself up?”
“Why you asking?” A little curious, wondered why somebody looked like me would ask a question like that.
“Maybe I need some advice.”
“You want advice, call a shrink. I just wanna use the phone.”
Advice enough. I dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed. It was a toll call. I was short a quarter. I stretched my hand to the woman, said, “Give me a quarter.”
The way I said it, she reached automatically for her pocket, but stopped quick enough, asked, “Why?”
“Why does it look? Give me a quarter.”
Sometimes it surprises me when people do what you tell them to do. The woman handed over the quarter, said, “Just don’t talk all night, okay?”
The phone rang five, six times. Mom answered. Just her voice was all I wanted. I hung up, held out the receiver.
The woman stepped up to the phone, said, “I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t what?”
“Turn myself in.”
“Why not?”
“Can’t fuck your boyfriend in jail.”
I thought about that for a second, said, “Sounds like just the place for me.”
A Motel 6 had a vacancy sign lit on Sunset Boulevard. I checked in, paid forty-six U.S. dollars cash for a ground-floor single toward the back. A sixty-something desk clerk with a disheveled stare and dark armpits told me to sign my name in the registration book. I blanked. He repeated I should sign my name. I couldn’t sign my full name, Mary Alice Baker. Nina was the first name that came to me, because it was exotic, foreign sounding. I could imagine a terrorist named Nina. The sum total of my life to date would be my last name. I signed myself in as Nina Zero.
The room wasn’t much but I didn’t expect the Hilton. I tossed on the bed a sack of stuff I’d bought on Melrose Avenue. The bottle of Jack Daniel’s was the first thing out the sack. I filled up the ice bucket from the machine in the lobby, poured myself a drink. The first sip made me smile, the way it cut straight through the day’s problems. I turned on the faucet, stripped while the tub filled. I threw my blouse, skirt, flats, hose into the trash. My body was pretty beat up. I examined the scrapes and bruises, worried over the seriousness of each one. The pain didn’t bother me much until I stepped into the tub. The sting of hot water on ripped skin made me want to yell. I reached for the Jack Daniel’s. The bourbon glowed amber behind the steamed glass. I tossed it down. The great thing about bourbon is it deadens all shapes and sizes of pain. I made good use of the pint, until my body began to feel deliciously heavy and a smile floated to my lips. I settled into the tub, let the hot water strip away the layers of smoke and sweat. My old life peeled away like dead skin soaked off and washed down the drain.
When I felt relaxed, I poured a bottle of black hair coloring through my hair, turned on the television for something to do while the dye set. The channel was set to CNN. News was on. TERROR AT LAX, the graphic said, dramatic music behind, like they already made a big production out of it, wanted better ratings than the other stations. A reporter stood in front of the burnt-out International Terminal, talked about the criminal investigation. He said the National Transportation Safety Board was working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and local authorities to solve the mystery of the blast, which at latest count, and here he checked a slip of paper in his hand, was responsible for one confirmed fatality and twenty-three treated tor smoke inhalation and minor injuries.
The anchorman came on. His expression was serious, his voice grave, he asked, “Do they have any idea who could be behind this? Have any groups claimed responsibility?”
“I’ve heard, and I can’t confirm this, that people seeming to be of Middle Eastern origin were seen in the terminal shortly before the blast.”
“Any reports on what they were doing there?”
“Several flights a day come and go from the Middle East. They could have been flying. No one knows yet.”
“How about right-wing paramilitary groups?”
“A distinct possibility, but really, it could be anybody.”
“Anybody with a bomb.”
The reporter didn’t treat the remark as funny. He said, “Absolutely right.”
The anchorman recapped the story. Fire trucks raced across the screen, firemen mopped up after the blaze, a guy with blood on his face walked toward an ambulance. What was starting to seem like a dream was made real by television. I felt bad about what happened, didn’t like to see people hurt. But there was this voice in my head said, You did that, what you did is live on television, millions of people are watching, millions are wondering who you are and why you did it. I flipped through the channels, saw Jay Leno talking to Goldie Hawn, Arsenio Hall grinning, Humphrey Bogart coming through a door with a gun. I was up there with the stars. Problem was, I didn’t know better than anybody else why it happened.
I went back into the tub to rinse the dye out of my hair. The girl in the mirror looked older, harder. I toweled my hair dry, experimented around with the scissors, snipped a little here and there. It didn’t take long to figure out it’s almost impossible to cut your own hair. Then I realized it was okay if I messed up, messed up was part of the look. I left the bangs long in front, so they hung down both sides of my face just below the jaw. The natural angle of my hand cutting backward made the hair at the nape of my neck shorter than my bangs by about four inches. I checked it out in the mirror, front and back, decided the look was okay. The next half hour I tried to make it less ragged but mostly succeeded in just cutting it another inch shorter all the way around.
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sp; I refreshed my glass with a little more bourbon than was sensible, tossed it down. If I was drunk enough, I wouldn’t feel a thing. I wrapped a band-aid around my left forefinger, pulled a sewing needle from a drugstore bag, tested its sharpness with an exploratory jab. That discouraged me. I told myself not to be a baby. I stuck my finger up my nostril, positioned the needle above the first ridge of cartilage, closed my eyes, plunged it in. The needle lanced the side of my nose, pierced through the band-aid, lodged a quarter inch deep into the tip of my forefinger. My first reaction was to try and rip my finger away, which I couldn’t do because it was pinned by the needle to the inside of my nose. Hurt like hell. But then I got a look at myself in the mirror, and the sight of my finger stuck up my nose hit me as funny, as things sometimes do when I’ve been drinking a bit, and I fell onto the floor laughing, because it was just like me to take aim at one thing and totally damage something else.
I thought of a new strategy to pierce my ears, jabbed the needle into a wedge of belt leather pressed on the opposite side of the lobe. My gold heart earrings, a gift from my mother at high school graduation, I replaced with twin silver hoops. I cleaned the new pierce marks with rubbing alcohol, clipped in a pair of silver skull earrings just above the hoops. For my nose, I picked out a dagger stud. It caused me some trouble figuring how to get the backing up my nostril and onto the stud pin, then a couple tries to get it right. One look in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself. With my black hair, blue eyes, dagger nose stud and hoop and skull earrings, I looked down-right dangerous.
Then I curled up under the covers, slept for ten hours.
Shooting Elvis Page 4
