by Jarret Keene
“Who shall I get?”
“Does he have any money?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. He’s another professor. Just got fired by the Little Colonel. Oscar Goodman is not in his league.”
“So that Colonel shit is still around?”
“Some things never change, Tommy.”
“I’ll close up and we’ll see what I can do with the boys in the lockup.” He puts a Back in twenty minutes sign on the door and slides into the passenger seat of M’s ancient Toyota.
“It seems like old times. What do you hear from Grover?”
“Not much. He writes at Christmas and sends a really weird present, like six months of the Fruit of the Month Club. He’s crazy about Lena, who is absolutely gorgeous and in grad school in Tulsa, so he goes to see her a few times a year and helps with her expenses.”
Tommy reaches over and pats her hand, white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “We’re getting old, kid.”
“Not only that, but we are here,” she says, gunning the car up the parking ramp. They walk through the tunnel-like area from the parking garage, across the atrium with the dirty fountains that seem to spit old candy wrappers rather than water, through the doors on the other side, to the desk where the officer in charge looks at her like she is shit. She is momentarily startled until she remembers how she is dressed. A few words from Tommy and the cop quickly changes his expression to one of helpful concern.
For a moment, her old self surfaces and she wants to scream—but first spit in the bastard’s face. Tommy’s foot grinding into her instep reminds her to smile back.
“If you will just have a seat over there,” the cop says, pointing her to the orange plastic chairs, “I’ll have him for you as soon as I can.”
Escorting her to the chairs, Tommy says, “I got to get back to the office. Bring him right to me. I’ll try to have Freddie there when you arrive.” He makes a fist and punches her gently on the arm, “Hang in, kid.”
An endless hour later, Raph emerges looking like a wet chicken. She wants to kick him for being such a wimp. They must just have been harassing him with the serial killer bit. She forces a smile. “Hey, Raph, you can write an epic poem about this.”
“Take me home, M.”
“Not until we go to Jack Be Nimble’s and straighten out your bail bond.”
“Not now,” he whines.
“Yes, now.” Her voice drops and she speaks evenly, trying to hold back her annoyance. “You, sir, are in a shitload of trouble and you’d better pull up your socks and get ready to defend yourself. If you act like a victim, I guarantee you will become one. I will do what I can, but you have to care enough to help yourself. Now shape up!”
“But you don’t know what it was like.”
She can’t believe that he is whining for sympathy. She is tired and sorry that she’s come. His puffy face now reminds her of the young Peter Lorre in the old movie M.
“Bullshit!” she snarls. “Either grow up or I am going to send you back to deal with this yourself.”
He puts on a hurt look, then opts for seriousness.
Seeing the expressions moving over his face, she has a moment of cold uncertainty. “Raph, did you do it?”
“Jesus, M, don’t joke.”
“I wasn’t being funny. Why were they trying to finger you?” She pulls into a parking space in front of Jack Be Nimble’s.
It is light now, and already hot. Incredibly tired, she wants only for this to be over. Raph and his problems are too much. She’s too old to be involved with the system like this. She doesn’t want to play anymore.
Tommy is sitting at the desk. Freddie hasn’t shown up yet and isn’t answering his phone. Raph signs the appropriate papers. Naturally, he has no money, forcing M to drag her Visa out of her purse and sign for the thousand dollars bail, the ten percent that the bondsman gets up front. Ten thousand seems like a hell of a lot for traffic warrants. Her lips tighten as she thinks of the vacation she won’t have. Her salary is a lousy $23,000 a year and she knows Raph will never pay her back. She tells herself that he’s an innocent friend, that he’s just inept and she shouldn’t be so impatient.
Telling Raph to get in the car, she turns to Tommy. Catching him off guard, she is touched by the look of concern on his face.
“Let it go, lady,” he says, “You don’t need this.”
“I know, Tommy, I know. And thanks.”
Resisting Raph’s pleadings that he is unnerved and wants to stay at her house, she dumps him at his dingy apartment. She hates his apartment. It’s long and narrow, the only window a sliding glass door to the balcony at the far end that seems to let in no light. The Navajo white walls feel dirty even though they probably aren’t.
She’s dimly aware of the method to his madness. The apartment is an appropriate backdrop for the suffering romantic image that he wants to convey. His few friends hate the place, so he gets to go out a lot without reciprocating. Of course, the thin-thighed young women in his classes find him irresistible and the dinginess becomes a turn-on, which they describe endlessly to their more sophisticated friends, who don’t envy their sitting on his floor listening to his poetry and drinking bad red wine.
She drives home unaware that he’s beginning to see her as a defector. She’s been smarter than to sleep with him, keeping their relationship on a strictly friendship basis, not trusting him the way she does her ex-cons and con men with whom she doesn’t sleep either. She’s never had any illusions about him, but has always liked him anyway. He makes her laugh and there aren’t too many people around who can do that. She doesn’t really see him as one of her stray pups, although outsiders might.
She tries to wrap her mind around the possibility that he might have committed the murders, but can’t do so. The cops must have been just harassing him.
She doesn’t know that as soon as she is gone, he leaves the apartment without showering, shaving, or changing clothes.
Neither does she know that, a couple of hours later, Martha Jones will open the door to her Paradise Valley condo and half skip to her Honda, grateful once more for her covered parking space. She’s just signed a contract for her second novel and Continuing Ed has asked her to teach a creative writing course in the fall. The Review-Journal is going to do a story on her and all’s right with the world. She’s on her way to pick M’s brains for an exotic locale for her next book and has no way of knowing that M is sleeping, having completely forgotten their appointment.
M’s never paid any attention to Martha’s looks. She is a hell of a neat person, smart, funny, and loyal, and great to be with, and M has always wondered why some man isn’t smart enough to see what a great companion Martha would be. While she yearns for romance, she is truly an innocent, never having had a serious affair. It’s not surprising then that her face lights up when she spots the man leaning on the pole next to her parking space, holding a picnic cooler. Everything else is going well. Maybe her luck in love will change too.
“Want to play hooky?” he grins.
For once Martha decides to follow a whim. This is a good day. M will just have to understand.
“What’s in the cooler?” she asks.
“Goodies for you. You’ll never in this world guess, so just wait until we get to Mount Charleston,” he answers, getting into the passenger side of her car. “My wheels are in the shop. I had Findlay drop me here.” He reaches over and turns on the radio, dropping his hand to stroke her knee. She gulps, but doesn’t protest.
Once on the mountain, they have hiked almost to Cathedral Rock when he suggests a detour. There, in a secluded spot, he tenderly asks her to close her eyes for the surprise.
She leans against a tree and squints them shut, listening to him fumble with the cooler. Then she asks, “Can I open them yet?”
“Not quite.”
The last thing she sees is his face distorted by passion as he forces her back, pulling the black plastic bag over her head. “Die, ugly bitch, die,” he intones. Quickly per
forming the mutilations, he returns the bag and knives to the cooler, placing them under the sandwiches and plates, and takes the main trail down to the lodge where he has left his car earlier.
He enters the lodge, drinks a beer, eats some nachos, and then dumps the murder paraphernalia from the cooler into the trash.
Smiling, he makes the uneventful drive home to sleep.
It’s 3:30.
At the same time back in Las Vegas, M wakes up from her nap realizing that Martha hasn’t appeared. They were to meet here before deciding where to go for lunch.
Thinking she might not have heard the doorbell, M checks outside for a note or some sign that Martha might have been there.
A shudder runs through her. Something must have come up. Even Martha can have something come up, she tells herself, pressing her face against the cool glass of the sliding door that separates her from the inferno outside.
By 4, after telephoning all over town, she is frantic about Martha but keeps telling herself to chill, that Martha is an adult after all. Finally, to take her mind off Martha, she reluctantly dials Raph’s number to see how he is faring. There is no answer.
At 6, the doorbell rings. She opens it to Raph leaning jauntily against the porch pillar, holding a bunch of supermarket flowers and a bottle of cheap red wine. “Friends,” he says, holding both out to her.
She stands aside for him to enter, more than a little annoyed at his boyish assumption that eight dollars worth of flowers and wine are recompense for what he has put her through in the last twenty-four hours.
As she makes no move to accept his offerings, he goes past her to the kitchen where he scrounges up a vase for the flowers, then reappears asking if she wants him to open the wine or if she wants something else.
“You’re an ass, Raph,” she says, unsmiling.
“Don’t do this, M,” he says, suddenly panic-stricken. “You are my best friend, my only real friend. I can’t face this without you. I need your help.”
“Where were you this afternoon, Raph?”
“I couldn’t stand the apartment, so I drove to the lake, then I came back to see you.”
“Why didn’t you sleep? We were up all night.” She can’t understand how he looks so invigorated with no sleep at all.
“Come on, comb your hair and I’ll take you to Chapala’s for dinner.”
Realizing that she is hungry, and feeling rather ashamed for treating a good friend this way, she shakes her head and smiles an acceptance. “I guess I’m too old for this sort of thing. In the old days, it would have made me wired like you. Hang on while I get ready.”
From the bedroom, she calls, “It’s been a weird day. Martha stood me up and I can’t get her on the phone and no one’s seen her. I’m worried about her.” She emerges, purse in hand. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Oh, what could happen to old mud-fence Martha, the ugliest woman I’ve ever met?”
“You know, sometimes I really hate you,” she says, locking the door after her.
He doesn’t answer, but opens the passenger door of his Bronco, heaving the cooler into the backseat before she can get in. They drive the two miles in silence.
Seeing them arrive, Rosie, their favorite waitress, ushers them to their usual booth. They order margaritas before they realize how empty the usually buzzing restaurant is.
“Where is everybody?” asks M.
“It’s the murders,” answers Rosie. “Everybody is scared. I was afraid to stay at home so I came to work.”
“Oh, come on,” Raph says. “Who’d want to hurt a pretty lady like you? Nobody is hurting pretty ladies.”
Rosie sashays off, unimpressed.
They drink one margarita each, then order another round, plus nachos. M goes to wash her hands, giving Raph a chance to slip some white powder into her fresh glass.
“Are you going to break down and get me a lawyer, pretty lady?” asks Raph when she returns, turning on all of his charm. His hand hovers near her glass where he can accidentally spill it if she answers correctly.
“Raph, I can’t. They don’t really think you did it or I wouldn’t have been able to get you out. I think you can do with a public defender. Some of them are quite good. We used to work with them a lot in the old days. Besides, I don’t have the money. You’re already into me for the thousand dollars bail, which I doubt I will ever see. Besides, it’s time for you to grow up and take some responsibility.”
“So that’s all our friendship means to you, is it?”
“This is friendship. I’m neither your mother, nor your girlfriend. I have to take care of myself. You need to stand on your own feet, not mine.”
“Then we will drink to friendship,” he says, raising his glass in a toast.
She raises hers, takes a big sip, makes a face, and puts the glass down. “This doesn’t taste right. Maybe I’ll order a beer.” She turns, looking for Rosie, and he quickly switches glasses.
“Mine’s fine. Take another taste.”
She does and it tastes fine. Thirsty, she drinks it too fast. She doesn’t seem to notice that he isn’t drinking. He signals for another round; making the switch back will be easy.
Rosie brings the drinks, but looks worried. She’s never seen M overindulge and asks if she’d like some coffee. M blinks and nods. The drinks seem to have hit her and she feels very odd. She takes another sip of the original drink, which is now in front of her, and tells Raph that she thinks she should leave. She’s had too little sleep and too much alcohol.
He partially supports her as they leave the chilled restaurant for the inferno outside. With some difficulty she manages to get into the Bronco.
“I think you need a little walk,” he says, heading across Eastern Avenue into Sunset Park, ill lit and deserted at this time of night.
“I just want to go home,” she moans, barely holding onto consciousness, but growing dimly aware that her survival depends on it.
“You told me to think for myself and I am. You know, you really aren’t very pretty anymore. In fact, you’re almost as ugly as old mud-fence Martha was.” He drives to the center of the park. “Now, get out.” He opens her door and she spills onto the ground, dead weight, feigning unconsciousness. He swears and drags her into the hidden area in the mesquite trees where some kids have built a fort. “I liked you once, but you leave me no choice,” he mutters before going after the murder kit.
Placing the kit down next to him, he kneels over her inert form, unaware that they have been followed and that two figures are making their stealthy way toward him. He wonders if he should try to bring her back to consciousness, because it would be so much more fun if she were awake. He wants her to know just who she’s been messing with.
“Ding, dong, the bitch is dead,” he sings under his breath and reaches for the plastic bag, when he feels the gun barrel on the back of his neck. Tommy clicks the safety off.
“You filthy, ungrateful little fucker. I ought to kill you right now, but you aren’t worth going to jail for, so I’ll just keep you here for the cops, who’ll be here any second. On your face, hands behind your head! If you’ve hurt her, your time in jail will be very unpleasant.”
The cops come and Tommy and Fast Freddie, two unlikely guardian angels, hand over their prisoner and take M home. When they arrive, Ed and Earl, are waiting outside the house and all troop inside.
“It’s a good thing you’ve got this fan club,” Tommy tells her. “Ed and Earl have been tailing you since yesterday morning at Bagel Nosh. They followed you to Fast Freddie’s and called after you left. They can’t pack heat, so we agreed to come in if things got sticky, so here we are.”
“God, I love you guys,” she says tearfully, giving each a hug and peck on the cheek as they leave.
Later in bed, feeling like Dorothy in Oz, she whispers to Moose, “There’s no place like home.”
THE ROAD TO RACHEL
BY JANET BERLINER
Area 51
The mirror crack’d from side to
side;
“The curse has come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson
In Las Vegas, greed is king, the culture of anonymity is God, and ritual rules them both—except in the case of my friend Alex “Legs” Cleveland. Though a full-blooded Piute, he had refused to seek his spirit guide, declaring it to be nonsense. He carried no totems to the gambling tables, liked black cats, and walked defiantly under ladders. Upon the few occasions a minor doubt crept in, he pushed it aside as if it had a bodily presence and reminded himself that luck was what you made it.
Like today, he thought, leaning against the mirrored pillar that separated the elevator from the picture windows on the twelfth—thirteenth, really—floor of his high-rise apartment building. Today, luck would be making a few bucks on the ponies, enough to delight his latest chorine.
It was not for nothing that they called him Legs.
He watched the shuttle to Area 51’s Groom Lake circle and head toward the Janet Airlines terminal. The morning sun caught its wings and highlighted the snow at the top of Mount Charleston and the elevator dinged behind him. The doors opened and he saw a shadow reflected briefly in the mirrored column at his side.
Stepping toward the elevator, he turned to let the other passenger in, but there was no one there. Strange, he thought, lifting his leg to step inside. He stopped in midair like a dog at a fire hydrant and stared at the large, unconscious, bleeding man who lay awkwardly against the opposite wall.
Gagging, Legs pressed the emergency button. He called down to security and went back to his apartment. The man lived in the apartment above his, so it stood to reason that the cops questioned him closely. They said the man, who had bled out, was a research nut who kept a telescope trained in the direction of Groom Lake. Legs said, “Too bad,” but said nothing about the shadow that had passed behind him in the foyer. He felt no need to get involved.
