by David Freed
The pilot, a stocky blonde in her late twenties with those oversized aviator shades that are all the rage these days, hurriedly brought the Cessna to a stop. She shut down both engines, jumped out, her windscreen splattered with gore, and came rushing around the nose of the plane as I got to my feet. She gaped at what was left of Dwayne, bent at the waist, and vomited.
“Oh, my God.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Everything’s gonna be OK.”
Frozen with horror, she couldn’t stop staring at the killer’s shredded remains.
“What’s your name, cap’n?”
“. . . Hailey. It’s Hailey.”
“Hailey, I need you to call 911. Tell them we need paramedics. Think you can do that?”
“My phone’s in the plane.”
“Might be a good idea if you went and got it.”
Transfixed, she forced herself to turn away from the body and returned to the cockpit while I went to check on Marlene.
The receptionist was holding her lower leg with two bloody hands and staring blankly into space, like she’d just been through a war.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Marlene.”
Slowly, she raised her eyes to mine and thanked me. Then, softly, she began to cry.
I wished I could’ve comforted her, but my hands were still bound behind my back.
Some might wonder what it feels like, deep down, to kill another human being, especially in so gruesome a fashion. The easiest answer is that you typically rationalize your actions. You took out the garbage. Did the world a favor. Payback’s a bitch. In truth, I felt no satisfaction killing Dwayne Anderson, no sense of relief. Only exhaustion.
I sat down on the tarmac beside Marlene.
“Keep applying that pressure, Marlene. Help’s coming. Be here any minute.”
I tried not to think about Savannah and the child I would never know. The sun was out. It felt warm and good on my face. I turned my gaze to the snowcapped mountains to the south and a place called Voodoo Ridge, where my life’s journey had been changed forever. Try as I might, I couldn’t remember what I’d had for breakfast that morning.
THREE UNIFORMED sheriff’s deputies were tasked with placing plastic tarps from their patrol vehicles over Dwayne Anderson’s mangled body parts, while a paramedic unit drove Marlene to South Lake Tahoe’s Barton Memorial Hospital. As the cops went about their grisly work, I rubbed circulation back into my newly unhooked wrists, courtesy of Detective Streeter and the universal handcuff key he carried in his pocket.
“We would’ve identified him eventually,” Streeter said. “You just beat us to the punch.”
I’d wanted to believe that he wasn’t merely spouting cop bluster, but there was no denying the fact he would’ve been investigating my homicide as well, had I not gotten lucky.
Woo came walking up from the hangar where the green van was parked, toting dead Dwayne’s .40-caliber Glock, bagged in a plastic Ziploc.
“Found it right where you said it would be,” Woo said.
I said nothing.
Streeter wanted me to drive with him to sheriff’s headquarters, to record chapter and verse everything that had led up to my confrontation with the man who’d killed Savannah, our baby, and Chad Lovejoy. I told him I would.
“You’ve been through hell,” he said. “We can do it later if you want.”
“Now’s as good a time as any. I need to be getting back to Rancho Bonita. My landlady misses me. Wish I could say the same for my cat.”
In the end, the Buddha believed, only three things matter: how much you loved; how gently you lived; and how gracefully you let go of those things not meant for you. Had I loved? Certainly. How much and how well, though, those were questions I wasn’t prepared emotionally to address at that moment. Had I led my life in a gentle manner? Not hardly, but I’d saved lives in the process, and that was a fair trade, in my opinion. The more pressing question was how, if ever, I’d get over losing Savannah. How does one accept that the seminal romantic relationship of your life, with a woman so beautiful, so complete, that you could think of nothing but her day and night, was never meant to be?
I didn’t know.
I doubted I ever would.
TWENTY-SIX
Whether Kiddiot was oblivious to how I was getting along emotionally, or was trying to comfort me, I couldn’t say. He lay on my chest giving himself, not me, a bath that went on for easily a half hour. He may have been dumb, but at least he was well groomed.
I leafed through Flying magazine, pulled a copy of Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” from my bookshelf but found it too depressing, tried to sleep, did 100 push-ups, scrambled three eggs and ate them watching an infomercial about how to dance your belly away, tried to sleep, took a hot shower, and stared out at the moon. Anything to stop from thinking about how close I’d come to saving Savannah’s life.
If only I’d been more observant when I had initially approached Dwayne Anderson’s van.
In the movies, there’s always that scene. You know the one: where the good guy stands over the bathroom sink, usually stripped to his chiseled waist, leans down to splash cold water on his face, then slowly looks up at himself in the mirror, staring into his own anguish-filled eyes, searching deep down for whatever the hell it is he’s supposed to find in there.
I gave it a shot. I splashed water on my face. I stood looking at myself in the mirror. All I got back was an overpowering realization that I’d succumbed to weakness, to whining, that I’d forgotten how to be a man.
I also noticed I needed a haircut.
It was after 0500 when I finally dozed off. I was awake for good at 0535.
THE LITTLE bell over the door tinkled. My barber, former light heavyweight contender Primo Zacapa, glanced over, cutting another customer’s hair as I walked into his tiny shop downtown on Cortez Avenue.
“Que pasa, Logan?”
“What’s up, Champ?”
“It’s all good. Have a seat. Be with you momentito.”
At sixty-two, Primo remained every inch the fluid, graceful puncher he’d been back in the day, when he’d gone the distance with WBA legend Pipino Cuevas at the Forum in Los Angeles and lost on a split decision that every bookie on the street said was rigged. I sat down on the worn leather couch opposite his shop’s one barber chair and watched him work: snipping and moving, snipping and moving. The customer, an older man with sad blue eyes, sat under his smock, head tilted forward. He possessed little hair on top, but that which he did have, Primo used to full effect, trimming and layering with such skill that, at least from where I was sitting, you’d have never known the guy was hurting for follicles. When Primo was finished, and the customer had left, he quickly swept up the trimmings with an old broom and a metal dustpan, unfolded a fresh smock from a wicker basket, and ushered me into the old swayback leather chair.
“An oldie but a goodie,” he said, offering me a tattered, twelve-year-old Playboy.
“Not today, Champ.”
“Not today? How ’bout another one? I got Miss June.”
“I’m good.”
His narrowed eyes told me he knew something was wrong, but he said nothing. He pinned a disposable sanitary strip around my neck and flapped the smock high into the air, letting it settle gently around my shoulders.
“So, how would you like your hair cut today?”
“Whatever you feel like, Champ.”
He paused from pumping up the chair’s pneumatic lift with his foot, wearing his usual spotless sky-blue Mexican wedding shirt, his own luxuriant black hair combed straight back, and looked at me hard.
“Every time you come in here, I give you a Playboy. Every time, I say, ‘How do you want your hair cut?’ You say, ‘In silence,’ cuz you want to catch up on your ‘reading.’ Every time. Today, no Playboy, no silence. What’s going on with you, brother?”
“It’s been a bad couple of weeks.”
Primo was an excel
lent barber. Not so much because of the way he cut hair, but because he knew when to talk and when not to. He shrugged, then turned me in the chair, facing the big wall mirror, and went to work. I closed my eyes, my head filled with the comfortingly distracting perfume of talc and bay rum, and slept.
“All set, boss,” Primo said after what seemed like no more than a couple of minutes.
He pivoted the chair and handed me a mirror so I could check the back.
“You do good work, Champ.”
Off came the smock and the sanitary strip. I stood, got out my wallet. A Primo haircut ran fifteen dollars. I realized I only had nine dollars. I offered him what cash I had.
“Looks like I still owe you six, plus a tip.”
“Keep it. You need it more than I do.”
“I’m good for it. You know that.”
He waved dismissively as if to say, “Don’t give it a second thought,” and walked me to the door.
“It’s about your lady, isn’t it?” Primo said.
I swallowed down the golf ball in my throat and nodded.
“You’re not gonna see her again, are you?”
“No.”
Primo rested a hand on my shoulder. “My wife passed three years ago. Cancer. We was married thirty-one years. Trying to forget that one woman is like trying to remember somebody you never met. You don’t never forget her, OK? But you move on, you know what I’m saying? You got no choice, brother. None of us ever do. You feel me?”
“I feel you, Primo.”
He smiled and struck a classic boxer’s pose—slight crouch, face guarded by raised fists, the left slightly ahead of the right. His two front teeth were whiter than the others. I wondered how many times they’d been punched out of his mouth when he was a younger man.
“Remember,” Primo said, “fists high, elbows low, and always, always, keep your head moving.”
“Thanks, Champ.”
We shook hands and I left, but his words of advice lingered long after. Savannah was gone. I could never forget her. I had to move on.
A BIG red digital “0” was flashing on my answering machine at the airport. No new messages. No new students. My flight school was dying. Truth be told, it had been for a long time. The pragmatic side of my brain screamed that it was long past time to fold the tent. Hell, I was no businessman. What was I thinking, trying to start a small business amid the nation’s worst economic downturn since the Great Depression, and in a town that already had three other flight schools up and running? The quasi-optimistic side, the side that rarely weighs risk to reward, the side which made me a good fighter pilot and an even better special operator, told me to give it another week. Keep hope alive.
Larry had solved the Ruptured Duck’s electrical issues, refusing to charge me. An alternator wire had frayed. The repair, he said, had taken him twenty minutes.
“Not even worth my time, filling out a bill,” he said. “You owe me nothing.”
I knew that the real reason Larry didn’t bill me was because he felt sorry for me. He nodded, “Yeah, whatever,” when I promised to pay him back someday. He’d heard it before. Many times.
Mrs. Schmulowitz felt sorry for me, too, and insisted on giving me a few bucks. “Just to tide you over,” she said, “until you get on your feet.”
She’d made similar overtures in the past, which I’d always politely but firmly turned down. You have to be pretty desperate to start taking handouts from little old ladies. But with my bank balance approaching negative integers and a monthly retirement check from the government that barely covered my rent, I didn’t have much choice but to say, “Thank you.”
I went flying, if only to distract myself.
The air offshore at 3,000 feet was cool and smooth. The Duck may have been nearly as old as I was, but he took to the sky that morning as if he’d just come off of the assembly line in Wichita where he’d been born more than forty-five years earlier. No creaking. No groans. Every flight instrument functioning solidly in the green as we burned lazy eights in the sky.
We orbited surfers and wakeboarders and, farther out, sailboats running with the wind, their spinnakers puffed out over their bows, in full bloom. We spotted no whales, unless you count dolphins, and we saw hundreds of them, a huge pod all surfacing and diving as if one, churning the ocean into creamy foam.
Shimmering blue sea. Green mountains, seemingly soft as lambs’ ears. And, along the water’s edge, extending inland among sun-kissed hills and arroyos, the Spanish-tiled roofs of Rancho Bonita. For an hour, I allowed myself to forget everything but how to fly an airplane and what a privilege it was to see the planet from so rarefied a perch. Sometimes you forget how beautiful the world really is, if you allow it to be.
Whatever euphoria I felt lasted about as long as it took me to land.
BY THE end of the second quarter, Tampa Bay was trailing Carolina 24-3. The Buccaneers lined up for a twenty-nine-yard field goal attempt with no timeouts left and the clock about to expire. Good snap. Good hold. The kicker stepped into it, planted his right foot, swung his left leg . . . and missed.
“That ball was so far right,” Mrs. Schmulowitz remarked, “it nearly took Rush Limbaugh’s head off. More brisket?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Schmulowitz. I’m beyond full.”
“How ’bout more green beans? I got enough in there to feed Patton’s army.”
“I couldn’t handle another bite. Everything was delicious, as always.”
We were sitting in her living room, on her blue mohair couch, in front of her old Magnavox that hummed like a transmission tower, watching Monday Night Football with the volume turned down and eating dinner off of TV trays, like we always did.
“I know you saved room for dessert,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said. “I made German chocolate cake. If you don’t eat some, we’re gonna be in big trouble.”
“Why is that, Mrs. Schmulowitz?”
“Because it’s a giant cake, that’s why. You remember that little guy from ‘Fantasy Island?’ Always running around, yelling, ‘Da plane, boss. Da plane’? This cake is so big, that little guy, he could hide in it, no problem.”
“How could I resist? I’ll take a small slice.”
“Now, you’re talking, bubby.”
Off the sofa she sprang like no octogenarian I’d ever seen, a wonder of nature and superior genetics.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mrs. Schmulowitz said, “I got you something.” From behind a sofa cushion, she extracted a small box wrapped in blue foil paper with little stars of David. “Call it an early Hanukah present.”
It was a gold Cross pen with my name engraved on it.
“So you can write the next chapter of your life,” she said.
“You’re the greatest, Mrs. Schmulowitz.”
I tucked the pen in my shirt pocket as she padded into the kitchen and started telling me about her first husband, the one with the sweet tooth, and how she bought him a dozen Hershey bars for Hanukah one year, and how he ate them in a single sitting, which prompted innumerable cavities, along with an onset of adult acne that ravaged his face like a Biblical plague. Truthfully, though, I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about where I’d been, and wondering where I was going.
The second half started. The cake arrived. I gorged myself on sugar while 300-pound men in pads and helmets pounded each other senseless as Mrs. Schmulowitz provided her usual expert, play-by-play commentary on the game. By the fourth quarter, consumed by memories, I’d turned inward and silent.
Mrs. Schmulowitz looked over, her dark eyes filled with compassion. She rested her hand on mine and said, “Tomorrow’s another day, bubeleh.”
“Think I’ll take a little walk.”
“Late-night stroll. A fine idea. Fresh air, burn off some of that brisket, get the old ticker pumping. I could use a little exercise myself. How ’bout a little company?”
“I’d really rather be by myself tonight. You understand.”
“Do I understand? Of course, I understand! Don’t g
ive it another thought. Go. Just promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
“Look both ways before crossing the street. This town is filled with meshugener old people. I haven’t seen one yet who knows how to drive, especially in the dark.”
I assured her that I’d look both ways.
The moon that night was a silver sliver hanging low in the western sky, bracketed by Venus and some faint star, the name of which I didn’t know. A dark and still night save for the throaty rumble of a motorcycle on a nearby street, its exhaust chopped to make the bike sound deafening—a not-so-subtle flipping of the bird to the rest of staid, refined Rancho Bonita.
I’d left Mrs. Schmulowitz’s house and was halfway down the block when a large man came charging out from between two parked cars and tackled me to the sidewalk.
His right arm was around my throat, his biceps and inner forearm pressing against the carotid arteries on either side of my neck, while his right hand hooked into the inside elbow of his left arm, which was clamped around the back of my neck. A classic sleeper hold. We practiced the same move frequently on each other at Alpha. I knew that I had no more than about three seconds before I lost consciousness.
I brought my right hand back over my head to rake his face, but he seemed to anticipate my intentions and shifted his weight to the left, keeping his head just out of my reach. I attempted to tuck my chin into his bicep so that he could only squeeze my jaw and not my neck, but he forecast that move, too, adjusting his hold and maintaining pressure.
Then I remembered the gold pen Mrs. Schmulowitz had given me.
I grabbed it from my pocket and gouged the tip deep into the soft tissue above his right elbow. He yelped in pain and immediately relinquished his hold, rolled onto his left side, and shouted, “Son of a bitch!”
I’d have recognized that voice anywhere.
“Buzz?”
“Jesus, Logan, you stabbed me?”
“What was I supposed to do? You attacked me.”
“You call that an attack? That wasn’t an attack,” he said, sitting up and clutching his arm. “If I had attacked you, god-dammit, you’d be dead.”
