Jackie's Week

by M. M. Wilshire

  "I’m starting to wonder. I know I thought I needed them. I had a couple of those so-called long term committed relationships, but nobody married me. But now I think I’m starting to hate men. Look at what Bout did to me. And my last boyfriend, Al. He used me for four years and left me with nothing. Johnson, I ask you. What the hell good are men?"

  "No good whatsoever," he said.

  "Well, you’re my only friend, besides my immediate family," Jackie said. "So I guess that’s something."

  "It’s a start," he said. "I could use a friend like you. I’m not sure I have the energy to keep up with a younger woman anyway. Besides, I practically need to wear a sling to keep my enlarging prostate from dragging on the ground behind me."

  They both began, in spite of themselves, to giggle.

  "What’s in the bag?" Jackie said after she had recovered.

  "Guns and ammo and other assorted goodies," Johnson said. "You know. Things that kill people like Viktor Bout."

  They’d entered the limo and settled back on the plush calfskin, Johnson having already cracked open a window for Heinz.

  "That’s going to look bizarre," Jackie said. "The sight of a stretch Lincoln with a dog snout poking out of the window."

  "Heinz isn’t a dog."

  "I know, I know—he’s a police officer."

  "Retired. No more training sessions at 6 a.m. No more building searches at 2 o’clock in the morning, no more romps through the Hollywood Hills, no more biting weary, brush-cut felons."

  "I’m starving. Maybe because I haven’t hit the vodka this morning. Can we have lunch before we go to the range?"

  "I know a Cupid’s on Victory where we can grab a bite."

  "Chili dogs in a limo?" Jackie said.

  "It wouldn’t be the first time. This is L.A., after all, where stars name their children things like Suri and Lourdes."

  Chapter 28

  Sitting beside Johnson in the Stretch reminded Jackie of years gone by when she’d had occasion to ride with brides and bridesmaids in their limos. A bittersweet pang struck her as she realized she’d never had the big church wedding. Was sitting next to Johnson, now, with his dog, as close as she was going to get to that experience? Summoning her will, she did her best to shut it out of her mind.

  The chili dogs, fries and cokes were glommed down greedily in the air-conditioned comfort of the stretch, which continued its way west on Victory Boulevard before hanging a right on Sepulveda and a left on Saticoy to it’s destination—a medium-size concrete building with a single door between a pair of blacked-out windows covered with iron bars.

  "So much for understated ambiance," Jackie said.

  "It’s not the Beverly Hills Gun Club," he admitted. "You can’t enjoy a double de-caf latte on the terrace with a Playmate after machine gun practice."

  "Funny you should mention the Gun Club. Bienenfeld loaned the owner the startup capital for that Club back in ‘81. He’s a charter member of the place."

  "Bienenfeld gets around."

  They disemlimo'd. "We’re gonna have Heinz wait in the limo," he said.

  "He doesn’t like the loud noise?"

  "No, he’s used to that. But we don’t want your driver to get lonely."

  Inside the door was a shopping cart covered with a tarp. Behind a sales counter crammed with chubby handguns tagged like corpses under glass stood a skinny man talking to a little old lady. The object of their discussion was a revolver so big it was almost obscene.

  "We call her Dirty Harriet," Johnson whispered. "She’s a regular in here. She lives a block over on Lull Street in an old place with about 50 cats. That’s her shopping cart. She’s a cop’s widow who went crazy. Pity the poor idiot who tries to take the cart from her."

  "Hey, Johnson," the skinny man said. "It’s all yours, there’s nobody back there."

  Johnson grabbed a large target—the kind with the picture of a bad guy aiming a gun—from a rack by the inner door and led her through to the gallery, whereupon he unpacked the contents of his bag onto the shooting bench facing the range. Jackie took stock of these items which, in addition to a small revolver and a box of ammunition, included a variety of orange-handled tools, swabs, cloths, bottled and canned liquids, not to mention two sets of ear protectors and two pairs of yellow-lensed safety glasses.

  "Put these on," he said.

  Johnson clipped the bad-guy target on the wire and pressed the button, sending it down range about five feet.

  "We’re not really going to practice our aim," he said. "Because if you have to kill anyone, he’s only going to be that far away. Maybe even closer. And you’ll probably be shooting him in the back as he turns to run." He held out the revolver. Its tiny shape seemed to have been birthed only moments before by its larger parent, the huge handgun she’d seen on the way in. "It’s a classic detective special. Lightweight, easy to conceal, but modified with combat grips so when you sweat in fear it won’t fall out of your hand."

  "It only holds five bullets. Is that enough?"

  "More than enough for a good belly gun. It’s designed for that intimate moment when the bad guy is right on top of you. It’s loaded with hollow points. Bullets which expand upon impact and tear apart the inside of the body like a grenade."

  "Ohhhh. Let’s stop a minute and go back outside. I need to get some air. It’s hard to breathe in here."

  "Then you’ll learn to use the gun without breathing. Breathing’s over-rated. It spoils the aim."

  "Please take me out of here."

  "We’re not leaving. So tell whoever’s in charge of your coping mechanism it’s time to stop moping and start coping." He thrust the gun towards her. "Go ahead. Pick it up."

  "I can’t."

  "Pick it up," he said, his eyes cool as a Great White’s, his Norwegian features decidedly warlike.

  She picked it up.

  "Okay, Jackie, you’ve got to my count of three to point it at the target and pull the trigger and keep pulling until it’s empty."

  Their eyes locked. His stare was unblinking, with no give to it, like a large bird of prey. Johnson was in his element. Guns and death and hard stares were his daily meat.

  "One," he said.

  She pointed and fired with a loud bang and a lot of smoke, pulling the trigger again and again.

  "Wow," she said.

  "He’s dead. Nice pattern. If you use two hands, the gun won’t rise up like that. But you still got two in the belly and two in the head. No telling where the last one went."

  "It doesn’t make a very big hole."

  "In paper it doesn’t. But humans are like balloons pressurized with blood. Had that been Bout, he’d be lying on the ground with a huge red spray covering the walls and ceiling."

  "What a feeling."

  "You felt the power to take a life. The first time it’s unforgettable."

  "Johnson, I have to tell you—this sort of scared the you-know-what out of me."

  He began to smile.

  "No. You don’t understand. I’m not afraid of the gun."

  "Okay, I’ll bite—what are you afraid of?"

  "I’m afraid of myself," Jackie said, staring at the smoking hunk of warm metal clutched in her hand. "Because you would not believe how fantastic that felt."

  "That’s a special gun," he said. It belonged to my old partner, Jack Visio. A long time ago, he loaned it to me, and it saved my life one night in a bar on Lankershim. So Jack gave it to me for keeps."

  "This gun actually killed someone."

  "Yes it did."

  The door opened and Dirty Harriet walked past, clutching the big revolver and a box of ammo.

  "Nice shooting, dearie," she said.

  Chapter 29

  "You’re invited to a party," Jackie said. "On Friday morning. We’re having it at Gelson’s."

  "The crime scene?" Johnson said.

  "It was my shrink’s idea."

  "Bizarre. But okay. Yes. Friday morning it is."

  Johnson, Jackie and Heinz sat loungi
ng in the limo, double-parked outside Johnson’s office.

  "When I saw Dr. Black today," Jackie said. "She told me the reason I got so depressed after the attack is from the guilt trip I laid on myself. She said I felt guilty because I blamed myself for Viktor Bout’s attack, and if I ever want to be happy, I have to see the assault for what it really is."

  "A lot of crime victims take it personally. It’s hard not to. Nice people feel responsible for their actions. They believe what they get in life is based on who they are and what they do. It’s the hardest thing in the world for a responsible person to understand a criminal attack isn’t personal, that they did nothing to cause it."

  "That really slays me. Everybody tells me, don’t take it personally. Well you know what I say? I say, Okay, I want to be happy again, so I’ll stop blaming myself, and stop feeling guilty about it happening—but I do take it personally. Very personally."

  "It’s a start," Johnson said. He reached for the door to disembark the limo.

  "Wait. Let’s talk here for a minute." She opened the tiny fridge and pulled out a couple of Corona long-neck’s, twisting off the caps with deft expertise. "I’m not supposed to do this when I take my pills, but don’t you just love the sound it makes when you first crack a cold beer? That little shushing noise is like the opening of the door to heaven." She handed one to Johnson. "And don’t give me any grief about how you’re on duty."

  "To duty."

  They clinked bottles.

  "I’ve made a decision," Jackie said. "I’m not picking Bout out of the lineup."

  "Jackie."

  "I may as well explain. In the past few days, I’ve discovered how complicated life really is. For the past six months, I’ve done everything I can to hide from life. I wanted only to be safe. I thought if I stayed inside my apartment, I would be. But the only thing that came out of my desperate efforts to control life is this." She held out her wrists, showing him the thin white scars, some old, some fresher-appearing.

  "We call those hesitation marks. They usually appear beside the larger, final cuts. What stopped you?"

  "I used to cut myself and chicken out. For some reason, cutting myself helped me feel better for a few minutes. But the day you called me about Bout, I was ready to do it for real."

  "Why didn’t you?"

  "The phone rang. There I was, sitting in the bathtub with a box cutter, trying to have my big moment, and having to listen to your screeching on the message machine. Your call saved my life."

  "You made a mistake. You blamed yourself when your life fell apart."

  "That’s what Dr. Black said. She said I have to work on my guilt or I am going to be destroyed by it."

  "She sounds like she knows a thing or two," Johnson replied.

  Jackie took a long slow chugalug on her Corona. "Viktor Bout threatened me last night. He thinks he can control me. My pills are supposed to help me sleep, but I stayed up all night thinking about Bout, about who he is, what his life must be like, what his hopes and dreams are. I came to the conclusion that not everybody has a soul. Maybe everybody starts out with one, but some people lose theirs. After they lose it, their only happiness comes from taking somebody else’s. Last night I decided Viktor Bout isn’t going to take my soul. This morning, before I picked you up, I slept in a coffin."

  "Wait a minute, woman, you lost me."

  "I slept in a coffin. Do you understand what I’m saying here? The point is, I finally realized Viktor Bout isn’t God. He doesn’t have the power of life or death over me."

  "That’s right," Johnson said. "The only people who have the power of life and death over us are the President's czars."

  "Don’t joke; I’m on a roll, here. I’m saying I have a strong will to live. I’m going to die one day. And when the day comes, nobody will be able to stop it. But until then, nobody can take my life from me. Bout came into my life for a reason. He came to prove to me nobody can kill me until God says they can. Bout tried his best to take my life. He did manage to stop my heart that night. It stopped beating for 7 minutes during my ambulance ride. But it was returned to me."

  "In a way, if it weren’t for Bout," he said, "I’d never have met you."

  "That’s right. And that’s a fine kettle of fish. Johnson, you should simply get out of my life. Oh. I just made the connection. My shrink said that when the evil happened to me, it was accompanied by a greater good. Johnson, do you suppose you are that greater good? Do you think that’s true?"

  "Yeh. You’ll see. But back to the evil we were speaking of, you realize that if you don’t identify Bout in the lineup, he’ll be set free. We don’t have enough to hold him without your help. I know you said you didn’t care, but I think you do."

  "I know. I do. But I want him to go free for a different reason. I’m going to wait outside the jail and shoot him when he walks out."

  "No. It doesn’t work like that. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re not ready to carry the weight of killing somebody."

  "Johnson, the other night in the park, you asked me to marry you. I made a decision last night. I’m going to marry you. On one condition."

  The revelation rocked the emotional tension in the limo like a psychic sonic boom, momentarily stunning the cop. He sat up ramrod straight. "What condition?"

  "That you set Bout free."

  "That’s ridiculous."

  "At least think about it." She got on her knees and took his hand. "Johnson—will you marry me?"

  "Not for the reasons stated above."

  "Okay forget killing Bout. And the fact that I don’t love you. But I do have friendship, loyalty and affection to offer. Will that work for you? I know it sounds messy. I mean, I could be a complete dud from now on."

  "I won’t marry you. Not like this."

  Jackie sat back. "I know you lied to me just now. Anyway, I know I’m not strong enough to kill anybody. But I also think if I allow Bout to go free, you will kill him for me."

  "How could you get such an idea?"

  "On Monday, somebody told me cops take care of their own. Is it true? Do you understand what I’m referring to, or do I have to spell it out?"

  Johnson picked up his beer and took a long, slow pull. "You did not ask that question," he said. "And I did not answer it."

  They locked eyes. Johnson’s face was ancient and serene in its certainty of the realities of which he spoke. A smile blossomed on Jackie’s face. "You were going to do it anyway, weren’t you," she said. "Even before I proposed!"

  "Jackie," he said, and drew her close.

  "Marry me," she said. "Forget what I said before. Marry me. No conditions."

  "No," he said. "Well maybe. Well why not. Yes."

  Jackie broke free. "I see right through you, Johnson. Get out of my limousine and get back to work."

  Johnson opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk with Heinz.

  "Wait," Jackie said. "Give me the gun and some bullets before you go."

  "No. You don’t need it."

  "I might need it. Not for shooting Bout. You’re going to do that. You may not realize this, but when Bout took my life for those 7 minutes, he created a new creature. Last night, I asked myself what it was I had become. The answer came to me when I fired the first shot from your little gun this afternoon. I’ve become a soldier."

  "A soldier?"

  "It’s a war. Even though I’ve already been assaulted once, the odds it will happen to me again are still the same as every other woman." Jackie felt her voice coarsening, growing guttural. What’s happening to me? Is this what they’ve made me? No, she realized, this is what I was all along. It just took a good shrink to bring it to the surface."

  "You've seen the light," he said.

  "The difference between me and the other women is that I know the certainty of this spreading evil. It’s why I’m no longer a civilian in the war, why I call myself a soldier. The next time a man tries to take me out, I’m fighting back. Without hesitation, without guilt, and without remors
e. So-give-me-the-gun-now!"

  Johnson fished in the bag and handed her the gun and the box of bullets. "I think I have lost my mind," he said. "I can see this is going to be the end of my career. I am conspiring, and I have already withheld evidence in the murder of the guy in the dumpster."

  "Johnson, it's time to bend the rules. I also wonder if Heinz could stay with me. He’s still your dog, but I want to borrow him for a few days."

  "You’re safe enough. I’ve still got my man watching out for you."

  "Please? Just for a few days."

  "Okay."

  "Will he attack if you give me the proper command for it?"

  "I won’t give you the command. But nobody in their right mind would bother you with him standing there."

  "Fair enough. I also want you to go over to my house in Van Nuys and move yourself in. It’s time you got out of that bachelor’s dump on Vineland. I won’t short sale the house after all. We can move in there after we get married. I want to be married in church, and I want to get married right away. Like tomorrow, if possible."

  "That might be kind of tough. The church doesn’t do quickies. Why church? Why not just fly to Vegas?"

  "Look, I know I’m all over the board today, but Dr. Black told me to get back into my religion. I’m going to do everything that woman tells me to do from now on. C’mon Johnson. Surely you should know somebody who can fix a church wedding."

  "I do know a priest who works with cops," Johnson admitted. "Father Larry. He’s a good guy. He comes from a family of cops. If anybody can cut through the red tape, it’s him. But I doubt if he can arrange a Catholic wedding for us. Not with my baggage. I'm divorced, and they tend to frown on that."

  "I’ll call you," she said.

  "Wait a second," he said.

  "What?"

  "In the extremely unlikely event Heinz is forced to defend you, or decides to on his own, the command to call Heinz off is Gesundheit."

  "Thanks."

  She shut the door and hit the intercom to her driver.

  "Where to?" he said.

  "Back to Spring Oak Drive. And stop at the Mayfair on Franklin. We need a cart load of doggy stuff."