“Leon offed himself, like the psycho asshole he was. And you blame Charlie for that?”
“Not then, I didn’t. I figured my Janiva was better off without him. And when her boy was born, Todd? I almost forgot where he came from. Todd was Guthrie to the bone. His mother’s son. My blood. None of his dad’s. Or so I thought, until two years ago...” He looked away, swallowing hard. But the gun never wavered. And my heart sank like a stone, as his meaning, and maybe his intent, sank in.
“The cancer,” I said.
“The worst kind,” he agreed. “In his bones. Couldn’t cut it out, chemo hardly slowed it down, drugs couldn’t help much with the pain. Todd’s only hope was a bone marrow transplant, but he had a rare blood type, AB negative. Like his father. None of us were a match.”
“Even with matching blood types, there’s no guarantee Leon would have been a match.”
“I know—they told me that. But he could have been. That boy needed a miracle, and he deserved one, but he didn’t get it because Charlie Marx wanted to feel like a big man. And he put Todd’s last, best hope—his only hope—in an urn on his grandma’s mantel.”
“Charlie didn’t kill your son-in-law, sir.”
“He killed my whole damn family! That boy was the last of my blood, last one entitled to bear my name. I’m the last Guthrie now, and I’m going to lay it down a long damn ways from home.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way—”
“Don’t blow smoke at a smoker, son. I don’t plan to die in jail. I’ve killed plenty before, overseas, for my country, same as you. I’ve thought about that a lot since, same as you, I expect. We killed them on their home ground, in wars that didn’t mean spit, in the end. I didn’t hate them people, wouldn’t take their damned country as a gift, but we dropped ’em anyway, didn’t we? They sent us there, and we did what we did. But your Sergeant Marx? He crossed the line, shamed Leon so bad he took his own life, and took away my grandson’s last hope. And when I’m suiting up for Todd’s funeral, I see this article in the paper, how Charlie’s gonna retire on his anniversary, thirty years from the day he signed on.”
“Thirty and out.” I nodded.
“He’s gonna go fishing, maybe sit and rock on his front porch of an afternoon, while the worms are chewin’ into my grandson. He done what he done. It was time to pay up for it. Now it’s that time again.”
“It’s not what I want,” I said.
“In case you ain’t noticed, son, this world don’t give a rip what you want—”
And I was off, sprinting straight at him, full tilt, pulling my weapon as I came, trying to close the distance between us, my only hope. Guthrie froze, staring, startled, but only for a moment. Then he shouldered his weapon, snugging it in—to his right shoulder. Right-handed. Harder to swing to his right. I dived to my left, landing hard, then rolling back to my right.
He fired! The slug whistled past, so close it cut a notch in my ear, burning a groove where my head had been a split second before. He racked his Winchester—but I was already returning fire, shooting blindly, not aiming, just trying to throw him off stride. But I grew up hunting in the back country. I have gunman’s instincts, and serving in the ’Stan made me better. And I was fresh out of a war, much sharper than the old man. On pure reflex, I’d zeroed in on center mass, ripping off a dozen rounds as fast as I could pull the trigger—
And got lucky. Or maybe my desperate run had gotten me just close enough to score two solid hits out of a dozen shots. In center mass.
Dead center.
Guthrie’s legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees, staring at me the whole time, as he toppled and fell. Surprised, I think.
So was I, but I didn’t waste time on it. I was up and running again in a heartbeat. I knew damned well he was dead, but I kicked him hard in the chest anyway, furious at what he’d done, and what he’d made me do. As he rolled off the rifle, I grabbed it up, racking open the action to make it safe—
But it was already safe. The magazine was empty. He’d fired the only round he had. And missed me. At forty yards. A guy with sixty confirmed kills. Who’d dropped Charlie Marx with a head shot at seven hundred.
Goddamn it! I eased down slowly, kneeling beside his body, trying to read an answer in his glassy, empty eyes.
Had he missed me on purpose? How the hell could I know? All I know is he put me in a situation, and I did what I had to. It was his play; he called it, and if I was just a puppet in the old man’s swan song, well, so be it.
Fuck him.
He’s the one taking the dirt nap.
And in the end, I squared things for Charlie the best I could. He’d gotten his thirty and out, though not the way he’d planned. Or hoped.
Not like this.
Not like this.
* * *
They buried old man Guthrie the following Saturday. No flatbed truck or “Sweet Home Alabama” this time. A private ceremony, family only. I was definitely not invited, but I was there anyway, watching, from the far side of the cemetery, still brooding about what happened.
I know damn well it could have been me in that box, dropping down into the deep, dark tunnel to forever. I had a bandage on my ear, covering the notch his bullet put in me, as a reminder.
But that notch wasn’t my only cause for thought. That Saturday was an anniversary. They buried Harland Guthrie thirty years to the day that Charlie Marx signed onto the Valhalla force. Thirty and out. He came close, but didn’t quite make it.
Nor will I, I think.
My hometown on the north shore isn’t the same country I grew up in. It was a quaint little vacation village then. People came to get away for a few weeks in summer, or for hunting season in autumn, or skiing over Christmas break.
The web has changed all that. Why live in a cramped, dirty city when you can do business from a laptop on your patio? Why not vacation year-round, sell shares from a beachfront cottage or a cozy condo looking out over a glittering lake? Valhalla’s population is exploding, and crime’s keeping pace with it, and everything is moving so much faster than before.
I have Charlie’s job now, boss of Major Crimes. But I won’t see my thirty and out.
I’ll be lucky to make twenty.
Or ten.
* * *
THE FIXER
BY ALISON GAYLIN AND LAURA LIPPMAN
NOW
There’s a rhythm to the signing line. Smile, fleeting eye contact, sign, next. Smile, fleeting eye contact, sign, next. The eye contact is essential—she will forever be “Doe-Eyed Dawn” to the men and women who line up for her autograph—but it has a downside. Held even a second too long, her gaze invites conversation, confidences. The con’s attendees know they aren’t supposed to slow the line, but there is always someone.
And it is always a man.
An older man, too old for the show in its heyday, much too old to have read the magazines, 16 and Tiger Beat, that dubbed her Doe-Eyed Dawn. If she allows her eyes to rest on such a man, he will insist on trying to engage her with what he believes is a stunningly original comment. Something about the platform-soled boots or the miniskirt, how silly it was for her to have long hair in space.
Her hair is shorter now. Sometimes, they comment on that. “Why did you cut your hair?” If she still wore it long, she would be criticized for that, too. “Aren’t you too old to be wearing your hair like that?”
Dawn’s autograph goes for forty dollars. Then it’s fifty dollars for a photograph, sixty if it’s an item that the fan brings to the con. This puts her in the middle of the pack at the regional comic cons, which are the ones that invite her. Baltimore, Minneapolis. This year, it’s San Antonio—Alamo City Comic Con. She has always been reluctant to do events in Texas, for fear that her appearance will be pegged to her last time here, twenty-five years ago to the day tomorrow. But memories are short and—money is long. She’s do
ne okay—nice little house in Santa Monica, lots of tiny checks every month that add up to a decent income—but she can make as much as $10,000 at a good con. When her agent called with this offer, she was about to say no, and then the agent said, “It’s bluebonnet season,” and she said yes in spite of herself.
It was bluebonnet season twenty-five years ago, too.
Eye contact, sign, eye contact, sign, eye contact, sign. Maybe a little chitchat, as long as she keeps her eyes down. No, I don’t talk to the rest of the cast much from MoonWatch. Yes, I’m very proud of my work in that film. Yes, it was an honor to work with an actor of that caliber. Yes, it’s a shame that we didn’t get to work together again. No, we didn’t keep in touch. His son? That was a tragedy, a real tragedy.
She’s on autopilot, her mind registering every signature. Even with conversation, she’s making about five hundred dollars a minute. Whereas her quote right now for acting work is SAG minimum.
The next person in line says: “Hi, Dawn.” Oh-so-familiar, but aren’t they all?
Only this woman actually knows her—or thought she did, twenty-five years before.
“Hi, Corinne,” Dawn says. “What a surprise.” She tries to make it sound as if she thinks it’s a pleasant surprise.
THEN
“Hi, Dawn. Hello, Dawn. Nice to meet you, Ms. Darling. Miss Darling. Hi, Miss Darling, I’m Corinne and I’ll be your—”
Corinne winced at her reflection, the way the flat light in the airport bathroom picked up the sweat stains on her silk blouse, the spray of acne across her forehead that had cropped up just this morning, like a rash of dandelions on a freshly mowed lawn.
Her first week working McNally Stark PR, her first out-of-town assignment—arranging interviews for Dawn Darling, the Dawn Darling, for goshsakes. Millie from MoonWatch—and here her body was betraying her the way it always did when it mattered most, her stupid period one week early, complete with bloating, zits, hair that kept frizzing out like insulation material, even though she’d dumped an entire bottle of Clairol Herbal Essence conditioner on it this morning.
At least she smelled okay.
When Corinne was eight years old, she and her sister used to pretend their rec room was the MoonWatch outpost. They spent hours there, every afternoon imagining that Millie’s father, Commander Jim, had been captured by Martians and it was up to her to save him. Corinne was always Millie—the part Dawn Darling played—even though her blonde, big-eyed sister Katie was more of a physical match. Corinne was older and stronger, and so she always got her way, and her way was to play Millie—beautiful, smart, shiny-haired Millie—leaving poor Katie the boring role of Commander Jim.
You’re too little to be the teenager, Corinne would huff at her sister, as though it made more sense for Katie to be the male, middle-aged commander of an outpost on the moon. I’m Millie. I need to be Millie because I am her, deep down inside.
So when Mr. McNally informed Corinne she’d be flying out to San Antonio, Texas, this morning, where she would wait at the airport for Dawn Darling’s afternoon flight, it was all she could do not to scream as though it was fifteen years ago, and Millie from MoonWatch had crash-landed in her family’s front yard.
“Are you familiar with her TV work?” Mr. McNally had said. “You’re a little young.” Corinne had said yes, but he’d slapped a file folder on her desk anyway—Xeroxes of Dawn’s old interviews in Seventeen and 16 and Tiger Beat. “As a refresher,” he’d said. “Read these on the plane. Dawn hates flacks who don’t know her life story.”
“Really?” she’d asked.
“Don’t let the America’s Sweetheart shit fool you, babe. Doe-Eyed Dawn has a nasty temper and a big fat ego. It’s our job to make sure we’re the only people in the world who know either of those things. Bad for the optics, otherwise.”
This was big. Huge. The shoot in San Antonio was for Dawn Darling’s first big-budget feature since she was fifteen, and made Runaway with Mick Sinclair. In the new movie, Comanche County, she would be reunited with Sinclair—but as his widowed twenty-four-year-old daughter-in-law.
“Can I ask one question?” Corinne had said, pretending she didn’t feel McNally’s meaty hand brushing against her waist in a you’re-not-supposed-to-notice-this kind of way.
“Sure thing.”
“Why me? I mean... Shouldn’t someone with more experience be her press escort?”
At that, the hand had tightened to the point where Corinne had pulled away, forcing a girlish laugh in order to take the sting out of it.
“Because, sweet cheeks,” McNally had said, a leer spreading across his tanned face, oiling up his features. “Doe-Eyed Dawn asked for a woman. And you’re the closest thing we got.”
Corinne had stood at the gate as Dawn’s plane arrived, her heart pounding, her hands full. She carried the file of clippings in a briefcase, along with some extra Dawn Darling headshots, directions for the waiting driver, and a press itinerary for the next few days. She also carried a clipboard with today’s schedule printed out on it. Her own overnight bag rested next to her feet. She wasn’t sure whether or not she’d be staying here in San Antonio for Comanche County’s entire six-week shoot—that felt a bit excessive—but she’d packed well regardless. A few good separates in neutral colors that didn’t wrinkle easily, one cocktail dress, heels, a pair of sneakers, a bathing suit just in case. Lots and lots of underwear. She went over each item in her suitcase in her mind, one by one. It calmed her.
And then she caught sight of that long, silky, pale hair.
“Hi, Miss Darling, I’m Corinne, and I’ll be your press—”
“You can call me Dawn.” She said it warmly, a sparkle in her huge brown eyes. Her face was thinner than it had been in her teens, her body rangier and more sinewy. There were a few lines around her eyes and mouth, from sun or cigarettes or maybe a little too much concern. But otherwise she looked the same. Those impossibly long lashes, that rosebud mouth, and that hair—the hair Corinne used to long for, patient and smooth and perfect as it streamed down her back, reaching nearly to her butt without a single tangle or split end, the same way it had on MoonWatch.
She rested her hand lightly on Corinne’s. It was tiny and cool as a porcelain doll’s. “Thank you so much for making the trip out to San Antonio. I know this isn’t exactly Monaco or Cannes.”
Corinne thought about what Mr. McNally had said about Dawn’s big ego, her nasty temper, and heard herself say, “You’re just as nice as Millie.”
Dawn was kind enough to ignore it.
She looped an arm through Corinne’s, and the two of them headed for baggage claim, travelers and airport personnel turning to stare at them. Dawn stopped to sign an autograph for an older couple in matching Hawaiian shirts, asking for the spellings of their names and proving, for Corinne at least, that big egos and nasty tempers were in the eye of the beholder.
“What’s first on the agenda?” Dawn asked once they reached baggage claim.
Corinne checked her clipboard. “Movieline,” she said. “Looks like it’s a group interview with you, the director and your costars. Brenda Johnson, Earl Casey, Mick Sinclair and his son—”
Dawn Darling held up a hand, a hardness creeping into those big doe eyes. “I’ve got a better idea.” She said it quietly, carefully, less a suggestion than an order. “What do you say you and I get a drink?”
“I’m not sure I know where—”
“Don’t worry. I’m good at finding bars.”
NOW
Dawn looks around the bar. “This can’t be the same place.”
“It’s not,” Corinne says. “Casa Contigo doesn’t exist anymore, I checked.”
“What about the pizza place, the one with the belly dancer and the really good white pizza with rosemary? Or that bar where the nasally busboy sang those strange songs?”
“They’re all gone—although that busboy actu
ally ended up being quite successful,” Corinne says, naming a name that she clearly expects Dawn to recognize. Dawn widens her eyes and nods solemnly, but she doesn’t have a clue. She doesn’t keep up with music, once so vital to her. She doesn’t go to movies, seldom watches television. It’s painful to be reminded of the career she might have had if Comanche County hadn’t been scrapped four weeks into production.
“I remember this strip as being fun, full of life and music.”
“Places change,” Corinne says. “Like people.”
“But a snake never changes its spots.”
“Leopard,” Corinne says. “It’s leopards who don’t change.”
“Right. Snakes shed their skins.”
When Corinne had asked in the signing line if she and Dawn could grab a coffee later in the weekend, it had seemed best to say, “Sure, sure,” and hope that Corinne would have the manners, the antennae, to realize Dawn was just trying to keep the line moving. She remembered Corinne’s antennae, even after all these years—that uncanny ability of a natural-born “fixer” to understand what Dawn wanted and needed, to play the bad cop, to extricate her from an interview or even a party. Early call! she would carol, and they would go back to Dawn’s room, where they would drink and smoke, giggle and gossip. Perhaps because she had lived so long inside a fake world full of cheap monsters cobbled together from ridiculous materials, Dawn sometimes imagined she could see Corinne’s antennae, thin and not particularly long, lost in her frizzy hair. She knew what made them prick and perk. They couldn’t sense everything, and they overestimated some threats while missing others completely. But overall, Corinne’s antennae had been very good, back in the day.
They’re probably even better now.
Dawn sips her Virgin Mary. Corinne had been oh-so-solicitous when Dawn suggested they meet on the strip where they had spent so much time. “Maybe a coffee would be better?” Everybody’s always expecting to find her on the edge of a relapse.
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