Standing there in that dingy little room in that moment, I was overcome with just about the loneliest goddamn feeling you can imagine. I felt like she hadn’t even been real. Just an illusion. A dream that dissolves into smoke when you wake, empty hands clutched tight around nothing, trying to drag a piece of heaven out with you into the day.
And I felt like I’d lost myself in the waking. I’d killed a man. In self-defense, yes. But who can unravel what terrible emotions passed through my heart in the moment before I pulled the trigger? All I know is, standing there in that empty room, I felt like I’d lost my soul, and I was pretty sure it had happened in that one dark instant. So I had lost two people—me and her—and I felt like maybe I didn’t really have either to begin with. I lost the idea that I’d ever known either one of us.
I felt my legs wanting to give out, so I staggered over to the old high-backed chair in the corner and let myself fall into it. There was a voice in my head whispering that I had to get out, had to leave, and I knew it to be so, but I just couldn’t manage to feel the urgency in it. The world seemed unreal, like a fever dream—though maybe that’s backwards. Maybe everything up to this moment had been one long, fevered dream that had finally blown away and left me washed up here among the ruins of what that dream had cost me.
I reached in my shirt pocket for a cigarette. My pocket was empty. I patted my pants. Keys, a few bills, some change. My cigarettes and my lighter were gone. And then I knew right where I had left them. And a dark dread lighted on my heart like an enormous, ancient black crow.
I’d left them sitting on the bar next to Tom’s dead body. My cigarettes, my brand. And the lighter that Duane had commented on just yesterday. An ugly sound escaped my throat, a doomed laugh that sounded like a gasping cough. The thing is, it felt right. It felt fair.
I heard a car pull up quickly on the street outside, tires screeching as it braked. Then another car less than a minute later. Men’s voices, thick with imperative.
I pulled the little pistol out of my waistband and put it under my chin. I sorely wished I had a cigarette, one last, choking taste of this world before I left it. All was ash now, anyway. I took a breath and held it, closed my eyes.
I took the gun from beneath my face and let my hands fall between my knees. I blew out the big breath I’d been holding. Goddamn it!
I heard the men’s footsteps thundering up the stairs.
I looked at the gun.
They were knocking at the door now, telling me to open up.
I looked at the gun. Ran a finger down its barrel.
And I thought about what a terrible goddamn thing it is to be alone in this world. And what a body will do just to try to avoid it.
KEN LEONARD was born in Dayton, Ohio and grew up in Daytona Beach, Florida. At age thirteen, he read Stephen King’s Christine and emerged vowing to settle for nothing less than to be a writer. He gleaned clues to the path from the biographies of his favorite authors and immediately set out to fulfill the prerequisites, spending his school years reading novels under his desk, and upon graduation, quickly jumping into a string of dead-end menial jobs. (He counts himself fortunate that he had not yet discovered the work, and therefore the formative years, of Mr. James Ellroy.) Some years later, tired of toil and drudgery, Ken opted for the elective Expatriate coursework and moved to Rio de Janeiro, where, in an uninspired flourish, he taught English and drank heavily. He currently passes a goodly portion of the year in Portland, Oregon, eating Mexican food and trying to remember what the sun looks like.
Incident on the 405
by Travis Richardson
Jessica Tan eased the Rolls Royce onto the 405 onramp from Santa Monica Boulevard and instantly regretted it. Her smart phone had showed yellow, medium traffic, but what she encountered was a barely crawling red. How smart was that?
She looked at the time: 4:42 p.m. She needed to have this polished British export up to Clive Winterborne’s mansion on Mulholland by five, or he’d blow up … again. That horndog was either making creepy advances at her or was pissed off and screaming. It wasn’t like it was her fault that Julio, the only person Clive designated to touch his prize possession at Tidal Wave Car Wash, was on lunch break when she arrived in the Silver Ghost. And now, this gridlock.
Jessica hoped to be the first assistant in years to last more than six months. If she could do that, she could easily find a better job with a reputation as the assistant who managed the devil himself, and perhaps cut a path to being a producer. But with only two months to go, she was beginning to doubt if she would last that long.
* * *
Sadie Bitterman bit her lip hard to keep tears out of her eyes. She could taste the blood. Was this the lowest low? The depths kept sinking deeper. Even now, after straightening out her life, it all flew back in her face. Splat. She wasn’t a criminal. Not anymore. She was doing her best to keep a job, but this fucking traffic, she’d be late again. And what would she tell Walter, the teenage shift manager? Sorry Walt, I had to go to court today in Torrance.… Child custody.… No, I didn’t win. Thanks for asking. She’d have a lot to talk about at her Narcotics Anonymous meeting on Monday.
She fingered a plastic bag on the passenger seat. Gifts ungiven. A Hulk shirt for Tyler and a pocketknife for Edgar. Security hadn’t let her bring the bag inside the court because of the knife. It was small, a two-inch blade at best. How much damage could anybody do with that? She knew the answer was a lot. She’d seen fellow prisoners sliced with shards of glass or shivs made from broken plastic bottles. But a ten-year-old boy wouldn’t know, and didn’t they all carry knives? Her brother had. What was the big deal?
Sweat ran down her face; the Oldsmobile’s A/C was busted. She was feeling it, the buzz. An urge to pull off this eight-lane parking lot and find Parker. He’d lived in Venice the last time she’d bought from him. The man had the magic powder that made things better; things that methadone could not cure. She inhaled and exhaled. Just make it up to the Valley. NA’s motto was “one day at a time,” but right now she was taking it one minute at a time.
* * *
“Yes, sir … I know. I’m driving as fast the traffic will let me.… It’s not my fault.” Jessica heard her voice crack and hated herself. Clive hung up on her. How could anybody endure this asshole? She hadn’t gone to Berkeley for this. Fuck him and his antique show car. It was so ridiculous to drive in America with the steering wheel on the right side. She saw a gap opening to her left and steered the Rolls into it.
* * *
Sadie was chanting a sobriety mantra when she saw traffic had moved a little. She had just hit the accelerator when a fancy ancient car pulled in front of her. She slammed on the brakes and laid into the horn. Fuck this rich guy. Who did he think he was? Men with their penis extensions, compensating for their inadequacies. Men who prey on the weak, taking advantage of the innocent. She was surprised when a lady’s arm reached out of the passenger side window with a middle finger pointed straight into the air.
Uh-uh. This was not the day for anybody to fuck with her. She’d already been screwed once today. Some know-it-all judge who probably collected useless cars, too. He didn’t even listen to her when she pleaded for her kids back. She was off the H. She had a job and was looking for an apartment. She eased the Olds as close to the Rolls as she could. Just flip me off again, bitch, she thought.
* * *
Jessica looked in her rearview mirror. Some crazy white trash bitch in a clunker was riding her ass. Just what she needed.
It was 4:50. No way she’d make it in time. He’d sent her on a fool’s errand. Clive needed a reason to rant and rave. A screamer, they’d warned her. But the production company he ran had had a string of hits until this year: a couple of hundred-million-dollar flops and this latest film, premiering tonight, based on the board game Yahtzee, was a genuine stinker. He’d definitely take this failure out on her.
Her phone rang. It was Clive again. As she tapped the talk button on her Bluetooth, the car ahead
of her stopped suddenly. Jessica stomped on the brakes and then heard a crash behind her as the Rolls lurched forward.
“Shit!” Jessica screamed.
“What happened?” Clive shouted over the phone.
“I don’t know. Somebody rear-ended me.”
“What the … that is a priceless antique. You … you’re fired.”
“I didn’t hit anybody.”
“If you had been here earlier … I’ll make you pay for—”
Jessica hung up. Great, now she didn’t have a job, all because of some idiot.
* * *
Sadie shoved the knife in her back pocket and was out of her car, fists clenched. She ignored the honking cars behind her and focused on the expensive car. She saw the passenger, a small Asian chick, aka the bird flipper, get out and check the rear of it. Where was the driver? Then she saw the steering wheel on the right side. What the hell?
* * *
The steel bumper was dented, but the paint on the body was untouched. Jessica sighed. If she hadn’t left her own car at Clive’s house, she’d just leave the Rolls in the middle of the 405 and walk home. Or maybe catch a bus if she could figure out how that worked. Her phone rang, but she ignored it. Fuck Clive.
The loser woman strode to the front of her piece of crap car, hands balled like the bell had rung in a tough man contest. The Oldsmobile’s plastic grill was smashed in and cracked.
“You’re going to pay for this,” she said to Jessica, hands on her hips, trying to stare her down. She was tall, almost a foot taller than Jessica’s five-two.
Jessica noticed small blue tattoos on her hands, and then, the coldness of her green eyes. Hard and desperate. Was she a crackhead?
“I hope you have insurance, because you just hit Clive Winterborne’s extremely rare and priceless 1924 Silver Ghost, lady,” Jessica said.
* * *
Sadie shook. She was so screwed. Of course she didn’t have insurance. How could she afford it with her minimum wage job? She was still saving up to get first and last month’s rent for an apartment. If anything, she should have home insurance, since she slept in the car. She felt her hand slide to her back pocket, towards the knife, but stopped herself from pulling it out. Don’t give in to impulses. Sally, her sponsor, would be proud.
“You won’t believe this,” the Asian chick said. “I got rear ended by an uninsured crazy bitch.”
It took Sadie a second to realize that she wasn’t talking to her, but into that annoying earpiece that a-holes wore in the grocery store, looking as if they were having conversations with their multiple personalities. That Asian chick thought she was crazy. Ha, she’d show that bitch what crazy was.
* * *
“It’s not my fault,” Jessica pleaded into the earpiece as she endured a tirade of profanities in her right ear. “What the hell?” she said as she watched the undoubtedly high woman smash the brake light of the Rolls with the heel of her sandal. “Hey, cun—”
* * *
“What happened?!” Clive screamed into the phone, but all he heard was a loud grunt. “Jessica, Jessica! What happened? Answer me, you idiot!” Not his Silver Ghost. Why did he trust her or anybody else to drive it? That frigid bitch was so fired.
* * *
It took Jessica almost a full minute to answer Clive after she crumpled to her knees, watching the Rolls head up the 405 through the gap their stopped cars had created. She was out of breath, because the wind had been knocked out of her when that piece of white trash sucker-punched her and jumped in Clive’s car. But looking down, it was worse. She was bleeding. “Clive…” she said, with tears welling. She heard static. The phone was in the car, and the Bluetooth signal was getting fainter. “I’ve been stabbed.”
* * *
Clive stood fuming in his tuxedo. He looked at his Ulysse Nardin watch. He had hoped to fire that little Chinese twat in person when she finally got her skinny ass up here, but God knew when she’d finally make it now. Even if she had sex with him on his desk, it was too late. You can make some mistakes and get by, but you don’t mess with the Silver Ghost.
He didn’t need this. Not tonight. But he had prepared for such a disaster and already had a limo waiting. He’d ordered it days earlier without telling Jessica. If she were worth her salary, she would have found a way to get the Ghost to him without a scratch.
He tapped a number on his phone. “This is Clive Winterborne. Have my car here in ten minutes. I’ll leave the gate open.”
* * *
Sadie drove the Rolls, steering the oversized boat and mashing gears with its weird clutch through traffic towards to the nearest exit. At least her uncle, may he rot in hell, had taught her to drive stick. She couldn’t believe what she’d done. But when that little woman, thinking she was all-superior, called her a crazy bitch, something snapped. She went reptilian, pure instinct. The blade was between her knuckles, the hilt in her palm. Just like a shivved spoon in prison. It happened so quickly that she couldn’t stop herself. She was destined for the slammer again.
Maybe that was where she belonged. Her kids might graduate from high school before she got out now. She felt the buzz inside, the urge to get high, but she swallowed the thought. Stay away from Parker. Stay sober.
With a bloody hand on the wheel, she reached for the glove box with her left. One thing was certain, she couldn’t run for long in this weird old car. Insane rich people putting steering wheels wherever they want. She knew she needed to ditch it, but then what? Hitchhike? Nobody picked up hitchhikers anymore. She found a garage remote and registration in the glove box. Perhaps she could drive to that bitch’s house and take another car. A more modern one. Maybe swipe some jewelry too.
A jolt of panic hit Sadie when she realized that the Highway Patrol would find out who she was in a matter of minutes. Even though her own car wasn’t registered to her—she had bought it for $300 cash, no questions asked—there was that legal paperwork forbidding her to visit her sons. It sat wadded in the Oldsmobile’s front seat next to the Hulk shirt. Tyler’s gift.
“Shit!” she yelled hitting the steering wheel.
She couldn’t do anything right for her boys. But if she were ever going to see them again, she had to get away. Her mind flew, calculating. She needed a different car, some cash, and enough time to make it to Venice, her former stomping grounds. That was old Sadie, the one who had served three years for robbery, because her addiction compelled her to get money by any means. She had vowed to stay away from there, from Parker, from her old friends and old nasty habits.
But that was before today, before five minutes ago. Smack users from her past might take her in and hide her for a while. Maybe she could eventually escape to Mexico and take her kids with her—after she found out where the foster program hid them. She squeezed her eyes shut knowing this was an addict’s hope. Unbelievable, unrealistic. But she had to believe she’d make it out of this mess. She must.
* * *
Jessica didn’t know how or why, but she was behind the wheel of this filthy, smelly Oldsmobile. Of course she was making it even more gunky with her sticky blood on the steering wheel and seat. She knew she should have stayed on the freeway and waved for help or turned the car towards the UCLA Medical Center. But she was pissed.
The sharp, uninterrupted pain from the stab wound pushed her forward. If an intestine were perforated, toxic fluid might poison her body, but it seemed the blade was not long, probably a pocketknife, and her Pilates-tough ab muscles had taken brunt of the metal. If the knife was as clean as this car.… She tried to remember when she had her last tetanus shot. She compressed a child-sized Incredible Hulk shirt against the wound. Why do only idiots breed?
She could have made a decent doctor, but one year of med school and too many asshole classmates had made her decide to move to Hollywood instead. Of course she had jumped from the pot into the fire. And it hadn’t been popular with the family, but she had wanted to do things her way. Now, defying logic again, Jessica followed that si
lver speck of a half-million-dollar automobile in the distance, puttering in traffic at five miles an hour. She would find the woman and bring her to justice.
She watched in surprise as the Rolls took the Skirball exit. Where was this crazy bitch going?
* * *
Sadie took the exit up Skirball Center Drive towards Mulholland Drive. The registration address was on Mulholland, but she had to make a decision: left or right? As a girl growing up in the San Fernando Valley, she had dreamed of owning a mansion on the famous drive that, to her, gave a total view of the world. Now she had the garage door opener to one of these palaces. She would finally be in one, if only for a moment. Just long enough to grab keys and snatch some valuables. She made a right, heading east. That’s where she would want her house to be.
* * *
Clive was shocked to see the Silver Ghost pull into his circular driveway and head to the garage. Didn’t Jessica fill out a report with the Highway Patrol? There had to be an official report so he could file insurance for the damage. He stormed out the front door, eying the back of his beloved car. A yelp escaped his lips in spite of himself. It wasn’t bad, not as bad as he had envisioned, but still the tail lamp was broken and the metal bumper dented. He was going to give Jessica all holy hell. He ran over to the driver’s door and flung it open. He stepped back in shock as a tall, thin woman he had never seen before shot out of the seat and shoved a bloody pocketknife to his throat.
“Make one stupid move, and I’ll slice your neck open.”
* * *
It almost made Sadie laugh. A grown man in a tuxedo pissing himself, literally. He mumbled words like take anything you want, please, I don’t want to die, and all that pathetic sentimental shit. He wasn’t going to … oh, yes, he was crying. Tears streamed down as fast as his urine. She had only had a few seconds to take in this amazing Mediterranean-style mansion with landscaped gardens before the crybaby millionaire had opened the car door. It looked like heaven as best a man could build it.
The Malfeasance Occasional Page 21
