Toe Popper

by Jonny Tangerine

  The area code had changed, and that, coupled with the complex code one had to dial to make a credit-card call out of the hotel, made Lane redial several times, but he eventually got the right number. A woman answered in Khmer. It took second for Lane to make that part of his mind work again, “Bok Khieu?” he said. There was a long pause. Lane could hear a television set singing in the background, a hushed conversation he couldn’t understand, and then:

  “Major Lane?”

  Khieu’s voice sounded refreshingly familiar and instantly brightened Lane’s mood. Lane would never have survived his first year in Cambodia without Khieu’s friendship. He had worked with the U.N. as one of their translators and trainers. He and Lane had worked side by side in the field, clearing mines and booby traps in the Western provinces. Khieu’s knowledge of local tactics had saved Lane’s life numerous times. Partially to repay him, and partially because he was a true friend, Lane had expedited Khieu and his family’s immigration to the United States. They had been in Los Angeles for three years. Lane knew the adjustment had been difficult. Except for five years spent in exile in Thailand (where he had perfected his English), Khieu had lived his whole life in Cambodia. When they’d first arrived in Los Angeles they had exchanged letters often, but their correspondence had since tapered off. Lane hadn’t heard from him in almost two years. He was overjoyed to find him on the end of the phone.

  They both wanted to meet as soon as possible. Lane suggested that Khieu and his wife come to his hotel for dinner. Khieu explained that his business required him to work all night, but that he could schedule a break in Lane’s neighborhood.

  “Do you know the Fat Burger on La Cienega?” Khieu asked him.

  “Actually I do.” Lane said.

  “Good. It’s close to you, so you can walk there. It’s out of our territory, but it has pretty good parking where we can watch the truck.”

  “Well all right.” Lane didn’t see how meeting at Fat Burger was better than his hotel, but he wanted Khieu to be comfortable.

  “OK, one a.m. Fat Burger. See you tonight, Major Lane. Bye-Bye.”

  “Bye.” Lane said, and hung up.

  He would have insisted on waiting to meet Khieu until he had his own car and could make it more convenient, but the first thing he’d done when he got back to his room was inventory his morphine supply. He only had two little pills left. He was hoping Khieu would have a connection that could re-supply his unfortunate habit – ideally with the natural grade he was used to. The sooner he got that part of his life straightened out the better.

  Lane stepped out on his terrace and set fire to a Gitane. It would be good to see Khieu again. They had had a lot of fun together in Cambodia. He had taught him how to play poker, Khieu was an old hand at gambling, but he didn’t know how to play poker. He had gotten good, a lot of gambling was the same -- knowing your opponent, figuring the odds. The rest was nuts and bolts. Lane looked out over the shimmering afternoon smog of Hollywood and wondered again about the person who had put the landmines on the beach. What were they doing now? The stack still nagged at him. What target would be next? If he was up against a real Mao-ist trained terrorist, the next target would be something that attempted to show the incompetence and weakness of the local authority. Like a police station, or a government building. It could be anything really.

  The latest official profile (that Lane read at the office) said the FBI believed they were looking for a homegrown suspect or suspects, another domestic terrorist threat. Lane didn’t agree. He felt the FBI’s reasoning was prejudiced by their recent experiences: militant pro-lifers, mail bombers, internet explosive nuts. None of these types had ever used real anti-personnel mines before. And the stack…three dead…Jesus. He watched the cars below stream in and out of the Beverly Center and tried to imagine what kind of car his adversary might drive. He decided that as soon as he had wheels he would drive out to Zuma Beach and see the crime scene for himself. He didn’t see how hanging around the office was going to give him any insight.

  Lane was fighting it, but he could feel his mind returning to thoughts of the little blue pills. He tossed his half-finished Gitane over the stucco railing and quickly lit another. The pills were hidden in the English language version of The King James Bible in the drawer next to the bed. He had purposely placed them in a specific section to ease his guilt about his habit. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Against his better judgment, Lane went back inside and leaned across the bed to the drawer that contained the Gideon’s gift. He opened the text to the pills. Lane stared at them for a second and then re-read the verse they marked:

  1 Corinthians 10:13

  There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.

  Lane sighed. He wasn’t particularly religious. He had spent hundreds of hours in military school chapels, but he hadn’t retained much. He’d only memorized the Corinthians scripture because an Irish chaplain had taped it to the condom machine at their U.N. base in Angola.

  Lane snapped the Bible closed, jumped up from the bed and went back to the terrace. A car alarm was shrieking SWHOOP SWHOOP SWHOOOP below his window. He sparked his third Gitane in five minutes.

  Lane told himself he had to wait at least until after six. But there was no way he was going to make it staying in his room. With nothing to do until one a.m. and no car to go anywhere, Lane decided he had only one option. He would walk across the street and go shopping at the Beverly Center. He’d heard people could be addicted to that, perhaps it would help him.

  RICHARD NIXON LIBRARY AND BIRTHPLACE – 4:45 P.M.

  “This is the room where President Nixon was born…the actual bed…1913…Mrs. Nixon…Grandmother Milhous…brothers Harold, Don and Arthur…” the tri-focaled Docent rambled on. The house was small, and with the addition of the tour group, especially cramped. But the tourists, a true multi-cultural collection of folks, were still absolutely fascinated. “This is the actual Crown piano President Nixon learned on…beginning his studies at the age of seven…he also played the clarinet and saxophone…”

  Huay was sure to stay out of the photos the other tourists were taking. Flashes and camera motors popped and whirred continually. “This is where the family would eat their dinners, discuss the issues of the day…where Mrs. Nixon canned and baked” Huay was staying at the back of the group; was the last one to squeeze into the small kitchen and look at the stove. He kept the Sony up to his face. “All of the boys slept in the small bedroom upstairs…but because there’s only one set of stairs…fire regulations don’t allow us to take the public up there…the bedroom is accurately restored, however, with the original beds and bedding…occasionally viewed by private tours…”

  Huay edged out of the kitchen and stood at the foot of the staircase. A velvet rope was the only thing preventing entry. He looked over his shoulder. The Docent was staying in the middle of the room. “If there aren’t any more questions…” The house was too small. The tour was quickly winding down. People were already beginning to exit the backdoor. But the Docent woman wasn’t moving. On his first trip, the Docent had been the first person to open the backdoor. Shit. Huay could feel his careful plans eroding. He waited a few seconds more, watching the Docent in his peripheral vision. And then, finally, a sweet Georgian voice bailed him out, “Exc-uuse me, is this lamp a Tiffany o-riginal?” The referenced lamp was near the exit door, and the guide moved towards it, out of his sight. Huay quickly stepped over the rope and pressed his back against the wall of the stairwell.

  “It is a nice lamp, but I’m sure it’s not anything special…as you know the Nixons were Quakers…quite frugal people…” Huay stayed put. If he was caught here he could confess to sneaking up to have a look at the upstairs, pretend he was a real Nixophile. He would have to abandon his plan, but he was sure his punishment would be no more than a scoldin
g.

  The voices began to fade away, and then he heard the door close, and the deadbolt slide into the frame. There was once again silence in the Nixon home.

  Huay took a deep breath and started up the steps. Each one creaking ominously.

  THE BEVERLY CENTER – 5:30 P.M.

  Lane surveyed the back-lit mall directory and map and decided he was hungry. Finding the food court on the fourth floor, he headed for the interior escalators.

  The Beverly Center was an impressive mall, a true model of the modern American bazaar. Lane noticed that everyone looked trim and groomed, optimistic. He also noticed that, unlike other malls he had been in, everyone seemed to be buying something – he didn’t see a single person without a shopping bag of some kind.

  At the food court, Lane found he was in the midst of the dinner rush. Long lines furbled out in front of each restaurant space. Lane passed up Sbarro and La Salsa and The Chocolate Chip Cookie Factory in favor of Panda Express, which unlike its competition, had its own dining area – separated from the hoi polloi of the rest of the food park by a low black and white tiled wall. The especially long line here gave him plenty of time to study the menu. He decided he was already really missing Asian food. Lane determined that for $5.29 he could have any three items from the steam line. He tried to choose carefully; selecting Szechuan broccoli, Mandarin orange fried chicken, and vegetarian chow mein. He was surprised when the server piled on a large helping of fried rice and two cellophane-wrapped fortune cookies onto his cardboard panda plate -- he hadn’t asked for either. At the last minute Lane snatched a Budweiser longneck from out of the packed ice tub by the self-service soft drink machine. It looked too cold and refreshing to pass up. At the register Lane was shocked to find his total, with tax, was $10.33. The beer cost a staggering $4.25. The woman who rang-up his dinner also popped the top off his longneck and informed him he had to consume his beer in the Panda Express area only. Clearly, Lane thought, heavy drinking was not encouraged at the Beverly Center.

  Lane visited the napkin stand and found a pair of wooden chopsticks and a plastic envelope of Hunan hot sauce. He was incredibly hungry, but when he looked up, he found there were no empty tables in the Panda Express area. Feeling like an idiot standing there with his heavy tray of food, Lane decided his best bet was a four-person table occupied by only one woman and a fat blue-eyed baby in a stroller.

  Lane walked over and said, with his most disarming smile, “Mind if I join you? There aren’t any small tables left.” The baby, Lane guessed it was about six months, was sucking down an off-white substance from a bottle while the mother picked at her fried rice and read a thick, glossy romance novel with a rugged looking man in a flannel shirt on the cover. She looked up, clearly annoyed, inspected him head to toe, said,

  “Whatever.” And returned to her book.

  Lane sat down across from the baby. He deftly separated his chopsticks, rubbed them together twice to remove any slivers, and got down to it. The broccoli was good and spicy, and the orange chicken exceptional. The chow mein and fried rice were tasteless however. Lane noticed the baby in the stroller was watching him eat. He looked down at it – Lane couldn’t decide if the baby was a boy or girl. It was wearing blue overalls with white sailboats. Were sailboats strictly masculine? He knew that trains were definitely only for boys, but he wasn’t sure about sailboats. The bottle had fallen out of the baby’s mouth, but mom hadn’t noticed. Lane winked, but the baby just continued staring. Lane left most of the rice and chow mein untouched. He filled-up quickly. The turkey avo had stuck with him more than he realized. As Lane held the last fried morsel of orange chicken between his chopsticks, the fat unisex baby belched up a nice gooey dollop of Similac onto its blue and white sailboat overalls. Lane put his chopsticks down. Mom wiped-up the baby barf with a spit rag and immediately returned to her novel. Lane took a hit of his exorbitant beer and cracked open one of his fortune cookies. The little strip of paper unfurled and read:

  Someone is thinking of you.

  He glanced down at the fat face in the overalls again. Same blank stare. Lane reached back to his tray and cracked open the second cookie. The little strip of paper unfurled and read:

  Selfish tendencies have a way of coming back at you.

  Lane pondered his fortunes for a moment. Then he shrugged, drained his beer and belched: hearty and loud, clearly topping the tyke in the stroller in volume, if not mass. The mother looked over crossly. Lane winked at her, stood up and bused his own tray; selfishly throwing away the broken bits and pieces of his uneaten fortune cookies.

  WOODLAND HILLS, CA – 6:05 P.M.

  Catherine Mills looked at her naked body in the full-length mirror of her bedroom. She, like most women of her age and income level who resided in the San Fernando Valley, was getting weekly direct mail advertisements from plastic surgeons. She had encountered another elegantly designed brochure in her mailbox today. It offered incredibly low financing rates. She felt like she was being laser targeted by laser surgeons, specialists in waging a kind of relentless low-intensity psychological war. The insidious suggestions were endless: eyelift, tummy tuck, collagen and botox injections, introductory endermologie. Every week little reminders of the losing battle and pleas for tiny morsels of spare flesh, like circling jackals on the savanna. Last week’s offers included a free waxing just for touring their “liposculpture gallery.” She dismissed them as desperate cannibals.

  Still, she found herself putting her fingers behind her neck and pulling back and up to see if it made a difference. Then arching her back, lifting her breasts. She wasn’t as toned as when she was captain of her gymnastics team, but there were no out of control areas. She turned, stood on tip-toes and examined the kerf of her backside; she could certainly be a little tanner, but she was proud to say she had avoided the horrible stakeout butt that plagued so many of the females in her profession. She counted calories in the office, but…oh stop it, she thought. She stepped into her white mesh bikini and tied on the crocheted top.

  In the kitchen, a room she seldom used, Catherine poured a can of Diet Coke and two airplane-sized bottles of Bacardi into a tall plastic patio glass filled with slivered ice. She carried her cocktail, a fluffy white beach towel and her firearm through the sliding glass door and out onto her redwood deck. It was time to relax.

  A privacy fence, three lemon trees, a lime tree, two large date palms, and a kumquat bush gave her backyard a lush Eden-like feel. Her large percolating hot tub was recessed into the deck, steam swirling alluringly around the edges of the cover. The spa was three concrete steps above the most notable aspect of her backyard: a pink, seven-foot deep heart-shaped swimming pool. The pool was lined with tinted cement and its edge trimmed with light blue and black mosaic tiles. It was garish, but just campy and useless enough that Catherine hadn’t found the resolve to do anything about it except keep it maintained. And she held no illusions about its romantic possibilities. She had gotten a good price on the house because it was sold as part of a divorce settlement.

  Catherine pushed the foam rubber spa cover to the side and fished out the floating thermometer. A perfect one hundred and four degrees Fahrenheit. Her hot tub spa, a four hundred gallon genuine Jacuzzi Quantum 2100, was a marvel of modern plumbing: at her disposal were 9 ProPower jets, 11 body jets with ratchet style rim activated pulse controls, a 6-jet wave seat, two 230 Volt, 50 AMP 4.0 horsepower high volume pumps with built-in dry run protection, a one horsepower super quiet air blower injector, a 50 square foot filter system with 24 hour filtration pump, and an adjustable floating Brominator. It was state of the art, but mostly Catherine Mills just used it to get off.

  She eased into the bracing hot liquid and found her favorite seat by the foot jets. She leaned back into the shoulder jets and took a sip of her Diet Cuba Libre, enjoying for once, the fruits of California living. The sun was slipping behind the hills that stretched above her backyard, and a last finger of sun reached out and gently touched her face. She relaxed in the quiet wa
rmth for several lazy moments and then turned her body and faced the back jets. Self conscious for a moment, she looked over her shoulder. The palm fronds and high fence had all been installed with the heart-shaped pool – they were designed to impede any neighborly sightlines and give near perfect privacy. She was quite alone.

  Catherine adjusted the pulse rate, and turned the dual nozzles so they flowed together, then leaned over and turned a dial on the outside controls. The air pump kicked in and began pouring magically tingling bubbles into the jet streams. She moved her hips rhythmically, eyes closed, searching for just the right imagery. Her thoughts converged on the Special Forces Major -- his crinkly twinkly blue eyes, his strong hands pressed against her smooth leather dashboard, his shoulders, his profile.

  She brought her hand down and moved the macrame mesh out of the way. And the air bubbles really began to tingle. Catherine arched her spine and licked her lips. She could already tell it was going to be a good one.

  RICHARD NIXON LIBRARY AND BIRTHPLACE – 6:45 P.M.