Toe Popper

by Jonny Tangerine

  “That’s right.”

  “Wow.”

  Catherine tried to smile.

  “I once saw Marcia Clark at the Vons in Van Nuys.”

  Catherine felt instantly depressed. And ever since she’d spent a night puking them into the shower drain in college, she couldn’t stand strawberry daiquiris.

  “I just want to say, how proud we all are of you…” The woman had red hair with dark roots and wore it in a fanned pony-tail on top of her head. Lane thought of the electrocuted hawk that had started the fire in the hills. Her eyes looked like she’d already had a few strawberry daiquiris herself.

  “It’s so awful what happened to that horse. Cee-cee cries every time she sees it.”

  The nine-year-old girl nodded bravely.

  The woman’s attention turned to Lane. “Were you there too? Were you hurt at the cemetery?”

  “No.”

  She turned back to Catherine. “Do you mind if I take a picture of you with my daughter?” She held up her cell-phone camera.

  Catherine seemed stunned.

  “Cee-cee, stand behind her.”

  Lane said, “Maybe we should get this to go.”

  Catherine said, “I’m sorry, but I’d prefer you--” The phone flashed anyway.

  It seemed to break the ice, the other diners began to stare at them openly, unabashed. Catherine sighed.

  Once again, it looked like the cheesecake would have to wait.

  MERCEDES – 10:05 P.M.

  Huay listened to the radio as he drove west on the 101. CBS News was already questioning his letter’s legitimacy… “The Cambodian government had no immediate comment.” BBC on NPR was a little more focused on his stated demands, but they did not give it extensive play, merely noting that Great Britain was a signateur to the treaty.

  He’d tried to be so simple, succinct. But he feared his message was being lost, his actions attributed to “a deranged lunatic or lunatics.”

  And who was this American truck driver they’d arrested? It was all muddled together. The FBI spokesman: “We are pursuing several leads in addition to the suspects already in custody for the murder of a federal officer.”

  In addition there was an endless parade of “experts” and commentators calling him either a nut or a new breed of terrorist. “With very cheap weapons and the most cruel of intentions. And with the easy availability on the international arms market, it’s actually surprising this hasn’t happened here sooner…” The next guest analyst stating, “Clearly the work of a disturbed individual, perhaps a paranoid schizophrenic. A Hinkley or Sirhan.” Before he left he’d turned off the television with disgust. In addition to the irritating speculation, the images of dead children on the beaches seemed to be playing on endless loops. And then there was the dead horse and the little girl in Griffith Park, sobbing in her riding helmet. Who set that one? The fat-sucking truck driver?

  Huay forced himself to take a deep breath. He punched the source button on the stereo and his cd of early 70’s Cambodian rock momentarily lifted his mood.

  Huay rolled into Woodlawn Hills in the dark. There was no overnight street parking allowed in Catherine’s neighborhood, so he parked in the driveway of a house that was for sale and appeared to be dark and vacant. He’d hoped to see (according to the credit report) a Coach Edition Lexus parked in the driveway of 12357 Quail Cabeza court. But the absence meant either the woman wasn’t home or she parked in the garage. Either way it made his mission more difficult. But his frustration with the media inspired him. Perhaps with this specific, focused target the world would see the message in his madness.

  WOODLAND HILLS – 10:15 P.M.

  Catherine led Joel Lane down the hall to her bathroom. She gave him a pink towel and a white terry cloth bathrobe that was sealed inside plastic packaging. After he shut the door, she knocked lightly, opened the door and handed him a brand new toothbrush. “I stole this from your hospital room,” she said.

  Lane closed the door again and looked at himself in the mirror. Her bathroom smelled clean. A suburban female clean he could never attain, no matter where he lived. He used a pastel pink Kleenex to blow his nose, then removed a band aid from the buckshot wound in his cheek. The wound wasn’t deep, but a plum-colored bruise encircled it, making it look worse. He puffed out his cheeks, but no air escaped. Which was just as well, he could never be as entertaining as Whistler had been with his hole. Lane scratched at his wrist, he still had his hospital admissions bracelet on. He found nail clippers in the drawer beneath the sink and cut it free. It made him feel instantly better. He then turned on the shower and let it get good and steamy before he untied the drawstring on his scrubs and stepped out of his pants.

  The shower was hot and Lane stayed in it long after he was done with the shampoo, soap, and conditioner cycle. He actually stayed too long and was overheated, near sweating when he stepped out onto the bathmat. He cracked the door and brushed his teeth with Aim, but was still too hot to put on the robe. He walked out into the living room wearing just the pink bath sheet.

  Lane sunk into the pony skinned chair. It smelled different than the car. Better, richer, butterier. Catherine had modern, but eclectic taste. Lane noted a Pakistani prayer rug hung on the wall and a halogen lamp made from a roof vent on the end table. He picked up the universal remote control from beside the lamp and turned on cable news:

  Trevor Jenkins, wearing an orange jumpsuit, was being led into the back of Parker Center. “The authorities are not saying if they have found mines, only explosives and a cache of weapons. Mr. Jenkin’s mother is also in custody, charged with resisting arrest and conspiracy.” They cut to a wide shot of the Jenkins’ house. “Earlier today animal control officers removed eight cats from the home.” A cat carrier was loaded into a white van. The door was slammed and the van pulled away. “The cats were taken to an undisclosed location.”

  Lane changed the channel. A Blackhawk helicopter was patrolling the coast with night vision. How long could they afford to do that? A live news copter shot showed a convoy of National Guard deuce and a half’s filled with orange barricades, headed for PCH.

  “Can we ever be sure we’ve found them all?” Catherine had entered. She stood watching the television, a manila envelope in her hand.

  Lane said, “Maybe, but when we open them up again what are we going to do? Search everyone at check points? Turn beaches into airports? What about soccer fields and playgrounds? It will never work.”

  Catherine nodded grimly.

  Lane eyed the little white envelope sitting on the coffee table that contained his USC meds. He’d peaked inside in the car, but he still wasn’t sure how many were in there. Seven? Eight? He started doing some calendar math in his head, but couldn’t remember exactly what day it was.

  “We’re due to report to Zimmerman in the morning.” Catherine handed him the manila envelope. “This is my version of what happened on the Jenkins arrests. I need you to write your statement about what went wrong with Blake. I want to make sure they’re relatively consistent.”

  Lane handed her envelope back. “I’ll look at it first thing in the morning, I don’t feel too much like squinting right now.”

  She said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Lanes eyes itched – like he was blinking solvent. His back was beginning to stick to the pony skin, so he moved over to the cotton slip-covered couch. He rubbed his eyes with his palms.

  Catherine returned with the bottle of saline solution the hospital had given him. “Let me help you. Lean your head back.” She kneeled beside him on the couch, her hand felt cool and smooth on his forehead. And she was an expert with the dropper. Bull’s eye. It was like a drop of cool darkness.

  A drop of saline rolled down his cheek.

  She wiped away the artificial tear. “Don’t be sad,” she said. “If you feel like going in the spa, it’s probably still warm.”

  “I’m okay.”

  She got up and disappeared again.

  Lane watched a comme
rcial for Pine Sol. And then one for mufflers that featured chicken puppets driving a car.

  He heard the ice machine in the kitchen.

  Catherine returned wearing just her blouse and underwear. Lane also noticed she was carrying two plastic tumblers filled with ice, two cans of Diet Coke, a handful of airplane-sized Bacardi bottles, and a tri-colored Mexican blanket tucked under her arm. A liquid picnic.

  She sat down beside him on the couch and poured two bottles of rum into his tumbler and three into hers, topping them off with the fizzing Diet Coke. She handed him the drink and said, “I hope you don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

  Lane wasn’t sure if she was telling a joke. But he was pretty sure she was. He didn’t remember taking it out of the envelope, but somehow he had a Dilaudid ready in his palm. He popped it into his mouth and washed it down with a splash of the Diet Libre.

  Catherine took the remote from Lane’s hand and clicked off the screen. A faint field of electricity seemed to linger in the air.

  She sat so her knees touched him.

  Lane smiled.

  Her eyes were moist. He felt momentarily jealous. Then he put his arm around her. Natural, like they’d been together forever.

  Lane kissed her. Thankful for the booze. It was like they did this all the time, so comfy on the couch. He drew her into him. She smelled like roses, and then like the whole rose parade.

  She bit his ear, her cheek pressing against his wound. He closed his eyes as her fingers played with his hair, brushing, making waves. Lane’s head buzzed with excitement. It had been a long time since he’d been to heaven.

  “Your hair’s so short, military man.” Lane didn’t reply and they sank into the slip-covered couch. While there had been a panicked moment when Lane feared all the opiates in his system would prevent blood flow to key parts, the thought quickly faded and the blood rushed in like the Red Sea. Lane chuckled as a phrase from his childhood flashed into his mind. He and his classmates had repeated it endlessly and it never failed to generate a laugh: The wily and smelly hedgehog burrowed down below the bush.

  WOODLAND HILLS – 11:15 P.M.

  Huay approached the house from the rear, using a concrete-lined drainage ditch that abutted the homes on the cul-de-sac. He surprised a possum, the rodent hissed at him and ran across the fence tops. Huay lifted himself up and over the six-foot weather-proofed cedar slats. His mind was rushing ahead, filled with plans. He had partners. With the fear gone and the injection of capital they could all move back in to business in the Cambodian countryside. It was a small country, but there were valuable resources and opportunities: Tonle-sap fish and hydroelectricity, exported rice and prawns, the restoration of an agrarian paradise. And they would rebuild the universities. Create a Singapore-like investment environment and staff it with the educated and ambitious.

  Huay cleared his head and surveyed Catherine’s backyard. He’d brought several different options in his backpack. The first thing he noticed was the ridiculous pool. It was completely impractical for swimming. He wondered if this was a single-woman’s dream - from her credit report, he knew she wasn’t married. The rest of the landscaping was overdone for Huay’s taste, a lot of concrete and too many potted plants. He momentarily considered using a motion-detection mine, but his encounter with the possum made him hesitant. Huay smiled when he saw the hot tub.

  Besides the static bathroom and kitchen lights, the woman’s house appeared unoccupied. A television flickered inside the neighbor’s, but there was no outdoor lightning and the pool was dark. Huay decided there was enough cover and advanced. He stepped across the wooden deck and slipped the padded lid off the spa. He stuck two fingers inside to test the water. Warm, at least eighty-degrees. Good. It meant she used it. Huay gently slipped the blue-gator mine below the surface. He pulled the pin underwater. He couldn’t quite reach the bottom and there was a tense moment when he had to let it go - it sank five inches and settled silently on the bottom. The BLU Gator was a reliable device, about as a big as a smoke detector and painted blue-gray to hide underwater. Huay was sure it would do the trick.

  He tensed again as he heard a faint splash from behind the neighbors’ fence. Relax, he told himself. Probably just a raccoon washing stolen dog food in the pool. They did that in his neighborhood all the time.

  WOODLAND HILLS – 11:30 P.M.

  Lane carried Catherine to her room – laid her down naked on the Cal-King sized bed and pulled the duvet over her sleeping breasts. He then went into the bathroom, tore open the plastic and shrugged on the terry cloth robe. The embroidered badge on the pocket said Wackenhut. The robe was a souvenir from a law enforcement convention. Wackenhut was a private prison contractor and the bathrobe was a clever promotional item. But they didn’t make any in women’s sizes so Catherine had never used it.

  Lane stepped out of the sliding glass door and into the backyard – his eyes felt instantly better in the darkness. He’d brought the empty Diet Coke can and took to assembling a replica of Khieu’s pipe. He hadn’t meant to. Somehow his hands were just doing it.

  He’d also brought his Altoids tin and a book of matches he’d found in the kitchen from Bob Burns restaurant in Santa Monica. Lane leaned against the spa cover and set fire to the opium. As he slowly let the smoke drift out of his throat he looked up into the night. Compared to rural Cambodia, the LA sky seemed empty. Edison had killed the stars. Besides the Big Dipper, the only other constellation Lane could make out was Orion – his belt shining bright despite the lucent pollution of Los Angeles. And Lane was struck by a jolting thought. How many light years did he have left in his warrior belt? The light bulb had been a close call. How many more before something just as stupid, crude, or unlucky took him out of the game?

  Lane froze as his foot touched something he wasn’t expecting. His toes wrapped around the foreign object, his foot an inch above the ground. He peered down, barely tilting his head. Lane exhaled. He’d stepped on a kumquat.

  Lane located the nearby source and pinched off one of the compact orange fruits. He returned to the spa, laid back on the cover and nibbled the tart kumquat skin with his front teeth, the starlight easy on his eyes.

  WOODLAND HILLS – 11:30 P.M.

  Huay had been about to scramble back over the six-foot fence when he’d heard the patio door slide open behind him.

  He’d immediately crouched down behind a dense shrub and didn’t even breathe for close to a minute. As the man in the white bathrobe had busied himself crushing a soda can, Huay had been able to silently pivot and draw the Colt defender up from under his shirt. He had good shadow cover behind the shrub (that smelled vaguely of semen), but he didn’t know what kind of outdoor lighting might suddenly reveal his position.

  Huay thought about shooting the man. But if he missed and the bullet went into the house, he might have to deal with the FBI woman. He did not want to get into a firefight with the FBI. He’d once seen the demonstration of their prowess at the shooting range in the Hoover building in Washington, D.C. They practiced marksmanship endlessly and Huay didn’t have that much confidence in his own handgun skills. Plus it could ruin the statement he was trying to make. And evasion and escape would be difficult. His car could be easily cut off in the cul-de-sacs of the suburban neighborhood. No, the target was the woman. And he wanted her dead when he was far, far away. He remembered his training: when in doubt, always focus on the original mission. This time, plant the mine and get away safely. Don’t turn a simple thing into a complex assassination on the fly.

  But who was this man in the bathrobe? A boyfriend? Body guard? The leaves and shadows made it difficult to see clearly, but there was something familiar about him, perhaps he was in the footage from the patrolman’s funeral. Huay hoped the spa would get them both. It might add a touch of humiliation.

  The man was still fussing with the soda can. And then there was a flash of flame. What was he doing? Huay stayed in his crouch, puzzled.

  And then Huay smelled it. Unmistakable. Opium. W
ho had the audacity to smoke opium in the backyard of an FBI agent? It had to be a relative, a brother maybe.

  Huay watched the man absently scratch his crotch. He then got up and picked a kumquat from the dwarf tree and laid down on the padded cover, his bathrobe falling open.

  The smell of the opium was initiating deep and unsettling flashbacks in Huay’s mind. He began to feel like a giddy child hiding from his playmates, just seconds from exposure. Huay’s thumb twitched from tension and he accidentally flicked off the safety of the Colt.

  The man sat up. Instantly alert. He got to his feet and took two steps towards the back fence. And then was still, listening like an animal. He stood beside the pink heart-shaped pool, his head cocked. And then took another step.

  Huay exhaled slowly. With the sight of his Colt he drew a bead on the crest of the bathrobe. The whorls of Huay’s fingertip, which had shot twenty men, felt the grooves of the trigger. Three more steps and he would have to kill this man.