A Long Crazy Burn

by Jeff Johnson

  Ralston didn’t look like he’d be getting up anytime soon, if ever. Still, he’d been a little tougher than he looked. I pulled his boots off and he groaned. His feet smelled like a ripe, unlikely sort of foreign cheese.

  “Well,” I said. “Nice chatting.”

  He bubbled a little. Outside, the night air was below freezing. It still smelled like the boots I was carrying. I walked through the trash-littered courtyard of the Bismarck, tossed the boots over a fence into a weedy lot, and then I realized I’d left something. I’d left the cigarettes Ralston had been smoking. I only had one left.

  When I came out of the dark lot behind the buildings, I looked back at the motel. Monique was still on her cell phone. It looked like she was crying.

  I got into Cheeks’s car and lit up the last smoke. Then I set it in the ashtray and rooted around in the burrito garbage I’d tossed on the passenger side floor the night before. I took two thousand bucks and stuffed it into a greasy paper bag, got out, and walked in her direction.

  Monique didn’t see me coming. I looked into the office. No one at the desk. I casually wandered over and stood next to her. She was yelling at someone, barking into the phone between sobs.

  “The fuck, muthafucka, fuck you!”

  That was how she spoke.

  “Niggah-ahhh!”

  That’s how she cried.

  I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I bumped her with my elbow. She whirled on me, her face the very definition of fury. Then she drew back and snapped her phone closed.

  “Darby?” She was suddenly out of wind. It was just a whisper over the wet tires on the street in front of us.

  “Got a smoke?” I asked.

  Her nostrils flared. “Fuck I don’t, muthafucka!” Her wet eyes began to gush. “Fuckin’ Cheeks’s dead. Think that fat ass biggie C shot his ass.” She sobbed, and for a second it looked like she was going to throw her cell phone. But she didn’t. Instead she looked my face over.

  “Thanks for the call,” I said.

  “Didn’t do much good, looks like. You fuckin’ deaf?”

  “Nah. Well, a little.”

  “You—” She paused. She was pretty drunk, I realized. “What in the fuck you doin’ in my face, white boy?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Yeah?” She had a little foam around the edges of her mouth.

  “Yeah. Don’t go back to the hotel room. I had to ask Ralston some questions and it didn’t go too well.”

  She gave me her big stare. “He dead in there?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  She hissed. “Damn fool. Cheeks set me up out here to keep an eye on his stupid ass. Nasty man had a stick on him. Fucked on me like some kinda pig thing.” She glared at me, like it was my fault.

  “Well,” I said. “There you go.”

  “Yeah. Now Cheeks’s dead, Ralston all laid up, and here your stupid ass is, throwin’ change into a can for me to dig out. What the fuck I supposed to do now?’

  “Go back where you came from,” I suggested. “Or wherever. The feds are all over this. One of them has a brain.”

  We looked at each other. I handed her the burrito bag and she looked in, then looked at me.

  “So you can run.”

  “Shit,” she said quietly. “Right when I had this city by the balls, too.”

  “Yeah. Where you goin’?”

  “Like I tell you, crazy burn.” She stuffed the money in her big hooker purse and struck off into the rain. I watched her go, and it occurred to me that I would have something in common with that furious woman forever. We both had an X.

  I walked back to Cheeks’s car and thought about rain and bombs and how streets smell when they’re wet. That was the last I ever saw of Monique. I never even knew her real name.

  On the drive home, I tried to think about what I was going to tell Delia if she was still there. I had someone else’s gun again. Someone else’s money. A pissed-off whore was on her way to the bus station and our bomber was short a few teeth and possibly crippled or dead. I had a great big heel-shaped bruise forming in the middle of my chest and I was still driving a dead pimp’s car. The night was young.

  Portland glowed at night. It glowed because everything was wet. In the winter daylight everything was softly lit through the fat clouds, but at night, at night it shone with a countless number of colors, all made slightly more beautiful when blurred. The light from the streetlamps and signs and headlights make multi-hued streaks on every surface. Oily pavement, windows, cars … some things can be striking without even trying.

  It was one of those evenings. As I wheeled on to Glisan, half-mesmerized by the city around me, I had to rein in my impulse to joyride. It was time to dump a few things. I pulled into a side street and motored around looking for a storm drain, one of the big ones. In a wet place like the Pacific NW, they weren’t hard to find. Locating one without a streetlight over it was a different matter. I’d been lucky the night before. City planners set things up in a certain way, but even with a bad eye, I found one after a few minutes. I pulled up next to it and hurled the gun through the car window into the gutter mouth. It had a chunk of Ralston scalp clinging to the little accuracy fin at the tip of the barrel. A good thing to ditch, though I never did figure out how to fire it. Then I moved on. A few blocks further, I dug the socks with the ball bearings out of my other pocket. I rolled the window down and shook the balls out as I drove. About ten blocks later I chucked the socks into the gutter. I felt a little lighter with the gun down the drain. I realized I didn’t even have a pocketknife at that point.

  Of course, that’s when the universe shits on you. I parked Cheeks’s car eight blocks away from my place and walked through the light rain to the house behind mine. I felt like the fence was going to be easier this time as I came up on the place. Delia might even have made smoothies.

  The window rolled down on a Prius parked on the street and Agent Dessel’s head popped out. He gave me his boyish grin.

  “Hey Darby,” he called. “Hop in back. Let’s go for a spin, shall we?”

  “I’m thinking about a number between one and, oh, say, life,” Dessel said pleasantly.

  I was sitting in the back of the car. Agent Pressman snorted from the driver’s seat. Dessel was turned around with his arm over the seat, smiling. He looked like a really big ten-year-old boy who had just gotten his first crack pipe.

  “I’m thinking zero,” I said. “I did your job for you. Found out who bombed my place.”

  Dessel gave Pressman a playful cuff on the shoulder.

  “Did you hear that?” Dessel had a truly annoying laugh. “Darby Holland said he was thinking! I mean, shit, like as in stuff was going on in his head. Which sort of looks a little beaten up, by the way. But damn, wow. Thoughts. This is like watching alligator eggs hatch.”

  Pressman was driving slow and aimless. I guess they wanted to torment me a little before we all went downtown.

  “So tell me, genius, what did you find out? Just out of curiosity.”

  “Guy who hired the bomber is named Turganov. He’s a Russian real-estate guy.”

  Agent Dessel smacked the back of his seat.

  “That’s the sound of one hand clapping. I know you were wondering.”

  I thought about punching him. They hadn’t handcuffed me. They hadn’t even bothered to search me yet, which was good, considering all the cash I had stuffed in my pocket. But still, Dessel needed a nose job.

  “I think I know what you’re thinking,” Dessel declared. “I bet you want to punch me. Damn, I’m good.” He whacked the seat again.

  “You still smoke?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah. Sure.” He lit up a generic and passed it back to me, still bubbling with joy. I took a big drag and blew it at him. He blinked and his smile got even bigger. Which was an amazing thing, sort of like watching someone stick their legs behind their head. A circus trick.

  “Darby, I can call you Darby, right? Instead of Mr. Holland?” He went on without
waiting for me to say no. “You’re just about one stop down from most of the animals in the primate section of the zoo.”

  I took another drag.

  “See”—Dessel cradled his chin—“I like the zoo. All those weird creatures locked up and on display. Exotic things from all over the world in little boxes. But I really like the primates. Know the difference between a monkey and an ape?”

  I took another drag. “Monkey has a tail.”

  Agent Dessel laughed for almost a minute.

  “Yeah!” He snorted. “My favorite joke, a time like this.”

  Agent Pressman turned another corner and crept along, in no hurry to get anywhere.

  “So, I was getting to something,” Dessel said. He cocked his head. “Know what it is? Man reads a National Geographic, smart man like you, picks up my favorite joke, it’s like we’re the Smothers Brothers or Cheech and Chong. Like we’ve been doing this for years. If we’re going to take our act on the road, you have to, like, intuit.”

  “You already knew this Turganov guy did it.”

  “Bingo!” Dessel shrieked. “Shit, I wish I had a trophy.”

  I rolled my window down and pitched the butt out into the street. Dessel lit up two more and handed me one. I took it.

  “Best I can do, trophywise. Someone gave away the Pulitzer already this year. Bummer.” He took a drag and blew it at me. “So, detective. Your face. The disappearing act. This whole Turganov-bombing thing. Just fill me in.”

  I shrugged. But now I knew two things. One, Ralston had really fessed up, and two, that Dessel was going to let me off. I might spend a few days in county, but he had something building. He had a conviction. And he wanted what I knew. So it was my turn to smile.

  “Fuck you.” My lips hurt. “Boy.”

  Dessel nodded, like I’d just complimented his clip-on tie.

  “Yepper.” He took about a one-inch drag off his cigarette. “I feel you, my primate. I wish I had a pinecone or something for you to play with. Just to see what you’d do with it. So I’m going to give you one. Because I, well, I’m the zookeeper. I think you know that now.”

  “You really love this.” I gestured with my cigarette. “Driving around giving people weird talks about zoos and monkeys and listening to yourself.”

  Dessel’s eyes glittered. “It’s true, I do.”

  “Everybody has a hobby.” I took another drag. Dessel did, too. His eyes were all over my face.

  “Bob,” Dessel said. “Pull over.”

  Agent Pressman hit up a slot in front of a church. Dessel guffawed.

  “Yeah,” he began, “I guess now that we’re good friends, we get to play Ping-Pong and stuff like that. I’ll call the baby dogs off. So that’s over. You get to go and have the other side of your face worked on. Smile. That’s how you want it.”

  “I wiped out on my skateboard. It was snowing.”

  “Wow. Weird. Anyway, be seeing you. Get out.”

  I got out and looked at the nearest street sign as the Prius pulled away. I was about thirty blocks from my house. I flipped them off, but who could say if they saw me. If they did, that little shit Dessel was probably laughing.

  It was nice that they hadn’t bothered to search me. But thirty blocks through the rain that had shifted from a freezing mist to full-blown frigid pissing made me start to think about Dessel’s voice, and Pressman’s chuckle. The shit about monkeys. I had a record with those two guys, and it was an ugly one. But they also had a record with me. Pressman was an idiot, but Dessel liked to dance. He liked to fish. He liked using guys like me as chum, the bloody crap you dump off the back of a charter boat to attract sharks. He had his patterns and I had mine. When he said we were getting to know each other, he was right.

  I walked with my hands tucked into the pockets of the peacoat, my good hand wrapped around the brick of money. My hood was up and the rain was getting worse, but the drops beaded off the coat and I had a boot on each foot. It wasn’t a bad night for a walk, but a hat of some kind might have been nice.

  Delia’s car was still parked out front when I got back. All the lights were on and the door opened as I came up the steps. There was Delia, all ninety pounds projecting a scowl. She crossed her arms.

  “I thought it was cops again,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Went for a walk.”

  I sat down on one of the chairs on the porch and started unlacing my boots. She looked my face over when I glanced up at her.

  “No new gashes or giant bruises. Maybe we can take the training wheels off your big-boy bicycle now. But before we get carried away, what the hell are you doing walking right up the front steps, and I mean seriously, did you forget about the police? That little problem?”

  “Yeah, that. Well …” I tucked my wet boots under the chair. “Had a little happy time with Dessel and Pressman. Hunt’s over. Except for my car. I still have to hunt that down.”

  “So you went downtown without a lawyer?” Delia tapped a finger on her arm.

  “Nah. We just rode around in a car for a few minutes. They snagged me a block over.”

  “Let’s towel off your messed-up head before you get pneumonia.”

  I followed her in. The house smelled like enchiladas were in the oven. I went to the dining room table and emptied my pockets. Delia’s eyes widened at the brick of bills, so I answered her question before she asked.

  “So, the bomber dude. This is what he got paid. At least what he had left. I gave a little to Monique.”

  “Is he, oh, I don’t know, breathing?”

  I took my coat off and hung it over the back of a chair.

  “Last I saw he was.”

  “I made some dinner. Just cause I had to be here in case your stupid ass didn’t make it back. I hate that canned sauce. Just a few anchos and some long Californias in water, a blender, little garlic and some soy sauce. It might even be good.”

  “It smells good.”

  I went into the bathroom and dried my hair off, then went into the bedroom and changed out of my wet clothes. Delia was in the kitchen clanking around, singing a personalized version of the Butthole Surfers’ CIA song. So I knew she wanted me to talk about the money, Agent Dessel, pretty much all of it.

  “Wash your hands,” she called. “Dinner.”

  I went back into the bathroom and scrubbed up. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I realized the walk through the cold rain had done me some good. The swelling was down. The long freeze had made the scar more inflamed pink than angry red, and the blackness around my right eye had taken on a bluish quality.

  Delia was setting out some plates. Three gigantic enchiladas with unknown contents and a pile of salad for me, one smaller enchilada for her with a little splash of spinach. I’m not a big man, but I eat big and I had some serious making up to do. She plunked a bottle of Tapatío in front of me when I sat down.

  “Try to talk between swallows,” she cautioned. “I don’t want you spraying little chunks my way.” She eyed the pile of money she’d swept over to the edge of the table.

  I sliced off a big chunk of enchilada and shoveled it up. Zucchini, onion, chicken. The sauce was a dark, rich brown, vaguely sweet and smoky.

  “Gmmf,” I managed.

  “Chew, Darby,” she said as I dug in. “Considering your new look, it’s amazing you even have teeth.”

  I swallowed.

  “Never had a cavity,” I replied. I took another bite, gave it a few chomps, swallowed. “Don’t believe in ’em. Last time I went to the dentist I had to get a wisdom tooth taken out, though.”

  Delia picked at her salad.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Yeah. Guy said I had deep roots. He was really impressed.” I started in on enchilada number two.

  “So, this icky pile of money, Dessel, all that?”

  “Mmn.” I shrugged and swallowed. “Yeah. So I found the dude. Beat the fuck out of him, took all his money and his gal. Standard stuff.”

  “It’s
nice at least one of us found a new job.”

  “Just temp work.” I kept eating. She kept picking. When I realized she not only was not going to say anything more, but that she was probably getting mad, I put my fork down. All that was left was a ribbon of sauce and a single spinach leaf.

  “So here’s what went down. I beat some info out of the bomber dude. Ralston, last name whatever. He had a sort of cool-looking gun, by the way. It’s in the sewer now. Anyway, he tells me some fuckin’ whack job named Cheddar Box hired him to do the deal. This Cheddar guy works for a real estate developer named Oleg Turganov.” I looked at her plate. “You going to eat that?”

  She pushed her plate over. I ground off a corner of enchilada and chewed a few times. Delia did her finger-tapping bit.

  “So.” I swallowed. “Came home, I was about to go over the back fence when that wicked little fucker Dessel busted me. Creepy little bastard gave me this lecture about monkeys. All very weird. But it turns out they already knew who bombed the shop. I mean, not the bomber, just who hired him.”

  Delia reached out and plucked a single leaf of spinach off her plate and popped it in her mouth. She munched on it meditatively while she watched me eat. When I was done she smiled.

  “So, Darby, ever wonder how you can fart without peeing?”

  “All the time.”

  “Good. Know how a girl does it?”

  “No idea.”

  “Yeah.” She shook a couple of cigarettes out of a fresh pack and passed me one. “It’s because you never asked.”

  I fired up the smoke and leaned back.

  “I get it. You’re saying I should have asked Dessel a few more questions.”

  “Just a thought.”

  “Funny. He talked about thinking, too. Then he talked about the zoo, and now you’re talking about chicksplosions and pee. What the fuck? I mean seriously.”

  She picked up the empty plates and stomped into the kitchen. I heard the water run for a minute and then the clatter of the plates hitting the rack. She came out wiping her hands on a new dish towel.