Lake Charles

by Ed Lynskey

  “There are too many rooms,” said Herzog.

  “Just creep in closer,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Keep your voice low, too.”

  Jets of adrenaline ripped me. I billowed out my chest to snatch in breaths and rein in my flighty heartbeats. I led us scuttling downhill when the rifle fire spattered out. My eyes trained on the nearest bright window saw the orange-yellow spurts to the muzzle flash. Hot rounds stitched the turf inches from me. We lunged flat and hugged the turf where I damn near soiled my pants. Elbows digging, Mr. Kuzawa snaked up to lay even with me, his eyes a pair of live briquettes.

  “Ambush,” I said.

  “But just the one shooter.”

  “I thought he was asleep. How did he see us this fast?”

  “Night vision scope maybe.”

  “Sounds ugly. Do we pull out?”

  “Hell no. Sneak into our range and bring smoke.”

  A new volley erupted before the lights in the mansion, window by window, fell dark to remove targets for our return fire. My eyes strained to orient us. The lines, corners, and forms gave the shape to the sheds, barns, and mansion, a forbidding bulk within a hardball toss from us. The gunfire slacked off.

  Twisting to look behind us, Mr. Kuzawa waved a hand. “Herzog, you’re straggling. Catch up.”

  “Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “First you get with us.”

  With reluctance, Herzog joined us, and we crabbed to the nearest elevation. From this crow’s nest, I saw the orange-yellow tongues of fire pulsate from the high window. The rounds tossed the divots at our cowing faces. We’d two choices: charge in or pull back. Mr. Kuzawa decided, and I sprang up after him. We moved in a zigzag dash toward the porch. Herzog stumbled along somewhere in our path.

  I threw up the covering fire, racking my 12-gauge pump eight times. My volleys of lead shot thrashed our attacker off us. Unhurt, we met at the porch. The 12-gauge’s recoils left my shoulder twinging. Mr. Kuzawa bapped out the glass pane to the French doors while I reloaded, thumbing in the 00-buckshot shells from my pockets and handling the hot steel barrel. He grappled through the jagged hole in the glass and undid the latch.

  “We’re in,” I said.

  “Herzog, stay at the window. At any cop wig-wag lights, you sing out,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “We scramble for the pines and link up at Brendan’s truck.”

  Herzog bobbed his head. “Sure, sure. Go on.”

  After locating the wall switches, I toggled on the light sconces as we hurried forward. The furnishings—Persian rugs, loveseat, and baby grand piano—had a regal but artificial flare. Edna didn’t turn up. Neither did Sizemore. My fight blood crackled. I realized the stairs were our fastest way to get at the murderous sniper.

  I touched Mr. Kuzawa’s forearm. “He wants to guard his escape route.”

  “Take the stairs. Cut off the bastard at the balls.”

  Footfall thumped overhead. Hustling, we edged through an archway and found a steel circular staircase. Mr. Kuzawa tilted his 12-gauge: we climbed. I went first, my 00-buckshot load of death chambered. My pulse roared behind my ears. Mr. Kuzawa trailed me by two steps. Our ascent went slow, and no more sounds came. Did Sizemore wait topside to take off my head? Good sense said lay off until sunup still too many hours away.

  But my adrenaline was the go juice having the last say. I used an instinctual crouch on the upstairs floor. I froze, my eyes and ears attuned. The lunar glow from the skylight improved visibility. Mr. Kuzawa emerged at my shoulder.

  “No ambush up here,” I said.

  “Luck favors the ballsy.”

  We stood, I sensed, in a spacious room. Then ahead of us, I caught a snatch of Sizemore with his Van Dyke beard as he darted through a bright doorway. His thumping tread sent us chasing him to the main stairs we’d missed. We hit the first floor running. His flight shot through the high-ceiling dining room. At a glance, I saw the exterior door flung wide, and I looked out into the dark. He’d streaked over the yard to save his ass. His hillside mansion wasn’t so impregnable.

  “We scared him off,” I said, back in the dining room.

  “His goon squad off peddling his dope can’t protect him,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

  “Further pursuit?” I asked.

  “Not with him packing a night vision scope on a rifle in the woods.” Mr. Kuzawa jerked his head. “Instead we’ll go case his set up.”

  “Find Edna” was my simple directive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  We had to work fast. Herzog split off upstairs and Mr. Kuzawa darted into a hallway. My house tour saw the wine-bar armoire and crystal chandeliers. The half-round Italian marble fireplace used propane gas logs for those too lazy to bust up their own stove wood. I moved on. The sterile white surfaces in the truck-size kitchen didn’t impress me. My nose picked out the blue-collar food smells of wasabi and beer.

  A pie safe constructed of birch or ash and probably bought at a downstate antique shop squatted in front of a yellow door. I gave the yellow door an extra glance when Mr. Kuzawa barked out to me. I left the kitchen and entered the so-called library. The Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and other volumes lined the shelves stacked from floor to ceiling, accessible via a sliding ladder on its rollers.

  “Books didn’t make the shitbird any smarter,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

  Before I could speak Herzog huffed in to us. “I saw no weapons, dope, or sign of Edna. Everything looks clean as a whistle.”

  I was quick to dispute him. “Not quite everything is squeaky clean. Where’s Ashleigh’s bedroom?”

  “I saw the bedrooms on the south wing,” said Herzog. “Nothing is in there.”

  “Show me anyway,” I said.

  The annoyed Herzog guided us down a maze of hallways, and the south wing had a potpourri and furniture polish smell I put with funeral homes. I poked my head through each door. The four-post canopy bed covered in janky pink and lace but no paisley had to be her boudoir. The citrusy aroma to the pot smoke lingered in her most intimate space.

  “I smell the dope,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

  “Brendan, what are we after?” asked Herzog.

  “Look for diaries, snapshots, letters, or notes. The sneaky bitch left something useful behind.”

  I’d check every nook—under the bed, on the closet shelf, and behind the drapes—where a cockroach took refuge. Her Virginia Slim butts studded the ashtray, and her lipstick rings imprinting the butts matched the red shade of her Jaguar. Her birth control pill compact sat next to the ashtray. I tipped out the bureau drawers and pawed in the straps, elastic, and lace before I got bored. She was partial to sarongs, and I fingered the strands of Mardi Gras beads, but I already knew she was a party girl. Next up was the walk-in closet.

  Petite feminine togs crowded the tiered racks. Gypsy skirts and peek-a-boo blouses along with the banana jeans zipping down the ass were her faves. No slinky, purple gown suggested it was her burial apparel. LPs—Uriah Heep, Black Sabbath, Blue Cheer, but no The Devil’s Own—cluttered the closet floor. I toed them into a pile. While frying her brains on pharmaceuticals, I saw she’d grooved to the vintage psychedelic head-bangers.

  My frisk under her mattress went unrewarded. Pensive, I stood waiting as I had at Mama Jo’s gas range stirring the pots of blackberry juices, but no ghost whispers came. No wraiths bedeviled me. Her poltergeist didn’t snipe at my tampering with her belongings. No big shock, I thought. She no longer slept in here but rotted in her clay grave. Dead girls told no tales. Their voices only murmured to unhinged minds like mine.

  “Where’s her dope?” Mr. Kuzawa slammed shut her desk drawer.

  “She was too smart to leave incriminating evidence,” said Herzog.

  “She wasn’t smart enough to stay alive,” I said. “Check under her bed again.”

  Herzog stooped down and looked. “I just see a pair of strappy heels.”

  His jaws tight as a vise, Mr. Kuzawa scoffed between his teeth. “Tear this room back to the wall studs.”

  “Thi
s is thorough enough for us,” I said. “Let’s split before Sizemore sics his goons on us.”

  We exited the mansion for the dark yard and pasture. The weather had altered. An unseasonable cold front marching in had chilled the hills and left us in our shirtsleeves shivering. Mr. Kuzawa clutched my forearm.

  “Put yourself in Sizemore’s shoes. You’re on the lam. Your pursuers carry 12-gauges, but you’ve almost shot your wad. Where do you streak off?”

  “I’d go re-arm myself, say, at the closest store.”

  “While leaving the store in Yellow Snake, I read Sizemore’s name printed on the transom.”

  “I saw you looking up at it.”

  * * *

  “Brendan, did you find what you came for?” asked Ashleigh with an acidic smile.

  “Hardly. Your bedroom yielded no clues.”

  “My bedroom? You pawed through my stuff. I don’t like hearing that from you.”

  “Then why didn’t you say anything to warn me?”

  “Sometimes I get too preoccupied.”

  “Sometimes I think this dialogue between us is bullshit. You’re not real, just a figment of my drugged mind.”

  “You can’t pooh-pooh me. You’re toast without my aid.”

  “Oh, go bugger off. I’ve got my friends.”

  “Do you really?” She snickered. “We’ll test their loyalty.”

  “What do you mean?” My lower back muscles snarled, a spasm almost leaving me paralyzed in my tracks.

  More snickers. “You’ll find out all too soon.”

  By the next moment, the amber “Welcome To Yellow Snake” sign was glimmering in my sleep-crusted eyes. Our trip into town had prodded Ashleigh’s wraith to speak and reveal a Judas schemed in our midst. Or maybe not since she took a perverse joy in taunting me. She wasn’t trustworthy in life or death. Down a side street, Mr. Kuzawa saw the eight-foot cinderblock walls to an unfinished construction project, the ideal cranny to garage my cab truck, and I ditched it behind the wall. We decamped and following the sidewalks hit the quaint shops flanking the deserted main stem.

  The all-purpose store on the next block sat closed. Steel burglar grates guarded the rear windows, forcing us to use the front door. Herzog fretted over the alarm while Mr. Kuzawa used an old skeleton key he carried on his key ring to undo the door’s worn lock. I could make out “~Ralph Sizemore, Owner~” printed in faded gold script on the semi-bright transom. No alarms screeched, protesting our entry. The motor oil and stronger citronella scents made me sneeze as I eased the door back into its jamb.

  “Keep your shit wired tight,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

  Herzog whined. “Doing this I’ll forfeit my law license not to mention my hunting lodge membership.”

  Mr. Kuzawa’s eyes strafed him. “Quit sniveling, lawyer, or I’ll stop it for you.”

  “Let’s get back on task,” I said to defuse his explosive anger.

  “I’ve had a bellyful of listening to his gripes.”

  “Herzog, dial it back,” I said.

  The tall, canyonesque shelves walled the aisles under the grayish, low-lit security lamps. The earlier ambush at Sizemore’s mansion left us wary as we divided. He might lurk on any aisle to pop up, draw a bead, and whack us. I prowled right, Mr. Kuzawa moved left, and Herzog entered the shortest route, down the center aisle to the rear counter. We cleared out our sectors and rallied there.

  “No Sizemore,” said Herzog, sounding relieved. “We can leave.”

  “The slippery eel is outthinking us,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Herzog, hop up front. At any sight of a cop’s wig-wag lights or Sizemore, you holler like a stuck hog.”

  The long barrel guns on display behind the counter’s glass partition suggested how our would-be bandits at the diner had come armed for business. I rummaged below the shelved gun cleaning kits and found the 12-gauge shells in their boxes while Mr. Kuzawa scavenged in the clothing bins.

  “Brendan, grab birdshot loads, too, and I’ll requisition us clothes. We smell like inside the monkey house wearing ours.”

  “Can you hurry it any?” said Herzog posted at the door.

  “Three Andy Jacksons makes us square. Any surplus can count toward their aggravation,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

  “It’s a hell of a lot less than ours is,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Herzog’s droopy posture said he’d better log in some shuteye but he didn’t complain. As we wheeled out of Yellow Snake, Mr. Kuzawa at the helm in my cab truck, the ground mist reflected the white glare off the headlights back into our eyes. As my breath and pulse settled, I cranked the window handle and let in the crisp air. Inhaling the heady fragrance to the honeysuckle robing the roadside fences and mashing my eyes closed were all it took to trip off my dreams.

  What did you ask me, Ashleigh? Am I a born psycho? No, I live with a split personality—half-light, half-dark. You said we Geminis are programmed that way. You know, we see the world in black and white. That’s what I do.

  I said lovers should make love under the stars. No way, you sulked. There’d be no fucking on the dewy grass. The sheets were clean at your lair, so we beelined to the Chewink, Ashleigh girl. We stayed in your decadent crib. Don’t you remember us flirting and fucking in Room 7? How you removed this boy’s clothes, and his innocence? It was exhilarating and liberating.

  After the fireworks, you sighed. “That was awesome, Brendan.”

  You used a duplicitous tone, but I didn’t care. Your huge, luminous eyes hypnotized me. We shared a joint down to the roach you then chewed up like a wafer and swallowed it. Damn that was potent stuff. With your sweaty arm on my bare chest, we plunged into a lavish sleep.

  Just after dawn, I awoke and got up. Your coppery nipples peeked above the hem of the sheet at me. I sang out. Ashleigh, time to get cracking. Silence. Ashleigh, where can we go bum a cup of coffee? Silence. Ashleigh, go ahead and grab a shower. Silence. Ashleigh, where did you stow your nickel bag? But you slept on. And on.

  Panicky, I grabbed your bare shoulders and jiggled you, gently like a doll at first, and then as the fear unglued me, harder until my own teeth clinked like the dice in a gambling cup.

  A tapping came at my elbow, and my eyelids fluttered open. The broken white lines on the two-laner lapsed into my focus, and I felt more of the tapping.

  “Wake up, Brendan,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Riding shotgun you can’t fall asleep.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s not a problem this time, but who knows about the next?”

  Then he wrestled the steering wheel and pinned the gas pedal to whip us out into the other lane. He overtook and exploded by a Kenworth hauling a trailerload of doomed hogs off to the packinghouse in Gatlinburg. Their cold, scared shit blended with mine. You just knew Ashleigh once enslaved the hogs. They’d pet names, but “Brendan Fishback” wasn’t one, at least not quite yet.

  The Kenworth’s high beams soon dwindled to the twin sparks I saw in my dark side mirror. Even if driving like the wind, I’d never outstrip that hog raunch left on me. Never. The hogs’ shitty fate clung to me. Their stink was my stink, and their destiny became my destiny. That’s how it tracked in my mind because I saw no relief waiting ahead for us in this tunnel of gloom.

  Lake Charles was a giant cesspit. Its earth dam created a reservoir to hold all the dark shit running into my life. Two corpses rotted on its shores. Mr. X trussed up in a blanket on the lake bottom might pass for a mobster’s hit job. The cab seat grew hard as if I sat strapped in to Old Sparky, the second hand on the death row clock ticking off my final seconds before it was light bulb city.

  Mr. Kuzawa addressed my brooding silence. “Don’t let the lopsided odds get to you, Brendan. If I drop a dime, we can get a boost in a snap.”

  “Huh?”

  “Cullen.”

  “Cullen is a psycho.”

  “Maybe so but he’s our psycho.

  “Skip using the rangers,” I said. “Who are those people anyway? Why do you keep saying t
hey’ll pitch in with us? It seems like a lot to ask from them or anybody.”

  “Not really. Cullen and I go way back to Korea.”

  “Was he a GI?”

  “He was a beast.”

  “So is he your friend?”

  “That and I saved his hash more than once. Sizemore’s goon squad is nothing with Cullen on our side. We fought and trounced men the twice of Sizemore on his best day.”

  Further out of Yellow Snake the fog thinned before Mr. Kuzawa pulled into the parking lot to a lit up convenience store. He jostled Herzog awake. “Go in and buy some No Doze pills. Both of you better stay alert. Dozing off is what gets you killed.”

  The rumpled Herzog shuffled off into the store, and a few minutes later he returned. After hopping out, I let him squeeze into the cab, and my slammed door preceded Mr. Kuzawa’s edgy whistle.

  “Brendan, you won’t believe this shit.”

  I didn’t like his ominous tone. “Not more grief, I hope.”

  He knuckled his side mirror outward, bettering his sightline. “A red Caddy just nosed up. They docked it on this side of the gas pumps. See it?”

  Peering over with him, I nodded.

  “A red Cadillac?” Herzog’s frame stiffened, his eyes bulging. “Is it the same one that stopped at Gabriel’s Diner?”

  “Must be. The same four punks rolled out, all armed.”

  “See the one in a Mohawk?” I said.

  “Yeah, he’s probably the chief.”

  “Yep, they’re the ones.”

  “Don’t they know when to quit?” said Herzog.

  “Brendan, are you up for pissing in their soup?”

  “No, but is there any stopping you?” I unlatched my truck door, and Mr. Kuzawa unlimbered our 12-gauges racked along the bottom of the cab seat.

  “Have you lost your marbles?”

  “Pipe down, Herzog, and keep your eyes peeled.” Mr. Kuzawa pumped in the 00-buckshot shells taken from the new box. “If any cop flashes up, you lean on that horn. Make it loud. We’ll hustle out and race off like a raped ape.”