“You don’t have nice furniture, you don’t get the good clientele.”
“Long as their money’s green, who cares?”
“It’s not just the money, Odin. You want something with some taste and refinement.”
“Fuck that.”
“Where are you gonna get with that attitude?”
“To Vegas with a couple of hookers and a basket full of poker chips.”
“What about your cute little wife?”
“Long as I buy her a cute little truck, she’ll be all right.”
“Think the two of you might want to work at the bed and breakfast?”
Odin’s not sure if House Cat is kidding. Opening a bed and breakfast is the older man’s dream, not his. Odin didn’t even know what a bed and breakfast was until House Cat told him. And honestly, it sounds pretty damn gay. He doesn’t want to tell that to House Cat, though. Where is the upside? Odin views himself as a practical man and there is nothing to be gained by pissing on his colleague’s dream. If that’s where the man wants to dump his money, it’s fine by him. He notices House Cat is looking in his direction.
“Not the life for me,” Odin tells him.
“Fine. Suit yourself.” Turns his attention back to the magazine.
It’s another sweltering afternoon and the Impala’s air conditioning is balky so the windows are down. Odin’s doing about seventy and a continuous rush of stifling air fills the car, gritty on their skin. Odin knows that House Cat wants to have sex with him, isn’t put off by his frequent protestations that he’s straight. But they have an understanding: the man so much as places a hand on his arm, Odin will get violent. House Cat tried it in a jokey way one time after a couple of sloe gins, got an elbow in his windpipe. It scared Odin that he had hit the old queen so hard, made him wonder exactly what was it he was reacting to so dramatically. When House Cat finally recovered the ability to speak, he told Odin he might want to think about what he’d done, one, because House Cat was his friend, and, two, because it could land him back in the joint on a parole violation, assault being frowned upon by those tasked with keeping tabs on ex-criminals. House Cat’s circumspect, not to say kind, reaction nearly caused Odin to lose it again but he didn’t have it in him to inflict further damage that day. He worries about his ability to feel sorry for someone like House Cat, makes him think he might be going soft. He’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen. Show some belly and House Cat might take it the wrong way. Maybe he’s on the far side of forty, but he is no punk. Guys didn’t mess with him inside; the man could hold his own on the yard.
“We have to get the car washed,” House Cat says.
“The fuck is wrong with my car?”
“It’s filthy, Odin, easier to indentify. If it’s clean it just looks like another car.”
“So now it looks like another dirty car.”
House Cat exhales through his nostrils. “I’m just saying we need to take precautions.”
Odin doesn’t like that his partner is frustrated with him, thinks maybe he should back off on the car wash, not worth a beef. “We’ll get a car wash, all right? Don’t have kittens.”
Odin wants the job to go well. Princess and Chance King are bursting out of their little house and he has promised her something roomier, something he can’t afford on a mechanic’s salary. The money he’s going to split with House Cat figures to be the biggest payday he’s ever had, a lottery jackpot. He’d like to buy health insurance for his family. In prison, he developed agoraphobia and the pills he takes to control it cost him nearly two hundred dollars a month.
Odin was working at Papi’s Auto Salvage in Fontana pulling the engine out of a ’94 Le Sabre when his boss told him he had a phone call. He hadn’t seen House Cat in a year, hadn’t missed him either. Odin’s parole required that he stay away from ex-cons, but curiosity said hello to financial anxiety and he agreed to a meet at Chavela’s Bar on West Highland in San Bernardino. The drive from Fontana to San Bernardino lacked appeal but when House Cat told him he was coming down from Barstow, way up north—relatively speaking—he relented. Princess was working the night shift at the Fed Ex depot so he brought his son to the meet, dosing the kid with Benadryl to prevent a fuss.
Country music on the jukebox, a couple of drunks at the bar, a gang of bikers in the corner, and a waitress who looked like Clint Eastwood. The kid snoozed next to Odin in the booth while he listened to House Cat talk over a tequila sunrise. Someone needed a job done and House Cat figured two would work better than one, was he in? Odin took a sip from his longneck and nodded. Didn’t even have to think about it. He’d just been discharged from the military when he got popped for a DUI. It should have gone down like milk, no more than a night in jail and some legal fees if he hadn’t grabbed for the officer’s gun. The judge sentenced him to three years, no mercy for a veteran. Served nearly eighteen months, time off for good behavior. Out six months now, working part time on dead cars for peanuts, looking to move into the next tax bracket, listening to House Cat tell him someone needs to take a short vacation.
Tough to get ahead with a prison record following you around like a hangover. Odin hears doors closing in his sleep now, only job he can get at the auto salvage where he’s the one worker who speaks English and the air reeks of engine grease and oil. Will I do it? Shit, yeah, I’ll do it, I’m a lean, mean government trained killing machine, your motherfuckin tax dollars at work he told House Cat, as he adjusted Chance King’s bottle in his mouth. How much Benadryl can you put in a kid’s milk anyway? Had he given the boy too much? How could you tell? Kids were like algebra, another thing Odin doesn’t understand. But he loved his son. Could have done without the crying, goddamn that was annoying. And he wanted to provide, be a man. Odin ordered another beer and asked when the opportunity was going to avail itself. This was yesterday.
The five large he received in advance is safe in his house, the next five payable upon completion of the job. Too easy. He only hopes House Cat doesn’t put a hand on his knee. He might kill him and no one is going to pay for that.
Odin reaches under his seat and pulls out a .38 caliber military-issue pistol. He brandishes it in front of House Cat.
“Say hi to Sweet Thing.”
House Cat is not happy that his partner brought a gun along since he doesn’t trust him not to use it.
“You gave your piece a name?”
“Marine special stole off a munitions depot.”
“Why don’t you put Sweet Thing away?”
“You’re gonna be glad we have it,” Odin says, shoving it back under the seat.
Times might have been tough recently, and Princess might have a foot out the door, but he knows the money from this job will make her give him another chance. There’s still time to save his family. Odin hasn’t felt a sense of purpose like this since he was hunting jihadis in the parched hills of Central Asia. And who knows, if this job works out, if he and House Cat turn out to be a good team, maybe it’s just the beginning. Odin presses the accelerator, eases the Impala up to seventy-five, then eighty. He likes his future.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Vonda Jean is out teaching a jiu-jitsu class when Hard returns from work a little after seven in the evening. He knows she won’t be home for a few more hours so he empties a can of chili into a bowl and puts it in the microwave. While it heats up he takes a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator and then he eats the chili and drinks the beer standing at the kitchen counter. It’s been a day since Vonda Jean threatened to dump Bane on the side of the road but Hard knows her patience is limited. He finishes the dinner, puts the dishes in the sink and heads to the garage where he lifts the lid of the oblong freezer and gazes upon his friend. The folds of Bane’s black muzzle are stiff and frost has formed on his eyelids. In his current condition he reminds Hard of a dog in one of the Yukon poems he loves so well. He only wishes Bane fell doing battle with a wolf pack instead of at the hands of an unhinged tanning technician.
Hard takes a r
ed camp blanket from a shelf and spreads it on the floor of the garage. Grabs Bane by the front knees, hoists him out of the freezer and thuds him on to the blanket. The dog hits the floor with a force that makes Hard think for a second the corpse might crack in two, but Bane retains his structural integrity. Although Hard will not admit this to Vonda Jean, he is glad she insisted on not allowing Bane to be stuffed. Absent the spirit that animated him, Bane looks like nothing more than road kill. Hard upbraids himself for having been sentimental. Then he folds the blanket over his late companion and, heaving, grunting, muscles him toward the driveway and into the bed of his pickup next to a metal can that contains a gallon of gasoline.
Back in the house, he grabs an unopened pint bottle of bourbon and a Robert Service paperback. Tosses them on the front seat. Heads east from Twentynine Palms, then south on Gold Park Road and deep into the desert night. Hard turns on the radio to hear some music, but after a couple of seconds realizes music does not dovetail with the gloomy nature of his mission so he presses the off button and continues his journey in respectful silence.
Hard ruminates about funerals as the truck glides through the starry blackness. He did a little research on the Internet and now he knows a thing or two about how different cultures deal with the dead. He knows about Tibetan sky burials where the corpse is left on a rock in the Himalayas and birds dine on the remains until nothing is left but bleached bone. He read about Viking funerals where the dead warrior is placed on a boat that is then set aflame before being sent out to sea on the wind. And he learned about Egyptians who entombed their pharaohs in vast pyramids with gold and jewelry—and sometimes living slaves—to accompany them to the afterlife. Bane is deserving of a grand send off and Hard regrets not being able to provide one. He had thought briefly about doing the Viking version over at the Salton Sea and concluded that not only would procuring a small boat on short notice be challenging in the desert, but should anyone see him it would be difficult to explain what the police chief of Desert Hot Springs was doing there with a defrosting Rottweiler and a flaming dingy.
The road dead ends twenty minutes later and Hard pulls over. Throws a flashlight, the book and the bottle of bourbon into a knapsack, climbs out of the truck. Lashes the gallon of gasoline to the knapsack. Hard looks toward the mountains in the distance, their hulking silhouette rising from the desert floor. He fills his lungs with the cool night air and picks a spot on the mountaintop. That will be his point of reference. Then he hoists the corpse over his back and bending under the weight sets off into the night.
Hard briefly investigated pet cemeteries but concluded there was something effeminate about them, something sappy and weak. Bane was a masculine dog, a burly canine and Hard doesn’t want him to spend eternity in Pet Heaven Park next to Fritzie the Labradoodle. Where was the dignity in that?
A pale crescent moon hangs over the rocky Mojave landscape. Juniper and mesquite trees cast shadows along the desert plain. Hard trudges along, stumbling occasionally under his burden, but he remains on his feet. He’s already miles away from any living human but he doesn’t want to perform his task near the road. He’s calculated that he will cover a mile of this terrain in about twenty minutes, even with the mass he’s carrying. Five minutes into his walk he begins to sweat. Bane’s body is not only heavy, but unwieldy and Hard has to keep shifting his weight to keep the dog on his shoulders. Hard is breathing heavily, panting at the exertion. This kind of weight is a lot for a young man to hump through the desert and Hard isn’t exactly a spring flower. He thinks back to basic training, brutal hikes under searing sun, toting packs that weighed what he’s carrying tonight. Pleased he hasn’t keeled over. Imagines that headline: “Local Law Enforcement Official Collapses While Burying Dead Pet.” Is he out of his mind to be doing this? Hard is brought back from contemplation of his potential humiliation by the strain in his lower back. Adjusts the weight again. Doesn’t want to pull a muscle. Ten minutes more and he’s sweated through his undershirt. Feels his heart drumbeating in his ribcage. Starts to worry that Bane could begin to thaw out before they reach the destination. What would that smell like? The breeze on his face reminds him of the coolness of the evening. He’d like to look up and see the stars but the weight of his cargo keeps his head canted forward. Maybe Canis Major is visible tonight, Hard’s favorite constellation. To behold Sirius the Dog Star, brightest star in the sky and a stellar tribute to Bane.
Rivulets of sweat run down his shaved dome and down his face. Checks his watch. Twenty minutes of walking is a mile. Five minutes to go. Hard had told himself he’d walk a mile in to the desert and he’ll be damned if he does anything less. He may ignore marital vows, laws even, but when he tells himself he’s going to do something, he knows he’ll do it.
Hard steps on a rock, loses his balance and recovers, hops lightly, a little dance, before straightening out with a grunt, re-orienting with the mountaintop. Deeper and deeper he walks, stumbling through the desiccated creosote bushes, the night breeze drying his moist face. Five minutes later Hard exhales through his mouth, gets down on his knee and with the aspect of Mary in the Pieta, lowers Bane to the ground. Takes a moment to catch his breath. Looks up at the sky, the stars. He spots Ursa Major, the bear. He’s glad there’s an animal up there. Likes the symmetry of it, the connection between stars and earth and it makes him feel less alone. Reflects on his good fortune at being born with a sense of direction or he might just wander off into the Nothing.
A little fortification is in order. Some consecration of the circumstances. Hard takes the bourbon out of his knapsack and unscrews the top. Puts it to his lips, tilts his head back and swallows. Relishes the burn in his throat. By the third belt he’s a little lightheaded. Realizes he had better get down to business.
Hard places the bourbon gently on the ground, screws the bottle into the dirt to make sure it doesn’t tip over and detaches the gallon of gasoline from the knapsack. He stands over Bane for a moment, remembers the joy he shared with the dog. Shared wasn’t the right word exactly, since he had no idea if Bane felt any joy, although he did wag his tail whenever it was just the two of them. What Hard will miss most about Bane is how he feels when they’re together in the desert, or in the mountains, beneath the measureless sky, man and beast in the primordial world. It’s always just the two of them, no one else there, and it is beautifully uncomplicated. It was easier than being with Nadine who has become a goddamn unguided missile. And it was sure as hell more pleasant than being with Vonda Jean. Hard plain and simple preferred Bane to humans and now the pleasure of his company would be denied him until the end of Time. He really could kill Nadine for doing this. Nadine. Goddamn, why did he talk to her that night in the convenience store? Why couldn’t he have just walked away instead of falling right into the honey pot? The woman jams a fork into his neck, would have bled to death if she’d hit the carotid, and then she poisons the one living creature he interacted with on a daily basis and still cared about.
Now Hard grinds his knees on the desert floor, a supplicant. And he’s here because of Nadine. If he isn’t going to kill the woman, at least he can put the fear of God into her, create a sense of the acute spiritual discomfort he feels, the sense that something wrong is happening and can not be stopped.
Takes another swig of the bourbon. Pulls out his cell phone and dials. One, two, three, four rings, then that voice, the one that makes him grind his teeth tells him to leave a message.
“Nadine, you fuckin cunt.” Hard turning on the charm. “I know what you did to Bane and I want you to know you’re gonna spend the rest of your life looking over your pretty shoulder.”
That feels good. Emboldened and exhilarated by the liquor, the delivery of this threat has irrationally buoyed him. If nothing else that should make her worry. It’s not like she can report him for it either, since she killed his dog. Let her try to explain that one. His anger at Nadine is an animating force, coursing through him, making his cells howl in wordless grief. Hard is most alive when h
e hates something. Right now it’s Nadine and what he is feeling for her is positively vivifying. But the rage slowly subsides like a tide washing out to sea, and he’s left with the sadness of the dead dog at his feet. Realizes that, as much as he’d like to, staying in the desert all night is not an option. There’s work in the morning, responsibilities.
Hard pours the gasoline over Bane soaking the fur from stem to stern. Although he is drunk, he is not so drunk that he doesn’t know he should place the container several feet away from the drenched corpse. That would be embarrassing—How’d you blow yourself up, Hard? Lighting your dead dog on fire?—Then he returns to the body and gets down on one knee. Thinks about praying—God bless the soul of this dog—but Hard isn’t big on religion and since the feeling is more reflexive than real it quickly dissipates.
He removes a book of matches from his pocket, strikes one and drops it on the animal’s flank. Flames immediately engulf the body and in a few seconds the acrid stench of burning fur fills the air.
From the knapsack he retrieves the Robert Service paperback and the flashlight. His face lit by his flaming pet, Hard opens the book. Fumbles with the flashlight but gets it aimed at the page. Then he begins to read the poem My Dog. In a ringing voice that carries over the harsh desert plain toward the dark mountains, Hard intones:
My dog is dead. Though lone I be
I’ll never have another;
For with his master-worship he. . .
By the time he reaches the end Hard is weeping desolate tears. He is not the kind of man who will display any emotion other than anger in public and sadness, which he is capable of feeling deeply, is something he will never reveal to an audience. But alone, here in the desert under the eternal night sky, he lets the melancholy course through him and as flames consume his friend and boon companion, Hard is wracked with heaving convulsive sobs. He cries for his lost youth, and his grown sons, and his dead marriage. He feels weak, pathetic even, but the bourbon has done its job and he doesn’t care at all so he lets it flow and then he raises his arms to the heavens and roars a low sound, rough and resonant, that is beyond words and thoughts and is grief pure and deep coming from a bottomless well he hasn’t drank from in years and he yells and rumbles, the demons running free, venting, purifying, and the fire consumes the flesh and the glow dances on Hard’s face and the sounds drift into the still desert night mingling with the smell of the fire and then Hard is suddenly exhausted and he sinks down near the pyre, his dead companion partially consumed now and he puts the bourbon to his lips and swallows deeply, feels the lightning down his throat and all the way to his heart which throbs in quick sorrow.
Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) Page 17
