Angry Buddhist (9781609458867)

by Greenland, Seth

  The first thing Jimmy notices is an old Pit Bull resting on a filthy pillow. The wall is a collage of naked women taken from girly magazines, a multi-ethnic forest of breasts, shaved pudenda, and perfectly formed derrieres so profuse as to almost be abstract. A wiry Latino with a gray ponytail that flops over a work shirt, greasy jeans and black boots looks up from a ledger.

  “Can I help you?” The man’s tone is friendly.

  Jimmy holds off on badging him. “Does a guy called Odin Brick work here?”

  “He owe you money or something?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Ain’t seen him since last week.”

  “He quit?”

  “Ain’t showed up for work, ain’t called in sick. Ain’t got a job no more, you know? I got a business to run.” The man smiles, but he’s done talking. Jimmy senses the man wants him gone.

  “What kind of guy is he?”

  “You a cop?”

  “Used to be. Now I work with the District Attorney’s office.”

  “What he do?”

  “We’re not sure yet, but I want to talk to him.”

  Jimmy takes out a pad, folds it open and asks the man’s name. The man says, “You first,” so Jimmy introduces himself and the man tells him his name is Roberto Ayala, but everyone calls him Papi. “I hired Odin ‘cause he said he been to Afghanistan to fight with the Marines. Support the troops, right?”

  “Any of his friends ever come around?”

  “Never saw no one.”

  Jimmy ponders this as he glances around the office. He focuses on a woman in the collage whose face reminds him of Darleen’s. Briefly, his mind flits to his ex-wife and he realizes he doesn’t even know where she’s living. He turns to the sleeping Pit Bull.

  “One last thing. What’s the dog’s name?”

  “That’s Gasoline.”

  “Mind if I take his picture?”

  “No problem.”

  As Jimmy pulls out his cell phone to photograph the dog, he hears a boy yelling “Papi, check this out.” Looking over he sees a young Latino kid, maybe twelve, popping a wheelie on a motorized bicycle with high, motorcycle-style handlebars. The engine on the bike is bright red and when the kid pulls up outside the door of the office Jimmy can see it’s new.

  “Nice bike,” Jimmy says to the kid. “Where’d you get it?” Papi glances at Jimmy. Where’s this going?

  “My uncle gave it to me,” the kid says, looking at Papi.

  “I used to have one just like it,” Jimmy says. “Put the engine in myself.” He sees Papi relax a little. “Where’d you get the engine?”

  “e-Bay,” Papi says. “Stuff they got is amazing.”

  “Sure is,” Jimmy says, nodding. The kid looks at Papi, wondering if he did anything wrong. Papi stares at Jimmy. The Pit Bull stretches but doesn’t get up, and Jimmy takes his picture.

  “You got a receipt from the e-Bay purchase?” Jimmy says, casual.

  “Threw it out,” Papi says.

  Jimmy nods. “Of course you did.” Then, to the kid: “Enjoy the bike.”

  He returns to his truck, marveling at a world where an auto body business in Fontana can be a chop shop for stolen wheelchairs.

  http://WWW.DESERT-MACHIAVELLI.COM

  11.6 – 2:17 P.M.

  Every November the Machiavelli has his faith in our system restored. It may erode all other days of the year but Election Day is always a new dawn. Year after year the voters may send the same parade of lying pimps and crooked whores back to Congress but the beauty of democracy is that there’s always a chance things might improve. Unfortunately, we in the desert don’t have much of an opportunity to raise the bar today. The incumbent is a hack who reflects no glory on his constituents. But the challenger? She’s not qualified to run a P.T.A meeting much less walk the hallowed if slightly tainted halls of Congress. She is a liar, a demagogue, and one of her major local supporters, suspended Desert Hot Springs Chief of Police Harding Marvin, is in the middle of a murder investigation. I’m no fan of Duke’s, but compared to the Flight Attendant, he is Nelson Mandela. Today, I will hold my nose and pull the lever for him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Odin and House Cat are in a motel room on Highway 16 just outside the town of Victorville at the northwestern edge of the Mojave Desert. It’s a run-down single story place with a battered sign out front that reads Cable TV Swimming Pool Vacancy. Twin beds are covered with musty patterned bedspreads. On the side of the room closest to the window is a table with two matching wood chairs. Littered with fast food wrappers and pizza boxes, the place exudes a locker room fug. The Venetian blinds are drawn, the dark drapes closed and only the flickering light of the television illuminates the shadows.

  The previous Saturday Odin had awakened from his drug-induced slumber to discover Princess had abandoned him, taking their son and five thousand dollars in cash. In what he believed to be a particularly cruel gesture, she also absconded with his agoraphobia medication, which left had him scared to leave the house alone. Fearful the police would show up to question him about his treatment for gunshot wounds at the hospital, he immediately called House Cat who drove down in his dented blood red ’98 Toyota Corolla to pick him up. Odin didn’t want to leave the Impala behind since he thought Princess might come back and steal it, so he convinced his partner to leave the Corolla parked on a nearby street. When House Cat asked Odin why they couldn’t just leave the Impala on a nearby street, Odin had replied: Because I think the bitch has superpowers and she’ll track it down like a fuckin Indian, that’s why.

  For the last three days they have been holed up in this room, waiting for Dale to come up with the remainder of the money he owes. Odin lies on the bed sipping a can of soda. House Cat paces as he talks on a cell phone. Neatly dressed in dark pants and a checked shirt, he could be on his way to talk to a loan officer at a bank. Belying the circumstances, his voice is relaxed, even friendly. “This is the fourth message I’m leaving. Today’s the day, buddy. I won’t threaten you, cause I don’t think I need to. You already know what we do.” House Cat clicks the phone shut and runs his ringed fingers over his crew cut. Turning to Odin, he says, “Think Dale’s gonna have the money?”

  “Where’s he gonna get it?”

  “From whoever it was told him to hire us. Didn’t need that lady out of the picture for himself, did he? We’re subcontractors.”

  “You gonna go down there and talk to him?”

  “Am I?”

  “I ain’t leaving the motel room less you get me those meds.”

  “I’m not talking to Dale alone.”

  “What are you worried about? He’s a damn cripple.”

  “Maybe he’s got a gun. Maybe I walk up to him and he shoots me.”

  Odin finishes his soda, belches and tosses the empty on the floor. “Get me some Zoloft and I’m your wingman. Until then, I’ll lie here and watch ESPN.”

  “Can’t you treat this thing you got with homeopathy, some herbs or something?”

  “What, like oregano? I got a diagnosed condition, dude.” Odin’s eyes steady on the football game. “I need some motherfuckin Zoloft.”

  Odin rises from the bed and lumbers to the bathroom in his socks, leaving the door open behind him. House Cat sits on one of the chairs, places his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his hands. He’s not happy with Odin who is proving to be significantly higher maintenance than he had originally anticipated. There was the call to scoop him up from his home in the Antelope Valley—House Cat had found him curled in a ball on the living room floor—after his wife bolted with the kid and the money. Odin brought his own pillow, which House Cat found peculiar, even after it was explained that a prison psychiatrist had advised having certain familiar objects with him if he was going to be away from home for an extended period of time. On the drive to Victorville Odin had insisted on lying in the backseat covered with a ratty blanket because he claimed it was the only way he could stave off an attack. Then he suggested th
at since he had been the one to get shot, and now his wife had stolen his share, House Cat should split his own share so Odin wouldn’t come out of this with nothing but a shredded face. House Cat is getting tired of dealing with Odin. He’s starting to understand why Princess left. Whatever homoerotic attraction existed has dissipated significantly in the wake of three days in this motel room. And now House Cat is supposed to track down Zoloft just so the two of them could make the trip down to Mecca to put the screws to Dale? This is not working for him at all. Where, exactly, is he supposed to get his hands on Zoloft?

  “The V.A. Hospital in Los Angeles,” Odin says as he returns from the bathroom and once again reclines on the bed. “I’ll give you my drivers’ license and you tell them you’re me.”

  “There’s no resemblance, man.” House Cat not bothering to look at him. “No one’s gonna believe I’m you, especially if I’m trying to cop prescription drugs.”

  House Cat would just as soon abandon Odin right here. Too scared to leave, whomever it is that runs this dump would eventually call the police and that would be the end of him. But then House Cat would have to deal with Dale on his own. Dale: he was wily, no mistake, and wouldn’t allow himself to be surprised in his own bed again. No, House Cat would have to get his partner medicated so the two of them could go down to Mecca and collect.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  As the daytime blue seeps from the sky and washes of yellowish pink and vermillion appear on the Eastern horizon Jimmy drives home where he feeds Bane and Bruno—yes, Bruno. The Chihuahua has moved into the trailer. He was not going to abandon the jumpy little bastard to Coral’s tender mercies—and slices some garlic and lemon, breads two chicken cutlets, and cooks dinner for himself. When he glances at the clock over the kitchen sink, he sees it’s just past eight. The polls close in a little under an hour. He briefly thinks about voting but decides against it.

  Later in the evening, Jimmy turns on the news and sees that Randall Duke has been declared the winner, re-elected by less than five hundred votes. This comes as something of a surprise since he thought Mary Swain was going to win. So, apparently, did Mary Swain and she is demanding a recount. An urge arises to throw a hammer through the television screen but he recognizes the flash of anger—At his brothers? At Mary Swain? He doesn’t even know—but he recognizes it for the temporary manifestation that it is and so waits for it to abate. In the meantime, he slips the fish tank DVD into the player, turns off the news and settles in to watch the various mollies, tetras, swordtails, and angelfish swim hypnotically back and forth across his television screen.

  In the silent glow of the video fish tank, Jimmy reflects that with this election outcome the self-satisfaction level at which Randall exists will not decrease. Still, he finds himself wanting to muss Randall’s spray-hard hair and this gets Jimmy wondering about why he can’t seem to go two seconds without considering his brothers, and the way their lives resonate with his. It is as if part of him requires the upset they cause. Is he addicted to feeling angry? This had not previously occurred to him. And it strikes him as a serious insight. Never one to traffic in the language of addiction, Jimmy wonders if he is addicted to his own anger the way a smoker comes to depend on the nicotine buzz or the way runners can become addicted to endorphins. Is it actually something he uses as a motor to drive him in his work and life? It would go some of the way to explaining his marriage having gone south—not that Darleen didn’t share the blame, but upon recollection, he did seem to be pissed off a lot when she was around—and it was directly related to the end of his tenure at the Desert Hot Springs Police Department. His violent behavior toward criminals had led to Hard mandating the anger management class, and Jimmy’s failure to complete the course led to his raised tension with Hard, so when the business with Bruno occurred there was no reservoir of goodwill to fall back on and it had cost him his job. He concludes that, yes, there probably is some truth to this theory of anger addiction and that he is thinking about it is a hopeful sign since it means he is refining the ability to observe the darker thoughts from a distance and more effectively manage them.

  He doesn’t want to take Dale down, but this is how it goes. As for Randall, he deserves it. He has a moment where he fantasizes calling Randall and telling him it’s over, but realizes the fleeting sense of satisfaction that would provide will only give Randall time to plan a countermove. Jimmy considers calling Cali and telling her what he has found out but thinks perhaps he will take the information directly to the District Attorney. Why tell Cali or Arnaldo, or Glenn Korver, or even Oz Spengler? This one is all his.

  He thinks about logging on-line to talk to Bodhi Colletti. He wants to thank her for helping him to clarify his thoughts.

  The phone rings. Jimmy debates whether or not to get up and answer it given that he is feeling calm now. But he thinks it might be Cali, so he picks up without checking caller ID. Maxon.

  “Where are you, Jimmy?”

  “What’s it to you where I am?”

  “I’d like it if you stopped by the victory party tonight.”

  When Jimmy hears this he stops breathing for a moment. Is he ready to go down there and speak to Randall at the celebration? Does he want to risk a scene? Taking note of his moist palms, he notices his mind is not as settled as he had thought. It occurs to Jimmy that there is a perfect place to put his insight about whether he is addicted to his anger to a real world test. He will talk to Maxon, he will see Randall, Dale will probably be there, too. He needs to do this, to challenge himself in this way, to stay calm and collected in the face of adverse stimuli because only when he masters this aspect of life can he turn his existence into something other than a daily trial. And tomorrow he will walk into the District Attorney’s office.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The Cahuilla Casino is a sixteen story neon-trimmed curvilinear monolith that looms over the flat desert floor like a spaceship. It’s just after ten o’clock when Jimmy pulls into the crowded parking lot. He’s running through how he’s going to play Dale. Jimmy won’t mention Odin Brick at first. Instead, he’ll just concentrate on what Dale has been doing since he’s been out, who he’s been talking to, what his plans are. Remembers Dale likes whiskey and Coke and plans to buy him a few. Get him loose, talkative, in a sharing mood. Dale likes to jabber and Jimmy knows if he’s drunk enough, his tendency to brag is dependable.

  A grand piano-sized faux-crystal chandelier illuminates the crowded lobby. Jimmy stands on the black marble floor and peers around. To his right, people drift in and out of the casino in a haze of dreamy avarice. Straight ahead is a curved stairwell that leads to the second floor where Randall’s party is being held in the main ballroom. As Jimmy is moving in that direction, he sees Arnaldo and Cali. He’s happy to see Cali, gives her a sideways smile, but she does not reciprocate. It makes him glad he didn’t call her earlier. Was it going to be awkward between them now?

  “Jimmy, can we talk to you outside?” Arnaldo says.

  “Sure.” Jimmy trying to process the ramifications of their presence. Then, lowers his voice: “What’s up?”

  Cali indicates the front door with a tilt of her chin and the three of them move toward it. Jimmy wonders if there’s been some kind of break in the case, whether he’s been beaten to the punch. If Cali and Arnaldo are here, he reasons, something around the campaign must have taken on a stink.

  Outside in the warm evening, standing beneath the porte-cochere in the lurid light of the valet parking station, Jimmy turns to his colleagues.

  “You’re gonna tell me it’s not Hard?”

  “This is gonna seem kind of wrong to you,” Arnaldo says.

  “We don’t like it either.” From Cali.

  “You got to be cool, okay?” Arnaldo again.

  “Yeah, yeah, what?” Jimmy.

  “You promise?” Cali once more. Now she smiles, but Jimmy senses it’s forced. Cali and Arnaldo exchange a furtive glance but neither moves.

  “I’m going back inside.” J
immy. Frustrated.

  Arnaldo grabs his arm, says, “You can’t do that.”

  “What are you talking about?” To Cali, “What’s he talking about?”

  “What he says, Jimmy. You can’t go back inside.”

  “Because?”

  “You’re under arrest,” Arnaldo says.

  “Funny,” Jimmy says.

  He starts walking back into the casino but as soon as he does, Cali and Arnaldo grab him with enough force to let him know immediately this is not a joke and he only resists for the second it takes his conscious mind to control the part of his brain that reflexively prepares to fight. When they see he is not going to lash out, they let go. Jimmy’s eyes challenge his former comrades to provide some kind of explanation for this absurd turn of events.

  “We’ve got to take your gun,” Cali says. The wrinkle of her lips suggests an aborted attempt at a sympathetic expression but her eyes are flint.

  Arnaldo apologizes as he reaches inside Jimmy’s sports coat and removes his police-issue revolver. Checking the load, he takes the bullets out, puts them in his pocket then thrusts the gun into his belt. A crowd of revelers rolls past, not even glancing at the trio playing this surpassingly strange tune. Jimmy is thankful he doesn’t know any of them.

  “What are you arresting me for?”

  “Grand larceny and falsifying a police report,” Cali says.

  Jimmy is dumbstruck, pole-axed, no idea what this is about.

  Arnaldo informs him: “Someone tipped the Town Supervi­sor about you and the dog. Guy’s so spooked about Hard everything has to be detergent clean.”

  The sag in Jimmy’s shoulders is barely perceptible but it is the sign of defeat. This round is over and he is on the canvas, staring at the lights. Arnaldo and Cali seem almost embarrassed and genuinely regret having to do this. Jimmy nearly feels sorry for them. He nods like he understands, let’s get on with it, perform the charade, then all go home. Out of respect, they will not put the bracelets on.