by Jason Ridler
The man in the soccer jersey shook the pistol. “What I want is my job back! But that bastard fired me! And don’t call me friend!”
My hands reached for the sky. “Easy, sir, I didn’t mean to agitate an already aggravated situation. You said you were fired?”
“By that fat bastard.”
Ares spoke dark and guttural, using a swear that doesn’t have an English equivalent, unless you count the phrase “man who masturbates himself into stupidity.”
“Shut up! You fired me because you think I’m stupid, some dumb Mexican, and hire a white idiot who you can push around.”
Ares’s voice was a low grumbling made of scorched lungs and fresh nicotine. “You stole, Juan. That’s why I fired you.”
“I didn’t steal anything!”
“Juan?” I said, taking a short step forward to steal focus from Nico or Ares and tried not to wet myself. “Can I call you Juan?” The stares I received confirmed that both men thought I was an idiot who masturbated himself into stupidity. “You have every right to be angry. Finding work is hard these days. Hell, the new waiter stole from me.”
“You see!” Juan said to Ares, pistol still shaking against Nico’s hooded ear. “You hire a thief, after firing me? All I did was work hard!” Nico’s body shook. Good God, the kid had been through enough.
“No one said you didn’t work hard,” I said, stepping forward.
Juan focused on me. “Who are you to tell me about hard work. You’re some rich man dressed for the prom.”
I smiled, awkwardly. “Juan, this is a rental. And given how many stains are on it I suspect it’s going to be an eternal rental.” I brought my next step up a little closer than the last one. “I’m what my pop called rat’s ass poor, though I know that don’t mean I’ve walked in your shoes. The way you’re shuffling? That’s because you’ve got cardboard in your soles to cover up a hole. You needed this job like a fish needs water and without it you’re drowning. Right?”
“I didn’t steal anything.”
“I believe you.”
Sliding my right foot forward, I inched my way closer to what I call the circle of trust: where a human being starts to worry that you can nab, tag, and grab them. “Stay back!”
The muzzle snapped from kissing Nico’s hood to brandishing its maw at me. My heart punched my chest fast enough to remind me I was now dancing at the very edge of my existence. Blinking, I caught a sight of Nico, but her eyes were down, face placid, as if this was normal. Strange, likely because she’d seen too much trauma.
“I said stay back!” screamed a new voice.
The ugly click of a hammer being cocked crept from behind Juan.
Down the counter, one of the hunchies, the counter-top lifers at bars and diners, had drawn his own piece, a Heckler and Koche, preferred souvenir handgun of American MPs in West Berlin, the kind you brag about at the Legion because you underpaid the Kraut who sold it to you on the black market. The man had too much flesh under a strong chin and was salt-and-pepper gray, with the same haircut he’d had since he was a recruit, shaved down to a crisp edge. But his eyes were sharp, like Ares, that generation who’d learned to kill for five years, then go to work the next day. He wore black shirt under a green vest that hid the holster on his left.
My nose crinkled. Fucking guns. For what good they’ve done in the world, they’d multiplied death via stupidity by a factor of ten. Two trained killers, one scared kid, and my client were all nestled into a confined space with the chance for maximum casualties increasing as the sweat beads collected down my spine.
“Drop the weapon,” said the former MP in annoying command voice, somewhere between football coach and kindergarten teacher. “Now, spic. Nice and easy”
Juan’s glare went atomic, so I stepped forward again and all the rage drew down on me. “One more step and I’ll kill you!”
“I know,” I said, the worry in my voice pure and honest. “You’re mad, Juan. You have every right to be. It’s hard to get work. And losing a job, hell, it feels like the end of the world. But something tells me you’re a survivor, Juan. You don’t give up. And you were raised to think life was fair, and when LA proved that theory wrong, you were scrambling for scraps. Busing tables, well, it’s a great way to stay fed when the tips are weaker than the coffee. No offense, Ares.” Ares shrugged. “I’m sorry you lost your job, but I bet this day isn’t turning out like you planned, so I want to offer you a choice.” The old MP was giving me the worst case of Sour Puss and Stink Eye I’d seen since I flubbed my first magic trick in front of Edgar. “Now, the old man drawing down on you has you dead-center. He could puncture your spine, put you in a wheel chair.
“But I tell you what, if he does that or worse, I’ll testify to say he started it.”
“Fuck you, faggot!” the former MP said, gun still trained on Juan. “I’m saving that lady.”
“No,” I said. “You increased the likelihood of carnage in here by a factor of stupid.”
“Watch your mouth, asshole, or I’ll—”
“Both of you, shut up!” Juan said, pushing Nico forward but the gun still trained on me. “A couple of gringo idiotas bragging at each other. You’re worse than my uncles. Ares, I want my job!”
“Move closer to that asshole,” the MP said, “and I’ll paint the walls with you.”
I shuffled my feet so slow it looked like I was grinding my heels into the tiled floor. But I moved slower than Juan could perceive. “Gentleman,” I said, using the timber from the long-lost art of carnival barker, “I would ask you both to cool your jets and take into consideration the opportunity that is before us. Amazingly, you happen to be drawing down on the inheritor of the singularly most dangerous magic trick of all kind. Can you tell, by our situation, what that might be?”
Juan and the MP shared a glance, then returned their hate-states to me.
“Why, I thought it would be obvious, but we’re all under a lot of stress.” I spread my arms wide. “Catching a bullet.”
Juan sneered and the MP snickered. “Now, I’m not pretending I’m the greatest at it, but I’ve caught bullets in three countries, so I am no stranger to this danger. Truth is, Juan, I’m very good at this trick. Which means the next play seals things tight. You could walk out of here now, before LA’s finest arrive to give you grief, or you can take your shot, and end up with attempted murder.” The last word hung in the air like a haze. “Because I will catch that bullet.”
Juan’s sneer abated. “You’re loca, gringo.” The pistol stayed on me as he shook his head at Ares. “You ain’t going to give me my job back.”
Ares, cool as ever, shrugged. “Could be someone else stole. If you leave now, maybe. You hurt anyone, and no.”
Rage filled the MP’s eyes, his glory moment vanishing. My feet slid forward as I lowered my hands to draw attention back. “Sounds like a deal, Juan. Tomorrow, come back and start new, without a thirty-eight. They just have an opening because a real thief no longer works here.” My aching feet had brought me to within striking distance. Between two fingers, I held out the fifty that Chip had given me. “Here’s some cash that he stole. Consider this a severance package if things don’t work out. And, Juan, I’m sorry. It’s all I got.” Juan stepped closer, leaving Nico behind.
I stepped back. “The pistol’s worth less, but that’s my trade. We exchange on three. It’s my final offer. Otherwise, you’ll see a trick that will blow your mind, not mine. One,” I lifted the cash so it was level with the gun barrel now two feet from my head. “Two . . .” I leaned closer as the pistol shook. “Three.”
The money vanished from my left hand, and the pistol hung, pointed at Juan, hooked on his finger . . . but with the hammer clocked. My heartbeat doubled. Mess up the next move, and it was manslaughter.
I breathed through my nose, and moved with alacrity as my mind recounted the poem Edgar had forced me to memorize while working on card tricks and palming. Don’t imitate me; it’s as boring as the two halves of a melon.
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br /> I grabbed the gun. The barrel was upside down and in my palm, my thumb jamming the hammer and a finger blocking the trigger.
But the gag was sprung as soon as I gauged the pistol’s weight.
It wasn’t loaded.
A smile curled upon my face, even with the MP ready to blow us both away.
Juan ran for the back door, cutting past me, then Ares, but my focus was on the MP, whose automatic pistol tracked Juan’s back, looking for the most cowardly shot in history. I flipped the pistol in the air, caught it right-side up with my right hand, and held the house’s attention pointed it. “Hey, Pat Garrett. Let Billy run.”
The MP shook his head, holstered his gun, then grunted. “You’re a coward.”
I smiled. “Will have to learn to live with that, I guess.”
Nico stood rigid, lips tightly shut. But the look upon her face was no longer placid. Tight, upset, frustrated.
“Nico?”
Then she was on me, arms wrapped tight, face buried into my lapels. Her tiny arms were strengthened by terror. “Come on,” I said. “Cops actually like this neighborhood, so we should bolt before snake time.” She broke her bear hug, then stared at the floor. I kneeled, grabbed the biscuit covered in greasy splatter and a few stray pieces of glass. “Ares, I’m taking a doggie bag. Call this an IOU?”
“Fine,” he said. “But is it true?”
Nico was at the door. I blew off the glass. “What?” I asked.
“Can you catch a bullet?”
I smiled, pocketed the pistol and took a bite. “Ares,” I said, all moisture vanishing from my mouth. “I’m ashamed you’d even ask.” Biscuit bits flew off my words. I hacked and coughed away the dryness as I left the Starlight and followed Nico into the brutal afternoon heat. Adrenaline was fading like meat under the mouths of maggots.
“Faggot!” screamed the MP as the door closed behind me. Of all the thing he could have shot into my back, I took his misdirected hate as a sign that things were going my way.
We sat in Lilith, and I asked Nico the usual questions to make sure she wasn’t hurt or catatonic from the second trauma in 24 hours. “Sorry about all that,” I said, rolling down the window. “Huntington Park used to be working class WASP, and they haven’t exactly embraced the Latinos and Blacks who are working the jobs the former working poor see as beneath them now.” I tossed the biscuit out into the street, and a parade of seagulls landed to tear it shreds. I exhaled. “So, when last we talked, there was a snake coming out of Maxine’s mouth.”
CHAPTER 7
“HOW?” THE WORD WEIGHED NO MORE THAN A BREATH.
I’d sucked a chunk of biscuit from between my canines that was sharp enough to cut glass, and then crushed it with my molars. “How did I get this tux? Sad story. I was running late—”
The hood shook. “How did you convince him to give up his gun? How did you get him to do what you wanted?” Beneath the fear was a sliver of desperation. “How?”
The dusty remains of crumb tickled my throat. I coughed once, then swallowed the ricochets. “Most people don’t want to hurt others. They’re trained to do it. Juan was hungry, angry, and slighted. That can boil anyone’s blood, especially in this neighborhood, where guys like Juan keep getting pushed down by the last of the red-blooded WASPS. But he didn’t want to kill you, or me, or even Ares. He wanted to be heard.” I watched the cars gunning down Florence, crossing Pacific Ave wanting a way out. “I listened. Then, I gave a choice between the ridiculous and the profitable. Most people need cash more than jail time.”
“And if he hadn’t?” Desperation had hardened, but then again, her hood still held the circular kiss from Juan’s revolver. “Would you have . . .”
“Caught a bullet? Maybe two?”
She nodded.
“Well, sadly, I can’t say. Magician’s code, and what not.”
“You were a magician?”
“Oh, just a childhood fancy, nothing more, all grown up and now.” I swung the keys to Lilith around my finger, making a not-so-subtle point that I needed to know where to go. “You were telling me about Maxine, and your psycho director Fulton.” Had to put the spotlight back on Nico, but not too hard, just enough to share a little and return to the job at hand. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, not one bit,” Nico said, lying right to my eyes, the doughy “oh” of the “no”s sounding pure Minnesota before she tried to sound as smooth as a voice over actor on a serious documentary. “Never.” Of her other “tells,” rubbing her wrists beneath the safety of her sweater was the most egregious. She faced me, the legion of scars on display. “In fact, he was the one who tore Maxine off of me so I could pull myself off the stake . . . but Maxine shoved him hard. Fulton was tossed like Raggedy Ann, and landed in the pool. All the while that . . . snake had snapped back into Maxine . . . The crew must’ve seen it, but they did nothing and, God, I don’t care. When Maxine ran, Fulton ran after. I’ve never seen such a look, James. It was downright—”
I caught my keys in my fist. “Feral?”
She gasped. “Was he . . . was he like the snake?”
I sighed. “No. What you saw from him was all too human. Just think, two years ago he was in a sweaty Mekong delta, killing in someone else’s back yard, with the entire neighborhood out to murder him . . . and then he came back to America and a year later he was making ‘art pictures.’“ I whistled. “Hell of a jump.”
She gripped her knees. “That’s why I came. James, I don’t know what’s happened to Maxine, but I know she doesn’t mean it. There’s . . . something wrong with her.”
Snake coming out of her mouth? “I’d agree.”
“And Fulton . . . he’ll either kill her—”
“Or die trying.”
“I think so.”
“And you want me to find the lady with the snake tongue before he does.”
“And help her, before anyone else gets hurt.” She sniffed, then came the tears down the broken river-scape of her once-flawless visage. “Can you help her?”
Selfless. That wasn’t in most actresses’ purse of attributes. I’d smelled revenge in her tone, but it melted into fear for a friend, the woman who ruined her, and top the killing machine who was out to get her .
Killing machines I understood. It’s the snake angle that was like Silly Putty in my brain. Human anchors for old demons wasn’t the usual, even for me. It was older magic. Darker. And the taste of the damn thing didn’t ring any bells. But I’d taken the retainer, and I wouldn’t see another dime until I’d solved a case that, thus far, was pure mystery. “Okay, here’s how we’re going to run.” I opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a spiral notepad with a ballpoint in the grooves. I dropped it on her lap. “You’re going to write down the address of the studio that’s in the valley.”
She looked aghast, even though I’d guessed it before. “It’s not what it sounds like.”
“Of course not. Then you’re going to write down everything you can remember about the snake. Use your senses. Taste, touch, feel, sounds, and appearance.”
I jammed the key in the ignition, unrolled the window, then turned. Lilith’s engine coughed twice before the engine settled on her everyday wheeze.
“Why can’t I just tell you?” For the first time, Nico’s voice wasn’t terrified. Annoyance laced with frustration colored her words.
I hit the turn signal. “Because you’re translating something fantastic into the mundane world. You won’t be looking at me. You won’t be expecting a reaction from the pad. Your mind will be making the straightest line it can between memory and now. Close your eyes first, then let the scene roll back. Trust me. I learned this from a very wise old man.” Who would snap a whip across my back if I forgot specifics about filing of incantations, precise measurements for spells, or the names of demons he’d send in my dreams to test me. I shook. “Just try it.”
Nico pouted, a new look that didn’t scream of shock, and then I stuck my head out the window and pulled out onto Pacific
Boulevard.
Nico’s eyes flashed open. “Where are we going?”
The fuel tank’s needle hovered above the E.
“Somewhere safe. Close your eyes, get writing.”
Pacific Blvd was a straight shot into Vernon. Only locals really know when they’ve crossed from Huntington Park in the South, and Bell on the South East. Most people just jet through it to get to downtown, and don’t look on the sides, don’t see the stories etched on the faces. Vernon was a city of violence. We were riding across old battlefields and boxing rings. Tires cut across the marching grounds of the American army as it crushed José Maria Flores’s Mexican forces at the Battle of Rio San Gabriel, the last embers of Mexican power in California being snuffed by Uncle Sam. But as the boxing capital of the world at the turn of the century, Vernon killed more in the ring.
On tour with Electric Magic, we had a palooka who lost regularly to make our little boxing contests look legit, an old codger named Stanley whose brain had been jumbled so bad he only spoke boxing. For Stan the Man, the greatest match ever was at the Vernon Coliseum. An 11-round slogging match in which Jess Willard, future world champ of the world, killed Bull Young at the eleventh hour. “It was death poetry in motion,” Stanley would say, repeatedly, as if he couldn’t help it, proud of the limited poetic vocabulary he’d assimilated. “Willard’s hands were registered as lethal weapons. Never allowed to fight longer than four rounds or else they had to hire a gravedigger.” All the while Stanley’s gnarled knuckles pumped like angry hearts.
Driving past the dry cleaning shops, abandoned Chinese restaurants, and vacant department stores, Vernon was a ghost town that wouldn’t die. The buses still ran for those grasping jobs in the glass and plastics works, but there was one employer in Vernon who ran his business like an enlightened despot. While Nico scribbled, I drifted through a yellow light toward a sign that told you in no uncertain terms who ruled the meat market:
