"I was telling you that Mohandas came to me one night, full of wine, and crying like a child. He told me that he had hired someone to follow me, even take pictures of us, and that he knew about you, even from years ago. He actually . . . begged my forgiveness."
"For what?"
"For intruding on my privacy. Somehow that broke my heart."
Burke did not, could not answer. He lowered his eyes to the sugar bowl and studied several packets of sweetener known to cause cancer in laboratory rats. The blond, buff waiter, unquestionably one of L.A.'s ubiquitous would-be actors, brought ice water and recited the daily specials like a man who'd practiced in front of a mirror. They both ordered dinner salads. Indira asked for a glass of white wine. The waiter moved away, but just then an older couple and their grown children move noisily past the table. More precious moments were lost. Finally, Indira continued, sotto voce. "He has forgiven me, or so he says. But there are times he doubts me. A woman knows these things. And so I needed to show him it was over, dead, gone. I wanted him to see that I hold only contempt for you now in my heart."
Burke looked up. "Do you?"
"Of course not," Indira whispered. "Red, what's wrong?" Her pretty face was clearly tormented, clenched with worry.
Burke felt a white-hot bolt of jealousy course through his gut like electrical current. He wanted to hit her, shame her, find a way to make her share his pain and loss. The rage was abrupt, thoughtless, and nearly overwhelmed him. He swallowed water. The rattling of the ice cubes seemed abnormally loud. "I think you know."
"And your wife?"
He shrugged, but his face pinched. His eyes gave him away. "I don't want to talk about that."
"Maybe we should."
"Not now," he snapped.
The intensity startled her. Indira flinched slightly. Her knees rocked the small table just as the waiter brought the glass of white wine. Some of it spilled on the glass surface, but when he began to fuss she waved him away. For a few moments, they both listened to the syrupy, melodramatic Italian pop music coming from the nearby bar.
Burke's chest muscles trembled rapidly, like the feathers of a captured bird. Indira looked frail to him now, like a little girl caught stealing cookies from a bakery. He was ashamed of his anger but could not find a way to explain something he did not yet understand. "Do you ever think about death?"
Her eyes widened. Indira created an uncomfortable smirk, as if he had told a rude joke. "Not a very romantic subject."
"I'm serious." He was, and also listening for her response with an uncharacteristic sense of urgency. "Do you?"
"Yes," Indira replied. Her features went softer, sadder. "Of course I do."
"Because I have been thinking about it a lot for some reason. And about what Victor Hugo called 'the pressure of darkness.' Maybe I'm just getting older, but suddenly I really want to know what the hell all of this is really about."
"What is the meaning of life?" She was leaning forward now, subtle irony in her voice. "Lately, I wonder about that, too."
She listened. He had missed that quality in a woman. "See, that's the issue, isn't it? What meaning we manage to give our own lives. There is that famous line Jean-Paul Sartre wrote, the one that says that 'man is condemned to be free.' Because no matter what else he does, he must always choose his life and either give it meaning, or surrender to ennui. We have these givens of existence to contend with, making sense of it, freedom, isolation, and death anxiety. Those things inform our spirits and affect every single thing we say, think, or do. In fact, the existence of death infuses life with meaning."
"Death is life."
"Something like that. I think it haunts everyone, in one way or another."
"Everyone?"
"Scotty, Doc, and I were on a mission once," Burke said, changing directions. His voice became scratchy. "This was a lifetime ago. I saw a man who had found some kind of meaning in debauchery, torture, and slaughter."
"What happened?"
"I shot him as he sat on a pile of dead people. Somehow that moment terrified me. It stays with me. I even dream about that bastard. Because what's even worse than what he did is that he seemed so . . . happy."
"And you," Indira said, a bit too quickly, "have you found meaning?" His story had clearly unnerved her.
"Meaning? Not yet." Deflated, he sat back and his eyes changed lenses; Burke re-lived intimate history, summarized it for someone he loved. "I have looked for it in books, in religion, even in being a soldier. I think I looked for it in you."
He startled Indira; someone younger, more skittish and frail, peeked out before closing the curtains. "And I thought I'd found it in us, too. But it does not work that way, does it?"
"No, it doesn't. Because when it is all done we are alone with whatever we have created. Life just is, begins and ends. We are born alone, die alone, and we answer to God, if there is one, alone."
"Red?"
"What?"
"Perhaps you should try your hand at writing romance novels." Her smile was impish. She crossed her eyes, and he responded. Just like old times; she had dragged him back into the light.
Burke laughed a deep, true, rich laugh; the first he could remember in a long, long while. "I really turned you on with that line, huh?"
Fluttering eyes, a smirk. "Oh, yes."
"My fecal alchemy again." He'd once told her he thought he had the ability 'to turn anything to shit.' One of them had dubbed it fecal alchemy, and the joke had kept them going for weeks. Burke looked at her fondly, gently. The sexual heat was gone and the frustration and loss melted away to be replaced by affection, history, and something like forgiveness—or perhaps the sense one had been forgiven. "Does he treat you well?"
"He does."
"Good." Burke, to his considerable surprise, meant it. "That's good."
Their salads arrived. The waiter hovered, babbled; his well-rehearsed bonhomie seemed especially cloying on the heels of an honest emotional moment. Indira started to giggle. Sensing he'd been dismissed, the actor glided away.
Einstein, explaining relativity, once noted that a few minutes in a dentist chair can seem like two hours, but two hours with a beautiful woman can seem like a few minutes. Burke remembered that anecdote when the check came. He could sense her concern and knew she had to leave, but that fact created subtle unease and caused the encroachment of a hollow sadness. Their words blurred and ran together. Burke walked Indira to the nearly deserted parking lot, where eerie shadows crouched near stuffed trash cans where the kitchen crew loitered to smoke. The rectum of a restaurant is the alley directly behind it.
"Can I see you again?" He knew and feared the answer.
It did not come. Indira Pal hugged him, but when he tried to kiss her, she pushed gently with her fingertips and separated them. "Take care of yourself, Jack."
Something tight and cold as ice sculpture lodged in his throat. Burke had no words, less control over his pulse. She walked to a red BMW sedan and an inconvenient burst of lust focused his attention on her small breasts in the tight suit as she slid into the driver seat. She waved and he managed to smile back. The car rumbled like distant thunder. Pinned in the headlights, Burke waved, fearing that he looked like a lost little boy. Then it was dark and Indira was gone.
When Burke turned, the kitchen help had vanished. He noticed two half-smoked cigarettes adjacent to the trash cans. They were still burning, but that fact did not fully penetrate until he was near the far end of the parking lot, going onto Dickens Street in search of his car. No sound, no voices; those two Hispanic workers had simply vanished into the interior of the restaurant. Why? He looked back just in time and saw someone large and wide bearing down on him. He was momentarily blinded by having stared into the back porch light, but still managed to gauge the size and speed of his opponent. He dropped to one knee and leg whipped the larger man just as he'd finally closed the gap.
Burke had moved a fraction too soon, but still managed to catch the man around the shin. The assailant c
areened into a parked car, hissed his frustration. When he turned, Burke was almost back on his feet. The man closed the distance and bear-hugged. He lifted Burke high and shook him like a toy. Burke kept his muscles tight, knowing that a breath would compress his chest and allow the man to squeeze his lungs empty. He brought his palms up and slapped at the ears, working to deafen the assailant, who howled but shook the pain away. Burke tried to knee him in the testicles, but the attacker raised his thigh. Burke saw multi-colored, pinprick stars. He knew his ribs couldn't last. He suddenly let himself go limp. He forced a harsh, moaning noise, as if unconscious.
"Don't kill him yet."
Burke recognized the voice. It was fat Dinky Martin. So the larger man would be Kelvin, the Arena-bowl bodyguard. Kelvin allowed Burke to collapse to the lawn adjacent the pavement. His hand dropped into something moist. He opened one eye slightly and saw Kelvin's nose has been braced and taped down and that the fat gambler has traded in his trademark Hawaiian shirt for a cheap suit and a loud, wide tie. Dinky leaned closer, clearly feeling very brave because he believed Burke to be out cold. "Let him wake up again. I want the fucker to know who offed him and why."
Kelvin cocked what sounded like a large revolver. "Somebody is bound to come along, boss." Kelvin sounded nearly as stupid as he looked. Burke didn't want to get shot. He made sounds, writhed a little bit, groaned like a man with cracked ribs.
"He's waking up," Dinky chortled. "Hey, motherfucker, guess who this is? Guess who's about to punch your ticket?"
Burke acted dazed. "Who are you?"
Dinky leaned over to tell him, wide tie dangling down. Burke grabbed it, yanked, and kicked Dinky in the balls. The fat man emitted a loud chuffing noise and sagged into blubber. Burke, now up on one knee, strained for leverage. He kept Dinky between his body and an alarmed Kelvin, who was looking for a clean shot. Burke stood, gathered his legs, and rushed Dinky's fat body forward. He rammed it into the bodyguard, forcing Kelvin into the side a nearby parked car.
"The fuck?"
Burke reached around Dinky and knuckle-punched Kelvin twice in the throat, then broke his nose again. The .357 went off, but it had been fitted with a bulky silencer so the noise was more like a dog barking than a gunshot. Dinky started to struggle. Burke punched him in the diaphragm with the palm of his hand. He let Dinky drop to the sidewalk, stepped to the left, got closer to the gun. Angry, he broke three of Kelvin's fingers while taking it away.
The football player screamed as Burke pistol-whipped him. Satisfied, Burke allowed him to fall next to his boss.
"The only reason I don't kill you is that I'd have to ask Monteleone first, since you owe him so much." Burke wiped his prints from the gun and tossed it over a tall fence and into the restaurant's vegetable patch. "Here it is, just so you know. The next time I see your sorry ass, I'll drop you on the spot. No questions asked. Maybe it's time you moved to Vegas."
Dinky was moaning. "Okay, okay."
Burke, still wired up and furious, kicked them each once in the head. Moments later he was in his car driving home, sucking his knuckles and aching to be with Indira Pal.
* * * * *
Back on the sidewalk, in the darkness, Kelvin was the first to recover. He sat up, holding his re-broken nose with broken fingers. His breathing was an obscene gurgle; tears were running down his face. Dinky rolled over with a low groan.
"Boss?"
"What the fuck you want, you fucking loser?"
"Look over there. Who's that?"
Something in Kelvin's voice made short hairs stand up all over Dinky Martin's substantial body. The bodyguard was pointing a shaky finger in the general direction of the restaurant parking lot. "What? Where?"
Someone moved, no—oozed out of the darkness, someone who had witnessed the entire incident. Dinky rapidly ran several options through his mind; perhaps to bribe, threaten, make up a story, but before he could come to a decision, Kelvin's humiliation and pain got the best of him. He barked: "What the fuck you looking at, white bread?"
Dinky blinked. The mysterious man's features did not seem Caucasian, nor did he move like a typical white male. Dinky saw the reflection of a porch lamp stroking pale skin. No, he was Caucasian. But those bare arms were stained—almost camouflaged. No, just busily tattooed. And instead of running away because of Kelvin's challenge, or being intimidated by the violence he has just witnessed, this man was moving closer. In fact, he ran like a predator, low to the ground, eyes searching the shadows.
It was suddenly obvious to Dinky that the stranger had not intended to be seen by anyone, in fact could not allow that to happen—and therefore would soon eliminate witnesses. "Kelvin, get him!"
But the man was already there and fell upon them. He made a graceful, spinning move with something in his hand and Kelvin grunted, grabbed his throat and sank to his knees. Dinky could see blood gushing from the carotid artery through huge, broken fingers. Then the man shoved the back of Kelvin's skull, almost with affection, the way someone might slap the head of a young boy. Kelvin fell forward onto the grass.
"Don't hurt me!" Dinky heard his own voice from far away, and it was the whining plea of a frightened child.
Kelvin produced a gurgling sound but did not move again. He's fucking dead. Dinky was oddly fascinated by that fact, and how briskly Kelvin had been dispatched, even as he heard a long-forgotten rosary running through his mind and observed snot and tears streaming down his face. He just had to ask. "Why?"
The man paused, amused. He stared down at Dinky and his sunken eyes were bright, wise, and in a weird way, rather kind. "Hello." He knelt and patted Dinky on the shoulder. "My name is Gorman."
Dinky sobbed. "Wait. I could use a man like you."
"In some other life, perhaps."
Gorman rapidly slipped a cord around Dinky's throat and fluidly stepped behind. He crossed his tattooed arms and slowly, quite lovingly, strangled Dinky Martin to death.
TWENTY-SIX
Willie Pepper wakes up with his chapped lips pressed against hairy flesh that smells freshly bathed. The hobo jerks his head up, emits a grunt, and lowers it again. His skull is throbbing and his entire body feels sore. His vision swims back into focus. The arm he smells is his own. Confused, he feels his body and checks his face and chin. Someone has given him a short haircut, bathed and shaved him, even applied aftershave lotion. It smells like that cheap, department store kind with a sailing ship on the bottle.
Willie sneezes, which makes his head ache again. He has some kind of cold or sinus infection coming on. He opens his eyes. He finds himself in a small area that seems like a combination hospital room and holding cell. Everything around him seems to be made of glass, porcelain, or metal.
The cell contains a tiny toilet, a cot, and a small table—fastened to the floor—that holds a plastic beaker of water. Willie sits up gingerly, holding his head. His nasal passages are clogged. And he feels stone cold sober for the first time in years! But he has no memory of going through DTs. What happened? If this is a city detox clinic, it's the strangest one he's ever seen. The lights are bright; they hurt his eyes. The walls are blank metal, with not a single photograph or painting to provide distraction.
"Hello?"
No one answers. Willie, who now notices that he's wearing some kind of paper slippers and a hospital gown, swings his feet around and lowers them to the cold flooring. It seems that he's fine, so long as he moves slowly enough. His throat feels parched and dry. He reaches for the water with a trembling hand and gulps. His stomach rolls for a long moment but settles. He feels his face, his head. His hair has indeed been shaved close to the skull and his beard is completely gone. Willie knows this happened recently because he knows how quickly it grows. It feels strange to be so exposed. Willie Pepper is accustomed to hiding his facial expressions, and thus his true feelings, behind a wall of filth and matted hair.
"Hello?" A little more loudly this time. Still no reply.
The throbbing in his skull is gradually changing to an odd
feeling of pressure. His teeth hurt. He is parched from thirst. Willie takes another drink of water, gulps with greed and gratitude while his eyes roam what appears to be his new home. Didn't he hear somebody talking about some kind of new government program for the homeless? Maybe he got sick and they picked him up off the street. But no, he wasn't sick, someone had attacked him! The memory comes back like an icy wave. Willie Pepper feels his neck, and the abrasions from the rope, or whatever it was that strangled him, are still fresh. Wherever he is, whatever happened, he hasn't been unconscious for more than a couple of days.
Willie leans against the cold, impersonal wall and struggles to his feet. Again, a slight wave of dizziness assails him. He sees Christmas tree lights on a black velvet background, but the nausea passes quickly. His vision seems to waver like a mirage but when it comes back into focus he can see colors more clearly. He sneezes again, expels a large gout of clear mucous. He wipes it on his arm. The paper gown and slippers are a very pale green, hospital style, and the metal and ceramic walls and tiles have an odd sheen to them, rather like varnish.
Jesus Christ, is this a morgue?
His heart goes POW at the idea, contributes a ghastly vision of his chest pried open and blood smoothly pumped into a drain by an impersonal black hose. He shivers against the cold and is forced to sit down on the cot again.
No, it can't be the city morgue. Dead folks don't get cots to lie on, and besides, there ain't no one else in here.
That door.
Assuming it is a door. What if it opens?
Maybe there are people on the other side, doctors and nurses who don't have a clue that he's awakened. Hot meals and some good dope for the pain, and maybe someone to talk to so he can complain and find out what's going on.
Willie Pepper eases back up to his feet. He narrows his eyes and tries to clarify the vague outline he sees in the far wall. It appears to be in the shape of a door, although the edges have been sealed in what seems to be black rubber. Perhaps if he pushes on it, it may simply open into the next room? He works his way along the wall, leaving clusters of knuckle and finger prints on the perfectly polished surface, his feet shuffling and whispering in their paper shoes.
The Pressure of Darkness Page 17
