Bullets of Rain

by David J. Schow

The brightly lit interior of the stop mart was awash in some bass-heavy hip-hop that sounded, basically, like a factory stamping out metal folding chairs. It was sampled and snarly, white boys grunging out nursery-rhymed despair in cinderblock time, throttling their instruments like gator wrestlers. Rocko grinned at Art's entrance, interrupting his jammy little air dance to mouth, Hey, good-lookin’! Art could only hear the vowels. From the jewel case atop Rocko's boombox, he gathered that this new musical horizon was the work of a person or assembly called NegrAlien, with the N turned around backward, no umlauts.

  ***

  "… fuckin’ blow, huh?" Rocko said as he cut the volume.

  "Say again?''

  "This fuckin weather. Sucks. I was just about to close up arid say fuck it, right?" He blew a huge pink bubble from the wad of gum in his jaw.

  "Doesn't look like it wants to give us a break, does it?"

  "I fuckin’ heard that." Rocko popped his neck bones and ran a worn black comb through his pomp.

  Art prowled the aisles and accumulated whatever junk snacks struck his fancy, gradually building a small pile on the counter. "Got any Dixie Double Hex?"

  "How many cases?''

  "Just one." Art added, "for company," too quickly, smarting at his own memory of how he used to destroy a case and a half a day, not so long ago. The bad part was that Rocko remembered this, too. Art pulled down a thick plastic packet of beef jerky, mostly because Blitz was a slave to it, and at the last minute decided to toss in two packs of cigarettes, just so he could be the compleat host, should Derek actually show up. Not for me. For company.

  "You staying or going?" Rocko hefted the case of longneck bottles on one shoulder. Art raised his eyebrows. "The storm. They say it's gonna punch in. You staying or going?"

  "Staying. I have to see if my house is up to it." Another excuse, basically.

  "Well, don't forget to wear your fuckin’ rubbers. They say the waves will be intense. If I was a better surfer I'd take my board out. They say waves like this only come along during hurricanes in Australia. Fuckin extreme." About once every fifteen seconds, Rocko would slide his palms against the dark thighs of his gas-station-issue trousers. A big chromium chain for a biker's wallet hung down nearly to his knee on the right side.

  "Where do you live, Rocko?"

  "Half Moon Bay. I got a studio. I was living with this chick but she took off to follow some fuckin band up to Seattle, and that was six months ago. Love's a fuckin bitch, y'know?''

  Art suddenly felt ridiculous, maundering on in his head about his dead wife. This crap befell everyone, sure as spoiling fruit; all you had to do was live long enough, and getting your heart broken was basic field issue. "She never calls, she never writes-right?'' Rocko said around his gum.

  "I don't think she knows how to write. You start smokin’ again?"

  Art felt a defensive flush creep up his neck. "I've got company that might. Just in case."

  "I tried to quit. Fuck that action. I quit for my girlfriend and she dumped me, so now…" He shrugged, bobbing his head side to side. Rocko was essentially a lot like Blitz.

  New rain started pelleting in, changing directions every minute. Rocko helped Art load the Jeep and they both got instantly soaked. "Stay dry, furhead," he said, grabbing Blitz's ears and ruffling his head. Blitz dealt out one of his single enthusiastic barks.

  "You're my last customer of the day," Rocko said. "I'm bagging this shit and taking to higher ground. Good luck!"

  "You, too," said Art.

  Rocko had killed the outside lights to the stop mart before Art was out of the lot. It was time to batten down.

  ***

  Technically, the entire day classified as twilight; Derek showed up with the drop of actual nighttime, forgoing the bell, banging on the door as though the Eaters of the Dead were chasing him on horseback.

  "I don't believe it," was the first thing Art said.

  It was Derek, sure enough and against the odds, which was his custom. Neon-blue eyes, shaggy black hair (he was bareheaded and his hair was damp), wrapped up in a shearling bomber jacket and bulky merchant marine sweater and still standing two inches above Art's own five foot eleven. "I brought flesh,'' he said with a satanic grin. "You'd better have a fucking grill in this showoff dump."

  "Any dead bodies in your car?"

  His visitor's brow puzzled. "No. Oh, wait, well… there might be a-"

  "Shut up, Derek." They used their firm handshake to yank each other into a bearish combat hug. Art knew his long-lost friend would slap him on the back exactly three times, back off, and repeat the process again, starting with the handclasp. It was way too manly.

  "All the right parts in all the right places. You astonish me," Derek said, his smile big enough to cleave his face. "Invite me in before I moisturize to death."

  "I forgot-you've got to invite the monsters over the threshold."

  Derek stomped droplets from his canvas-sided military boots. His jeans were snugged inside the uppers. In one arm he slung a big, wet bag of groceries. He looked rakish and windblown, as though he'd just stepped from the cockpit of a Sopwith Camel after a good run against those blasted Jerries.

  Blitz caught a whiff of Derek and went berserk, drowning them both out with a fusillade of barks until Art himself barked, "Sitz, du blodei Vieh!" The dog shut his trap and sat down immediately.

  "Damn," said Derek, marveling.

  "He's sort of trained." Art shrugged; no biggie. "Actually, he's just showing off." He shut the door firmly to make sure it seated, since the door's weight was gradually skewing the hinges, and got down to the most crucial introductions.

  "Derek, meet Blitz. Blitz is a dog. Blitz, meet Derek. Don't eat him, just yet."

  Derek squatted down slowly, careful not to move fast. "Hey, guy." He held out his hand, palm up, empty. No threat. They worked their way toward each other and after about thirty seconds were best friends. Blitz was peculiar that way. Art suspected it had to do with scent tracking; Blitz could smell whether Art thought somebody was okay or not. If it wasn't true, it should have been.

  Custody of the bag-the next thing to interest Blitz-was remanded to Art while his pet and his guest checked each other out.

  "That's T-bones, four of 'em, plus spuds, plus your basic salad shit. You get to do dressing, beverages, and dessert."

  "Done deal," said Art. He looked in the bag and saw each steak was the size of a Frisbee. "Four steaks?"

  "Y'know, in case we just want to eat the good bits, and give the rest to… I don't know who." He said this last right in the dog's face and Blitz was overcome with rapture.

  "Remove your spacesuit and grab a beer, why doncha?"

  Derek shucked his rain-speckled leather. "Dos Equis still your poison?"

  "I made sure I had a case of Dixie Double Hex when I saw the postcard. It's like a porter, but you'll live. Be adventurous and try something besides your usual watery swill."

  "Only one case? You sure you don't have me confused with, like, a lightweight?" Derek was looking at the living room like someone unsure of the correct address. "This is your house?"

  "Every square foot. Try not to gape."

  Art led the way to the kitchen and church-keyed a pair of Hexes.

  "Never trust a beer that unscrews." They clinked longnecks and Derek commenced to wander. Despite his weakness for snack-bribery, Blitz kept track of every step. The dog would behave this way until he ultimately decided on his own that Derek was approved.

  Art marinated the steaks in red wine and garlic while the potatoes baked, then seared the cuts over a quarter-inch flame for exactly eleven minutes. The salad was in no way a beacon of nutrition, and the potatoes were burdened with real butter and sour cream, on top of too much salt and pepper. Both Art and Derek agreed, numerous times, that their repast was sufficiently unhealthy to commemorate their reunion. In the gaps between, Derek got caught up on the Lorelle story, and did his best to ease his friend past the awkwardness it imposed as a duty.

  "
It sucks," said Derek. "I could say I'm sorry for you a million times over, and it wouldn't change a thing."

  "No, it's an obligation." Art picked up a scrap from his plate and instantly had the full attention of Blitz. "I can't see you after all this time, then string you along with chitchat all night, then, suddenly, when I'm drunk enough, go, oh, by the way…"

  "Sounds like you did a little serious drinking, after."

  "Heroic. I once drank an entire fifth of Jack Daniel's in three hours and shit myself. I did most of a quart of pepper vodka and woke up eighteen hours later, facedown in the sand, outside, in the middle of the night. Blitz licking my face finally woke me up, and I puked on him." Art flung the fatty bit of steak and Blitz intercepted it in midair, chomp, gulp, and gone. "I backed off to beer, rationing it out. For a while there I was extremely popular at the Toot 'N Moo, because I'd just load up my Jeep. Gimme eight cates oft beer and a pack oh mints. That was my idea of provisions."

  "And some beef jerky."

  "Right. You've been through the rest."

  "You mean when you realize hugging the toilet and choking back your small intestine should not be part of your daily regimen? Yep. On the other hand, I don't think I could ever fully trust someone who never spent at least some time humbling himself before the throne.''

  "Jesus, how masculine is that? Tough guy poets, that's us. Complete romantics. Urrrrrppp." Art mimed vomiting.

  "Seductive, ain't it?" Derek swigged his beer.

  "If Lorelle were here she'd reality-check us on how full of shit we are."

  "Point. She was a lovely lady, and I miss her." Derek held out his bottle and Art clinked it. "You start getting morose on me and I'll give you a head noogie."

  Art knew his purpose was not to hold a wake, not tonight. "I'm stuffed full of meat and fat and alcohol and all this blood and protein is shoving a fist up my brain's ass." He chortled. "Ignore me, please. We've still got dessert-chocolate ice cream with cookie dough and stuff in it."

  "Uh, maybe later," Derek said, patting his stomach. "We could take the beer and make floats. Let's repair to the War Room for cigars and brandy… if your delicate sensibilities can take it."

  "How about more beer and a monster movie instead?"

  "Good answer." Derek gave a thumbs-up. "But first I need to tell you what the beginning of the twenty-first century wreaked on my sorry tail."

  "Yeah, what happened to you, man?"

  "I was in prison in Hawaii," Derek said, fully knowing what he was starting. "I was doing time for murder."

  "I met this Chinese guy named Ang, who was doing a nickel tour for smuggling. His real name was too goddamn long to keep track of and nobody could ever get it in the right order. We got into some half-assed discussion of comparative religion, and he said something that always stuck with me: 'It doesn't really matter what people believe in, although it causes some of them to do strange things in the names of gods,' he told me. 'What matters is whether I believe in people.' Well, Arthur old chap, I believe in you. You're a friend, and I owe you the story, and I'll tell it once if you comp me another beer."

  "Get it yourself," said Art, grinning.

  Derek's gait was loose and cowboy-ish, although it seemed to Art that cell time had pulled his friend's shoulders inward a bit. He returned with two fresh-cracked Dixie Double Hexes.

  "That aluminum thing in there is the biggest goddamn refrigerator I've ever seen for a single person," he said.

  "The kitchen was all Lorelle's doing." It was mostly true; she had specified the dark granite countertops, the area-specific fluorescents that delivered optically pure whites, and the stainless steel jazz that always impressed as a kind of operating theater for food. All the cutting boards were bleached-blond wood and the breakfast bar stools were some Swede's idea of ergonomic perfection in rolled, enameled metal and black leather. Sitting on them would not fatigue the back, so went the hard sell. One look at Art's kitchen would immediately leave the impression that it was a place where germs feared to tread.

  "Here's to it," said Derek, and they clinked bottles again.

  "Okay. How does Derek wind up in the Gray Bar Hotel?"

  "I shot a guy in the lung." Derek tossed off a little eyebrow shrug that suggested he, too, still thought of it as minor and ridiculous. "You'll want to know what kind of gun. A brand-spankin'-new Sig Sauer.357 chambered for forty-caliber slugs, loaded with hardball rounds. No serial number. That got me in more shit, too, later."

  "Self-defense?"

  "He was banging my lady. Which the court is less interested in once they hear 'unregistered handgun' and 'concealed loaded weapon' and 'no serial number.' It'd be a felony even if the fucker hadn't've died."

  Lorelle's voice drifted back to haunt Art: Have you ever actually shot anybody? In some ways he wished he could be more like Derek-a doer, instead of a talker.

  "So, murder. The M-word."

  "I didn't shoot to kill him, Art. I could have. You know. I had a fifteen-round magazine and I know how to aim a gun. I fired exactly once. They didn't care. He bled to death in the hospital, and I dearly hope he died in excruciating pain, or at least was conscious for some of the fall. See, when Erica and I-"

  "Erica was the woman you originally took off for Hawaii with?"

  Art knew, but felt like checking.

  "The same. Brown hair, brown agate eyes, body like a panther- you know, the type you always teased me about."

  "Sorry." Art grinned anyway. Sarcasm as a trait of male bonding.

  "We got a place on Kaunakakai, away from a lot of the tourist bullshit. A lot like this place''-his arm indicated the sweep and scope of Art's overdone house-"but with, you know, no money involved. We were together for a year until one morning she rolled over and said, 'I think we need to see other people.' Point-blank, like that, while I'm still thinking about not waking up. She hung around most of the day, but it was clear all she wanted to do was run. We saved the first real argument for when she got back, and I swear I could already smell the new guy on her. Now picture me: I'm burned out from Lockheed, all that corporate crap, all that political. crap, and she's the only one who understands or gives a damn, and we'd even mentioned getting married once or twice, and now she's out the door like I have the plague."

  "You talked about getting married?" Art let his disbelief register on his face, mostly to prompt an explanation. "You weren't on speedballs or anything?"

  "Afraid not, amigo. I know-alert the media." He killed half the beer in a swig, just tipped it down his throat without swallowing, the way Blitz would do it if he had a taste. "I'd come around to thinking about human relationships, the patterns people stick to. You've seen most of my girlfriends."

  "They tend to blend at the edges. I remember Brady, that vice-president of something or other from the company in the Trans-America Tower."

  "She worked in publishing-that outfit that did the series of books on how normal people were supposed to figure out what were then called 'home computers.' Why do you remember her?"

  "Because she had fabulous legs, knew how to walk in heels, looked like Gene Tierney in mint condition, I thought her glasses were cute, and she came right over and talked to me without looking toward you for permission, which is something a lot of the others did, like puppies waiting for a command they don't understand anyway. We had this very memorable conversation about modern hard-boiled novelists, and it turns out we held a lot of the same tastes. After Crumley, Westlake, and Willeford… forget it, everybody else was just a pretender or a recycler. I'll admit I got most of that line from Lorelle, but Brady liked it."

  "She did read a lot of books. Fiction books."

  "She was slightly older than you, too, as I recall."

  "One of the few. Erica was a decade younger, and that was no strain until she decided it was high time she had a midlife crisis, mostly to find out what it was like. Her whole life had been smash-and-grab, chase-and-run, trade on her looks, slip through the cracks, and as soon as she stabilized and got a tiny bi
t of security, of permanence, I think it scared the shit out of her."

  "She was thinking, Great. I'm old. I'm over already?"

  "Or words to that effect. So, how do you countermand this feeling? You run as fast as you can back to what you knew worked when you were in your twenties."

  "A lot of people do that. Chase it, hoping to recapture it."

  "Meanwhile, I'm sitting around with this not-bad life, thinking that most people do the same thing, which is why the range of human relationships runs on a scale from one to ten-one is the initial attraction, and ten is growing older together, and I knew far too many people who had concentrated on becoming world-class experts on one through three. As soon as 'four' threatened-let's call 'four' a longer-term relationship than normal-they freak out, self-destruct the current relationship, and reset to one. It's not living, but it's a life, if you know what I mean. You get the allure of unwrapping a fresh body as opposed to the normalcy of sleeping with the same person for a year. Get out of the house before the home makes you feel stagnant, and you accumulate too many mementos. Stay below the tax radar, move at will, and pick who you want to fuck on a disposable basis. All that's left is paying the bills."

  "It's easier to get into new relationships than it is to get out of old ones," said Art. Blitz crawled into his hideout, the space between the supports for the big oval coffee table, and sprawled on one side. He seemed to think he was safe in there, despite the fact he could plainly be seen right through the glass tabletop.

  "Erica's 'new relationship' was a dipshit named Tommi, with an i at the end. Big Italian fucker, a club rocker edging up on forty and still trying to cut some lame demo with his lame band. A ladykiller with a motorcycle and a microphone case and very few strings attached. Kind of guy who dyes out the gray in his hair so he can still pretend to be twenty-five in the clubs, and shaves clean so he doesn't get salt and pepper on his muzzle."

  "A free spirit," said Art, meaning an irresponsible buttwipe locked into the box of his own teenage past. "I bet he moved from girlfriend's apartment to girlfriend's apartment.''