Snapshots of Modern Love

by Jose Rodriguez

  "Hey Ken, I think it' s in your best interest to help me out. After all, your dad in Youngstown, and that dog of his, what' s his name? Rufus? Yeah, Rufus, cute little fellow." Ortega let his words sink in. "He needs the money as much as you do, you know, to pay for the new pick up and to finish fixing up that old house in Maple Street."

  Ken stopped breathing and his face turned white. Fucking bastard. "Let my dad out of this," said Ken in a whisper.

  "Hey, we are all family, and I don' t want to see anything bad happening to the old man."

  "Fine, what the hell do you want me to do with this crap?"Ken’ s heart ran near red line.

  Ken jotted Ortega' s instructions down and hung the phone with a loud bang. Fucking bastard. Ken called his dad and go this answering machine. Shit. "Listen dad, very carefully . . ." and Ken had to explain in short minutes what he thought he would never be able to explain in a lifetime.

  The Atlanta map showed the way to Tech wood, by North Avenue. Ken drove up there and didn' t like it. Damn Federal housing project; fucking place looks like Beirut. He parked his truck in front of a building whose first floor looked like it had been fired bombed. Trash drifted in the wind and new black faces followed him and the bag into the building. A white face also watched him, keenly, from inside the building.

  Ken had it figured out. Drop the stuff, pick the cash, get his cut, and drop the rest in a rental box at Harts field, then mail the key to Ortega with a nice fuck you note. Fe Dex would be too easy, let the bastard sweat it out for a few days. End of the story.

  Ken knocked on the door, his knuckles white with apprehension. Soon it would be over.

  "Come on in," a white voice with a twang answered from inside. Ken opened the door and saw a white guy and a white girl standing behind a table with a briefcase on it. He stepped inside and checked around with a nervous gaze, trying very hard to look cool, but not doing a very good job of it.

  "Howdy," said the white guy.

  "Hi," said Ken. He looked at the girl, and his jaw dropped. Debbie winked an eye and said," Hi stranger."

  "You got . . . got . . . the money?" Ken asked with a nervous voice. For once in his life he wished Ortega' s men were at his back, or Tony with that square looking gun. But here he was, practically naked in front of this guy with the crooked smile, and Debbie. Ken couldn' t make any sense of what was happening. He placed the bag on the table and looked at Erich who kept on smiling.

  Erich pushed the brief case to Ken; Ken reciprocated by pushing the bag to him. While Erich inspected the merchandise Ken opened the briefcase. He saw a bunch of money, but he had no intentions of counting it. He wanted out of there, soon. Debbie and he changed stares across the table, and Ken replicated Debbie' s aloofness.

  "This is good shit," said Erich.

  "It sure is," said Ken, closing the briefcase.

  "But I will keep the money anyway."

  Erich pulled his gun from behind his waist and pointed it to Ken, and laughed. "Good bye, sucker." Erich had observed that Ken had no back up and no gun.

  Ken put the briefcase in front of him as Erich fired the first shot. The shock sent Ken backwards onto the floor, the bullet lodged into the money. Debbie jumped over Erich' s arm holding the gun and bit him on the hand as hard as she could.

  "You bitch!" Erich screamed in pain and punched Debbie in the face with his free hand, over and over, but Debbie wouldn' t let go. Erich looked up just in time to see Ken coming over the table ready to swing the briefcase in his face. He tried to shoot again, but his shots went into the table instead. The briefcase landed on his face with a numb thud and split open.

  Money and screams floated in the room. Erich was on the ground struggling with Ken. Debbie bit Erich' s finger with such viciousness that Erich opened his hand, the gun falling to the floor. At that moment Erich kicked Ken in the groin and sent him on his back. Before Erich could get up, Debbie was on top of him.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Good Lord, how many bullets does that gun carry? wondered Ken still grabbing his nuts. Debbie fired until the gun ran empty, then she proceeded to kick the bloody mass.

  "Fucking inbred bastard!"

  Ken stood and looked at her bloodied face in amazement. She finally looked at him and stopped kicking and cussing the corpse.

  "Are you O.K?" asked Ken. The bruises in Debbie’ s face had started to swell.

  "I' m fucking fine. What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Same thing you' re doing, I suppose."

  Both stood panting, the corpse still seeping blood between them. Seconds went by before anybody could say anything. Ken expected to hear sirens, and cops coming through the door yelling "Freeze!"But nothing happened. His ears continued to ring and a slight breeze fingered the curtains beside the open window where the top of the Coca-Cola building stood against an azure sky.

  SNAPSHOTS OF MODERN LOVE

  "An End Like the Movies"

  An Original Screenplay

  by

  José R. Rodrí guez

  FADEIN:

  INT.F.B.I. OFFICE, DOWNTOWN DALLAS - DAY

  Ken and his lawyer sit side by side. Across the table sits an F.B.I. Man. His briefcase is open and legal papers are strung over the desk. Ken signs a paper, turns it around and slides it, with the pen, back to the F.B.I. man.

  F.B.I. man (studying the paper)

  Well, this does it.

  Ken

  Do I have to face Ortega in court, or just my deposition will be enough?

  F.B.I. man

  Depends. If he cuts a deal, you will never see his face again. If he decides to go to court, then you will have to testify.

  Lawyer

  He won' t be that stupid.

  Ken

  Why not?

  F.B.I. man

  The State of Florida is charging him with the murder of this Sonia woman. He could get the chair if convicted.

  Lawyer

  His lawyers will go for a deal, life in prison.

  Ken

  What about drug charges?

  F.B.I. man

  We aren' t interested at this time. If Florida can lock him up for life, or fry him, there is no need to spend taxpayers' money trying to nail him for smuggling.

  Ken (sighing with a worrisome look)

  I hope you' re right.

  F.B.I. man (rising and extending his hand)

  Gentlemen.

  Ken and his lawyer rise, shake hands with the F.B.I. man.

  EXT.F.B.I. BUILDING - FULL SHOT - DAY

  Camera moves from the building' s top to the entrance and finds Ken and his lawyer standing on the sidewalk.

  Lawyer

  This is our last meeting. Once you and your dad go into the Eyewitness Protection Program, we will be cutoff for good.

  Ken

  Thank you for convincing them to let me keep my F.A.A. licenses.

  Lawyer

  No problem. (He extends his hand). Good luck to you both.

  Ken

  Thanks.

  Camera pans out as they shake hands and goes for a full shot of downtown Dallas.

  EXT.EAGLE CREEK STATE PARK PARKING LOT, OREGON - DAY

  Ken sporting a goatee and one earring awaits by the side of his Harley-Davidson. The chilly morning makes him keep his hands in his leather jacket pockets. Camera pans out and shows a red convertible Corvette with the top down driving into the lot. The Corvette parks beside Ken. Camera moves over Ken' s shoulder as he approaches and finds driver. Debbie is at the wheel, her hair cut short and dyed black.

  Ken

  Hi, stranger.

  Debbie

  Hi, stranger.

  Ken

  I was sure I would never see you again.

  Debbie (smiling)

  Why? Don' t you trust me?

  Ken (also smiling)

  After that two for one deal, I don' t know. There was a lot of money in that bag.

  Debbie

  You don' t forget, do you? We deserve that money af
ter all the shit we went through.

  Ken (looking at the ground, hesitant)

  The Atlanta thing . . . what the cops said?

  Debbie

  They blamed it on crack head niggers, you know, a white dude trying to buy shit from them, and getting ripped off.

  Ken (looking straight at her)

  Now what?

  Debbie (tapping her fingers on the wheel)

  I' m gonna give you your cut, of course. A deal is a deal.

  Ken

  That' s fine. My business can always use some money.

  Debbie

  Still smuggling?

  Ken (laughing)

  No, hell no. Flying hunters and fishermen around. Fish and dead bears are safer than coke.

  Debbie (tapping on the empty seat)

  You want to come for breakfast? I know a cool place by the river.

  Ken

  Sure.

  Ken jumps into her Corvette. They look at each other and hesitate. Camera moves over the hood and pans in through the windshield as Ken and Debbie kiss, a long and passionate kiss.

  EXT.ROAD PARALLEL TO COLUMBIA RIVER - DAY

  Debbie' s Corvette moves over the road. Bird' s view of Corvette as if followed from behind by a helicopter, with a full shot of gorgeous mountain view, the Columbia river glittering like a golden snake by the side of the road.

  Ken (voice over)

  By the way, my name isn' t Ken anymore.

  Debbie (voice over)

  What the Feds named you?

  Ken

  Ruper. Ruper Korpolinski.

  Debbie (laughing)

  Oh my God! You' re kidding me, aren' t you?

  Ken

  I ain' t.

  Debbie

  Well, my name ain' t Debbie either.

  Ken (in a cynical tone)

  What a surprise. What is it? Bertha?

  Debbie

  Kathy. Pretty, uh?

  Ken

  Nice to meet you, Kathy.

  Debbie

  Nice to meet you, Ruper.

  Both laugh. Camera stops following the Corvette and watches as it drives away until it disappears beyond a curve into the postcard perfect landscape.

  FADE OUT

  Life Goes On

  Of course, life is not like a movie; it is more like a dark comedy or noirfilm with a sad and ridiculous end where a lot of people die but it sure in hell is not like a Mary Poppings movie. After the incident Debbie and I took off with a gym bag leaking dope through a couple of bullet holes and a briefcase full of money with blood splattered on it. Since then I have never been back in Atlanta and I don' t even want to be anywhere near the state of Georgia. I needed to get rid of the drugs so a few ideas crossed my mind: dump the shit somewhere and never go back to Florida - probably not a good idea. Mail the stuff back to Ortega with a note telling him ... well, there was no need for a note, the bullets stuck in the dope bags would be enough of a hint. Mail or UPS, I didn' t care, the only thing I was sure of is that it wasn' t going to be a personal delivery. I wanted out of the life; I didn' t want to end up like Tony, buried in a expensive suit in a grave among defunct smoke stacks, or like Sonia, as shark bait. Debbie' s idea was to keep the money in the briefcase and go to Texas and sell the stuff to her friends and then split.

  "Split? What do you mean by that?" I asked. We were sitting in my truck. She smoked a cigarette held by shaking hands and mine shook empty over the steering wheel. We were parked at a McDonalds, not knowing where to go next.

  "Split, you know, take off with the money." She smoked hard, consuming her cigarette in minutes.

  "And live the rest of our lives waiting for Ortega to show up? I don' t think so." She didn' t answer but lit another cigarette.

  "Let me ask you," I said. "The money we get, do we go half and half and then each of us split each way?" She looked at me and for once the smoke out of her nostrils came out slowly, in along draft that lasted forever. I knew she had hinted at us running away together and now I was putting the ball back in her side. Lether answer that prickly question.

  "If that is what you want, yes," she said, almost a reproach. And there was that look, the same look she gave me sitting on the toilet that day, that scared look as if I had that something that would make her life end like a movie, as if it was up to me to give her the elixir that would right all the wrongs and give her peace. The money and the dope went out of focus. Debbie looked frail, scared, in need, and I didn' t know what to do.

  "What do you want?" I asked in a whisper. She swallowed hard and looked straight ahead.

  "Does it make a difference?"

  She started crying.

  My everlasting awkwardness with women manifested itself and I just sat like a frozen stick, unable to do a thing. After a few minutes of sobbing I managed to say I was sorry. I was not sure if that is what she wanted to hear or what I was sorry for but it did the job. She stopped crying and wiped the tears off her bruised face.

  "I' m sorry too." She looked away from me.

  What was she expecting me to say? Let' s split together, go to Las Vegas and get married? She a whore, a junkie, a killer? The derisive terms against her turned against me when I realized that I wasn' t much better than her: a drug smuggler, a soldier for a drug king, the one who buried friends and lied to their families. My head spun. I didn' t know if I was angry, or happy to be alive, or worried to death, I just didn' t know if I should crawl under a rock or grab Debbie and kiss her in the mouth, and I didn' t know if I wanted to kiss her because I cared for her or because she had saved my miserable life. But at the end I did nothing, I just sat there and waited for the turmoil in my mind to settle and let my head cool because a cool head is what I needed to stop getting deeper into the hell I was getting sucked into.

  "These people in Texas, can we trust them?" That was a stupid question, when it came to drugs, and could I really trust Debbie? Of course I could, to a point, she and I were emotionally tight beyond comprehension and reason. Some fools may call this unseen bond love. For me, it was just some spiritual link that I could not describe. If it were love, I wouldn' t know, such thing had never happened to me. But she was a dope head, and that chemical pull had no loyalties and recognized no master but itself. Be aware, I reminded myself.

  "Yes, we can. If you don' t try to screw them they won' t screw you."

  Mailing a gym bag leaking coke was not a good idea. Shipping a bag full of money wasn' t as dangerous. An idea started to form, a workable idea that perhaps might work and might let me off the hook with Ortega.

  "Listen then," I said to Debbie. "We sell this shit to your buddies, fair market value. That money is ours. The money here, ” I patted the briefcase between us, “ is Ortega' s, and I' m going to mail it to him."

  "Go on," she said, knowing well that there was more to the story.

  "I will take my cut from his money, what he had promised me for the delivery. It seems like a fair and square deal to me."

  "You want to cover your back, don' t you?"

  "I do. I' m not sure if that will keep Ortega from coming after me, or my dad, but it is worth a shot."

  "It' s your shit honey. Do what you think is best."

  "What do you think?"

  She shrugged as if money was not the issue. Splitting with me was, but what did I have to offer to a drug queen and a prostitute? I had nothing. A promise for a better life as thin as a razor blade and as liable to hurt her.

  I cranked the truck and we headed west with our drugs, money, fears and hopes. I kept on looking in my view mirror for blue lights chasing after us. It would be a long trip. Lost in my selfish thoughts I didn’ t bother to ask Debbie if she wanted any Ibuprofen for her swollen face until we were almost out of Louisiana. Sometimes I can be a prick.

  Done Deal

  Debbie had not bullshitted me and the deal went down as a transaction among gentlemen. I took Ortega’ s money, took my cut plus a little bit more, put Ortega' s cut in a box - mostly all of the money-
and special delivered the damned thing through the mail. The Postmaster General bitches about sending cash in the mail, but out of all my latest crimes, this was the lesser one. The money from the sale of the hick’ s dope I’ ll split with Debbie.

  I stand in front of Debbie. Now that she is back among friends, her eagerness to split and go with me seems less obvious. I don' t know and I' m not sure about that. I cannot read other human' s desires. My guesses are at best somewhere near the mark when they are not completely off.

  "Here is your dough," I say, and I give her a huge wad of cash, no small bills. She takes the money with one hand and holds it behind her back. Didn' t bother to count it or even look at it. She looks at me again as if I were the master of her destiny. I' m just a scared to death schnook that wants to get out of this criminal life in a hurry and for good. We are standing outside, next to my truck, under an early morning big sky dotted with lazy nimbus clouds drifting east. This is one of those decisive moments that has the peculiar and unique characteristic of showing itself as such in the present. I know that what I say or fail to say will determine the rest of my life, and her life too.

  I' m looking at Debbie while my mind gets clobbered with what if' s and why nots and doubts. A whore and a junkie; she was there for me when it really mattered; a junkie and a whore and a criminal. Look who is talking. Dad, meet Debbie the hooker. She snorts coke for a hobby. She saved my life. Damn it; I don' t know what to think. Perhaps I shouldn' t think and should let my emotions take over instead, do something from my heart and not my brain. I remember Tony and my brainless decision to follow in his steps. This is not the same thing, I say to myself. Yes it is, you dummy. As the minutes go by common sense gets the upper hand over the emotions (oh God, I want her by my side; I want her to smile at me every morning of my life).Living with a junkie is not living.

  She lowers her eyes. Perhaps she has seen in mine what she didn' t want to see.

  "Good bye Debbie, and thanks," I say.

  "Good bye," she says. "And thank you too." She is now looking at me again, with sad eyes. I resist my urge to embrace her and kiss her, kiss her on the mouth. I walk to my truck and I feel her eyes burning on my back, pleading for what I cannot deliver, for what my cowardice won' t let me do. I drive away from her and we wave good bye to each other. I see her in my rearview mirror, still standing on the street, both hands behind her back and it feels like some part of me has been left back there with her. A junkie and a whore, good God. I hit the gas and leave Dallas in a hurry, not wanting to look back, afraid of what I may see.