by Alan Lee
“I thought I could fake it. I want to be a better person, I want to be the kind of girl who marries boys like you, the girl who won’t eventually be exposed and embarrassed, but I can’t. It’s exhausting pretending. I can’t sleep, can’t eat.”
“I’m lost, Ronnie. These secrets of yours, they can’t go on.”
“I’m engaged, Mackenzie. I’m getting married next year. His name is Brent and he is a federal prosecutor living in Washington DC. and he’s rich and his parents are well-connected, and all that shit.” With each word her spirit shrunk until she looked broken and small.
I hadn’t guessed this. My head swam. I never saw a ring or a tan line. My ears were hot and I felt raw.
“Do you love him?” I asked.
“Who cares? You are worlds removed from my reality, Mackenzie. Your father loves you and supported you even when you moved to California.”
It had begun to rain, intermittent fat drops splattering the windshields.
“My father?” she said. “My father arranged the marriage. My father and fiancé make me work at a bar on Friday nights to keep me busy, so I can’t have a social life. Can you blame them? I practically undress every time I see you.”
I stopped advancing. Because when I did she took little steps backwards, closer to busy Williamson.
“That’s where you went? When you left for a week?”
“I had a lot of stuff to do, but I visited him, yes. He and my father both have friendly informants in the building where I live, and they get updates, and that’s why I didn’t let you in. Same with my office. And if I protest, my father can be cruel,” she said.
This was deep water and I was over my head. Clearly she was an adult, and she didn’t need to follow through with an arranged marriage or put up with an abusive father, but family is tricky, and I couldn’t provide years of counseling in a parking lot. She wasn’t speaking rationally, possibly due to a lifetime of abuse. I scrambled for any words that might bring about a positive conclusion to this conversation, but nothing came.
“You’re a terrible feminist,” I noted.
“Family is family. Even when they aren’t. So you see,” she half laughed, half sobbed, “why you’re breaking up with me.”
“I don’t know what to say, Ronnie. I know you’re lonely, and that you feel trapped, and that sucks. But…”
“When I’ve been at your house, no one seems to want things from you. You just…belong. It’s a place where people go to simply be. You like each other. Maybe love each other, I don’t know. I didn’t feel lonely or trapped there. But your house is like a narcotic. Exhilarating but temporary. For me, it’s a drug and I can’t keep doing it. The day after, I could barely function, Mackenzie. Because no one was there. No one cared about me when I woke up.”
“I cared,” I said.
“I still owe you.” She half smiled. “Take me there one more time? To your house?”
“You’re engaged to another man,” I said. “If I took you there, it’d be to extract something, and I don’t want to do that.”
She laughed, a bitter unhappy sound.
“How about your car then?” she said. “You can have me there. As an apology. I don’t know what else to do.”
I was sick and heartbroken, and not processing normally, and I almost said yes. I wanted her in every way a man can want a woman. I felt lonely, and being near the suddenly exposed gulf of misery that was Veronica Summers made it worse. Especially as she offered herself to me.
Mackenzie. Regroup. Think. Function. Talk.
“You contacted me,” I said. “Not the other way round, after I left your bar.”
“I know. It was foolish and spur-of-the-moment.”
“Why did you?”
She rested her hands on her hips and bent at the waist, as though she’d run a race.
“I was lonely. And something about you felt complete. Whole, and comfortable. I wanted to be with a man who wasn’t needy.”
“And you don’t anymore?” I asked.
“Mackenzie, please.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t do this. Let’s just go to your car. That’s how I can thank you. And apologize. It’s the best I have.”
“If I say yes, then we’re through.”
She sputtered, “We’re through anyway.”
The rain fell a little faster, hard drops that made her wince. Her shirt dotted, like gunshot wounds.
“We’re done for tonight. Maybe not forever,” I said. “I don’t want you for ten minutes only. If I say yes tonight, I’m no better than your fiancé. I’d take what I need and we’d go our separate ways. I don’t want that.”
“You want to be involved with an engaged woman?”
“No. I won’t.”
“Because of your principles,” she scoffed. “Truth and honor and stuff.”
“Yeah, sure, some of that. But also self-preservation. Because it’ll hurt all parties too much. I’ve been down that road and it ends in a cliff. Why do it again? I need to be able to live with myself.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how this works.” I shrugged, a stupid foolish gesture which meant nothing. “I don’t know how life is supposed to be. I can’t control anything, I’m just making this up as I go. Here’s what I want - I want to be the kind of man who doesn’t say yes to trysts from engaged women. That’s all I got. I want to be the kind of man that you want to be with.”
“That I want to be with?”
I nodded. “Correct.”
“Life is hard, Mackenzie. None of us get what we want,” she snapped. “The best we can do is say yes when small opportunities arise. Of course you’re the kind of man I want to be with, but so what? Fuck you, that’s what. For turning me down. No one turns me down, you sanctimonious, holier-than-thou…ugh, I don’t know. I’m trying to be kind, and pay my debt.”
“I’m not turning you down. I’m saying, Not Like This.”
“Whatever. I can’t…I’m leaving. Goodbye, Mackenzie.”
I had nothing to say, so I said that.
“And can you believe it? This is just the first of my secrets.”
She darted into the road. Mercifully the light had only just turned green, giving her a small window to pass safely. I reached the edge but she was already on the other side and moving fast. Protected by the wall of traffic.
And then she was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
That night I kicked at sheets and threw pillows at Manny when he snored and I thought about Ronnie and her screwed-up life. At three in the morning I finally got up and drank three coffees to prop my eyes open.
Fuck, I thought. Ronnie’s secrets were worse than I imagined. For the hundredth time, I told myself there’d been no way to guess.
This should be easy. I met a girl. Went on a few dates. Decided it won’t work. Broke up. And now I move on. Done it before. I’ll do it again, almost certainly. That’s how this works.
It’ll take time. The first night is the worst.
But.
The kitchen felt cold and empty, like a tomb. All my noises were magnified and hollow, like everything was vanity and temporary. Like I didn’t matter.
But. But what?
But I liked the way this kitchen looked with her in it. I liked the back porch better when she stood on it. My bed was a better bed with her.
The stairs creaked. Manny softly treaded into the kitchen wearing socks, nodded blearily to me, and got a glass of water.
“Qué pasa, mi amigo.”
“Nightmare,” he said.
“What about?”
“Cleaning people off the street after a car crash.”
“Ah yes,” I said. “That’s a fun one.”
“You did a few of those?”
“I started out as Highway Patrol, remember?”
“What about you? Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“I choose not to, because I am master of my fate.”
“Oh shit.”
“What?” I asked.
“Ronnie broke up with you.”
“You don’t know.”
“Yes I do,” Manny said.
“Yeah, she did.”
He sat down with a coffee and drank it black.
“Why? Because you are ugly?”
“She’s engaged,” I said. “Told me tonight.”
“Ouch. No es bueno.”
“And I’m gorgeous.”
Manny nodded and drank more.
“Sorry, amigo.”
“I’m not sure about this one,” I said. “Something’s nagging at me. Telling me maybe I shouldn’t quit.”
“What do you mean?”
“The marriage was arranged by her father. And she’s not happy about it. And, I don’t know. I’m fond of her.”
“You’re fond? What, you are British royalty now? No one says fond.”
“I mean it. Do I simply stop caring because she’s with someone else? I’m into her. I knew she had baggage but…nothing about her has essentially changed. She’s still the girl I want to see.”
“She’s getting married,” Manny said.
“Maybe.”
“You want her to have an affair? I know you, señor Mack, and you won’t play the other man. Your heart is too…virtuous.”
“Virtuous?”
“Yeah. Pretty good, right?”
“An excellent word. Language was invented for one purpose, Manny, and that is to woo women. And in that endeavor, laziness will not do.”
“Gracias. I know all the good words,” Manny said. “Are you quoting something?”
“I am. And. No, I don’t want her to have an affair. I don’t know what I want.”
“You want to fix it. You’re a fixer. You think you can fix everything. But some people? They are broken. And they can’t be fixed.”
“She doesn’t want to marry him,” I said.
“So?”
“So it gives me hope.”
“Perhaps you are blinded by her appearance, jefe.”
I shrugged and blew a blast of air at the ceiling.
“I don’t know, Manny. Lotta pretty girls out there. But I want this one.”
I couldn’t explain it with words. And if I tried I’d sound immature and foolish, like a teenage kid. Because the truth was I felt bound to her. Drawn to her in ways I shouldn't be yet.
“You will have forgotten her by Friday,” Manny said, and he went back to bed.
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
I stayed awake and got Kix up at six thirty and drank more coffee. Kix expressed concern over my caffeine intake. His babysitter, Roxanne, told me I looked sick and needed a day off.
I always hated Roxanne.
At school I noted Kevin was still missing. The semester wasn’t half over and already he bordered on failing for absences. I had a terrifically witty comment about absences prepared for Megan but she was gone too. Her loss. Everyone gets days off but me.
I slept-walked through the day, and put movies on for the students to watch so I wouldn’t have to be smart. Jeriah asked if I was hungover. The Teacher of the Year committee might be having second thoughts, assuming they’d already voted for me. And I could think of no reason why they wouldn’t.
At the end of the day I sat at my desk, feet propped and ankles crossed, and gazed absently out the window. Exhausted. One of those moments where we question who we are and why we’re here and where we’re going. And the universe responded with silence and kids making out in the parking lot.
I bet I looked like Ms. Bennett did at that moment. Deflated and tired. Just a couple of rookies, not yet good at life and feeling small.
In the hallway, Reginald Willis preached to no one in particular.
“It is a shame, I tell you, a shame. And I thank my lucky stars that my daughters are raised and gone, and that I didn’t have to raise them in this violent age. Lord, Lord. With the rise of progress and wealth comes the corresponding perceived lack of wealth in less prosperous communities, and the despair and evil within. The second greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing us that we’re poor. And thus the violence. We can only pray that little girl is found, yessir, and it’s a shame.”
Something about the edge of his tone drew me out of my chair. I gathered belongings, locked my door, and met him in the hall.
“What’s going on, Reginald?”
“I’m expounding on the evils of the world, of course, Mr. August.”
“What girl are you referring to? The little girl who needs to be found?”
“I overheard Ms. Deere talking with the police,” Mr. Willis said. “Little girl gone missing. Megan something or other.”
“Megan Rowe? Little girl in glasses?”
“That’s the one. Didn’t come home last night and her parents are hysterical, for which I cannot blame them. You know her?”
His voice came from some distant place. Megan missing. Kevin absent. Silva’s warning.
In my mind’s eye, I was looking at Sheriff Stackhouse’s photos of young girls kidnapped and murdered as a rite of passage. I was inside Silva’s truck and he was telling me of alternate ways he would wage war. Don’t show up for work tomorrow, he said.
Megan Rowe.
I was her favorite teacher.
I started for the door. “I know her. She’s in my first period.”
“You know where she is?” he called.
I might.
I started picking up speed.
* * *
I hit the 581 entrance ramp at seventy miles per hour. Traffic at three in the afternoon wasn’t bad but some inconsiderate jerk dared to do the speed limit so I passed him on the ramp; my side-view mirror skimmed the guardrail and broke off.
I didn’t know what was going on, but in my mind Silva was initiating a new recruit. Time for another rite of passage, which meant he needed a teenage girl. So he used his connections inside the school to acquire my class rosters and pick a girl. Megan Rowe.
I hoped I was guessing wrong. I hoped Megan ran away with her boyfriend or something, but dread settled over me like a blanket.
I dialed Sheriff Stackhouse.
“Pick up, pick up.”
No answer. Voice mail.
Instead I shifted into fifth gear and maxed at ninety near Valley View. Thirty-five miles per hour over the limit. Thankfully the police displayed a shocking lack of vigilance.
I didn’t know why I bothered paying taxes.
I didn’t know anything. In the weeks I’d been at the school, I’d done zilch to help the cause. And signs pointed to the fact I’d made things worse. I’d kicked a hornets’ nest and gotten other people hurt, and for nothing. No arrests. No new solid intel for the police. No gang generals. Only one missing teenage girl.
If she was dead then I’d have a hard time ever functioning again.
I called Stackhouse once more. No answer.
I knew only one way to help. Sheer stubbornness and sticking my neck out. So I skidded to a stop in the gravel lot off Shenandoah Avenue, at the collection of derelict brick warehouses.
Across the street, two trains rumbled noisily past. Rusty coal cars as far as I could see. Norfolk Southern pushing north, Union Pacific moving south.
This lot was where Eddie Backpack had gone in his gold Nissan. He said they unloaded trucks here. This was where I’d seen Big Will. And this was the only place I knew to look. I took my Kimber .45 and left the car door open, keys in the ignition. Chances were good I might need a quick egress, Big Will being the grumpy type.
I couldn’t hear anything; the train generated too much sound.
I went around the brick building, an old car dealership office, and discovered the lot was larger than I’d assumed. Several acres deep. Old cars, stacks of tires, semi trucks, dump trucks, trailers, empty cargo bays, and warehouses stuffed with auto parts. And fresh tire tracks near the entrance.
This part of town felt vacant for miles, though I knew it wasn’t. The place generated a forsaken
vibe.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I searched. First the two-story office building, which was empty except for roaches and wooden desks with expense reports from 1976. Nearby, two mammoth warehouses were stuffed with used alternators, hubcaps, Ford hoods and doors, rusted engines, oil cans, chains, but no little girls with tortoiseshell glasses.
So tired. Eyes burning. Every step I took sounded too loud. Wish I’d slept last night.
After an hour of searching, I struck pay dirt. Back corner of the lot. Three cars were parked at the chain-link fence, and one of them was a gold Nissan; the cars had been driven recently, but I saw no drivers. The adjacent structure looked like a receiving dock with four large cargo bays, doors pulled down. The gravel and dirt was worn by heavy tires leading to the bays. Muddy boot prints nearby. Muffled voices. Three of the bays were secured with heavy padlocks but not the closest bay to me.
Well. It was a good time to get shot.
I grabbed the heavy roll-up door and hauled. It rose upwards, well-oiled but loud, and slid to a stop along the ceiling.
Three men sat inside around a table. At a glance, they appeared to be playing gin rummy. Hip-hop music issued softly from an iPhone speaker. One of the men was Eddie Backpack.
Behind their small table was a waist-high wall of cocaine. A truly shocking amount, more than I’d ever seen in Los Angeles. Three feet high, five feet deep. Hundreds of white bricks wrapped with cellophane and duct tape. I was looking at ten million dollars minimum, and this was only the first cargo bay.
Two small monitors flickered in the corner. Security cameras. I’d been lucky they weren’t paying attention. A scary-looking assault rifle sat propped against the wall.
I found myself in deep waters, far over my head.
“Hot dang,” I said. “What’s behind the other three doors?”
Wide eyes. Open mouths.
I brought my .45 up. I still had them in the throes of shock but it’d wear off.
Eddie Backpack said, “The fuck? Aren’t you that teacher?”
“That’s Mr. That Teacher, Eddie. Show some respect. Get those hands on the table, boys. You’re in luck, because, believe it or not, I’m not after you. Nor your absurd mountain of illegal narcotics. That’s…that is a lot of coke. Wow, do you guys ever lay down in the bricks and make cocaine angels? Do you mind if I do?”
