Wetbones: The Authorized Edition

by John Shirley

  With his free hand, he touched the bandage around his head. It felt too tight. And it partly blocked the sight in his right eye.

  He tried, once more, to remember the assault. He remembered opening the door. And then, wham. That was all. Next thing he remembered was paramedics bending over him. Someone had found him in the parking lot.

  The phone rang and he answered before the first ring had finished. ''Hello."

  "Reverend Garner? This is Brent at Alameda General -"

  Carrier sighed. He did a lot of counselling for the hospital. They knew him well in the Emergency room. He counselled recovering ODs; sometimes he comforted the AIDS patients. But just now all he wanted to do was

  start looking for Constance. "I'm really caught up in something now, Brent -"

  "I know - I heard. But there's a girl dying here and she keeps asking for you. She's on the verge of a coma. Crack overdose. Some really massive amount. I guess her old man ripped off a dealer and they smoked all night . . . Girl named Berenson."

  "Oh Hell." On the verge of a coma. With crack that probably meant Aleutia was dying . . .

  He heard Aleutia's voice as soon as he stepped into the E.R. Whimpering, pleading.

  Garner turned and saw her in one of the alcoves, lying on a hospital bed under heaps of ice.

  He knew what the blanket of ice meant. It was a last ditch treatment to lower a soaring body temperature. A killing fever that came with crack overdose.

  She was dying. And the baby . . .

  Two nurses and a doctor worked over her. Machinery beeped softly as it monitored her vital signs. She lay there motionless, now. She'd stopped whimpering, stopped squirming.

  "We're losing her again," the doctor said, his voice flat.

  "Where's the obstetrician?" one of the nurses said, sounding like she was fighting hysteria.

  Carrier wanted to go to Aleutia, hold her hand, try to reach her. But it was too late; she was unconscious, babbling in delirium, and he was afraid of getting in the way. He just stood there and prayed.

  A slow minute later, as he stood riveted, watching, the heart monitor flatlined. The monitor made a single, empty tone, whistling into forever. A Code Blue. Her heart had stopped.

  They tried CPR; they failed. They tried re-starting her heart with electrical jolts from a defibrillator. That hardly ever worked. It didn't work for Aleutia. She was gone.

  "What about the caesarian?" a nurse said.

  "We've lost the baby too," the surgeon said.

  I prayed into a vacuum, Garner thought bitterly.

  The cops. Go to the cops. Tell them about Constance. Find her.

  Mouth dry, head thumping, Garner walked on wobbly legs to the exit. He just wanted to find Constance. We've lost the baby too.

  "So did I," Garner said, aloud. "Lost my baby too . . ." He said it to no one in particular.

  Or maybe he said it to God.

  Los Angeles County Juvenile Detention

  The visitors' room was painted white, overlit, and furnished with cheap orange plastic chairs, most of which were so bent they were a danger to sit on. There was a single decoration, a retouched photo of an autumn scene in New England. It was cemented to the wall. Some kid had scribbled on it with a ballpoint pen, drawing in a word balloon over the forest lake, which was reflective with sunset orange: Get me out of here! I'm drowning in this orange shit!

  Prentice and Jeff sat alone in a corner, waiting for Lonny. The counsellor had said Lonny was Mitch's room-mate, and a friend of his from before the arrest. "A friend of his?" Jeff had said. "It's weird that I never met him."

  "No it's not," the counsellor had said.

  In the other corner of the room a Chicano boy talked

  earnestly in Spanish with his mother. The boy was overweight, the skin of his face pocked, his hair puffed up in the sort of pompadour that's stylishly dimpled in the middle. It looked to Prentice like there was a hole going down into his head. The boy had a fake gold chain around his neck.

  Jeff shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You think that doctor was full of shit? Doctor Drandhu?"

  "Christ, that name sounds like the villain of a Flash Gordon serial or something." Prentice shrugged. "That's something we can ask Lonny. If that shit was self mutilation."

  "That's just not a Mitch thing to do. He might do all kinds of weird shit but Mitch hated pain. Hell, he hated any kind of discomfort, he was not your Spartan type, you know? And if he was into mutilating himself it would've showed up before now. I mean, he was never that fucked up."

  "Yeah well. Amy was crazy but I never knew her to mutilate herself either. And she did it . . .

  He broke off, embarrassed, as the Chicano boy and his mother bent their heads and began to pray together in Spanish. The counsellor had said, "Every single kid here is in a gang - for three exceptions, all of them white boys. Mitch was one of the exceptions."

  There were tears rolling down the Chicano boy's cheeks as he prayed. This was not how Prentice pictured juvie gang members. But then, the kid's companeros weren't around to see this.

  "You know," Jeff whispered, "they say the girl gangs are the worst. They've got these girl gangs out here now - they're son a like Apache women were supposed to be. Torture the prisoners. Just mean as can be. They say you won't live if they get pissed at you and catch you - some

  of the other gangs might let you live, after they beat you up, but never the girls."

  "I'm glad this place isn't co-ed."

  The door to lock-up buzzed and opened, and a boy came through. He looked half Oriental, maybe Vietnamese, half-Hispanic, some Cauc blood too. Long lank, black hair over his shoulders. He wore a Metallica t-shirt and jeans, high-top black Adidas. He swaggered just a little as he walked. His muscular arms were home-tattooed with snakes entwining cartoonish girls. Behind him came a potbellied black guard, his khaki uniform shirt popped open where his belly spilled over his shiny black belt, one hand on the butt of his holstered gun. "You got about ten minutes, Lonny," the guard said, "then you got Group."

  "Group sucks," Lonny muttered, pausing to look awkwardly around.

  "You axed for that group, homie," the wheezing guard said. He fished a cigarette from a shirt pocket, handed it over, lit it with an old Zippo, and left.

  Jeff and Prentice crossed to Lonny. Shook his surprisingly soft hand. Introduced themselves. "Hi, howya doin'," Lonny said, politely but tonelessly. He stuck his free hand in a jeans pocket, the other one flicked the cigarette. He looked at Prentice and Jeff, then looked at the floor, then looked back at them. "So what you guys want?"

  "I'm Mitch Teitelbaum's brother -"

  "I know, you said that before. But whas'up, you know? I mean, I don't wanna be an asshole, but I got to check this shit out. Mitch was like my blood homie, you know?"

  Jeff nodded. "Okay. Look - if you can answer some questions for us, we'll sign something for your lawyer,

  says you were helpful, it won't hurt when it's time to get out of here. We're trying to figure out where Mitch went. I'm not going to tell the cops anything you tell me - I want to go get him myself. You got any ideas?"

  Lonny drew on the cigarette. He looked at them.

  Prentice thought about offering him money. He had a sense, though, that offering money would have been taboo; Lonny's claim to close friendship for Mitch had the ring of truth about it.

  "At the hospital," Jeff prompted, "they said someone saw him going out in a wheelchair, pushed by a funny looking kind of guy, older guy . . . Any idea who that might be?"

  Lonny shrugged. "Maybe it's the More Man."

  Prentice stared. Hadn't there been something in Amy's hospital evaluation papers about the More Man? Something she'd said more than once . . .

  "I don't know who the fuckin' More Man is," Lonny said. "Mitch called the guy that, said someone at the Doublekey was going to help him break into recording. Mitch wanted to write songs and shit. All I know is, the More Man's hella rich."

  "What's the Doublekey?" Jeff asked.r />
  "It's this ranch, out by Malibu somewhere, people party out there a lot, girls go out and get free drugs an' shit. I heard that before, and Mitch told me about it too, you know."

  "You ever tell the cops this?" Prentice asked.

  "Fuck no." He snorted at the idea. He went to a chair that had a tin ashtray on its seat. He picked up the ashtray, brought it back, held it in one hand, tamped ashes into it with another. There was something curiously feminine about the way he did it.

  "You ever see Mitch, uh . . . Jeff hesitated. "Hurt himself?"

  Lonny grimaced, an expression fleeting as the lighting of a nervous fly. Then the impassivity returned. "Sure, yeah. I told him cut it out or I was going to kick his fucking ass for him."

  Prentice waited for the boy to notice the irony in that. Stop hurting yourself for I'll hurt you. But he didn't. Maybe there was a reason . . .

  Eyeing the cigarette to see whether there was a millimeter to smoke before the filter, Lonny said, "Yeah, shit, he dug this shiv into his arm down to the bone . . . plowed it all up . . . stickin' it real deep in himself all over . . . he was startin' to cut on his dick and shit too . . .

  Jeff winced. Prentice's mouth went dry.

  Lonny went on, "He didn't seem to feel no pain. I thought for a while he was bogartin' dope or something, to be doin' that, but I don't think so. He said it was spirits that did it, and I know there's spirits, I got an aunt, she can get spirits to come and take her over and she can put her hands in fire and it don't hurt her. I believe in spirits. Fuck, yeah."

  For a moment, Lonny closed his eyes. His adam's apple bobbed. When he opened his eyes again they were moist. "I told him I'd kick his ass for him if he did that shit again." He said it this time with an odd kind of sentimentality. "He's like, my brother . . ." He gave Jeff a look that made him stiffen. ''You probably find him out the Double-key. You go get his ass and bring him home, but don't be fucking telling the cops this shit. If they go out there and he gets busted and it's my fault, man . . ."

  "I don't want him busted either," Jeff said. "Don't worry, Lonny."

  "I'm not kidding man. Swear on your dick, you'll lose it if you tell the cops."

  Jeff started to laugh, then saw that Lonny was completely serious. "On my . . ."

  "You heard me. You swear or I'll tell some of my friends on the outside to go out that Ranch, tell Mitch to split before you get there. Swear on your fuckin' dick, dude."

  Jeff swallowed. He shrugged. "Okay I swear. On my dick." Lonny looked at Prentice meaningfully. Prentice sighed. "I swear . . ." He glanced at the Mexican lady who was standing now, hugging the boy. Prentice lowered his voice to add, ''. . . on my dick"

  Los Angeles

  "I've heard of the Doublekey ranch somewhere or other," Jeff said.

  They were on the 101, in Jeff's Cabriolet, with the top down, but with no wind to cool them off. The traffic was backed up and desultory. The radio was playing, but low, Tom Petty was singing about good girls and bad boys, but Prentice couldn't make out much more than that. The sun made sundogs and quivery pools of light on the cars; it was slowly burning the crown of Prentice's head. He wondered if his hair was thinning up there. Male pattern balding, they called it. That'd be right in line with the rest of my luck, he thought.

  Then he found himself looking at a black family with seven or eight sad-eyed kids packed into a battered old station wagon and just the way the clothes and odds and ends were crammed in around them made it clear they lived in that car . . .

  And he thought: Prentice, stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  "Jeff," Prentice murmured, "you ever wonder if there're things guiding us to see things . . . or not to see things? Influencing us? Like, if we're paying attention, we might be feeling sorry for ourselves and then something prompts us to notice someone worse off . . ."

  "You mean, something guiding us like God? If you're guided, it's more likely being done by some part of your unconscious that knows self pity is dumb," Jeff said.

  "I guess. Sometimes, though, I think . . ." He blew out his cheeks, feeling foolish. "Never mind. This fucking traffic sucks. Let's get off a here, get on the surface streets."

  "If I can ever get to the goddamn exit."

  The cars in front of them moved up a little; Jeff prodded his Cabriolet a few yards farther in the slow conga line, as Prentice asked, "You said you heard about this Doublekey ranch?"

  "It's out near Malibu, like the boy said. I think . . . You know what it is, if I'm remembering right: It's Sam and Judy Denver's place."

  "You say their names like I'm supposed to know who they are."

  "Remember Honolulu Hello? That was their show. They produced that and Gun City and a couple of others and really cleaned up for a while which was pretty easy since their sponsor was -"

  "Their sponsor was Horizon Soaps. Very funny. Stick to action writing, Jeff."

  "Lighten up, man."

  "Oh yeah, right," Prentice said, rankled. "Amy got chewed up and spit out by some asshole around here.

  My career's in the dumpster. Then we hear all this depressing shit about Mitch. And the top of my head feels like you could fry an egg on it. And I'm supposed to lighten up?" Self pity again, he told himself. But it was hard not to take refuge in it. With Amy in a file drawer.

  "So anyway," Jeff went on, "the Denvers used to host a very exclusive high powered little clique. They used to be quite fashionable. Then they sort of dropped out of sight. Supposed to be living quite comfortably off their residuals. Honolulu Hello is always in re-runs . . . I guess it was the molestation thing." Mitch grimaced. "The Denvers were accused of child molestation. The children of some maid they had for awhile . . ." His voice trailed off.

  Prentice articulated what were probably Jeff's thoughts. "Child molestation? And Mitch is out there? He's not a kid but he's close enough . . ."

  Jeff was chewing his lower lip. "I . . . don't know. Nothing was proven on them. But where there's smoke there's fire, or sometimes anyway. And there was lots of smoke."

  "Well shit, then. Let's go to the cops, tell them that these accused child molesters have your teenage brother. They could be abusing him some way."

  "I don't know, man. I promised Lonny -"

  "You worried about your dick falling off, Jeff?"

  "It's not my dick, it's my word, okay? But the other thing is - I don't want to give Mitch to the cops again. I mean, how much good were they doing for his 'rehabilitation' out in that place where he manages to carve himself up like a fucking turkey, you know?"

  "You always hated cops anyway. How come?"

  Jeff was silent for a minute or two. Then he said,

  "I did some time when I was a kid too . . ."

  Prentice nodded. His eyes had settled on Jeff's carphone. "Can I use your phone?"

  "Sure. It's got kind of a crackly signal, but go for it, man."

  "Thanks." Prentice took the phone off the cellular unit just under the dashboard and punched his agent's number.

  Buddy kept him on hold for five minutes, but Prentice had nothing else to do as the car crawled toward the exit still a quarter mile away. Prentice glanced at Jeff . . .

  And was surprised, and then not so surprised, to see that Jeff was crying. Silently crying; his bony cheeks coursing with tears. Thinking about his brother. Prentice looked away, gazed at the tract homes and Denny's restaurants and Macdonalds and Burger Kings, their toylike roofs visible down below the guard rail of the freeway. He tried to give Jeff some privacy, that way.

  Finally he got Buddy on the line, shouting through the brassy pipe of the speaker phone. Buddy didn't palter with amenities. "Hey, Tom. How ya doin'. Say, I spoke to Athwright and he says he's giving your project 'serious consideration'. I don't know what that means except it's better than 'don't waste my time with that kind of shit' which is what he said about the last guy I sent over. But there's no guarantees. You know what you should do, if you want a break, dontcha? I mean, studios don't buy treatments much, they don't commissio
n scripts too often anymore, nowdays they like to see that finished script. So they can make you rewrite it ten thousand times. But you know what I mean - a spec script, man -"

  "Hey, I'm working on that." Which was a lie. Prentice had started half a dozen scripts but nothing came together in his head. It was like a locomotive with no steam pressure, it just wouldn't go, and he told himself If I get the money for a commission I'll be motivated, I'll be financially relieved too, that'll loosen up the inspiration . . . I need the money first . . . Some part of himself knowing he was making excuses. "But listen Buddy, it's still possible to get some money out front for, you know, people with a track record. I had a couple of misfires but I proved I can do it, I'm a Player, man, and if we act as if I'm not a Player then they'll think I'm not."

  "Look - a spec script gets you a lot more money. That's the bottom line."

  "Like I said, I'm working on it. But that could take months. And in the meantime I need an advance. I got bills to pay."

  "Well - I'm working on that. So. How ya doin', holdin' up okay? About Amy I mean. You feel okay?"

  "Yeah I'm okay - uh -"

  "Good, great, I'll call you if anything firms up, Okay? Ciao -"

  "Buddy! Take a breath, pull your finger back from that button for one second. Listen - I'm not just whining here. I need some work." He was aware, on some level, that he was saying this partly for Jeff's benefit. In the hopes that Jeff would pull some strings somewhere. Jeff was connected. "I mean: I really need work. Starting with an advance."

  A moment of static. Some of Buddy's reply lost in interference. " - think, you're not? I tell you what - just to pay some bills - I do have something. You willing to do a slasher movie? This is not Guild work, you

  understand, it's kind of under the board, you'd get maybe ten grand -"

  "Are you serious?"

  "I know it's piddly shit but hey if you need cash that badly, well . . . just to fill in, you could do it and forget about it. Do it under a pseudonym. It's going right to video - it's a made-for-video slasher film, see. It's called Class Cut-Up."

  "Cute." Prentice thought about it for about five seconds. Decided he'd rather go back to bartending. But he didn't want to fling the one effort Buddy had made for him back in the guy's face . . . "Let me sleep on that, okay, Buddy? And if anything else comes up"