Richard Lange

by This Wicked World (v5)

  A guy who looks like Charlie Brown, if Charlie Brown were black and homeless, approaches Boone and holds out a battered video copy of Grease.

  “You want to buy this?” he asks.

  “Nope,” Boone replies.

  “One dollar.”

  “Nope.”

  Charlie looks like he’s about to cry as he waddles away.

  Boone finishes his food and ducks into the Internet café across the street, Cyberplace, a long, narrow room lined with computers and lit by the kind of fluorescent tubes that always put him back in prison. He hasn’t sprung for a computer of his own yet — other things keep coming up, like two-hundred-dollar vet bills — so this is where he checks his e-mail.

  There’s only one new message, from his old partner at Iron-man, Carl Perry. He wants Boone to come to his place Friday to watch a pay-per-view boxing match. “The wife will be there, so bring a date, if you got one,” he adds. Boone has turned down a number of invitations from Carl since being released from Corcoran. They’ve talked on the phone a couple times, exchanged e-mails, but Boone’s been putting off a face-to-face. He’s told himself it’s because he’s been busy getting back on his feet in the outside world, but that’s only part of it.

  The truth is, Ironman took a hit when Boone attacked Anderson. As word of the incident spread — crazed bodyguard beats client — business suffered, and the company is still struggling almost five years later. Boone feels guilty about this, and that’s why he’s been avoiding his old friend. But he also knows that it’s high time he look Carl in the eye and apologize for ruining the good thing he had going, so he e-mails back that he’ll be there for sure on Friday.

  Then, just for kicks, he pulls out the card the vet gave him and types in the address of her animal activist buddies’ Web site, the ones who went after Morrison, Joto’s breeder. The group is called TMW, which stands for This Means War. A headline on the page reads “Stop the Slaughter Now!” and there are lots of gory pictures of fighting dogs with their ears torn off, their eyes gouged out, their intestines exposed.

  These animals are tortured for the sick pleasure of those who wager on them, an essay on the site explains. They live short, horrible, brutal lives and are expected to kill other dogs in order to earn their keep. Win or lose, however, they die slow, cruel deaths and are often kept in appalling conditions. We at TMW are committed to stamping out this sickening “sport” BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.

  At the bottom of the page is a link to contact the site’s owners. Boone clicks it and types, I’m a filmmaker putting together an antidogfight documentary, and I’ve been trying to track down Bob Morrison, a notorious breeder and trainer of fighting dogs. My plan is to interview him with a hidden camera to gather footage that can be used to put him behind bars once and for all.

  My vet, Dr. Sanchez, mentioned that you were trying to take Morrison down but were unable to do so due to legal complications. We have the funds, we have the lawyers, and, if you’ll provide us with contact information for Morrison (an address?), we’d be honored to finish what you started. Sincerely, Ben Crosson.

  Boone chuckles to himself as he hits SEND. He doesn’t really expect his ruse to work. The people at TMW will surely want proof that he is who he says he is, or they’ll demand to be involved in the film in some way or will ask for payment for any information they give him. It’s L.A., after all. Everyone has his hand out, even the do-gooders. Everyone wants a screen credit.

  BOONE DIDN’T SET the alarm when he went to bed, planning to sleep in for once, but Joto barks him awake at seven thirty, excited about taking a piss and licking the dew off the grass. He’s already looking less sickly and certainly has more energy. Boone clips the leash to his collar, and the dog practically drags him into the courtyard.

  Amy’s place was dark when Boone got home last night, and there’s no sign of her now. Mrs. Hu is up, though, on her knees in front of her bungalow, planting bright red flowers.

  “Morning,” Boone says.

  “Pets are against the rules,” she replies, without looking up.

  “I know. I’m trying to find him a home.”

  “I’ll shoot him if he comes near me,” Mrs. Hu says, patting the bulge, that .38, in the pocket of her housecoat.

  Boone pulls tight on the leash and says, “I’ll keep a good eye on him, don’t worry.”

  “And you better clean up after him too, the shit.”

  “I will, Mrs. Hu. Anything else?”

  The old woman doesn’t reply, just stabs at the dirt with her trowel.

  Boone and Joto walk over to Bronson and head up into the hills, where multimillion-dollar homes line the streets. Boone used to live not far from here when he worked for Ironman. He had a view of Catalina on clear days, a pool, a maid, and a gardener. He’d always felt that it was too good to last, though, always known he’d blow it somehow. An ex-jarhead from Oil-dale living next to movie stars? It didn’t compute.

  A pretty woman walking a pair of whippets gives Boone a friendly smile, but all hell breaks loose when Joto lunges for her dogs, growling and snapping his toothless jaws. Boone has to yank him onto his hind legs to make him break off the attack, and the woman lectures him over her shoulder as she hurries away, something about how vicious dogs shouldn’t be out in public.

  AFTER DROPPING JOTO at the bungalow, Boone goes for a run, then hits the gym for an hour, banging the heavy bag until he can’t hold his arms up. By the time the dog-rescue woman arrives at noon, he’s showered, eaten lunch, and picked up the place a bit.

  Loretta Marshall is a very big girl in very tight clothes — jeans and a pink T-shirt with the slogan LOVE ALL LIVING THINGS. Her blond hair has been teased and sprayed into a nest of stiff curls, and diamond rings glitter on every finger.

  “Let me see this sweet boy of yours,” she says, and Boone invites her inside. Joto licks her face when she drops to one knee and baby talks him.

  “Where did you get him?” she asks Boone.

  “I found him,” he replies. No need to get into it.

  “He’s so beat up.”

  “The vet said he was used for dogfighting.”

  “And his teeth?”

  “Someone pulled them.”

  Loretta gasps. Her hand goes to her mouth, and her eyes fill with tears.

  “He also has mange and worms,” Boone continues. “But he’s pretty good-natured despite all that.”

  Loretta’s whole body is shaking, and she looks like she’s about to keel over. Boone helps her up and sits her on the couch, asks if she wants some water.

  “Please,” she gasps. “And a tissue.”

  She regains her composure a few minutes later, after blowing her nose and dabbing at the tears on her cheeks. She takes a sip of water and says, “Okay, so I’m a crier. But it just wrecks me the way people treat the most innocent, trusting, loyal things God put on this planet.”

  “I understand,” Boone says.

  Loretta reaches into her cavernous purse for a pink compact, opens it, and checks her hair and makeup in a little mirror. “So now you’re thinking: ‘How can this crazy lady get so worked up about dogs when there are babies dying every day in Africa?’ ” she says.

  “It’s a rough old world,” Boone replies, keeping it noncommittal.

  “You know what I think?” she says as she snaps shut the compact. “I think there’s a battle between good and evil being fought right this minute, and I think that every wrong you right, every bit of kindness you show, no matter how small, is a blow against that evil.”

  “That’s a nice way to look at things,” Boone says.

  “It is, right?” Loretta says. “Because that means that with every rescue, I’m helping to chip away at the darkness. It might not be much, but at least it’s something, and every little bit helps.”

  She’s one of the lucky ones, someone with a worldview. Boone keeps waiting for the pieces to come together for him like that but doubts they ever will.

  Loretta dives into her purse
again and comes up with a digital camera. “I need to take some photos for my Web site,” she says. “Also, do you mind if I change his name to something nicer? How about Toto? That shouldn’t confuse him too much.”

  “Whatever you need to do,” Boone says.

  Loretta slips off the couch and crouches in front of Joto to snap a few shots. “That’s a cutie,” she coos to the dog. “That’s a cutie.” When she’s finished, she asks Boone, “Why don’t you want to keep him?”

  “I guess I’m not a dog person,” Boone replies.

  Loretta smiles and says, “That’s what my husband used to think before we got married, but he came around. You seem to be doing a wonderful job.”

  “My life’s kind of up in the air right now.”

  “Nothing like a dog to ground you.”

  “It wouldn’t work,” Boone says. “Trust me.”

  Loretta lifts her penciled-in eyebrows like she doesn’t believe him, like that’s a cop-out, then drops the camera into her purse. She puts one hand on the couch and one on the coffee table and groans as she rises from the floor. Boone reaches out to steady her.

  “Thanks,” she says. “These old knees of mine.”

  After bending once more to pet Joto, she moves to the front door and says, “So what I’ll do is put Toto up on our Web site this evening and make a few calls.”

  “How long does it usually take to place a dog?” Boone asks.

  “Depends. Puppies go first, of course. And Toto’s kind of a special case, with his teeth and all. That sort of thing either melts someone’s heart or totally turns them off.”

  Boone follows her onto the porch and thanks her for coming by.

  “Please,” she says. “This is how I nourish my soul.” She hands him a card with her phone number and e-mail address on it and says, “And if you know anyone who needs a Realtor, I’m also really good at that.”

  The flowery smell of her perfume lingers in the bungalow for hours after she departs.

  THAT NIGHT, WHEN he gets off work, Boone stops at Cyber-place again. First, he checks out Loretta’s adoption site. Joto’s, or Toto’s, information is on the main page under the heading REAL HEARTBREAKER: This lovable fellow could use a friend who understands his special needs. He’s a brindle male, approximately two years old, with a few minor medical problems. In addition, his teeth have been removed. He’s likely been used for fighting and should be kept away from other animals but is still a sweet, friendly boy who would make a great companion for someone who can provide him with the TLC he deserves after all he’s been through.

  In the photo, Joto’s head is cocked to the side and his tongue is hanging out. Cute as can be. You can barely even see the scars.

  There’s also a message from TMW: Dear Ben: After we were forced by the court to end our campaign against Morrison, we moved on to other projects, but we’d be happy to do whatever we can to help you expose the bastard. As far as we know, he still operates his kennel and training facility at 25620 Leonis Boulevard, in Vernon, CA.

  Warning: Be extremely careful when you approach him. He’s an alcoholic with a violent temper and has been known to carry a firearm. If we can be of any further assistance, don’t hesitate to contact us, and good luck on your film. Stop the slaughter now!

  Boone writes Morrison’s address on the back of Loretta’s card and slips the card into his wallet. It’s time to stop kidding himself. The mystery of Oscar’s death has been haunting him for days, and the only way he’s going to get any peace is by looking into it further. He realizes that this is what he’s been waiting for when he wakes in the night, his body tense, his mind racing: a mission. A rocky path to some untamed form of redemption. Something terrible happened to the kid, and it’s up to him to find out what it was. And the first step is to track down Morrison.

  What was big, beautiful Loretta talking about? Chipping away at the darkness? Christ, Boone thinks, I’m crazier than she is.

  10

  OLIVIA SEARCHES THE SKY FOR SHOOTING STARS, HER HEAD full of wishes. A coyote yips somewhere in the hills, and the dogs in the barn answer back. Olivia shudders and draws her jacket tighter around herself. What if they’re plotting to band together and take down the humans? That’s what she’d do.

  “Man, I’m superstoned,” she says.

  Virgil grunts in reply. He’s nothing but a boy-shaped stain blotting out a chunk of the night sky until he lights a cigarette and his face glows for an instant like a Halloween pumpkin.

  Olivia brought him up here to show him her hideout, a natural rock bench overlooking the ranch where she comes to get away from Taggert when he’s mad at her or when she can’t stand his touch anymore. She trips out on the stars up here, watches sunsets. She even came up during a thunderstorm once, and lightning struck so close, she could taste the sizzle in the air afterward.

  Virgil isn’t interested in any of this though. He’s still upset about what happened yesterday. He was hinting about going back to L.A. with T.K. and Spiller, but then Taggert said he’d like him to hang out a while longer and asked Olivia didn’t she want him to stay too. She said yes, thinking it would be fun to have some company. Taggert offered to pay Virgil for helping Miguel with the dogs, and today he let him ride one of his dirt bikes, but still, ever since T.K. and Spiller drove off without him, the kid’s been moping around and whining to her that he feels like some kind of prisoner. She thought bringing him up here to smoke a joint would brighten his mood, but it doesn’t seem to have worked.

  She leans back against the rock, which is still warm from the day just passed, and stares into the dark desert stretched out in front of her. She can see the lights of the house and the barn and, in the distance, Twentynine Palms and the Marine base. She has to admit that she feels like a prisoner too, sometimes. Though Taggert says she’s free to come and go as she pleases, he always finds a reason to tag along with her to the supermarket or the drugstore, and on the rare occasions when he lets her go into Palm Springs alone to shop for clothes or have her hair cut, he’s calling on the phone every ten minutes.

  “So you had fun with Eton?” she asks Virgil. The boy is drawing circles in the air with the cherry of his cigarette, making tracers. He gazes at them intently, like a man trying to hypnotize himself.

  “It was cool,” he says.

  “He still going out with that Korean girl, that porn star?”

  “Nah, but he talked about her a lot when he got drunk, which was pretty much all the time.”

  “He sure saved my ass when I first got to L.A.,” she says. “I was such a poo butt, didn’t know nothing. He took me in, let me work for him, kept me off the street.”

  “That’s what he said, you were like a sister to him.”

  Olivia nibbles at a hangnail on her thumb. All that seems like a million years ago. She barely remembers who she was back then, so much shit has happened since.

  “You gonna stay with him when you go back?” she asks. Virgil doesn’t answer. A gritty wind has come up, and Olivia thinks maybe it snatched her words away.

  “I said, Are you gonna stay with him when you go back?” she asks again.

  “Nah,” Virgil replies. “I met some guys, and we’re gonna get a house over in Hollywood, a party crib.”

  Party, party, party. She was the same way at his age, couldn’t get enough of anything. Must be in their blood, she thinks.

  “Have you talked to Daddy lately?” she asks.

  “Nope. You?”

  “Nope.”

  Their parents were hard-core dope fiends when they met, Momma hooking to feed her habit, Daddy stealing cars and slinging meth. Momma was doing a six-month bit when she found out she was pregnant with Olivia, and she and Daddy decided it was time to clean up, settle down, and try to do the right thing by their baby girl.

  Daddy got a job at a frozen-food plant in South Carolina, and Momma kept house and sold Avon. They lived in a nice mobile home on Daddy’s Daddy’s land, joined a nice church, and played penny-ante poker every F
riday night with their nice neighbors.

  Everything was fine until Momma got depressed after Virgil was born and began to look backward instead of forward, regretting things she’d done, dwelling on things that had been done to her, and mining her own pain. It started with her not wanting to get out of bed to care for her newborn son and ended a month later when she died from an overdose of something the doctor had prescribed.

  Olivia was seven, Virgil barely three months old, and Daddy left them with Grandma and Grandpa while he ran off and tried to kill himself too.

  Olivia has heard what happened next a hundred times because Daddy loves to tell anybody who’ll listen to the story of how he was saved. He recites it at church, at family gatherings, at AA meetings. After two years of pure evil, he was all fucked up in a Houston flophouse when a black angel, the angel of death, appeared at the end of his bed and said, “Buddy Ray, if you really want to die, I’ll send you to hell right this minute. But if you want to live, then hit your knees and ask Jesus to forgive you, and he’ll see that you get back to your children and become the father you should be to them.”

  Daddy dropped to the floor and prayed until morning, when he bummed enough cash to catch a bus to Blacksburg. Everybody welcomed him with open arms except Olivia, who’d been having doubts about things like angels ever since she wasn’t struck dead the first time she kissed old Deacon Cullum’s thingy for Barbie money.

  She sat silently in a corner and smirked at everyone praising God and gobbling about miracles until Daddy finally knelt in front of her, sobbing and snuffling into a wad of pink toilet paper like an old woman, and said he understood if she was mad at him right that minute, but from then on his whole life would be devoted to making her and Virgil happy.

  Of course, the first thing the son of a bitch did was go out and marry a woman who hated both of them. Julie, or Mama Juju, as Virgil called her, was a tall, skinny Jesus freak with a wispy black mustache and two kids from a previous marriage. Daddy said it would be like that old show The Brady Bunch, but it sure wasn’t.