Richard Lange

by This Wicked World (v5)

  Spiller steps out of the mobile home when Taggert approaches. “Hey, boss,” he says, raising a hand to cover the bruise on his cheek where Boone punched him last night. “We’re about ready to roll. You want us to bring you anything back?”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Taggert says. “You two are gonna hang out until we finish this thing.”

  T.K. appears in the doorway. “What’s up?” he says. “There’s a lot less chance of something going wrong if we stick together.”

  “Ain’t nothing gonna go wrong.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d have said that yesterday too, and look what happened.”

  T.K. isn’t happy. “I got things going on,” he grumbles.

  “More important than this?” Taggert replies.

  The guy doesn’t answer, just stands there looking pissed until Spiller pipes up with, “Whatever you think’s best, boss.”

  T.K. grunts and fades back into the bunkhouse. Taggert cuts him some slack this time, but the guy better adjust his attitude before he finds himself in a world of hurt.

  “Come to the house in a bit,” he says to Spiller. “I’ll put on some steaks.”

  His knees feel a little creaky going up the hill. A cloud slides in front of the sun, and the light changes in an instant, the shadows losing their hard edges, all the shiny spots their piercing glare.

  BOONE LIES ON the couch in his bungalow and listens to the purr of a nearby lawnmower. It’s 9:00 a.m., a new day. He and Olivia and Virgil arrived back in L.A. about two. Olivia made a few calls but couldn’t find anybody willing to take in her and her brother, so Boone let them crash at his place. He made it clear, though, that they’d be on their own in the morning.

  They squawked some when he ordered them to hand over the weapons they were carrying, but he locked the pistols and the shotgun in the toolshed after wiping his prints off the Hawg he took from Spiller. Virgil then proceeded to try to drink all the beer in the fridge, and it was another hour before Boone got them settled in the bedroom.

  Joto walks over and licks his face. He pushes the dog away and sits up. So many parts of him scream out in pain that he pauses for a minute to catch his breath: the cut he got during the tussle at Big Unc’s, the knot on his head from Spiller’s pipe. His collarbone is sore where Taggert hit him with the chair, and he can’t lift his right arm without wincing.

  Then there are the dog bites. The one on his thigh consists of two deep punctures accompanied by bruising. The one on his stomach is nastier, a raw, red hole a couple inches in diameter. He covered it with gauze when they got back, and that seems to have stopped the bleeding. The bite on his ankle doesn’t look too bad, but the joint buckles when he stands, so he assumes the dog’s teeth did some damage beneath the skin.

  He limps into the bathroom to take a shower, then applies Neosporin to his wounds and covers them with fresh dressings.

  Someone bangs on the door as he’s finishing up.

  “You almost done?” Virgil calls. “I got to take a wicked piss.”

  Boone opens the door and squeezes past the kid. Glancing into the bedroom, he sees Olivia sitting on the bed, hair tousled, a blank look on her face.

  “Is there any coffee?” she asks around a yawn.

  “I usually go out,” he says.

  “Shit.”

  He leashes Joto for his morning walk. It feels strange leaving Olivia and Virgil alone in his place, but, hell, there’s nothing for them to steal.

  Joto takes his time dumping out, passes up all his favorite spots to finally squat on a patch of dead grass three blocks away. He’s in no hurry to get back either. Every tree trunk, every garbage can, every telephone pole, merits special attention.

  A few bees hover over an orange peel lying in the gutter, and ranchero music plays nearby. Boone takes a deep breath, smells jasmine and frying bacon. He’s disappointed at how his little investigation turned out. Even if he could get the police interested in what happened to Oscar, there’s nothing tying the kid to the ranch, so all Taggert has to do is deny ever knowing him. And to get the cops interested, Boone would have to admit to violating his parole in so many ways, they’d throw away the key.

  It’s a fucked-up situation: he uncovers the truth, but the truth isn’t enough. Joto smiles at him and lifts his leg on one of the Olds’s tires.

  Olivia and Virgil are smoking on the couch when he returns. A water glass serves as an ashtray.

  “This okay?” Olivia asks, holding up her cigarette.

  “Yeah, yeah, fine,” Boone replies.

  She’s a pretty girl, but there’s a hardness in her face, in her eyes, all out of proportion to her years. Too many late nights, too much dope, too many bad men — something is grinding her down.

  She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts, a purple cropped T-shirt, and flip-flops, and Virgil is in his baby blue warm-up suit, the one he was sporting the night they busted him at the Tick Tock. Both of them have the same dangerous vibe that a lot of guys in the pen had: like they could joke with you at ten, gut you at eleven, and have trouble remembering any of it by noon. The sooner they’re out of here, the better.

  Boone walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge. A carton of eggs and a twelve-pack of Pepsi.

  “You guys want a soda?” he calls into the living room. It’s not coffee, but it might help them get their asses in gear.

  “What kind?” Virgil replies.

  Boone carries the cans to them and walks over and opens a window to let out some of the smoke. Joto is standing in the middle of the room, his eyes locked on the newcomers. At the same time, Boone feels Olivia watching him, sizing him up, trying to figure out how big a mark he is, how much she can take him for.

  Virgil pats the couch and calls to Joto. “Here, boy.”

  The dog considers the request for a moment before walking over and sniffing the kid’s outstretched hand.

  “Looks like he’s done some fighting,” Virgil says as he scratches Joto between the ears.

  “So they tell me,” Boone replies.

  Olivia lifts her Pepsi can from her bare stomach, wipes away the condensation left behind with her index finger, then slides the finger between her lips, all the while staring at Boone with a sly smile. Flat-out stripper stuff, supremely strange this early in the morning.

  “What are you going to do now?” she asks him.

  “Now?” he replies.

  “Now that you know what happened to Oscar.”

  Boone shrugs. “Not much I can do, considering my circumstances.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s none of your business, but I just got out of the joint, and I’m still on parole.”

  Olivia sips her Pepsi and peeks at him over the top of her can. “For what?”

  “Like I said, none of your business,” Boone replies.

  “Come on. You think you’re gonna freak me out?”

  “I beat the shit out of someone I shouldn’t have,” Boone says. He feels like he’s bragging now, like some kind of asshole.

  Olivia smiles. “See, I knew you were a badass,” she says. “The way you took Spiller out, that was, like, totally professional.”

  Boone points to his bruised and bandaged face. “Totally.”

  Virgil is watching him with a strange expression. When Boone catches his eye, the kid looks away. Boone wonders if he finally remembers their previous encounter. All the more reason to get them moving.

  The kid tugs on Joto’s ears and says, “What’s up with dude’s teeth?”

  “Taggert,” Boone replies.

  “Is this that dog?” Virgil says. He turns to Olivia. “I told you about that shit.”

  “I thought he looked familiar,” Olivia says.

  “Oscar brought him home from the ranch and took care of him until he died,” Boone says. “I bought him from Oscar’s friends.”

  “Fucking Taggert,” Virgil says.

  “How do you get by?” Olivia asks Boone. “Like for money?”

  “Again,
none of your business,” Boone replies. The girl already knows where he lives, what kind of car he drives, that he’s still on paper. He’s not going to give her anything else she can use. She reaches down to scratch her ankle, then runs her hand all the way up her leg to her thigh while Boone tries not to stare.

  “They make it hard for a con, don’t they?” she says.

  There’s a knock at the door, and Joto barks. Boone presses his eye to the peephole. Amy.

  She looks puzzled when he opens the door.

  “I thought I heard voices in here,” she says. She notices the new damage to his face and raises a hand to her mouth. “My God. What happened?”

  Boone smiles sheepishly. “In case anybody ever asks you, don’t spar with eighteen-year-old jarheads after a few beers.” Another lie. They’re coming easier and easier.

  Darkness flits across Amy’s face. She doesn’t believe him but isn’t going to pursue it. “Looks painful,” she says.

  “It’s not too bad.”

  “I was coming over to check on Joto.” She holds up the key Boone gave her so she could feed the dog while he was in the desert. “I didn’t think you’d be home until later.”

  “I decided to cut out early, beat the traffic,” Boone says as he takes the key.

  “Probably smart,” Amy replies. She looks past him at the two on the couch.

  “My buddy’s kids, Olivia and Virgil,” Boone says. “He asked me to give them a ride back to the city. Guys, this is Amy.”

  Olivia and Virgil wave. Amy doesn’t wave back.

  “Well, stay out of trouble,” Amy says coldly, all done pretending that everything’s fine. She walks off the porch, and Boone knows she’s insulted by his lame attempt to put something over on her. The woman’s an ex-cop. She can smell hinky a mile off.

  “Hey, wait,” he calls and limps into the courtyard after her. She turns to face him, looking dubious. He puts his hands on her shoulders and draws her close to whisper in her ear.

  “Some wild stuff’s obviously gone down,” he says. “As soon as I’m clear of it, I’ll explain everything.”

  “What makes you think I want to know?”

  “Let’s talk later, when I get home from the restaurant tonight.”

  “I have to work tomorrow,” Amy says. “I can’t be up that late.”

  “In the morning then, before you leave.”

  She pulls away. “Jesus, Jimmy, you’re bleeding.”

  He looks down at a fresh spot of blood on his T-shirt, seepage from the bite on his stomach.

  “Please?” he says, covering the stain with his hand.

  Amy shakes her head disgustedly and walks off. Boone turns back to the bungalow to see Olivia watching from the porch. She takes a deep drag on her cigarette, blows out a cloud of smoke, and tosses the butt in the flower bed.

  “Girlfriend’s pissed, huh?” she says with a mocking tone as Boone approaches.

  “Get in there,” he replies.

  Olivia steps inside the bungalow. Boone follows and pulls the door shut. Virgil has the TV on and is surfing the channels.

  “You got B-E-T?” he asks Boone.

  Boone snatches the remote out of his hand and says, “Time for you two to go.”

  “Girlfriend’s really pissed,” Olivia says.

  “Get your shit together and call whoever you need to call.”

  Olivia cringes and affects a hurt expression. “Wow,” she says. “Some thank-you this is.”

  “What do you want?” Boone says. “Breakfast? I’ll make you some eggs.”

  Olivia sits on the arm of the couch. She sips her Pepsi and says, “Let me ask you something: do you want to get back at Bill for what he did to you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Boone says.

  “I’ve got a way to fuck him over.”

  Boone raises his hand palm out, like a traffic cop. He wants her to stop right now, doesn’t want to hear anything that could pull him in any deeper.

  “As far as I’m concerned, I got what I deserve for being stupid,” he says.

  “What about Oscar?” Olivia replies. “He get what he deserved?”

  Boone walks toward the kitchen. “You like toast?” he says. “I have some bread.”

  “I’m not talking about killing him,” Olivia says. “I’m talking about ripping his ass off.”

  Boone’s injured ankle gives way when he turns to face Olivia. He grabs the door frame to keep from falling.

  “What’d this guy do to you to piss you off so bad?” he asks.

  “Let’s see,” Olivia replies. “He killed my friend. He treated me like a whore. He beat up my brother.”

  “Which was a total shock, right?” Boone says. “Because you thought he was a perfectly nice guy going into whatever arrangement you had with him, a different kind of asshole from all the other assholes you’d hooked up with before.”

  Olivia loses it then. She leaps up from the couch to stand chest to chest with Boone and screams, “Don’t act like you know my life, motherfucker!” Saliva spatters Boone’s face. He reacts instinctively, shoving Olivia backward. She almost falls over the arm of the couch but manages to stay upright. When it looks like she’s going to charge again, Boone points a finger and says, “Don’t.”

  She holds back, seething. Virgil pops up like he’s going to get into it, and Boone shifts the finger to him.

  “Get your stuff and get out,” he says.

  “Big man,” Olivia says with a sneer. “You’re cool pushing girls around but scared shitless to go up against a dude who beat you down and humiliated you.”

  “Spare me the lowlife logic,” Boone says.

  “Ooooooh, logic. A smart man too,” Olivia says. “Big and smart. Wow.”

  Boone refuses to be drawn in by her taunts. “Hit the road,” he says. “Now.”

  Olivia and Virgil walk into the bedroom and reappear a moment later carrying their bags. Boone herds them to the front door.

  “Get our guns,” Olivia says.

  “Why? So you can shoot me?” Boone replies.

  “Shit, dude, you are so not worth the trouble.”

  Boone is uneasy about handing over the weapons but doesn’t want to give the duo any reason to hold a grudge. He leads them out to the shed and unlocks the door. After pulling on a pair of work gloves, he opens the cabinet where he stowed the pistols and the shotgun and hands them over one by one.

  “Be careful with these,” he says.

  “Oh, we will, Daddy,” Olivia says.

  She and Virgil bury the firearms in their bags, then head off down the concrete path to the street.

  “Sorry you’re such a loser,” Olivia calls over her shoulder.

  “You have a nice life too,” Boone replies.

  “Don’t worry about that, bitch.”

  Mrs. Hu is standing on her porch when Boone limps back to his bungalow. She glares at him with her hands on her hips, and Boone tosses off a quick wave and sorry.

  As soon as the door closes behind him, he lies down on the couch, lost in a whirl of anger and pain. It’s half an hour before he can muster the strength to walk into the kitchen for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a handful of Advil. Time to put in a call to Doc Ock.

  “I KNOW THAT guy, Jimmy,” Virgil says after he and Olivia manage to flag down a cab.

  “Yeah?” Olivia replies.

  “I just now figured it out: he was the bartender at this place where they busted me for dealing. Him and this other guy took me into an alley and stole my stuff.”

  “Seriously?” Olivia says. “He doesn’t seem like that kind.”

  “Seriously,” Virgil replies. “Man, I wish I’d have remembered earlier. I’d have fucked his shit up good.”

  Olivia doesn’t know whether to believe him. Virgil is so stoned half the time, he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.

  The cab driver is a raghead who barely speaks English. That kind of thing makes Olivia angry. Like the Russian girls she’s danced with at clubs, th
e Thai girls fresh off the boat. If you want to live in this country, you should learn the language. She looks out the window at the stores along Sunset with signs in all kinds of Spanish and Chinese, all kinds of other alphabets, some like a retarded kid’s scribbles. It’s not right.

  She tried calling some old friends to see if anyone would pick them up, but their numbers weren’t in service or they didn’t answer, so now she and Virgil are stuck paying this fucking terrorist for a ride. All because Mr. Jimmy Boone all of a sudden freaked on them, the ungrateful prick. He’s gonna get his though. She has big plans for that boy.

  Virgil is listening to his iPod. His head bobs up and down like he’s nodding yes over and over. The driver’s phone rings. He answers it and starts talking that camel talk, starts shouting, really. Olivia slips her hand inside the bag on her lap and wraps her fingers around the Glock hidden there. Armed and dangerous, the only way to be.

  They stop at a red light, and she watches a homeless woman wrapped in black plastic garbage bags push a shopping cart overflowing with junk into the shade of a bus kiosk and sit heavily on the bench. The woman’s bare feet are swollen and caked with dirt. That’s you, if you don’t change shit up, Olivia tells herself. But then another voice says, No way, girl. You got brains, and you got beauty. Good things are coming your way. The woman on the bench lifts the bags covering her pendulous breasts in an attempt to cool off. Olivia grimaces and looks away.

  Eton’s house is exactly like she remembers it, the front yard a little more overgrown, the roof a little saggier. She and Virgil get out of the cab, and the driver hops out to unload their bags from the trunk, where he insisted on stowing them. He must think they’ll tip bigger if they see him actually working.

  “Okay,” he says as he sets the bags on the sidewalk. He’s a little man, round, with heavy five o’clock shadow. He’s wearing some kind of slippers on his feet.

  “Okay,” Olivia says, mocking him.

  “Is twelve seventy-five.”

  “In dollars?” Olivia says.

  “Pardon me?”

  Olivia gives him a twenty. He reaches into his pocket for a wad of bills, peels off a five right away and hands it to her. He’s expecting her to let him keep the rest, but she doesn’t like him. And not just because he’s a foreigner. He hasn’t smiled once since he picked them up, and what was that about, talking on the phone when he had customers? People don’t want to hear that kind of crap. Finally, reluctantly, he hands her two ones and a quarter.