This Wicked World

by RICHARD LANGE

  Virgil was still a baby, so Olivia got the worst of it. Mama Juju would dump the garbage on Olivia’s bed if Olivia forgot to empty it, make her scrub the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, and smack her with a wooden spoon if she complained. Her own kids, Brian and Stacy, she treated like a little prince and princess, even when they called Olivia “trash” and “orphan” and kicked her in church so she’d scream and get in trouble.

  Olivia ran away for the first time when she was eleven, right after they’d moved to Tampa, where Daddy had a job cutting the grass at a golf course. She was already drinking by then, smoking weed, and she officially lost her virginity at age twelve to a PCP freak named Starman. Daddy threw her out for good at fifteen, after she broke Princess Stacy’s nose and stole her car, and she’s been on her own ever since.

  This isn’t the story she tells people when they ask, though, because then they’d make all kinds of nasty assumptions about her. She usually says her dad works for the phone company and her mom runs a jewelry store. Taggert thinks she was a cheerleader in high school and got a volleyball scholarship to the University of Florida. Whatever works, is how she feels about it. People are always talking up the truth, but the truth — and everybody knows it — is that little white lies make the world go round.

  “Last I heard, Stacy was pregnant again, and Brian was going to Afghanistan,” Virgil says. “They took off Mama Juju’s tits too, you know. Cancer.”

  “Boo hoo,” Olivia replies. She reaches over and steals Virgil’s cigarette and watches an airplane pass overhead, tracks the blinking lights weaving among the stars as she takes a drag.

  “I wish you hadn’t left me there when you split,” Virgil says.

  “You were eight years old,” Olivia replies. “What was I gonna do, bring you with me? Besides, you were the baby. That bitch treated you a lot better than she treated me.”

  “Is that right?” Virgil says. He grabs her hand and runs her fingers over a lump on the top of his head. “Feel that? That’s where she hit me with a bean pot when I was ten and knocked me out. And I got more if you want to see them.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Daddy?” Olivia asks.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “ ’Cause he’s a total idiot when it comes to her.”

  “I know,” Virgil says. “That old witch must give a hell of a blow job.”

  Olivia laughs so hard she coughs. Virgil laughs too, until he notices the glowing red dot trembling in the center of his chest. He swipes at it like it’s something that might rub off, then says, “What the fuck?”

  “What is that?” Olivia asks.

  “I don’t…” Virgil’s expression slides from confused to terrified. He jumps to his feet and scrambles for cover behind the rock.

  Olivia, ducking instinctively herself, shouts “What?”

  “Someone’s lighting me up with a laser sight,” Virgil yelps.

  “That you guys?” Taggert calls from the house.

  Olivia stands and looks down the hill and sees him slouched in the doorway, a rifle cradled across his chest.

  “Who else would it be?” she yells.

  “Just checking,” he says. He waves the rifle over his head and walks inside.

  Olivia turns to Virgil and says, “It’s okay; he’s gone now.” It’s a struggle to keep the anger out of her voice.

  Virgil steps out warily from behind the rock, his eyes locked on the house. “I told you he wants to kill me,” he says. He sounds like he’s about to cry.

  “He didn’t mean anything by it,” Olivia replies, not sure if that’s true.

  “Come on, Olly. That was fucking crazy.”

  “He probably thinks he was being funny.”

  Virgil brushes dirt off his pants and shakes his head. “You gotta ask him when I can go back,” he says.

  “I will.”

  “I got shit going on, deals and stuff. I’m losing money out here.”

  Olivia hands him his cigarette and zips up her coat. “I said I’d ask,” she says. “But don’t do anything to piss him off in the meantime.”

  TAGGERT IS IN the kitchen fixing himself a rum and Coke when Olivia returns to the house. He’s wearing his reading glasses on a chain around his neck, something he only does in front of her. Anyone else, he says, would jump on it as a sign that he’s getting old, getting weaker. Even a little thing like that could give a shithead ideas.

  “What the fuck were you doing, pointing a rifle at my brother?” Olivia asks after slamming the door.

  Taggert continues to stir his drink. He doesn’t even bother to look up. “Just fucking around,” he says.

  Olivia stands with her hands on her hips. “Why’d you want him to stay out here if you’re going to treat him like that?” she says.

  Taggert shuffles past her to the refrigerator, his flip-flops slapping the floor. He opens the freezer. “I’m gonna make some Pizza Rolls,” he says. “Want some?” He turns to shake the box at her, raises his eyebrows.

  Like she’s a dumb bitch. Like he doesn’t have to take what she says seriously. Olivia lashes out, slapping the box from Taggert’s hand, and frozen Pizza Rolls skitter across the worn linoleum.

  “Don’t ever do me like that again,” she yells. She’s right in his face now, her finger inches from his nose. “I’m not your fucking cum rag. All I asked was a question, and all you had to do was answer me. That’s how normal fucking people do it.”

  Taggert exhales heavily and says, “Are you going to pick that shit up off the floor on your own, or do I have to make you?”

  Olivia’s hand clenches into a fist, and she draws it back to punch him. She stops herself at the last instant though. Last time she hit him, he hit back and almost busted her nose. Got to be smarter than that now.

  “I’ll pick them up,” she says, “and then later I’ll cut your throat while you sleep.”

  He shoots her a mean smile and points to the Pizza Rolls again, giving her a silent order.

  Tears spring into Olivia’s eyes. This always happens when she’s angry, and she hates it. She can’t let Taggert see her cry because he’ll take it as a win. “You think I’m afraid of you?” she screams. “I’m not fucking afraid of you!”

  Taggert doesn’t follow when she bolts for the bedroom.

  THEY MET AT a club in Upland. Olivia was dancing there after she’d sworn she’d never dance again, and, worse yet, dancing nude instead of topless, which she’d also sworn she’d never do again, because it made her sick to her stomach to have guys staring at her cookie.

  She’d quit a good gig cocktailing in Hollywood to move with some girl she was crushing on out to the Inland Empire, a pretty name for what was actually a hot, smoggy shitpit rotting at the rim of the desert. Things went great for a couple of months, until her girlfriend came home one afternoon and told her that she was going back to doing guys and that Olivia would have to get out of the apartment they’d been sharing.

  So now Olivia needed money and needed it quick, and it turned out that dancing was the only job that close to the edge of the world that paid a decent wage. Taggert came in to the club about a week after she started. She noticed that he moved from the bar to the rail for her set and laid down a twenty after each of her songs, so she snuggled up to him afterward and asked if he’d like a couch dance in the VIP lounge. He leaned in close enough that his breath tickled her ear and said, “That kind of thing might make these other hillbillies jizz in their Fruit of the Looms, but I’ve got five hundred dollars set aside for some straight up fucking and sucking.”

  Any other night she would have had him thrown out, because she’d also sworn to herself that she wasn’t going to trick again, but the security deposit on the condo she wanted was fifteen hundred dollars and she was pretty twisted on some Percocet one of the bouncers had given her, so she drove over to Taggert’s motel when her shift ended.

  He wasn’t exactly her type — he was a guy, number one, and old, and kind of crusty and scarred up — but for some
reason they hit it off. He was gentle in bed, funny and appreciative, and she wound up staying the whole night. Over pancakes at IHOP the next morning she told him about having to move — her boyfriend had dumped her, she said — and Taggert offered to help her get a place if he could have visitation rights. He claimed to be a salesman who passed through town two or three times a week and liked to have a girl on call, but Olivia knew that was bullshit. She recognized an outlaw when she saw one.

  A month later she was kind of in love with him. They had a blast whenever he showed up, and he never once tripped on her. Wrapped in his big arms, Olivia felt as safe as she ever had with a man. Then one day he drove her out to the ranch and told her if she wanted, she could quit dancing and move in with him, and he’d take care of her. It seemed like a chance to leave a lot of bad stuff behind all at once and make a stab at some sort of normal life, so she hugged him and cried her best fake tears of happiness and said she’d stand by him forever.

  Now, though, eight months into it, she’s feeling restless. Besides occasional shopping days in Palm Springs and at the outlet malls, they’ve only been away from the ranch twice, for a week in Vegas and a week in San Diego. Both trips were related to jobs Taggert’s crew was pulling, so he was paranoid the whole time, always worrying that they were being tailed and barking at her whenever she strayed from his sight. He got so pissed at a blackjack dealer at the Mirage who was flirting with her that she thought he was going to kill the kid or drop dead from a stroke, like his dad.

  He treats her like one of his dogs now, doesn’t give her a say in anything. Yes, he pays the bills, but that doesn’t mean she’s just a fuck toy. In fact, she’s been after him lately to let her be more involved in his business. What crew couldn’t use a hot chick who knows her way around a hustle?

  He always has excuses, though: things are going to get physical this time, a new face might queer the deal. The guy doesn’t even have the balls to tell her no outright. And now this shit with Virgil? Terrorizing him like that? Could be it’s getting time to hit the road.

  THERE’S A KNOCK at the bedroom door.

  “Baby,” Taggert says. “Can I come in?”

  Olivia sits up in bed and scrubs the smeared mascara off her face with the sheet. It’s been over an hour since she stormed out of the kitchen.

  “It’s your house,” she says.

  Taggert opens the door and sticks his head inside.

  “You’re not gonna shoot me?” he says.

  Olivia ignores him, keeps staring at the TV playing in the corner. He shuffles in and sits on the edge of the mattress.

  “Baby,” he says, “what happened out there earlier, I don’t want us to be like that.”

  Let him do the talking, Olivia thinks.

  “Why did I want your brother to stay?” he continues. “Because I thought it’d be good for the two of you to hang out for a while. I know you get bored out here, and I thought it’d be a treat for you. But if he wants to go, and you want him to go, Spiller and T.K.’ll be up on Saturday, and he can catch a ride with them when they leave.”

  Olivia turns to look him in the eye. It’s one of her tricks. Most people don’t meet his gaze, she’s noticed, so when someone does, he pays attention. “You scared him tonight,” she says. “He’s not as tough as he acts.”

  “I know, I know, and I’m going to apologize to him,” Taggert says. He rests a hand on Olivia’s knee, a hand that’s broken bones, a hand that’s killed. He could crush her, tear her to pieces. She’s frightened by that and turned on at the same time. It’s like being close to a wild animal. She gets hot sometimes, thinking of all the ways he could hurt her.

  “I want to apologize to you too,” he continues. “I’m sorry I treated you like I did. I was just being cruel. You… you’re precious to me.”

  Olivia pulls away from him. She knows she’s won this time but wants him to suffer a little more. “I wish I could believe that,” she says.

  “You wait,” he replies.

  “For what?”

  “I’m going to make you believe it; you’ll see.”

  “Yeah, okay,” she says, smiling a little. “But I’m still going to kill you in your sleep.”

  Taggert takes her face in his palms. “I love you, baby,” he says, then kisses her forehead.

  “I love you too.”

  “You sure?” he asks.

  Olivia nods.

  “Good,” he says. “ ’Cause I got something to show you.”

  He stands and motions for her to move over, give him some room on the bed. Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, he removes a hundred-dollar bill, lays it on the sheet, and asks, “What’s this?”

  “Mine,” Olivia says, snatching up the money.

  “Come on,” Taggert says. “I’m schooling you here.”

  Olivia pouts as she puts the bill back on the sheet.

  “So, what is it?” Taggert asks again.

  “Money. A hundred dollars.”

  Taggert drops another bill next to it.

  “And what’s this?” he asks.

  “Another hundred.”

  “All right, so which is the fake?”

  Olivia picks up both bills and rubs them between her fingers. She holds them to the light, snaps them, even smells them. The paper of one seems to be a bit thinner than the paper of the other, so she waves that one as the phony.

  “Wrong,” Taggert says.

  “Man,” Olivia says, examining the counterfeit hundred. “This is amazing.”

  “It’s a fucking masterpiece is what it is,” Taggert says. He grabs the bill from her and gazes at it with wonder himself, like he still can’t believe it’s that perfect.

  “Where’d you get it?” Olivia asks.

  “They print them in Mexico using the same process the U.S. Treasury does. They’re undetectable by sight and feel, as good as the supernotes the North Koreans and Colombians make.”

  “So what’s the deal?” Olivia asks.

  Taggert sits next to her on the bed and hands her the phony bill. She’s never seen him this excited. He’s practically bouncing up and down as he says, “The deal is, it’s a totally new operation, barely starting out, and they’re looking for a partner. They’ve got old women bringing bundles of this stuff in their underwear across the border, and they need someone over here to take it from there. Benjy has family in the crew running it. He says he can get me as much as I want for fifteen percent of face, and I’ve got a guy, this Iranian cat, I can lay it off on for forty-five percent.”

  “That’s big money,” Olivia says.

  “Big money,” Taggert replies. He stretches out on the bed, hands behind his head. “ ‘Fuck you’ money.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m thinking this: I make three or four big deals with these guys, the Mexicans and the Iranian, and then I get out. Out of everything. I buy another Harley, play golf, build birdhouses — whatever retired guys do. And we’ll travel — Hawaii, Mexico, cruises. We could even get married, if you want.”

  He reaches out and runs a finger up the inside of her thigh toward her crotch. She slaps it away playfully, but her stomach sours as she imagines being pushed around by him for the rest of her life. He says he’s trying to change, but that’s never going to happen. Fucker’s been the boss for, what, thirty years now? Has guys asking “How high?” when he says “Jump.” Then, all of a sudden, he’s just another citizen, no crew to lead, no jobs to plan. First thing he’s going to do is try to control her even more than he does now so he feels like he still has some power, and the first thing she’s going to do is fight back. And when he gets tired of her bucking, she’s going to wind up out on her ass with nothing. Again.

  “You know what I want,” she says, climbing on top of him and peering into his face.

  “I do?” he says.

  “I want my own money. I want a piece of this.”

  “And you’re going to do what to earn this piece?” he asks.

  “Whateve
r you need me to. Whatever those retards Spiller and T.K. do. You’re the captain; put me to work.”

  Taggert hisses disgustedly, then pushes her off him and swings his legs over so that he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress. “I guess you didn’t hear me propose to you a minute ago,” he says.

  Olivia rolls onto her stomach and raises herself up on her elbows. “Wouldn’t it be better to marry a girl who has her own money?” she asks.

  “I like taking care of you.”

  “I like taking care of myself.”

  Taggert scratches his goatee and says, “If I promise I’ll look to see if there’s somewhere I can bring you in on this, will that be good enough for tonight?”

  “If that’s all you can do, it’ll have to be,” Olivia replies.

  “It’s all I can do because I haven’t even met with Benjy’s man yet. We’re hooking up later this week. I won’t know what’s going on until then.”

  The same old runaround. Olivia feels like screaming but decides to keep playing it cool, give that a try for once. “Okay, so meet with them, and we’ll talk afterward,” she says.

  “Sure,” Taggert says. He stands and walks to the door. “I’m getting a drink.”

  Olivia falls back onto the pillow and gives him a sexy smile. “Bring me one too,” she says in her fuck-me baby voice.

  “Two large rum and Cokes,” Taggert says. “And why don’t you put on Law and Order.”

  Olivia waits until he leaves the room, then lets her face go blank. Pulling the sheet up over her head, she lies as still as she can, like a corpse in the morgue on one of those cop shows Taggert’s always watching. She holds her breath and rolls her eyes. I’m going to get what I want this time, even if it kills me, she thinks. Even if it kills me.

  11

  ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON BOONE SITS IN HIS CAR, HELD up by a big rig that’s blocking both lanes of a narrow street in Vernon as it attempts to back into the parking lot of a clothing factory. It’s a tricky maneuver, the driver moving up three feet, back four, up five, back six, aided by a spotter who stands in the road and directs him with frantic hand signals and shouts of “Left, left — now crank it right!” that can barely be heard over the tooth-rattling rumble of the truck’s engine. A knot of workers gathered around a catering wagon parked at the curb in front of the factory sip coffee and eat tacos as they watch the truck finally squeeze through the gate in the chain-link fence that surrounds the building and inch up to the loading dock.