I yelled, “What the hell you doing?”
Wrex skirted the barrier at the ticket machine, accelerated down the parking ramp. I was afraid he was going to lay the bike down the way he leaned into the first corner, but he pulled up at the last instant and blistered past an aisle of cars toward the next ramp, winding down the subterranean levels to where lot density would thin to a car or two. To a place of no witnesses. I held on tight, lost my concentration against the speed and blast of bike noise bouncing off concrete walls. My arm pressed against something hard at his side as I held on, took me just a second to realize Wrex left the gun in his jacket pocket.
The bike straightened coming out of a turn. I snaked my right hand into the jacket pocket and grabbed the butt. Wrex clamped his elbow down, pinned my wrist to his ribs before I could pull the gun free. But to do that he had to let go of the throttle, steer the bike with one hand. A corner came up too fast to stop. He had to let go of my wrist or lay the bike down. His hand bolted for the throttle. I jerked out the gun. When we leaned into the curve, the rear wheel started to slide out.
I pushed hard on Wrex’s back as the bike started to go, didn’t want to get caught between the ground and red-hot pipes. My hip hit the concrete. I lost the gun curling up my arms to protect my head. After the first bounce I slid clean, burned through my jeans at the hip, skidded under the bumper of a parked pickup truck and slammed into the tire. For a moment, I wasn’t anywhere, didn’t think or feel anything.
Wrex screamed horribly somewhere on the other side of the truck. I couldn’t see him, felt a wave of panic he was seriously hurt. From under the pickup I could see the bike was down on the other side. But he wasn’t down with it. Then I saw his legs. Vertical. Walking toward his bike. He screamed again. It was his Harley he was screaming about. Typical Wrex. I pulled myself out from under the truck and sat up, counted body parts.
Wrex called, “That you, babe?”
I didn’t answer.
His boots scuffed on concrete, like he was walking in circles.
“You still got the gun?”
Oh yeah. The gun. I slid onto my stomach as quiet as I could, looked around ground level. It took me a moment to spot it, lying against the wall in front of the pickup truck. I could see his legs on the other side, turning circles. He wasn’t looking for me. He was looking for the gun. I pushed myself up to a crouch, scrambled toward the wall.
Wrex heard me move. When I cleared the front bumper of the pickup, he was coming from the other side. He saw the gun and dove, both feet going horizontal as he sprawled for it. I was on top of the gun before his body hit the ground. I grabbed it around the cylinder, jumped to my feet. He clutched at my ankles to trip me up, but I kicked him away, pointed the barrel at his head, hoped he’d take the hint and chill out.
Wrex favored his left leg as he struggled to his knees. His jeans were all ripped up, I could see he’d got a bad case of road burn. He hunched his shoulders, sighed and shook his head, met the eye of the gun with a sad stare.
“Go ahead. Shoot me down like a dog. I guess you think I deserve it.”
“I wouldn’t shoot a dog, but I just might shoot you, because you’re lower than a dog. At least a dog won’t turn on you if it’s your friend.”
I shook the gun at him like it was a finger while I talked, and that made sweat-balls of worry drip down his forehead, because I was putting considerable pressure on the trigger.
He said, “You wanna watch out for that thing, ’cause it’s loaded.”
I centered the sights between his eyes, held the gun steady, said, “Safety’s off, too. Already checked.”
He tried to laugh, couldn’t, said, “I have a friend in this building, that’s all. We were in the neighborhood, so why not stop by?”
“Your friend, he wouldn’t happen to be named Mike Fleischer?”
Wrex smiled the same time his eyes glazed over. He pushed himself up off the bumper of the pickup truck, said, “C’mon babe, just talk to the guy is all I ask. He’s not going to gangst you. He’s a suit. What’s wrong with talking to him? He’ll give us some money, and I can go to Mexico.”
“You can go to Mexico? What about me?”
Wrex thought about it for a second, one second too long as far as I was concerned. He stepped forward, tried to close the distance between us, said, “Well, you can go to Mexico, too.” The way he said it, I didn’t feel included in his plans, like maybe I’d get in his way with the señoritas. He realized he hadn’t quite sold me on the idea, probably because that was the moment I cocked the hammer back with my thumb.
“Of course I meant together. You and me. White sands, tequila, warm sunshine, and the fish, why they’ll practically leap onto the grill!”
He took another step forward, whispered, “Ten thousand dollars!”
I backed toward the corner.
“Just to talk to him!”
“You were selling me out, Wrex.”
“Babe! Never!” He stepped forward again, forced my back against the wall. “I was going to be there the whole time. I had a gun. I mean, why not talk to him?”
I said, “One step more, and I swear to God I’ll shoot you.”
Wrex looked at me, the gun, and the five-foot gap that separated us like it was a one-way drop to hell between him and heaven. But he started to think, and for Wrex thinking was dangerous, it put him one foot in never-never land. I could tell what he was thinking. I was having some of the same thoughts myself. About how completely absurd it was that I was going to shoot him, Wrex, a guy I’d slept with, thought I loved. I felt the revolver wobble in my hands. He took it as a sign, walked toward me, said, “Come on, babe.”
I told him to stop, and he didn’t, he took another step forward, reached out his hand. I thought about what he’d done to me. The bomb in the airport, selling me out to Fleischer. It made me mad. I pulled the trigger. I shot him.
Wrex staggered back, said, “You bitch!”
I said I was sorry, but I’d warned him.
He glanced down at his leg. The bullet had pierced midway between hip and knee. He clutched above the wound, cried, “You fucking shot me!”
I felt no remorse. I said, “I was aiming six inches higher and more toward the center. Get my point?”
His knees went rubbery, he dropped on his butt, sounded pitiful when he said, “Don’t let me die here.”
I set the gun out of reach, told him if he tried any physical stuff I’d shoot him again. He said he wasn’t going to do anything to hurt me, I had him all wrong, he never wanted to hurt me. I didn’t see any bones sticking out, there was blood but it wasn’t like somebody turned on the tap full blast. I stripped the bandanna off his head and cinched it down hard above the wound. His leather jacket was about to get blood on it, so I pulled it off his back. Couldn’t see what good it was doing him. He started to protest when I put it on. I jammed the revolver into the jacket pocket and zipped up, said I was going to get him an ambulance, didn’t want to freeze.
He said, “You shot me, and now you wanna rip off my leather jacket?”
I said, “That’s right, I shot you, I ripped off your jacket, next I’m going to steal your bike.”
I walked over to his Harley. It was scraped and dinged on the left side but started just fine. Wrex yelled all kinds of evil opinions about my character while I checked out the gears. He crawled desperately toward the bike, his shot leg trailing behind, and when he noticed his threats weren’t cutting it with me, he pleaded I could do anything, I could shoot him in the arm if I wanted, just don’t steal his bike. The Harley was a big bike, bigger than anything I ever rode before. My feet didn’t reach the ground. I had to lean the bike and prop it up with one foot. Made starts and stops difficult, which is why I ran Wrex over when I accidentally popped the clutch and roared off. I wasn’t trying to run him down. He’d crawled in front of the bike. All the time we were going out together he never let me ride solo. It was his fault as much as mine I hit him. If he’d taught me how to ride t
he thing in the first place, or just stayed put, I never would have broke his other leg.
22
I rode the Harley into Hollywood, parked it around the block from Ben’s office, walked to my truck. A pink parking ticket fluttered in the wind. The fine was twenty-six bucks. I tore it up, threw the pieces onto the passenger seat. So arrest me. I cranked up the mini-truck. The tank was a quarter full. First law of L.A., if there’s gas, there’s hope.
I drove out to Venice, ditched the revolver in the springs under the seat, got out of the truck, walked to the beach. People stared out the sides of turned-away faces as I walked by. I had some blood on me from where the concrete scraped away parts of my hip and elbow. My hands were red with Wrex’s blood. The one knee of my jeans was soaked where I’d knelt in a pool of it, tying the tourniquet around his leg. I didn’t worry much how I looked. Nobody was going to call the police because it seemed like I was having a tough time. Venice Beach looked to be full of people just as down on their luck as me, probably had stories even crazier than the one I was living. If somebody called about me, they’d have to call about the other twenty thousand homeless people on the streets looked just as bad or worse. I moved along like it was the most normal thing in the world, like this was my own peculiar reality I was living, nothing for anybody else to worry about.
I walked into the ocean, ducked under the waves, let the water rush blue-white-green over my head. The salt water stung my cuts and burns. Out over the water, a solitary pelican skimmed the waves, beak-heavy and awkward. With a shift of wing, the bird banked toward open sea. I closed my eyes, pretended I was her, just flying away from it all. A wave crashed overhead, pulled me back down. I sat in the froth, scrubbed the blood off my hands with coarse, wet sand. When the blood was gone, I walked up to where the sand was dry, fell asleep.
My eyes opened to a tongue of seawater lapping my feet. I sat up, watched the wild curl and claw of high tide, thought about things. A couple weeks before, I imagined a new life for myself, a complete break with the old notions of who I was, what I wanted. It hadn’t worked. I escaped nothing. I should have given myself up the day the bomb exploded. Should have been a good girl, gone straight to the police, told them, Look, I got a stupid job and screwed-up family and car payments. I perm my hair, paint my toenails pink, wear fuzzy knit sweaters. Fm a solid citizen, so normal it hurts. It was my boyfriend did it. Black leather, rides a Harley, a terrorist if you ever saw one. Fm a victim of bad influences. I never should have bolted with this wild idea I could change. I should have stayed sleeping in my safe little world. Maybe I was happier sleeping. Sleeping passes the time so you don’t know where you are, what problems you have.
The ocean breeze chilled me. I got up, thought I’d walk myself dry. I walked up to Main Street, found a phone booth, got the number for SMART Gallery, dialed it. A receptionist answered. I told her I was Cass, had to talk to Billy b, was he there? She said she thought he was going to be back in an hour or so, did I want to leave a message? Then I called Ben.
I said, “Hey Ben, seen Jerry around?”
“Is he pissed at you.”
“What’d I do?”
“Said you smashed up his van and ran off. Couldn’t find you anywhere.”
I didn’t know if I wanted to believe that or not.
I asked, “You got any friends with the police?”
“You don’t have to worry about him pressing charges.”
“This is about something else.”
“You in trouble?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Bad trouble?”
“Depends on how you feel about the electric chair.”
There was silence on the other end.
I said., “I need you to help me. I’ll drop by the office, say before midnight. You mind staying late?”
“Anything you want, I’ll do.”
“Call a guy at LAPD, name’s Sergeant Martinez, works on that airport bombing happened a while back. Tell him you’re bringing in Mary Alice Baker.” I hung up before he could ask who.
I stopped in a health food store, wanted a Coke and a ham sandwich, rabbit food was all they had. I bought a sprout sandwich and orange juice, walked back to my truck. Peeled off my wet jeans, hung them over the ventilation duct, dried them out driving to the gallery. I parked in the street across from the lot, ate, watched the rear entrance. Bobby Easter’s Rolls was parked near the back door. While I was drinking the last of the juice, Billy b’s pickup truck pulled into the lot. He hopped out of his truck, hustled into the building.
I had a gun, so why not do it? I stepped out of the truck, jammed the revolver into my waistband, zipped up the leather jacket so nobody could see I was carrying. I took the back stairs, rang the buzzer, waited. The door wedged open to Bobby Easter, looking surprised to see me.
I said, “I need to talk to Billy b.”
“You just missed him.”
I pulled the gun out of my pants, pointed it at his head.
“You don’t let me in, I won’t miss you, not this close.”
He backed into the gallery. I slid inside, eased the door shut behind me. Easter held his hands up, started stuttering something sounded like, “Don’t shoot.” Surprised me how scared he looked. Maybe Billy b said I went crazy on him. Maybe it was just the gun.
I said, “You got a closet, someplace small?”
Easter pointed to a door behind the reception desk.
I backed around the desk, opened the door. Perfect. A closet filled with office supplies, a man-sized standing space. I crooked a finger at Easter, said, “Get in.”
He looked at me like he didn’t want to. I encouraged him with the barrel of my revolver. He didn’t move. He said, “I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . .” like he was some kind of stuck record. Fear can do that to somebody. I walked over, said, “You the one called the cops on me?”
He just stood there, stared at me, said, “I ... I ... I . . . I . . .”
“You don’t have to speak. Just nod, up and down.”
His chin dipped to his breastbone, bobbed back up. I pushed him into the closet. He didn’t fight it, stood facing the shelves, hands still raised above his head. I wondered what I was supposed to do now, hit him on the back of the head, like I’d seen them do on television?
I said, “Be a good boy, stay quiet. If I hear this door open, I’ll hurt you.”
I closed the door, wedged the receptionist’s chair under the handle, went to find Billy b. The gallery was big, ten thousand square feet at least. I followed the trail of Billy b’s paintings. Sharon Stone and Billy Baldwin kissing, Arnold Schwarzenegger blowing something up, a super close-up of lips that had to be Kim Basinger’s, an entire room devoted to Elvis paintings. In the last room, it was me up on the wall. The canvas was maybe ten feet high by fifteen feet long. The painting was a double portrait. On the left, I stood looking like a prom queen. Frilly pink dress, roses in my arms, blond curls spilling below a golden crown. The right side, I had dyed-black hair, carried an AK-47 assault rifle. Looked like I wanted to kill somebody.
I backtracked to Elvis, saw a closed door., opened it to a small room where extra paintings, some ladders and paint supplies were stored. Billy b sat in the middle of the room, legs crossed half-lotus style, hands resting on his knees like he was meditating. Mounted on the wall in front of him, low to the ground and turned three-quarters profile, was the thing from the case. He didn’t react to me coming up behind him, didn’t turn his head, had this strange glow on his face.
I put the gun in my jacket pocket, squatted down in front of him, said, “I forgive you about that girl, but the other shit we gotta talk about.”
Billy b said, “Do you have any idea how important this is?”
I said, “You called the police on me.”
“It’s the font, the source, everything Warhol did streams from this one work of art, everything Koons has thought of, everything I’ve painted.”
“Easter just confessed, don’t bother trying to lie.”
He reached out, took my hand, pointed to the thing on the wall, said, “Look at the shape, Nina, look at the flowing curve from top to bottom, doesn’t it remind you of something?”
“Sure, it reminds me of a plumbing fixture.”
“Think icon. Think Buddha. Think the Madonna.”
It was useless trying to talk to him. I got up, found the black case behind some paintings, rolled it over to the thing. It was attached to the wall with hooks, lifted off easy.
Billy b said, “Wait a minute, I thought you got it.”
I set the thing carefully down inside the case, said, “I got it, all right, and now I’m taking it out of here.”
He stepped between me and the exit, jumped out of the way when he saw I wasn’t stopping, I’d run over him if I had to. He chased me through the door, shouting, “Don’t you know anything about art? Don’t you know who Duchamp is?”
He ran around the other side of the case, put his arms out, stopped me from rolling it anymore. “You’re angry, you have a right to your anger, but think about it for a second, it wasn’t me, I didn’t call the police. I wasn’t ready yet, I needed to paint more celebrity criminals before you got arrested.”
I felt angry and hard. I said, “You brought your paintings and the case here the day before the raid. Why?”
“I got an anonymous tip.”
“Sure you did.”
“I think it was that producer friend of Cass’s, she thought you were going to be at the loft that morning, decided the timing was right without consulting anybody else. Those Hollywood types will screw you every time. The important thing is we’re together again. We should call the police, turn ourselves in. Cass’s producer friend is waiting for us to call, we can turn ourselves in live on television.”
“You know her number?”
He reached for his t-shirt pocket, said, “Sure, I have it right here.”
Shooting Elvis Page 18