I pulled the revolver out of my jacket, pointed it at him, said, “You, Easter, and this Wanker lady, you three put your little heads together, decided it was time to turn me in?”
Billy b looked at the gun like he was waiting for a punchline. I mean, we’d slept together and now I was holding a gun on him. He couldn’t believe it was serious. That was two guys in one day looked at me like that, ready to make the same mistake. He said, “Nina, you are acting seriously paranoid. This isn’t the Twilight Zone. It’s Santa Monica.”
I said, “Move the case down to my car.”
He laughed at me like it was a big joke.
“I’m not kidding.”
“And if I don’t, what are you going to do, shoot me?” He leveled his forefinger at me, said, “Bang! Got you first.”
I sighted the revolver over his left shoulder and fired. Give him credit, he didn’t flinch more than a little. When the reverberation died out, he glanced back to see where the bullet went. Crotch-center on a painting of Elvis in blue jeans and bare chest.
Billy b yelped like I’d shot him, said, “You shot Elvis!”
I sighted the gun and fired again and again, put holes waist level in the two Elvises flanking the first. I said, “Fuck Elvis.”
Shoot at a guy a couple times, he gets the point the relationship is over. No need to argue about anything, no point pretending you feel bad things didn’t work out. Maybe Billy b saw I was truly dangerous. I wasn’t his lover anymore. Not even his friend. I was an angry woman with a gun. He rolled the case down, hoisted it onto the back bed of the mini-truck.
I slammed the gate shut, said, “Nice knowin’ ya.”
Billy b backed toward the gallery, said something got lost in a squeal of tire rubber. Always a lot of car noise in L.A., but this noise turned my head. A car was coming through the lot way past advisable speed. I knew the car, saw it before, sprinted for the wheel. A second Chevy was coming fast from the opposite direction. As quick as I could move wasn’t quick enough. The first Chevy slid crosswise against the curb, the second pinned my back bumper. They were good, I didn’t have two inches room to maneuver, but they shouldn’t have tried working the same trick twice. I whipped the wheel to the curb, floored the accelerator, popped the clutch. The mini-truck lurched forward, half jumped the curb, smacked the fender of the front Chevy. I stood on the accelerator, let the motor roar and tires smoke. The Chevy inched sideways. I caught a flash of movement in the side mirror, the guy behind trying to sneak out the door. I switched the revolver to my left hand, reached blind out the window, ducked the guy down with a wild shot.
The front Chevy gave ground, looked like it was going to break free, then wedged against the curb and held. Tires blistered and smoked, the mini-truck went nowhere. The guy in front, it was Frack, I saw him slip out, sight his gun over the hood. I ducked under the wheel. The windshield cracked overhead. I jammed the transmission into reverse, kept the RPMs red-lined. The gears screamed and held. The mini-truck roared back, slammed the car behind. Gun and tire smoke bit my lungs. The windshield splintered a second time, glass bit into my face. I shifted into first and put my foot through the floor. The mini-truck rocketed forward. A couple feet of run-up was all it needed, those big tires jumped the curb and the front bumper hit the Chevy high. If I couldn’t go around, I was going through or over. The mini-truck climbed up the Chevy, pitched radically on its side, I was dead afraid I was going all the way over so I twisted the wheels straight and that did it. Sheet metal crunched and ripped. I popped my head above the door frame, saw Frack’s mouth open astonished as the mini-truck clawed over the hood of his car. The rear tires cleared, the bumper gouged asphalt coming down, broke half off, dragged sparks. The mini-truck rocked and rolled. In the rearview I could see Frack sighting down his gun. I ducked low and whipped around the first corner. The bumper snapped, cartwheeled off. I didn’t see anybody coming after me in the rearview. I laughed and cursed, seemed like I got away free.
Bullets were scattered loose in three different pockets of Wrex’s jacket. He always was the disorganized type, never could count on him putting things in order. I held on to the steering wheel with one hand, notched in the cartridges one by one. It only stood to reason the surviving Drake brother would show up at Bobby Easter’s gallery, seeing as I blabbed all about it when they had a hold of me. I’d got lucky, with the help of a little skill and violence. I wasn’t going to count on getting lucky twice. As long as the thing in the case was in open play, I couldn’t count on a peaceful night’s sleep. Jail was beginning to look like a real holiday compared to the way my life was going. At least in jail only the state would be trying to kill me. I drove like I was the only car on the road, weaving in and out of lanes, speeding through oncoming traffic when the road jammed up. I kept my eye on the rearview, was sure nobody could follow, not the way I was driving.
I parked across the street from Ben’s office, ran into the building. The office door was locked. I took out the key, opened the door. Ben was sitting in his chair. His eyes were closed. I thought he was sleeping. Then I saw what happened to him. I sat on the floor and cried. It didn’t make any sense for them to do that. Not to Ben. Maybe they thought he knew something he didn’t. Maybe he learned what was going on, tried to stop them. I don’t know. Never will. I haven’t cried since. That was the moment the hardness took me over. The small, nut-hard place I always retreated to was all I had left. The soft parts were sheared clean off when I saw the bullet hole in Ben’s head.
I don’t know how long I sat on the floor. Too long. I was still crying when I heard the stairs creak once, then again, somebody too heavy to be quiet. The only hiding place was a utility closet to the side of Ben’s desk. I snuck inside, quietly latched the door shut.
Whoever entered the office wasn’t surprised at seeing Ben. The door closed softly. I listened for footsteps, didn’t hear any. I didn’t hear anything at all, but I knew he was outside the door, I couldn’t tell exactly where. I had the gun gripped in both hands, ready to shoot the moment I heard the first latch click. He had to know I was in there. The closet was the only place I could hide. If he knew where I was, he wouldn’t have to touch the doorknob. He could shoot me dead as he wanted, right through the door. Just like I planned to do to him. I crouched low, waited for it to happen, anticipated exactly where the bullets would strike. I wondered how much it would hurt before the shock dulled the pain and death smothered it out. I wondered what was going to happen to me then. I’m not ashamed to say I told God I was sorry for all the bad things I’d done.
The smell of gasoline drifted up from the crack at the bottom of the door, I saw it trickling dark and wet at my feet. A metallic click sounded somewhere out in the room. Seconds passed where I heard nothing, not even my fear-stopped heart. Sulfur flared out, a bright, ripping sound. I knew that sound. Watched the bright flame meet the tip of a cigarette, the cigarette snuff out in my flesh.
I flicked the barrel of the gun toward the match-strike, fired twice through the door. Then it was like the air in the room was sucked out. Fire spurted under my feet. I kicked at the door, knew I’d been given the choice of burning or catching bullets as I ran. A bullet seemed faster. The door jerked open like a curtain to hell. I pulled the leather jacket over my head and dove, came up clear of fire. A shriek tore across the other side of the office. Frack ran at me, flames shooting from his skin. I shot him in the chest, slammed him to the ground. He lay there, twitching, hands mechanically trying to beat the flames from his face. I walked over, shot him again. The only thing moving about him then was the fire.
I backed into the corridor, ran halfway down the stairs, stopped and listened for the guy in the second car, didn’t want to run into a bullet. Smoke billowed across the ceiling, down the stairwell. Couldn’t breathe. Didn’t have much choice, I burst out the front door in a thick cloud of smoke, rolled behind the fender of a parked car.
The second guy was idling his Chevy across the street. I recognized the car easy by the ba
shed-in door. When he saw it was me running out, he took off. I stood up, surprised to see him run, noticed the gate of the mini-truck pulled down. The bastard had the case. Let him run. The Chevy didn’t have much of an engine. I was sure I could catch him. No way I was going to let him keep it. If they killed me like they killed Ben, so what. I started across the street, fished the keys from my pocket, stopped short. The front tire was slashed flat. I wasn’t following anybody.
It didn’t make me angry. Slashing my tire was the smart thing to do. I felt disappointed. I flipped open the cylinder, looked inside. I still had two bullets left. Wanted to use them. I searched the jacket for more, felt something metal I forgot about. The key to Wrex’s bike. Parked one block away, corner of Sunset Boulevard.
The Harley was like riding a thundercloud. It made me feel strong. I let the Harley fly between lanes, braked sharply for turning cars, swerved into opposite traffic when lanes were blocked. I spotted the Chevy just inside Koreatown. Like I figured, the guy had chosen the shortest route to Fleischer’s office. He was in a flock of cars one light change ahead of me. I slowed the bike, coasted between lanes to the head of the queue. When the light turned green, I gave the bike some throttle. The Chevy was in the right-hand lane. I swung into the lane three cars behind, followed it five blocks before the timing and situation looked right. He was driving fast but cautious, not dawdling but not taking any chances either. I wheeled the Harley into the center lane again, threaded the white line between lanes. Bikes take advantage of traffic like this all the time. Most normal thing in the world. The guy didn’t even look at me until I was already there, gun out and pointing at his head. I knew him from the videotape. It was Mike Fleischer. I had no mercy in me. I shot him in the face.
Something so small as a bullet, it wasn’t enough to kill a guy like Fleischer, take off half his jaw maybe, but not kill him. He jerked the wheel, tried to crush me against a car the next lane over. I lost it braking, nearly took a flying lesson over the handlebars. The Chevy smacked the car in the next lane, knocked it into oncoming traffic. I straightened out the bike, saw cars looked like blurs coming at me, everybody trying to get out of the way of the big stuff, a motorcycle like mine the best thing to hit if you’ve got to hit something. I closed my eyes, gave the bike full throttle, screamed through the panic weave of cars, came out the other side surprised.
Fleischer was hit, I knew I hit him, he was running fast, couldn’t control the car at high speed. I didn’t think about it, gripped the pistol in my left hand and swung the bike up the Chevy’s right flank. The Chevy drifted side to side, I didn’t know if Fleischer was trying to make himself harder to hit or if he was just losing it. I crouched low over the bike, sighted the gun on the back of his head. The light ahead turned red, I never got the chance to pull the trigger, Fleischer was going for it. I jammed the gun into my pocket, went too. A truck pulled out from the right when the Chevy’s wheels hit the crossing. Big, bright yellow, a sixteen-wheeler. The Chevy went left, I went right, but the son-of-a-bitch was too big, I couldn’t get around it, was going too fast to stop, I only had one choice. It was a kamikaze move, laying the bike down, no timing to it, just luck or death. I pushed away from the bike, took the pavement on the back of my leather jacket, slid under the carriage, saw those big wheels clamp down on Wrex’s Harley, chew it to scrap. But the wheels didn’t get me, I slid clear, came to a stop a couple feet the other side. It was all so fast and easy I thought I’d died, was dreaming it all up from the afterlife, thought maybe this is what happens in death, you don’t feel a thing. I sat up, looked for my dead body, like you sometimes see in the movies when somebody dies. But there wasn’t any dead part I could see, guessed that meant I was alive.
Lay a bike down in the middle of an intersection, you’d think somebody would get out of their car, see if you were okay, but everyone was looking across the street, a big commotion was happening at the corner gas station. Fleischer’s Chevy had come up against the pumping island, sheared one of the pumps off at the base. Gasoline gushed from the pump, flowed in a fat arc toward the street, the gas shimmered in the twilight like a rainbow. The pot at the end was one of those asphalt heating machines, guys on the next building over were doing a roofing job, they started shouting everybody away. I saw what was about to happen sure as thunder follows lightning, jumped to my feet, ran toward the Chevy. A drop of hot asphalt dripped down, touched the gas, the gas lit like a fuse, a service station attendant saw me running, tackled me just when the whole thing went up in a fireball six stories high. Biggest noise I ever heard, made the bomb at the airport sound like a firecracker. Then came the sucking noise fire makes, some of the guys around started hooting and hollering, and I must admit, it was a pretty sight, if I wasn’t seeing my whole future going up in flames I might have hooted too.
The service station attendant, he had a name patch on his shirt read Kim, he let me off the ground, said, “You crazy lady? You get yourself killed!”
I think tears were still streaming down my face from Ben. I said, “Something in the car I had to get.”
Kim asked, “You knew the guy in that car?”
I nodded.
“Forget it, he’s cooked, nobody could survive that.”
I said, “Good.”
23
I knew it would look better if I turned myself in, didn’t feel like it. I took a bus to the office. Fire trucks parked up and down the street, the Ivar Theater gutted, nobody paid much attention as I changed the front tire on the mini-truck. I drove out to Venice Beach again, slept in the front seat.
I woke sometime after midnight, the sound of gunfire in my head, couldn’t get back to sleep. I got out of the truck, walked the back streets and alleys. I could sense guys on the street watching me, thinking a young woman all alone here this time of night, easy target. But I wasn’t afraid. It was a weird feeling, walking down bad streets in the dead of night, not being afraid. After all the times I was terrified some guy was going to come after me, of being a walking target because of what I got between my legs. It was the fear once bothered me most, the constant wondering if this was when the beast was going to roar out of the shadows to rip me up. I fantasized this would be the moment the beast came. I saw him spring from the alley darkness, I said, “You want a little of what I got?” Then I’d whip out the revolver, and after, his voice would come out a couple octaves higher, if it came out at all.
I walked back to the truck, slept some more.
The next morning I bought a newspaper. The headline read:
FALLING OUT IN TERRORIST GANG
THREE SHOT TO DEATH, A FOURTH WOUNDED
The story didn’t release any names, but the wounded one had to be Wrex, the story said they arrested a suspect downtown with gunshot wounds. On page three was a drawing of my face. It was me down to my short black hair and nose stud. The only detail wrong about the drawing was the mouth, turned down like I wanted to kill somebody.
I searched out a drugstore in a Hispanic neighborhood. Fewer people there to read the Times, recognize me. I bought scissors, a bottle of water, a razor blade, sunglasses, some shaving cream, a baseball cap. I drove back to the beach, laid everything out on the front seat, used the rearview mirror to guide me as I whacked away at my hair with the scissors. When I’d cut as close down as I could with the scissors, I lathered up the shaving cream, drew the razor across my skull. The crisp scrape of metal on virgin skin yielded to the cool tingle of air. I rinsed the razor and drew it across my skull again, traced the blade around the hidden curves, over the ridge where the spine connects to the brain. I leaned my head out the window to rinse off, felt my skull in my hands, bare and smooth as water-worn granite. The baseball cap was black with a big X on the front. I pulled it down over my eyes, checked it out in the mirror. It was cool. I looked like a boy.
I pulled my camera from behind the seat, thought maybe I’d shoot a self-portrait. The cool metal ridges of the focus ring felt like Braille under my fingers. I brought the viewfinder worl
d up to my eye, suddenly saw things different. The frame limited and shaped, gave focus to things, crafted meaning where before there was confusion. I used film to remember what specific moments felt like in the crisp and distant reality of this other world. Most often, I photographed what I recognized as me, like walking through a strange house, searching for reassuring glances in every mirror along the way.
Wasn’t hard figuring out where the guy who owned the mini-truck lived, Phil it was, his address was written on the registration in the glove box. I drove north, over the pass from Sylmar. On the road, I had to laugh, it was the girls who looked over, checked me out. Macho truck, wraparound sunglasses, baseball cap over shaved head, the confident smile you get when you got a gun in your pocket, I must have looked pretty hot, must have given them a little thrill, knew I would have been thrilled a few weeks ago, seeing somebody like me.
I parked the mini-truck a block up, wrote a nice note to Phil, thanked him for loaning me his wheels, was sorry I had to return them dented up. When it got dark, I took the note and the keys to the address on the registration, dropped them both in the mailbox. Then I walked through town. Even when I was small it never seemed like a very big town, I could always walk from one side to the other in an hour. I passed the park, saw kids in the shadows under the trees, smoking dope and drinking beer, watching out for cops. I walked down Main Street, not much happening that time of night, a couple guys sitting in a parking lot brown-bagging beers, a jacked-up Ford cruising up one way then down the other, looking for action. I crossed the street I grew up on, pulled the revolver from my jacket, jammed it between my belt and belly, then I walked down the street, smelled the trees, the grass, the rich automobile perfume always in the air, the mix of gas, oil, rust.
The house looked just like I remembered from the lifetime ago I’d last seen it. A Gl-loan house from the fifties. One story. Wood frame. Tarpaper roof. Oil stains on the driveway. Lawn fading to brown, no matter what the season. I closed my eyes, remembered the interior. The brown coffee table chipped at the corner where my sister Sharon hit her head getting knocked down. The dent in the hallway wall where my brother George slammed his fist because he couldn’t bring himself to hit back. The scrubbed-out spots of blood in the corner of the family room where I crouched the day I took six stitches in my mouth. I had one bullet left, centered in the firing chamber. The porch light was on. Even a bad home sometimes looks good coming back to it.
Shooting Elvis Page 19