Trusting Evil

by Mary Leo

  Most of the cells are empty for the scene, but I can only imagine what it must sound like when all the inmates are locked inside their cells, all two hundred and some, calling to one another, radios blaring, banging on the bars, or crying about some injustice.

  The thought of it causes my head to tighten.

  “Mr. Schwarzenegger sure is a card, isn’t he?” Vivian says to me right after Arnold gets the men to laugh again. Actually, I have to admit that he’s been exceptional with the guys, as well as with us, but a card? What decade did this woman escape from?

  “Yeah, he’s a card all right.”

  “And that wife of his, Maria Shriver. What a handsome couple they make. I heard she’s here visiting him.”

  “More like keeping an eye on him.”

  “Oh, dear. A ladies’ man, huh?”

  “I never said that,” but the agreeing smirk is already on my face.

  There were some nasty rumors from some of our extras while we filmed at the Maxwell Street Police station, but I tried not to pay attention. One rumor got me though, from one of our office girls. Supposedly Arnold told her that he could tell the color of her pubic hair from the color of the hair on the back of her neck. I thought it was a pretty original pick-up line, but Mike said the girl had a vivid imagination and he couldn’t believe Arnold could possibly be that bold.

  Actually, if you want to stay in this business you have to overlook a lot of indiscretions on the part of the talent or you can give up ever working in the film industry. Mike fired the nasty-rumor-girl before we drove up here. Can’t afford to have somebody like her around, he said. And with the way things have been going, it was a good idea.

  Vivian moves closer to the set to better watch Arnold as he gets ready to leave for the day. She’s a distraction for me and I find myself thinking about Vivian and not about Mike and Speck. My headache begins to subside as I notice everyone watching Arnold. Some of the extras even approach him for his autograph. I find it somewhat amazing the control he has over the crowd. Super Star Power wherever he goes. Must be hell going out for a quiet dinner with the wife.

  When we finally break for the day, I give the inmates a short pep talk. “It’s very important for each of you guys to be back here on time tomorrow, especially if you were in the scene today. You did some great work. Looked real good out there. And those of you who didn’t get on today, tomorrow will probably be your lucky day. Please return here tomorrow morning by nine o’clock. Thanks.” As if my enthusiasm over the making of a movie could ever stop any of these nasty-boys from killing each other in the lunchroom.

  Yeah, right. That would be Mike’s illusion, not mine.

  The men are escorted down a hallway. Shoulder to shoulder. Two in a row. Tough dudes. Nasty characters wearing prison blues. Some have a jive to their gait, others walk as if they’re in the military, still others hardly move their feet at all. More of a shuffle. Murderers. Rapists. Drug dealers. Society’s finest just left the building.

  It’s been almost five hours since Mike and Captain Bob left me here in limbo with Miss Vivian and neither one has returned. I feel drained. Exhausted. As if I’ve just done something of tremendous physical stress. I don’t know if they’re still down there, taping. I couldn’t keep an eye on the ramp because the extras needed my attention. “I’m going home,” I tell Vivian who is still enchanted watching Arnold flex his muscles as he walks towards the exit to his trailer.

  “Hmm. Oh, sure. He’s fine. I mean, I’m fine. Just fine. They seem to be done here for the day anyway. I’ll be going myself in a little while. See you tomorrow,” she whispers but doesn’t look my way. Too busy concentrating on her dream.

  I’m escorted out by another guard. A guard I haven’t met before. We don’t talk except for a few cordial exchanges. I desperately search for Mike and Captain Bob as I walk, but no sign of either one.

  When I get back to my motel room and open the door, Mike is inside lying across my bed watching an old episode of The Andy Griffith Show. Laughing.

  “Aunt Bea was a very smart lady,” he says. “I don’t think the world appreciates just how smart she was. She knew exactly what to say to Andy to get him to do just about anything she wanted.”

  “Aunt Bea had a script to follow. Life is easy with a script.” My bottle of Jack Daniel’s sits on the night stand next to Mike. I walk over to him and pick up the bottle. It’s almost empty. “I thought you only drank milk?”

  “I forgot. Had some of your bourbon. Great stuff, bourbon, once you get used to the taste. Kind of sweet. Matter-of-fact, we’re running out. I’ll go get us some more.” He starts to get up. I can tell he’s drunk. Never seen Mike drunk. He looks pathetic.

  “No, that’s okay. We don’t need any right now. You lie back down and watch Opie and Aunt Bea.”

  “But I need some more.” He grabs the bottle and pours the last of it into a glass, spilling some on the bed. “Oops! Sorry ‘bout that. Oh, but this is a motel room isn’t it? Somebody else will clean it up. That’s good. Wouldn’t want you to have to clean up my mess.” He puts the bottle back down on the nightstand. “You know what? This stuff is pretty good. I’ve grown quite fond of it. Milk just doesn’t have the punch that this stuff has. And what I need right now is a punch. A punch right in the face. Go ahead. Give it all you’ve got. Right here.” He points to his chin. “Make it a good one. Punch my fucking face in, will you?”

  I take the drink from his hand and ease him back down on the pillow. He’s a mess. His clothes are damp and wrinkled. His face covered with sweat. I’ve never seen him like this before. Weak. Vulnerable. Wasted.

  “Why don’t I get us something to eat? I bet you’re starving.” I’m hoping some food will sober him up. Turn him back into the Mike I know. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I understand men like Speck. Know the darkness that fills their hearts. Mike is a baby when it comes to evil. He has no concept of it. Whatever happened in that room today may be too much for him to deal with in one dose.

  He finally says, “Nope. I want to get drunk and then still drunker, like you do.”

  “But if we’re both drunk who’s going to come in and save us? One of us has to be sane.”

  “Why? Who cares?”

  “I care.”

  “You don’t care. You say you care, but you don’t care. Not really. You’re not capable. You used to be. Maybe. Once. But not anymore. Now you’re just a cold-hearted bitch.”

  I stand up, pushing him away from me. The drink spills out on the bed. He tries to wipe it up with his hand. “Now see what you’ve done. My last drink. You don’t even care that it’s my last drink. Heartless.”

  I light up a smoke and say, “Speck got to you, didn’t he? Made you mean.”

  He looks up at me. “So what! You’ve been mean for months now. I keep waiting for you to get nice again, be reasonable, but you never do. Mean and cold. Now you say I’m mean. Well, don’t that just nail it. You should love me now. I’m just like you. Even stood up hot little Tiffany. Never stood anybody up before. She wants me, you know.”

  “What happened today?”

  “Today? I need another drink, that’s what happened today.”

  “I’ve got another bottle out in the car, first tell me what happened. Did you get anything taped at all?”

  Mike laughs. “Did you know that it’s possible for two men to fuck facing each other? I bet you didn’t know that, did you? Well, neither did I. Yep, one of them lies down with his legs way up by his head so that his asshole… Of course, Speck does have quite a set of tits. Don’t even go flat when he lies down. His partner sure did seem to like those puppies. Kept grabbing at ‘em, like they were rubber.”

  “They had sex in front of you?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Was the camera rolling?”

  “Never stopped.”

  “Of course, in between sex acts, there was some conversation about the cars he’s owned, the schools he’s attended, all the coff
ee he drinks, oh and yeah, ‘what’s done is done—life goes on—as long as I’m having fun.’ I thought you would especially like that one. Oh and he likes to wear blue silk panties. Where does a guy get blue silk panties inside a maximum security prison? Can he barter his hootch? And if he does, with who? I’ve been asking myself that one all day.”

  It’s hard for me to stay calm. I want to scream. Need to hit something. Someone. But I contain the hate for Mike’s sake. “Why didn’t you come and get me when you finished taping? I kept looking for you all afternoon.”

  “I didn’t think to. Just wanted a shower. A hot shower.” He rolls over on his back. “The water’s not very hot here. And the pressure stinks. Matter of fact, I think I’m going to drive back home right now so I can take a good hot shower.” He tries to get up. I push him back down. His clothes make sense now.

  “Why don’t you get out of those clothes first. They’re soaked.” I start unbuttoning his shirt and he tries to help but his fingers can’t remember the moves. I get his shirt off. He gets out of his pants. I stop him when he goes for his underwear. Don’t need him to be naked right now. I help him over to the other bed and cover him with a clean white sheet.

  I want to cry. Just let go and ball. I can feel my eyes burn from the sting of it, but now’s not the time. Can’t let Mike see any weakness. Any hint of emotion over this.

  “You rest for a minute. We’ll drive back together, later.”

  He doesn’t argue but rather settles in. He looks like a sick little boy with a fever. Way too much reality for Mike’s world. I should have never let him do this.

  Ask him, Carly. You have to know what happened. Ask him before he falls asleep.

  “You going to tell me what else he said,” I ask.

  “No. You can watch the video.”

  “Did you get to my question?” I persist.

  “According to Captain Bob, ‘we ain’t got enough yet’.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means no, I didn’t even look at what you gave me. We’re going to tape the freak again. I’ll get to your stuff later.”

  Part of me wants to tell him not to do it. To let it go, but I can’t. They’re depending on me.

  “You going to tell me what went on today?”

  He looks at me, sobriety slipping in. “Carly, you really don’t want to know what happened in that room today. These guys are at the bottom of the food chain. They’re not really human. They may look like they are, but they’re not. They’re worse than anything you can imagine, or see in a movie. The movies don’t do these guys justice.”

  “That was your imagination. Mine has already seen what murderers can do, remember?”

  “You’ve just seen the aftermath. I watched him up close. Talked to him. Listened while he answered the Captain’s questions. He wore makeup today, eye makeup. When I walked into that little storage room, there he was in clean, white painter’s overalls looking like some street walker excited about her next trick. Couldn’t wait to get started, to show off in front of the camera. Pose naked. Show off his tits, his almost non-existent dick. I’m glad you weren’t there.” Mike leans over on his elbow and looks at me.

  “When are you taping again? When can you get to—?”

  “Tomorrow. Today was Captain Bob’s day. He had Speck and his lover talk about the guards mostly, at least I think that’s who they were talking about. Guards who were good to the inmates, brought in their drugs and alcohol. Didn’t give them a rough time. Also asked some questions about the other guards. The ones they didn’t like. Who they’d like to see dead. How they sometimes had to wait around for their booze and shit to come in because these other more honest guards would get in the way. They really don’t like that.

  “I’m not asking the questions. Some other guy is. A Gangster Disciple, maybe. Didn’t catch his name. Didn’t want to. Actually, I’m not doing much of anything. Set up a tripod for the camera, told Speck and his friend where to sit so that the lighting’s good. I zoom in every now and then, but mostly I just sit and watch. Where’s that other bottle of JD? I’m getting entirely too sober.”

  “I’ll get it,” I tell him and head for the door.

  I leave the door open while I go out to get my flask in my car, disgusted now over the visual of Speck having sex on camera. Enjoying himself. Making his lover happy. The very thought of it makes my stomach turn, my mouth dry.

  From the open doorway I can hear the whistle of another Andy Griffith Show starting. I conjure up the vision of Andy and Opie walking along with their fishing poles. Happy. Talking. Laughing. A father and his son.

  Once, I wanted a little boy like Opie. A good boy. Sweet. Naive. And a husband like Andy. Positive. Nurturing but ardent, like my dad. That dream ended when I was fourteen. Couldn’t think of marrying some guy after that, or having babies. Not in this world. Not with guys like Speck running around. But somehow, even with all that self-determination, I ended up with Mike: a tall Opie.

  Some of Speck’s victims probably had that same kind of dream. Wishing for a little Opie or a husband like Andy or even Barney? Barney was a loveable kind of kook. I could see how somebody could love his type. But Speck stole those dreams and now the bastard has dreams of his own. Probably thinks this video’s going to make him a star of some kind. Get him love letters from desperate women who get off on that kind of crap.

  “Can’t you find it?” Mike asks, while standing in the doorway. I’m sitting in the front seat, digging through my glove compartment.

  I pull out the flask and hold it up for Mike to see.

  “Well, you’re taking too damn long.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I tell him as I slide out of my car and slam the door shut. The sound resonates through me like a gun shot. Wakes me up. Pushes me back to the now.

  The only thing Speck is going to get out of this video is time in solitary. I’ll see to that.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  July 13, 1966

  Okay, so I messed up and turned chicken when I saw Wolf trying to break into Pauline’s and didn’t run out to give him our letters. Lisa was right about me. Chicken all the way. I promised myself I would never tell the girls about what happened ‘cause I’d never hear the end of it.

  We got up early the morning of July thirteenth and took down the tent, folded it neatly and stored it in the basement in a cardboard box. Before we took it down I looked around for evidence that Wolf had really slept there but everything looked the same as when we left it, except for some change I found under my blanket. Gave me a creepy feeling wondering if it was his change, but I still didn’t say anything.

  Father Caneen said Mass that morning. He was about two hundred years old and moved like an old troll. Everything felt like slow motion. Even when I stuck my tongue out for communion and closed my eyes, after a while I had to peek to see if he was still there because nothing was happening. One of the altar boys snickered. I gave him a look and Father Caneen slapped my nose with his finger as he placed the sacred host on my tongue. Needless to say, my day wasn’t starting out very good.

  After Mass we went to mail our love letters to the Beatles in the mailbox across the street from Saint Patrick’s. I felt certain that the letters were doomed. After all, they were really intended for Wolf to deliver and I had chickened out.

  “Let me kiss the back,” Sharon announced. “My mom gave me her old lipstick and it’s a real creamy color.” She pulled out the battered tube from her lime green vinyl purse along with a small mirror and proceeded to smear on the bright red glaze. Then after smacking her lips a couple times, she puckered up to the large manila envelope we had shoved our letters into and kissed it as if she were kissing Paul himself. When she finally finished, her face flushed from the excitement of the kiss. The three of us took hold of the envelope and dropped it into the mail slot while reciting our mantra. “And hope that our dreams will come true, but then while you’re away, I’ll write home every day and I’ll send all my lovin’ to y
ou.”

  Plop went our letters to the bottom of the mailbox as we gingerly let go of the envelope and allowed the metal door to slam shut.

  None of us was in the mood for a walk to the bridge that morning. Too tired from the events of the night before, so we decided to just go home. Maybe we’d meet up later.

  My dad was just leaving for work when I came in through the back door. “Who’s that?” he said, kidding with me, standing next to the kitchen sink holding a glass of orange juice. “Could that be my daughter?” I stopped dead in my tracks and faced him, smiling. “I didn’t recognize you,” he said. “You’ve changed. Is it your hair?”

  “No. It’s the same,” I answered, grabbing some of my long hair and flipping it back over my shoulder.

  “New clothes?”

  “I’ve had these forever, Daddy.”

  “Then it must be that the last time I saw you, you were a mere thirteen-year-old. Now look at you.” I spun around so he could get a better look. “That’s it! You’ve aged. You’re fourteen now. Wow! What a looker. We’re going to have to keep you inside the house until you’re at least fifty. You can’t go out looking that pretty. I think there’s some kind of law about it.”

  My dad loved to embarrass me. “Oh, Daddy!”

  “How does it feel to be that beautiful and fourteen?”

  “Groovy,” I answered while running over to get my hug. Being in my dad’s arms was like being inside a cushy fortress. All safe and warm. A place I ran to whenever I was sad or hurt. He’d wrap his big strong arms around me and I’d rest my head on his shoulder. He always smelled clean, like he just took a shower. I never knew what kind of aftershave he used since he bought it from his barber in a tall, thin bottle without a name. Whatever it was, the scent of him always made me linger on his shoulder just a little longer.

  “Do you have to go to work right away?” I whined. “Can’t you stay and have breakfast with me?”

  He pulled me away, “Sorry baby, have to go. But I’m off tomorrow. Maybe we’ll go to the beach or something. How’s that?”