Upgunned

by David J. Schow

  “Let’s say we had a mutual acquaintance,” she said. “Someone who ran around like an insane infant, leaving a poo-poo trail of dead bodies.”

  I felt my throat and asshole try to swap positions. My vision plunged.

  She stayed well ahead of me: “Relax. I’m not here to bother you. I’m not a gal on a mission, or with a grudge. I don’t represent anybody. I’m not wearing a wire or anything like that. See?” She shucked her leather jacket, turned out her cuffs, and even pulled the vee of her shirt forward to bless me with an unobstructed view down her cleavage. No brassiere, just wonderful pale skin all the way to her navel, presumably.

  I said, “I wonder if the person you’re thinking of is the person I’m thinking of.”

  She shrugged. Again the tiny half-smile, which really was a winning one. “Either way. Let’s further posit that this person, our friend, let his ego get in the way of business. People died—people who were not supposed to die. Who were not paid for. It’s like porn on the Internet: how are you supposed to make money at it when other people are giving it away for free?”

  “You want money.” I certainly was a dim bulb today.

  “Oh, not at all.” Puff, puff, sip. “It’s just that this … our friend, was totally unprofessional. Not surgical.”

  More than ten people dead, and it was amateurish? Char had been raped and carved up and it wasn’t surgical enough? Slow anger—the deadly kind—began to push up from my gorge like molten lava.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” she said. “The way he was, our friend, or the way he became, scared a lot of people. You were scared of him.”

  I felt like saying no, I wasn’t, all sullen and teenaged. She already knew this, too, and allowed me some space to decompress.

  I could have asked two dozen questions. This woman would merely shake her head. Not relevant. I settled on asking what his real name might have been.

  That gave her genuine pause for thought. “Whatever name you might have gotten doesn’t matter. None of those people exist. But the people who hired him do exist. And they got scared, too. As scared as you. Even if our friend had gotten all the fish he wanted, that would leave him in the world, and that meant his employer would still be scared, you follow?”

  “I’m still scared, right now,” I said. “Of you. Did you know this nonexistent person we’re talking about?”

  Now she appeared wistful, almost. “Yeah, twenty, thirty names ago. We had what you might call a mini-history.”

  Comrades in arms? Teammates? Lovers, even?

  “It’s not pretty when they burn out,” she said distantly. “It rarely happens, but it happens. I wanted to see if I felt anything when I had to harvest him. Or anything when I told you.” She paused to let it absorb past the concrete walls of my thick head. “Nope; I’m good on both counts.”

  When you have time, alone, inside, cover one of your eyes for about half an hour. Then go to a dark room, or outside at night, and close first one eye, then the other—blinking between your light- and dark-adapted eyes. The difference is startling, in perceptions, shapes, and colors. Ordinary people call this phenomenon “blindsight,” but what they’re really talking about is human evolution. There are two separate vision conduits in the brain; one for conscious sight and one for more primitive, autonomic visual acuity. Blind sight permits a person who cannot see a thrown object to nonetheless catch or avoid it. And my rhodopsin-enriched rods, my sensitivity to bright light, allowed me to see a black-and-white world where others might have seen only murky darkness.

  Once having seen that world, you became one of its tenants.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said, gulping half my drink at once. “Strictly hypothetically?”

  “Shoot.” A trenchant wit, this one.

  “What if our, um, friend had not been harvested?”

  “Then you, Elias, would be as dead as a shrimp hand roll, and I would be chasing our friend’s ass all over the country. Because if I didn’t get him…”

  “Then you’d have somebody after you.”

  She nodded. Slightly bemused. She had been the pinch hitter, the fail-safe.

  “And this is the lull before you blow my brains out?”

  “No. You’re not part of my contract.”

  My entire skeleton was straining to rip free of my dullard flesh and run away to hide somewhere safe, but I held fast. Where would I run?

  “But what if I was?” I said.

  “Then this conversation would not be taking place.” She puffed some more and I watched the sapphire glow of the LED tip. “Go back to your world, Elias. Bang supermodels. Enjoy your life. Consume and be happy.”

  That was it: the warning, the threat. The blue glow reminded me of the laser light that had roosted across Gun Guy’s face right before his neck had burst in a party popper spray of tissue and blood. Bad guy eliminated; roll credits.

  Later I found out that such lasers could be applied to gun-sighting, but they were powerful enough to burn and blind. The units depicted online resembled lightsabers from Star Wars and were trumpeted as the latest in nonlethal tech.

  I thought back to how this ride had started, with Nasja blowing me. Me taking advantage. Me being the world’s biggest shit … after Clavius. I had been dying by inches. It took Gun Guy trying to kill me to reactivate my brain and make my heart start beating again.

  This woman did not need to be told any of that. I would never see her again. Even so, I would spend the rest of my days watching out for that blue light.

  “What happens now?”

  She almost laughed; I saw her suppress it. If she ever did smile, I suspected it to be a million-watter.

  “Okay, sorry I asked,” I said. “I only have one more question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Who is Mal Boyd?”

  * * *

  Which brings me to the story of my encounter with a totally awesome fellow named Roddy Caperton.

  * * *

  Some months after the murderous debacle on the set of Vengeance Is, Roddy Caperton checked in for his job on the night shift at a spa in Brentwood called Sybarite, one of those high-end, private-member ablutitoria where the upper crust could get comfortably mud-packed and plucked and sanded without the lingering downer of paparazzi in the parking lot. After some entry-level janitorial servitude, he had moved up to night shift on the front desk since he was willing to work graveyard, and Sybarite, which did no advertising whatsoever, did its best to accommodate the eccentric schedule waffle of its clients. Roddy had expressed some interest in learning to become a professional masseuse, and ultimately was entrusted with keys and security codes. He never dished on customers, was disinterested in gossip of any kind, and was always game to stay late or do a bit extra. In due time, he became invisible, as all the best practitioners in the service industry should be.

  Roddy was not going bald, but shaved his head in accordance with current fashion. The frequently tropical atmosphere inside Sybarite caused workers to sweat, and half of them had shaved heads also. Roddy wore thick-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses, also trendy. He had raised a vague goatee trimmed to a stubble depth of an eighth of an inch, precisely. He felt it lent his profile a more definitive chin.

  On the fifteenth of every month, for the past seven years (according to the ledgers), a customer named Mr. Youngman—obviously an alias—booked exclusive use of the spa for an intense, thirty-hour rejuvenation that included purgatives, herbal colon-cleansing, UV treatments, hydrotherapy, exfoliation via “salt glow” plus body wax, a mani-pedi, a scalp massage, and a six-hour detox in an immersion of low-pH “Moor mud” (imported) while wrapped in selected seaweed, kelp, and moss. The mud bath process was akin to leaving soup to simmer, and not recommended for the claustrophobic.

  Mr. Youngman was a preferred client who tipped excellently due to his special needs. For one thing, a vegetarian sideboard had to be prepared and maintained for him. For another, he was so obese that the tiled, bathtub-configured tanks would not serve. Espec
ially for Mr. Youngman’s immersion wrap, a much larger whirlpool tub was pressed into service. Because of drainage problems, the whirlpool tub had to be cleaned out by hand after Mr. Youngman’s monthly regimen.

  Mr. Youngman had become a kind of local legend around Sybarite, but Roddy did not get a look at him until several visits had passed; employees tended to vie for the right to serve him. Ultimately, though, Roddy’s number came up: second shift, fifteen hours straight, including babysitting the mud-wallow phase from midnight to 6:00 A.M.

  Whenever Roddy encountered steam at Sybarite, he had to polish his glasses, which was a minor nuisance. They fogged up now, at about 2:14 A.M. He rubbed off the condensation on his staff T-shirt.

  “Everything good so far, Mr. Youngman?” he said to the inert form submerged to the nostrils in the giant spa tub, like a crocodile patiently outwaiting new prey. A languid bubble fought its way up through the dense liquid and took its time popping. The steam taps lent the room the sound of a kettle on low boil.

  The occupant of the tub did not reply, but his golden reptile eyes slowly considered the intruder.

  “Y’know, I was reading about ‘ablutions’ in the dictionary,” Roddy said, his voice echoing off the tile, yet muted by vapor; a sound booth effect. “It can mean any kind of washing or cleansing, from blessings, to baptisms, to exorcisms.”

  Mr. Youngman’s lips barely moved. “I’m sure that’s deeply fascinating to you, but I should prefer you stop talking, please.”

  “Oh. Yah. Right. Of course. Sorry.”

  The golden eyes watched Roddy back out, subserviently, to get right on whatever little white trash chores enriched his existence. Stupid pillock. He had to be new. A memorandum would be sent, and a gratuity overlooked.

  Less than five minutes later, the idiot came back. Without his glasses.

  “Mr. Youngman? So sorry to disturb you, but there’s one more thing.”

  Before the tar-pitted fat man could roll his eyes, huff out a sigh, or protest in any way, Roddy dismembered him with five rounds from an AA-12—the Atchisson Assault Shotgun—which made a vast bowl of muddy gruel. At this distance, with this weapon, there was no way in hell he could miss. The gun’s roar sounded like Armageddon, but there was no one else present. Lifeblood and therapeutic mud splashed the walls and pooled on the clean white floor, with some of the red stuff following the grout patterns in the tile.

  Roddy stripped his latex gloves, which had been specified for dealing with Mr. Youngman. He locked up for the night. Then he ceased to exist at all.

  * * *

  Miss Mystery Date bid me farewell and left me holding the ice-diluted dregs of a drink. My instructions were not to follow her, or even watch her leave.

  Beneath her Stella Artois coaster she had left me a folded piece of paper.

  The rest, you can guess.

  The shotgun came from a rathole apartment in Thai Town, a place so devoid of personal identity that it could have been a three-walled movie set. No computer, no TV, a strictly functional way station. A toothbrush had been left in the mildewy bathroom. Gun Guy’s toothbrush. He had brushed his teeth in here, watching himself in the mirror, thinking of how he was going to make me suffer.

  Mal Boyd was a fat spider in the middle of a fatter web. My entire rebirth had begun with Mal Boyd. And Mal Boyd was cocooned in security, with the conditional exception of a single day every month, like clockwork.

  I considered Roddy’s last name: Caperton. I had gotten it from an obituary.

  Then I got in touch with a special effects house in Chatsworth, and arranged a consultation for a special hairpiece, exploiting my Tripp contacts. A lionish, good-natured fellow named Greg listened to my lie about having cancer and needing a wig that looked exactly like my normal hair. Pricier this way, but more exact. They did it for actors.

  Then I let Roddy shave my head, in honor of Joey. Awesome.

  I decided on fake glasses for Roddy. Frames distort memory of one’s face. I looked like a used-to-be keyboardist for some nightly talk show band. He maintained a neat—though dyed—goatee to lend his profile more chin. That was what people would remember, if they ever saw him: Bald guy. Glasses. Goatee. The same as thousands of L.A.’s other denizens.

  I shot my own photos for Roddy’s assorted forms of ID. Bald guy, glasses. goatee, check.

  By day I could wear my Elias wig and be Elias. By night I could commence my auxiliary career, working up cred for Roddy, who was friendly and talky and too helpful and not bright enough to piss anyone off.

  I had become, in the parlance, a “fake-hair-wearin’ bitch.”

  One who, at night, waited patiently, trading his fake hair for a shotgun.

  * * *

  Limelight is the last thing I want.

  Right now there’s a billboard in Times Square, eighty feet tall, prime placement; a picture of Davanna that I shot. Kleck was angling for a reality show. New human oddities were already auditioning for him.

  Notoriety, fame? Not for me.

  Some memories, those compressed files of Davanna’s perceptions, can flower open at the vaguest cue. They remain painful, almost physically debilitating.

  All of it is information I do not wish to disseminate.

  Roddy Caperton vanished from the face of the planet and my hair grew back to normal.

  I absolutely do not want to be quoted, anywhere.

  I respond to e-mails and texts in the dead of night, a time-delay collaborator. You won’t see me much in the daytime anymore.

  It’s bad for my eyes.

  To the complaint, “There are no people in these photographs,” I respond, “There are always two people: the photographer and the viewer.”

  —ANSEL ADAMS, (1902–84)

  END CREDITS

  Arly Zahoryin attained Internet notoriety for posting a YouTube video entitled At Gunpoint, purportedly footage of a genuine hit man recorded during the filming of the movie Vengeance Is. He is currently directing his first feature film, CyberGator Vs. Tarantulasaurus, for the Syfy channel.

  Tripp Bergin recently threw a party at the Casting Office Bar & Grill in Universal City, California, to celebrate his fifty-seventh birthday … and his five hundredth gimme cap, for Vengeance Is.

  Andrew Collier is currently working with a biographer on a book entitled When Does It Blow Up?, about the perils of transitioning from big studio work to independent features after the “tent-pole crash” of 2011.

  Clavius (real name: Danko Dyakov) received the BoHo Humanitarian Award in 2011 for his photo series in Clique magazine entitled “Ugly Reality: Celebrity Cosmetology Laid Bare.” Clique transitioned to a digital-only publication in 2011.

  Artesia Savoy was sued by Mason Stone following the exposure of several so-called “sex tapes” with the popular action star. Stone won a punitive judgement of $250,000 when it was concluded that the man in the suspect videos “was not demonstrably Mason Stone.” She is presently working in the adult video industry.

  Mason Stone’s latest summer blockbuster is Cold Barrel Zero, for directing team the Suturabo Brothers.

  Garrett Torres (second lead bad guy) is currently starring in the second season of his own HBO series, Sword & Sandal, about gladiators.

  Harry “Boss” Wiley became a successful producer of pay-on-demand adult content for Internet distribution. Some of his projects star Artesia Savoy.

  William “Cap” Weatherwax’s firm, Fire When Ready, remains the go-to group for movie firearms consultation.

  FFF Corporation, the makers of FelineFeast Fancy Cat Foods, suffered a crippling setback in 2011 due to a massive recall caused by salmonella contamination in their product line.

  Spooky Sellars (publicist) abruptly left the production of Vengeance Is. Her current whereabouts are unknown.

  Kleck and Klia (real names) are currently cochairs of Salon Fantastique Enterprises, LLC.

  Elias McCabe is the reclusive director of McImages and cochair of Salon Fantastique International. He has never consented to
be interviewed, and very little is known about his personal life.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Upgunned is not a sequel to Internecine, although it takes place in the same general universe as that novel.

  Large thanks to Thomas Jane, not only for various heroic step-ups, but for letting me use his face on the cover (again, twice!), and to Tim Bradstreet for rendering the artwork so adroitly and dependably. Several times.

  For long—nearly lifelong—advocacy by colleagues, I need to put these names before you once more: John Farris, Peter Farris, Joe R. Lansdale, Michael Marshall Smith, Peter Straub, Duane Swierczynski, and F. Paul Wilson. Read them.

  And pick up some Robert Bloch, while you’re at it.

  Behind-the-Scenes Staff: Charles Ardai of Hard Case Crime; Brendan Deneen, Nicole Sohl, and Thomas Dunne of St. Martins Press/Thomas Dunne Books, John Schoenfelder of Mulholland Books, and John Silbersack of Trident Media Group.

  The story of “Mason Stone’s Night of Thunder” was cribbed from a production experience I had on the set of I, Robot (it was blamed on Will Smith in the papers, and Will wasn’t even there). My gratitude goes to longtime pal Alex Proyas and the entire cast and crew of that 2004 film.

  On the home front, none of this could have been accomplished without the indulgence of the deeply lovable Kerry Fitzmaurice.

  The ready friendship of Underworld denizen Ken Mitchroney also got me over a lot of speed bumps. Ditto Michael Boatman, Ernest Dickerson, Frank Dietz, Dave Parker, and Sam Witwer.

  In the DJS Armory you’ll find such luminaries as movie firearms expert Ron Blecker, champion three-gunner Taran Butler, Paul and Jonathan Ehlers, walking ordnance encyclopedia John Fasano, Josh T. Ryan (formerly of Burbank’s Gun World and the Showtime series Lock ’n Load), Pete Bitar, president of XADS (Xtreme Alternative Defense Systems, Ltd.), and the ever-reliable Ken Valentine—gun men, all.

  Needless to say, Cap Weatherwax and his behavior as regards live firearms on a movie set are both complete fabrications, and no connection exists or should be inferred between Cap’s doings and the stone-cold reliability and ethics of any professional armorer or firearms expert on any real-world movie set, anywhere, ever.