You Only Live Once

by Haris Orkin

  “You saying he has a tiny package?”

  “A protuberance of mystery.”

  She laughed and Flynn smirked and Goolardo glowered at them both. “What are you two giggling about?”

  “Nothing you would find amusing,” Flynn said. “But I must say, I am impressed by the size of your table.” Dulcie almost lost it again. She bit her tongue as Flynn continued. “Everything here is quite grand. Was that an original Rivera back there in the corridor?”

  “Indeed, it was.”

  “And an original Jose Orozco and a David Alfaro Siqueiros?”

  “You know Mexican art?”

  “I know a little bit about a lot of things.”

  Mendoza rolled his eyes.

  “I must say, Mr. Flynn, you never cease to impress me. Have a seat. Everyone. Dinner is about to be served. I hope you enjoy langosta.”

  “Mexican Lobster?”

  “Rock Lobster, yes. It’s not as sweet as Maine lobster, but it can be quite tasty and it’s indigenous to our local waters. Have you ever been to Puerto Nuevo? It’s very quaint. A tiny village on the west coast of Baja made up entirely of cantinas that serve fresh lobster, tortillas, rice, and beans.” Goolardo smiled at Mendoza just as the big man was planting his ass in a chair. “Mr. Mendoza, I’m sorry, but I hadn’t planned on having you join us.”

  Mendoza looked stunned as Goolardo, who, still smiling, motioned for him to rise. Embarrassed color rose to his cheeks as he scraped back his chair and stood.

  “Perhaps next time,” Goolardo said.

  Mendoza left the room, barely containing his anger. He wanted to hurt something. He wanted to find a living thing and cause it pain. His first choice, of course, would have been Flynn. He imagined putting his massive hands around the man’s neck and squeezing the life out of him. He almost punched a Diego Rivera painting, but held himself in check. He wanted Goolardo to know he was angry, but he didn’t want to owe the big man three and a half million dollars.

  Mendoza found a quiet spot outside, on a second-floor landing, behind a parapet. Pulling out his satellite phone, he punched in a number and gritted his teeth as it rang. Finally, he heard a voice on the other end.

  “Soto,” the private detective said.

  “It’s Mendoza.”

  “I know.”

  “What else do you know? Did you do what I ask?”

  “I did. And you won’t fucking believe what I found out.”

  “What do you have?”

  “I greased a few palms. It didn’t take long. Though it wasn’t cheap and you’re gonna have to reimburse me for—”

  “What do you have?”

  “His medical file. A police report. The motherfucking mother lode, my friend. I’m scanning the documents as we speak. You have an e-mail address? I’ll send it as a PDF.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “This Champagne”—Flynn swirled the pale amber liquid—“it’s Krug, isn’t it? Clos du Mesnil ‘95.”

  “If one can afford the best…” Goolardo said. He left the sentence unfinished.

  Sancho’s plate was full of empty lobster claws and clam shells. He ate with gusto. This was probably my last meal, he thought. I might as well enjoy it.

  Goolardo gave Dulcie a long look. He was a man used to taking what he wanted. “That dress suits you, my dear.” Dulcie avoided his eyes, but Goolardo was persistent. “I have a lady friend who visits now and then. A fashion model. Rather well known. That dress is hers and she looks very good in it, but I think you look even better. Maybe you would like to sit next to me?”

  In an attempt to change the subject, Flynn pointed out a shrunken head on display under glass. “So, what happened to that poor unfortunate gentlemen?” The head was gray and shriveled and about the size of a baseball. The hair was white and stringy and the eyes and mouth were sewn shut.

  “I told you the story of the warden of Ilha Grande Penitentiary and his missing head? He rubbed me the wrong way, and well…the result was not good for him…as you can see.”

  “Did you shrink the head yourself?”

  “I enlisted the aid of a local Amazon tribe. The Jivara. They believe, as I do, in the total annihilation of one’s enemies. The head is a trophy. A tsantsa.”

  Sancho stared at the little wrinkled head with horror. “That’s a real head?”

  “The process is fascinating and very involved. The face is peeled off, turned inside out, and scraped. Believing that such a violent death unleashes a soul bent on revenge, the lips and eyelids are sewn shut to trap the spirit. The skull and brain are then removed and what’s left of the head is simmered in a pot. The skin tightens, the head shrinks, and sand is poured inside the neck.” Sancho looked like he was about to spew. “The head is then shaken like a maraca until the flesh is like leather. The hair is trimmed, for it continues to grow for a short while even after the head is separated from the body. And there you have it.” Goolardo motioned to the itsy-bitsy head. Sancho put down his fork and pushed away his plate. “Shrinking a head is not something you want to leave to amateurs,” Goolardo explained. “I’m a firm believer in hiring only the best for whatever job needs to be done. Which is why, Mr. Flynn, I would like to offer you a position in my organization.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  An astonished Sancho looked across the table at Dulcie. Neither one could believe what they were hearing.

  “Your talents are being wasted. How much do you make working for your government? I’m sure it’s a pittance.”

  “I have modest needs.”

  “I doubt that, Mr. Flynn. A man whose palate is educated enough to appreciate and identify a Clos du Mesnil ’95?”

  “What would you have me do for you?”

  “Whatever is necessary.”

  “Implement your plan?”

  “I could certainly use someone with your intelligence and sophistication.”

  “So, who came up with this operation? Was it Dr. Grossfarber?”

  “Who?”

  “You deny he’s part of your organization?”

  “Who?”

  “Grossfarber.”

  Sancho and Dulcie continued to stare at each other, afraid to look at anyone else, afraid if they did they would lose it. Goolardo just seemed perplexed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Plausible Deniability. I understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “I understand many things. For instance, this plan you have concocted? It’s quite mad.”

  “Mad?” Goolardo’s smile started to fade.

  “You are clearly insane if you think you can penetrate the security surrounding Angel Island. It can’t be done.”

  “Are you calling me crazy?”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  “What if I said it could be done?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Then perhaps I should explain to you exactly how I intend to do it.”

  “This should be entertaining,” said Flynn. He smiled at Dulcie.

  Goolardo’s face darkened with fury. He was trying to stay calm, but Sancho could tell he wasn’t used to being challenged or mocked. He scraped back his chair and stood from the table. “My plan is already in motion. At this very moment, I have a man…”

  Mendoza barged into the dining room, breaking Goolardo’s concentration. He had a file folder packed with papers and his eyes were full of fire. “I have new information!”

  “This can’t wait until later?” Goolardo was spitting nails. “I’m trying to enjoy my fucking dinner!”

  Mendoza thrust the file folder in front of Goolardo and Goolardo tore it from Mendoza’s hand and threw it on the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I said later!” “It’s from my contact in Los Angeles! Information on Flynn.” Mendoza reached down and picked up the file folder. Goolardo invaded Mendoza’s space. They were eyeball to eyeball, but Mendoza wasn’t about to back down. He opened the file and held it out for Goolardo to see. Goolardo gla
nced down at a picture of Flynn. It was a photocopy of the front page of the Pasadena Star-News. The headline read, “Escaped Mental Patient still on the loose.”

  The fury on Goolardo’s face morphed into confusion as he read the two-paragraph story. He looked at James with disbelief as Mendoza flipped to Flynn’s psychiatric file. Inside Goolardo found photographs. Documents. Histories.

  “This can’t be,” Goolardo whispered.

  Sancho rose and peered over Goolardo’s shoulder. When he saw the file, he literally went white. Dulcie caught his eye and knew that it had to be bad. Flynn seemed almost disinterested. Not the least bit concerned.

  Goolardo pulled out a family photo of a handsome couple and an adorable seven-year-old-boy. He held it up for James to see and Flynn, for the first time since he escaped from the hospital, seemed apprehensive.

  “This is you?” Goolardo crossed closer to Flynn and Flynn tried to look away, but Goolardo thrust the picture in his face. Sancho watched as sadness and pain welled up in Flynn’s eyes. “Your mother and father and you?”

  James closes his eyes, raised both his hands and backed away. He seemed rigid and afraid; like a child with autism. Goolardo leafed through the file and read select passages aloud. “Born in Van Nuys, California…Orphaned at age ten…passed from foster home to foster home…grossly obese…a chronic bed wetter.”

  Sancho and Dulcie watched sadly as Flynn crumpled in on himself. He seemed to be shrinking right in front of their eyes.

  Goolardo pulled out a photo of a fat, pimple-faced twelve-year-old. He had a black eye and he looked as if he was about to cry. He set the picture on the table and continued to read. “…developed a delusion so severe…institutionalized at the age of…” Goolardo looked up from the file to see that Flynn sat slumped in his chair, staring at some imaginary nothing ten feet in front of him.

  Flynn sat deep in thought, thinking about a recurring nightmare he often had. Everything was dim and vibrating and there was always music playing. A country western song. It was upbeat and lively and it filled him with such happiness. He was riding in the backseat of a car. A man drove. A woman was asleep in the passenger seat. She was curled up on her side and Flynn could see her face in profile.

  “The girls all get prettier at closing time,” the singer sang. “They all begin to look like movie stars.”

  In the dream, Flynn would look at his hands and see they were the size of a child’s. His legs were small too, dangling over the edge of the seat. He wore Keds and a seat belt and a t-shirt with the L.A. Dodgers logo.

  “The girls all get prettier at closing time,” sang the singer. “When the change starts taking place, it puts a glow on every face, of the falling angels of the back-street bars.”

  Images from the nightmare flashed through his mind: the glowing radio dial. the speedometer pegged at seventy; the little words below it which read Cruise Control; the man driving looked at Flynn in his rear-view mirror. His eyes were kind. So full of love. He nodded at Flynn and smiled and for some reason that made Flynn ineffably sad.

  “The girls all get prettier at closing time,” sang the man with the Texas twang. “They all begin to look like movie stars.”

  In his dream, the head of the driver would start to dip. And snap back up. And drift back down. He’d shake himself awake. And stare at the oncoming highway. Flynn would look out the passenger side window to see only darkness rushing by. The man driving and the sleeping woman seemed so familiar. Who were they? Why was he with them? Where were they going?

  “The girls all get prettier at closing time, when the change starts taking place…”

  The driver’s chin would finally sink to his chest and the car would start to drift. Then it would begin to bounce up and down, throwing Flynn around. This would always awaken the man and he would frantically grab the steering wheel. By then bright headlights were blazing through the windshield. At that point the woman would scream.

  “When the change starts taking place,” the singer happily sang. “It puts a glow on every face.”

  The sound that ended the song was always explosively loud. What made it seem even louder was the absolute silence that followed. And darkness. Total darkness.

  Flynn would feel so lonely and empty and hopeless. This bottomless hopelessness came from deep inside his soul and it hurt like nothing had ever hurt before. When the pain became unbearable, so unbearable that Flynn just wanted to die, he would awaken from this nightmare and all would be fine. The sun would be shining, and he would be who he was. Masterful. In control. Powerful. A hero.

  But for some reason, this time, Flynn wasn’t waking up. The nightmare wouldn’t stop. The darkness continued to surround him and the unbearable hopelessness and loneliness would not let him go. If this pain didn’t end soon, he knew he would die. His body would give up the ghost. Nothing was worth this much suffering.

  Sancho was stunned by Flynn’s transformation. Every ounce of confidence was gone. His face didn’t even look the same. The spark was missing; the dash, the daring, the bravado. It was as if someone had let all the air out of him.

  “I told you who he was,” Sancho said, quiet and sad.

  “But how did he know about my plan?”

  “He didn’t,” Dulcie said.

  “He did!” bellowed Goolardo.

  “Dude,” Sancho said. “All he knows is what you told him.”

  Goolardo saw Mendoza’s satisfied smile. Rage burned in his blood like fire and he blindsided the big thug with a backhand that sent him reeling. Mendoza was stunned. His nose bled. The boss man now had a gun in his hand. A gun aimed at Mendoza’s face. “Are you laughing at me?” Mendoza’s smile was long gone. He quickly shook his head no.

  Goolardo’s mind raced in fifteen different directions as he frantically searched his memory. Did Flynn really know nothing? He seemed to know something. What did I tell him? He knew there was a plan. How did he know that? Goolardo looked down at the file folder open on the table. At the pictures of Flynn. At Flynn himself. He now looked far more like the fat, pimple-faced pre-teen than the man of action he seemed to be but moments before.

  “Look,” Sancho said. “It was a mistake. An honest mistake. It’s kind of funny, if you think about it.” He offered up a tiny smile, but there were no takers. “He doesn’t know anything. Not a damn thing. And neither do we.”

  “You know something now,” Mendoza said.

  “Who are we going to talk to? Who would even believe us?”

  Dulcie’s eyes filled with tears. She knew what was going to happen. She knew there was no talking their way out of it, and when Sancho saw the look on her face, he knew that there wasn’t anything he could say that would save them.

  Goolardo holstered his pistol and sat back down at the table. He sipped a little champagne then said, “Kill them.”

  “Come on,” Sancho pleaded. “We’re nothing. We’re nobody. We can’t hurt you. There’s no reason to—”

  “Kill them all!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The tall wrought iron gates of Goolardo’s Alcazar opened and a convertible Humvee trundled out. The driver had wide shoulders and no-neck and a bald head the size of a basketball. It was stubbly and lumpy and his ears were an angry red. The killer riding shotgun was even uglier, thought Dulcie. His greasy black hair was tied back in a ponytail and his beard looked ratty and thick. A vicious scar puckered the left side of his face.

  Dulcie tried to move, but her hands were bound tightly behind her with rough twine. Sancho sat on her left, hands tied, squinting into the dust and wind. He looked angry. He looked bitter. He looked like a ten-year-old trying not to cry. Flynn sat on Dulcie’s right. He, too, was tied up, not that it mattered. He was a sad, sorry, shrunken husk of his former self.

  Mendoza occupied the seat right behind them. If Dulcie turned, she could see him out of the corner of her eye. He looked serene and relaxed. A Mac-10 machine gun was cradled in his lap.

  The killer with the ponytail turned a
round and smiled at Dulcie. Quite a few of his teeth were gold and the puckered scar twisted his smile off-kilter. His grin lit a fire inside of her. “What the fuck you looking at?”

  The killer laughed and shouted to the driver. “Es una puta muy guapa!”

  The driver grinned and nodded. “Tiene un chichis muy grande!”

  They both cracked up. Dulcie wanted to kill them both. Cut their throats. Bash their heads in with a baseball bat. But she couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t even move. The anger turned into tears.

  Sancho saw the tears on Dulcie’s face and it pissed him off. “Hey! Come on!” he shouted at the thugs. “Have some fucking respect!”

  The killer with the scar turned and smiled, savagely back-handing him. He wore a huge gold ring and it split Sancho’s lip. Blood spurted out and ran down his chin. Sancho didn’t react with fear, but with fury. He licked his fat lip and smiled at the killer with bloody teeth. “Why don’t you untie me and try that?”

  “What’s the matter, little man?” asked the thug. “You don’t like being bitch slapped?” The driver laughed at that and shook his big ugly head. “You wanna bitch slap me back? Is that it?” He drew a huge combat knife from a sheath, and turned around, kneeling on his seat. He held the tip of the blade to Sancho’s throat. The Humvee hit a rut and the tip punctured his skin. Sancho leaned back to get away from the blade, but there was nowhere to go.

  “Leave him alone!” Dulcie shouted. The thug struck her in the face with the hilt of his knife, breaking the skin on her cheek. He then put the knife point inches from Sancho’s left eye. The blade ominously jumped around as the Humvee bounced down the dirt road.

  “You’ll have your chance to be a hero, chilito, as soon as we get to where we’re going to dump your body. The only reason you’re not dead yet is because I don’t want to carry your fat ass around.” They hit another rut and the blade cut Sancho right below the eye. The thug smirked, turned back around and faced front. He slipped the knife back into its sheath and mumbled, “Joto.”

  The driver laughed and in that split second, Sancho didn’t care whether he lived or died. He stood up and arched back, slamming his head into the nose of Mendoza. He then lifted his legs up and scissored them together, banging the driver’s head into the thug’s. The killer was stunned, but the driver was unconscious. The Humvee swerved off the dirt road and down an embankment. Dulcie screamed when she saw the cliff they careened towards, overlooking the Sea of Cortez.