I huddle up against the near wall and stay low, thinking about making a break for the forest beyond the perimeter of the parking lot. But then my truck would be stuck here, and they’d figure out who I was. I can already hear Dr. Collins with his same old “habitual hyper-aggressive tendency” shtick. I’d lose my Saturdays with Brook. I let one hand find metal, curl around its coolness. Then I wait.
The dome of the night sky is clear. High above I can see the blinking lights of a plane moving across the field of stars. I wonder if Dr. Winston is back with the Brain Trust, if the croissant-shaped ship has returned my friend home. I worry about Hardy too. I never called him back.
When I hear the first ignition it sounds like a chain saw, but then I recognize it for good news. Peeking again over the lip of the bed, I see people streaming slowly into the lot. The rent-a-cop closes in on them, his arms out like a shepherd’s, like he’s protecting them from a vicious wolf he’s got cornered. But they refuse to be herded back inside, scatter instead for their cars, and he turns again to the lot. Once a few cars get moving, I’ll be golden.
Headlights spin over the top of the truck as all the friendly dance moms try to kill each other to get home. It’s just like the parking lot after leaving church in the old days.
A small group walks by, and I wait ten heartbeats then roll over the passenger side, away from the community center. Casually, trailing one hand along the bed, I walk around to the driver side. I keep my head down to avoid eye contact and I’m almost at the door when the flashlight shines on it. “Hold it just a minute.”
The voice is twenty years old. I can picture Sparky, Model Security Guard, with one hand on the gun he’s never fired at a human being. I hear him stepping closer. My hand slides from the lip of the bed down inside and finds the sure grip of the tire iron. If the kid talks again I can get a fix on his height, maybe just graze him, a love tap him across the forehead. Though tapping someone with a tire iron is a tricky proposition at best.
“Don’t make any sudden movements.” He is still too far back.
I crank out the appropriate line: “What’s the problem, officer?”
“Turn around real slow. Show me the palms of your hands.”
I lift the tire iron off the metal.
“Mr. Cooper! There you are.” Alix’s voice startles me.
The kid says, “Stay back, ma’am. Official community arts center business.”
“And I’m glad to see you conducting yourself so well. My husband here is on the board of directors.”
Over my shoulder I see the kid, five feet back, holding the flashlight and a nightstick. There’s no gun. Sparky’s looking at Alix and Trevor, who is wearing a tux. Trevor says, “You’re doing a heck of a job tonight, son. Top-notch.”
Far behind them, along the curb of the center, is a police cruiser. A real one. I set the tire iron down gently.
Sparky examines some ID Trevor is flashing from his wallet. Then he aims the flashlight in my face. “Do you know this individual?”
“He’s the father of one of our dancers here tonight,” Alix answers.
Trevor waves at me. “Hi, Buddy.” To Sparky he says, “Buddy and I play golf twice a week. I’ll vouch for his moral character but not his short game.”
The kid doesn’t smile, but he buys the lie. I don’t like Trevor vouching for me.
Alix says, “Mr. Cooper, Brook’s gathering her things and said she’ll be right out. I’ll tell her you’re waiting.”
“Just a second, ma’am. We’ve got a 617: Hostile Intruder, and I need—”
“You need to listen,” Alix says. “This man is not your 617. He was sitting next to my husband and me when the incident took place. I suggest—”
“Now, Alix,” Trevor says. “This young man’s just doing his duty.” He slides a gawky arm around Sparky’s shoulder. “You’ve got quite a presence, young man, has anyone ever told you that?”
Sparky turns the flashlight from my face to Trevor’s. The light shines on Trevor’s bald top, crowned by that maturing blond hair.
“Strong jaw,” Trevor says. “High cheekbones. Decisive eyes. Have you ever had a screen test?” His directing style must be all flattery.
“No, sir. I mean, not professionally.”
Trevor magic-tricks a card from his palm, hands it to the guard, whose eyes brighten. “The thing is,” Trevor says, “we’re looking for some advisors and a few extras for a series pilot we’re putting together, Under the Gun. It’s a great concept—authentic re-creations of violent crimes. Very exciting. I think we could use someone with your charisma.”
Trevor and Sparky wander off, and I’m left alone with Alix. I’m about to ask her if she remembers the Arab Assassin when she shakes her head and says, “Brook doesn’t deserve this, Coop.”
“You didn’t have to leave today.”
“She’s got a lot invested. You need to think about your daughter’s best interests.”
“We could have talked it out. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Me to talk about my feelings? Don’t you want to know how I’m feeling now?”
She dips her head and pushes her fingers into her forehead. “I know how you’re feeling, Coop. And I’m sorry for it. But those real cops are gonna come out here and start asking questions soon.”
“Maybe they could arrest me for stealing my own TV.”
“Hey,” Alix says. “Somebody just pulled your ass from a sling.”
“Right. Somebody and her husband.”
She shakes her head. “Trevor’s the one who saw you and came over. He did it for Brook and for me. And because he’s a good man.”
“A good man who doesn’t know about Thursday afternoons.” It’s a line I instantly regret. But one of the problems with words is they can’t be pulled back.
Alix is silent while a dancer and her mom walk past. The mom is gesturing with her hands. The dancer wears a Walkman. Once they’re gone, Alix steps into my chest. “Cooper, there are days when I wonder why we split up. That’s the honest truth. And then there are days when I wonder why we got married.”
She turns and walks away. I almost yell after her Aren’t I giving Brook a ride home? But then of course I realize that this too was just part of her lie.
When I climb the steps to my apartment, I see the TV light over in the Salvation Station. Its blue glow shines down on a handful of homeless. I pick out the doughboy form of Bacchus, and Gladstone—still wearing my baseball cap—but the others are unfamiliar. Some might be from down by the bridge. I scan the group for Dr. Winston but can’t find his thick mat of hair. I’d go check in, but I’m eager to be off the streets and indoors. And I have a thirst for beer.
After I lock my door behind me, I stand in front of my open fridge. Finally I push aside the ginger ale and open a Bud Light, then head for the security of the brown couch. I hit the play button on my flashing answering machine—another call from Hardy, two more from the guy looking for Metricius. I consider turning the ringer off, not wanting to be disturbed by the outside world for a little while, but leave it on in case Alix calls. With the phone in my hand, I consider Rhonda/Tina T at Carolina Psychic Sidekicks. But there’s no way she could be working tonight, not after the beating she took up on that stage.
So I open my beer and click on the TV to distract myself, flip back and forth from the Hogan’s Heroes where Hogan finds Schultz a girlfriend to a Dirty Harry movie I have somehow never seen before. Every now and then I linger on a PBS documentary about Lewis and Clark. After the mission, after leading such a good life and being a hero to millions, Clark went crazy. Shot himself in the head because he couldn’t cope with the real world. That’s not the kind of fact they include in textbooks.
With each empty beer I crack a fresh one, a habit Dr. Collins calls “chain-drinking.” It sounds like a magic act, like sword swallowing.
CNN is replaying highlights from a NASA press conference held this afternoon. At the bottom of the screen is a yellow box with the words Asteroid Alert!
Four scientists sit at a table, besieged by questions from a frenzied press corps about the reports of that asteroid heading our way. While the bald one on the end sits silently, the other three scientists take turns delivering strange answers:
“It is quite likely that this body will pass us harmlessly.”
“Its movement is not what we would necessarily expect. We’d expect something different.”
“The object is the size of an office building. Maybe a parking garage. A small one.”
“Well, the worst-case scenario would be no scenario at all. Is that clear? Tunguska would be a rain shower.”
“I don’t think our religious beliefs are relevant to this matter.”
“Naddeo’s new theory makes the Torino scale obsolete.”
Finally the bald one stands up. “Listen to me. We shouldn’t even be out here talking to you people. These kinds of half-truths, this pseudo-information, it can only cause widespread panic. Without further data we’re guessing at what might happen. At present we are only certain of one thing: We are not completely certain of anything.”
This is the moment when my phone chooses to ring, a decision which makes my heart rocket to the top of my head, clang the bell, and thump back down to its place. I scoop up the receiver, but then say nothing.
After a brief silence comes “Poppa-San?”
“Hey, Bird,” I say, “it’s late.” I put down my beer, shut off the news conference.
“I know,” she says.
I can’t think of what to say.
“So like, that was you, wasn’t it?” Brook asks. Would Alix want me to pretend I wasn’t there? But I never lie to my daughter. “Yeah,” I say. “That was me.”
“I figured,” she says. “You know, nobody likes that Charlie guy. He’s so much a dildo.”
I almost tell Brook not to use that word. But then she might ask me what it means. Instead I ask if the cameraman is OK.
“He’s fine,” she says. “But … look, he made like this big deal about the whole thing to some cops. They came into the back and asked all the dancers if we could describe the attacker.”
“Attacker?” I say.
“Charlie says you had a knife. Don’t worry though, I don’t think anybody believes him.”
“I did not have a knife,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what that Rhonda lady said. She told the cops she got a good look at you from the stage, then said you were tall and skinny with long hair and a beard.”
I’m silent. I go 6′1″. On a good day, 280. Black hair in a crew cut since the Army. And I shave every morning. My psychic lied for me.
“Hey, Poppa-San,” Brook says. “How come she said that?”
“I don’t know, kiddo,” I tell her. “You’d have to ask Rhonda, I guess.”
“Well, I figure you’re in the clear. Jhondu talked to Charlie about perpetuating negative rhooshies, so I don’t think he ended up pressing charges.”
I almost tell her to thank Jhondu for me, but I’m not sure what rhooshies are and I’m afraid to ask, so I say nothing. Again, it’s Brook who breaks the silence. “I should go. I just wanted to make sure you were OK and everything.”
“I’m fine. Just catching up on a little TV. Did you know Lewis and Clark were guided by an Indian?”
“Yeah, Dad,” she says. “Sacajawea.”
Our conversation sounds like something from a sitcom. There’s a funny joke about that name that’ll take us to the commercial.
“Dad, are you, like, sure you’re alright? You sound weird.”
“I’m great, Bird,” I say. “But look, I have a couple projects I have to finish up tonight. Your dad loves you.”
She says, “Your little girl loves you.”
I wait for the click, and it comes fast.
This is the way we’ve always said good night on the phone, since the separation. The first night I called from the Motel 6, Brook sobbed so hard I could barely understand when she asked me when I’d be home. I started crying too and told her a week, maybe two. A hundred phone calls later, nobody’s crying.
After I get a fresh beer I return to PBS and Lewis and Clark, who have just reached the Rockies. The image is a sprawling shot of the entire range, jagged peaks rising to the ceiling of the sky. As they neared the top of that first mountain, they expected to see the Pacific and began to celebrate. The explorers thought they had to cross only one mountain, but they learned their error at the summit, when they saw the awesome truth laid out before them. The narrator says, “Imagine their disappointment and terror knowing the long winter was almost upon them.”
I want that phone to ring again. I’ll pick it up and it’ll be Rhonda calling me. She talked to some of the dancers and somebody somehow knew the secret identity of that white knight in the back of the hall. And Rhonda isn’t calling to make a pass at me and we’re not going to talk all night and then meet and make love and then have French toast at the start of a whole new wonderful life together. She’s just calling to tell me that after I ran out of the auditorium she stood up on the stage and started applauding, and all the people stood up and started clapping too.
I hear the phone ring and snatch it up. “Hello?” I say.
But there’s only the dial tone.
I’m not disappointed. I can still hear the crowd. Everybody understood why I did what I did. And Rhonda lied for me later, because she believed.
With the phone still in my hand I dial Quinn’s office. His machine answers and I hear his voice in English, then a language that sounds like Klingon. When the beep finally comes I say, “I’m doing the match. See you in the morning.”
I put down the phone and click off the TV for the night. Some fresh air is what I want, so I wander out into the yellow light of my porch with what I promise myself will be my last beer. After all, I’ll need to put in a full day with Hardy tomorrow. I hear noises down below, and I see more bums I don’t recognize stumbling over the bricks into the Salvation Station. There are a lot of them, probably from the shelter. It’s a congress of the homeless, and they’re holding a service of some kind for Dr. Winston.
I face the east end of town, where Brook is reading Jhondu’s book about the benefits of a meat-free diet. Trevor is down the hall brushing his teeth so when he makes love to my wife his breath will be minty. Alix is lying in bed with the script for The Creature from Beyond Tomorrow, calculating the physics of her next stunt. And in one of the back rooms at Sanctuary House, green-eyed Rhonda lies curled in her bed. She’s running her hands slowly over the bruises on her legs, wishing the pain away, and remembering the sound of my voice and the crash of that video recorder. In her memory she peers into the darkness and tries again to see my face, and she strains to use the one true power flowing through her veins to discover the name of the man who saved her.
-----
An Encounter with Potential Investors. Insights into the Master
Plan. Hardy Prepares Our Hero. Our Hero Prepares Hardy.
After the rising stops, the elevator doors split onto a slim hallway. At the far end a stiff, thick man sports an extra-large tuxedo and mirrored sunglasses. His shoes reflect the shine of the lights. When I start toward him, he lifts one wrist to his mouth, and almost immediately the double doors behind him open and his clone—same size, same fashion sense—emerges. They stand side by side, legs split, arms behind their backs. Up close, I hear voices beyond the doors. The guy who came from inside the Deluxe Skybox raises one hand and says, “Pardon me, sir, this is an invitation-only affair.”
“I’m with the band,” I say. “Tell Quinn the main event is here.”
They glance at each other, then the first one lifts his wrist again and speaks into his cuff link. For thirty seconds I stare at myself in the designer sunglasses, study the bruises from the sidewalk/pool stick combo. Tonight, I’ll be glad for the mask.
Despite the Hollywood tough-guy eyewear, I get a professional vibe off these guys. They’ve been brought in from outside the city, probably outs
ide the state. Under those custom-made jackets they’ve got holsters with loaded .38s. The safeties are off. Here’s one thing I’m sure of: People only pay to protect two things—money and secrets.
A whirring sound above the door draws my attention to a flashlight sized camera. The lens narrows on me, so I grin. Ten seconds later, one of the goons touches his ear and nods. He reaches for the doorknob and says, “Good evening, Mr. Cooper.”
Inside the Deluxe Skybox, three dozen top-bracket taxpayers entertain themselves. About half of them crowd against the far wall—tilted glass that looks down on the arena where soon I’ll be crowned champion. Closing the door reveals a middle-aged man with chronic acne and a pinky ring sipping a martini. “Save your time,” he offers. “This party sucks.”
I follow the buffet line, attracting some attention in my sweats and sneakers. A man with Middle East-olive skin and a white cowboy hat picks at a three-foot-tall shrimp tree. A woman holding a Siamese cat feeds it caviar with her fingers. Standing over what looks like sushi, a punk in a Yankees cap wears patched blue jeans, so blatantly casual he has to be the richest prick in the room.
Past the catered spread, Quinn stands by a wide-screen TV with three slender black women, each holding a glass of wine. Even though the real thing is taking place just outside, they’re watching the pay-per-view simulcast. On the screen, NinJa Z is applying a submission hold on the Native American Indian Spirit Warrior. Quinn catches my eye and waves, then touches one of the women on the shoulder and whispers to her before starting my way. He cuts past two girls on a leather couch sniffing cocaine from a glass coffee table. His headset wraps over his iron black hair, freshly streaked with fake gray. In the dim lights, I can’t be sure, but the patterns spiraling up his suspenders look like DNA. “What a completely unanticipated pleasure,” Quinn says. “Don’t you have pending concerns in the arena?”
Buddy Cooper Finds a Way Page 8