Never Bloodless

by Steve Richer

  With deliberate brushstrokes, he tried painting some trees the way Ross described, but the result was horrendous. He winced at the zigzags which were supposed to be wintery maples.

  “Happy trees, my ass,” Preston moaned.

  He sipped lemonade and despite his failed canvas and his grumblings, which came easy to him, he clearly enjoyed painting.

  His eyes darted up from the TV as he heard the noise of an engine. The sound was smoother than he was used to hearing in this trailer park. The car was newer, high-end. From what he could hear, the vehicle seemed to reduce speed in front of his home.

  This made him nervous. Anything out of the ordinary made him nervous. He wiped his hands again on a dishtowel and stepped out of the trailer to investigate.

  What he saw was unusual indeed. A Lincoln SUV came to a halt in front of Preston’s trailer and a short Hispanic male got out.

  Pablo Rodriguez went around his vehicle and Preston’s face quickly lit up in recognition. He didn’t quite break into a huge grin, that wasn’t in his nature, but his mood rose above neutral, which was an improvement.

  “Well I’ll be a son of a bitch!”

  He stepped forward and the two guys shook hands.

  “How it goin’, Preston? S’been a long time.”

  Within seconds, they were inside the trailer and Preston fished two beers from the small refrigerator. He carried them back to the den where Rodriguez was getting comfortable.

  “Of all the people I wasn’t expecting to see today, you were dead last.”

  “S’that a com’liment?”

  Preston simply grinned and handed his friend one of the beverages before taking a seat opposite him on a folding chair.

  “So, chu in the middle of di’orce p’oceedings?”

  “What makes you say that?” Preston asked innocently.

  “When my senorita left me, I had to live in a dump like this to p’ove to her liars I really was brok’.”

  “I really am broke.”

  “Then wha’ the hell you doin’ here? There’s a gold mine out there and is called the Middle East. There are a dozen com’anies that would take you in a hear’beat, chu know that.”

  He stood up and walked over to the easel where he admired the half finished painting.

  “O’ maybe chu getting’ soft,” Rodriguez commented.

  “It’s over for me, Rodriguez. The rabbit, it jumped off the tractor, okay?”

  “The rabbit off the tractor?” Rodriguez repeated dubiously. “Wha’ the fuck chu talkin’ about?”

  “It’s a metaphor, been in use for centuries. Brush up on your literary skills, will you.”

  “There haven’t been tractors fo’ cent’ries, chu dumb pinche cabron,” Rodriguez pointed out as he burst into laughter.

  “Yeah well, the bottom line is my life’s at a different place now. I got a regular 9-to-5.”

  “But chu brok’.”

  Somehow, as he took a long pull from his beer, Preston got the feeling that the notion of his living under the poverty line amused his friend.

  “I may be broke but I can still buy you dinner. Come on.”

  He stood up and pulled a nearby black T-shirt over his head.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The sports bar where they ended up wasn’t Preston’s first choice. He didn’t go out much and when he did he had a soft spot for Red Lobster.

  There was something about a combination of fried, broiled, and baked shrimp that appealed to him, something about it which reminded him that he was out of the desert and safe for the time being. And then there were those scrumptious cheese biscuits.

  As it were, the local Red Lobster turned out to be closed for renovations and as much as he loved the place, Preston didn’t feel like driving all the way to Inglewood for his seafood fix. In the spirit of improvisation, something that the US Army had properly instilled in him, they moved the party to a sports bar on Lankershim Boulevard.

  The place was new, part of the North Hollywood rebirth where old buildings were being torn down to make room for gentrified neighborhoods, allowing landlords to quadruple rents.

  Still, the owners of the bar had gone to considerable efforts to make the establishment appear old with scuffed hardwood floors and worn down bar stools. The entire purpose was defeated by the distinctive odor of fresh paint which was everywhere.

  March Madness was over, baseball was just beginning, and the Kings weren’t doing anything this season, all good reasons to explain why the place was only moderately crowded.

  They found a booth in a far corner of the restaurant, a location where they wouldn’t be accidentally overheard. They were having chicken wings, nachos, and beer and Preston was surprised to find himself doubled back in laughter.

  “Chu ‘member tha’ guy, the one with the lisp?”

  “That kid from Tennessee? He had the thickest accent, nobody could understand what he was saying.”

  More laughter followed.

  “I had an Iraqi tran’lator who thought he was spea’ing Yerman. I heard he once went into a har’ware store for a yigsaw and they didn’t have one on the shel’es. The tran’lator had no idea wha’ the kid wanted so he bought eve’y kind of saw they had.”

  Preston almost choked on his beer as he recalled the story. In the field, any anecdote was treasured as a way of breaking the routine.

  “The jigsaw cost him eighteen hundred dollars,” Preston recalled.

  The laughter eventually died down and they resumed eating. The wings weren’t half bad.

  “D’you miss it? Being a pri’ate mil’tary con’ractor was a lot better than the mil’tary.”

  Preston shrugged and said, “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “But d’chu miss it?”

  “It’s safer here,” Preston said diplomatically. “I have nothing to complain about.”

  “’Xcept bein’ brok’.”

  “Well, there’s that.”

  “What if someone came over to you’ house and offered you a chob?”

  Rodriguez moved his plate aside and wiped off his hands on a paper napkin.

  “Who? You?”

  “Wha’ if I could offer chu a chance to make som’ real money?”

  “Doing what?” Preston asked quietly, afraid to raise the question yet unable to resist.

  “I’m meetin’ som’ guys downtown ‘fore goin’ to Me-hico. I’m workin’ on a deal that could set me up fo’ life.”

  Ten minutes later, they were in the parking lot by the Lincoln SUV. The guys went behind the vehicle as Rodriguez opened the rear door. He reached for a gym bag inside and from it retrieved a small submachine gun he had picked up in Maryland.

  “Is a Heckler and Koch MP-7 PDW. Som’ American com’at units were p’ovided with this weapon as part of NATO trials.”

  He handed it over to Preston who obliged him by testing the grip and the cocking mechanism. He had never handled one personally but had read about this SMG before.

  It was an impressive piece of weaponry. Gas-operated, rotating bolt, fired special high-velocity 4.6x30mm ammunition. It had remarkable firepower for something less than 14 inches long.

  “Is so small it can be co’cealed under a yacket and it can pen’trate body a’mor at one hunerd meters.”

  “Nice weapon. What’s it have to do with me?”

  He gave the gun back.

  “I got access to a large quan’ity of US A’my weapons. I’m on my way to meet buyers in Me-hico.”

  “You mean drug dealers.”

  “I mean pe’ple with money. Who give a shit how they make thei’ money? They gonna get thei’ weapons somewhere, might as well be me.”

  “That’s dangerous shit, Rodriguez. It’s a federal crime.”

  “Is foo’proof. My guy, Durham, he’s on the inside. He’s a goddamn or’nance officer at Abe’deen P’oving Ground, for God’s sake. We can’t get caught.”

  “That’s what Oliver North said,” Preston snapped back.

  Rodriguez
put the gun back into the bag, covertly looking around to make sure no one was looking at them. There was no one.

  “I could use the esstra muscle, yust for p’otection. A few days work, nothin’ dangerous, and chu cut is one hunerd thousand.”

  Preston allowed himself to dream for an instant. One hundred thousand, what a pretty number.

  He’d be able to do so much with that money. His truck needed engine work and new tires. He could move to, well, a better trailer. But no, it wasn’t worth the hassle. It wasn’t worth doing a favor for someone.

  “That life is behind me, amigo. You can stay at my place for a few days but forget about me for this job.”

  He amicably tapped his friend on the shoulder and walked away. He would take the bus home, it was better not to owe anything to anyone. It was his private motto.

  Chapter 4

  The April sun was harsh in Southern California. When it wasn’t sparking up a brush fire it was making open-air labor difficult for those who didn’t have a choice. Preston didn’t mind.

  He’d been working outdoors ever since he had joined the military at 18 and he’d never looked back. He wondered how accountants and computer programmers could manage being cooped up in an office for eight hours a day.

  His forehead covered with rivulets of sweat, he removed his light blue camp shirt and used it to sponge off his face. This left him wearing a simple white A-shirt over blue jeans.

  It wasn’t exactly formalwear but the four other members of his crew were attired in similar fashion. He’d been the last holdout. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t like he was working as a maître d’ or anything.

  He tossed away his shirt and returned to work. At the moment, he was unloading a flatbed of rolled up sod. It was backbreaking work and, again, Preston didn’t mind. In any other crew, they would have had to draw straws for that chore or even have the foreman lay down the law. Here, everybody was glad Preston volunteered.

  Bel Air had once been the pinnacle of the so-called Platinum Triangle, the high-end community of West Los Angeles. It had then declined in popularity in favor of Holmby Hills and the trendier Beverly Hills. Now it was back in fashion thanks to movie stars seeking privacy.

  Most houses in Bel Air were built in the hills along winding roads and couldn’t be seen from the street. The city didn’t even have sidewalks in order to limit the flow of pedestrians, another privacy measure appreciated by the locals.

  Preston and his landscaping crew had been hired by a homeowner living at the top of the hill. This meant the lot was smaller, the house more modest, and it was somewhat less private. Preston chuckled at his assessment. He had completely forgotten the 11th Commandment: He who lives in a trailer park shall not judge.

  Two of his coworkers were digging holes for new mountain fishtail palm trees while another two were digging trenches for the irrigation system. They’d have time to install it before he’d finished unloading the new grass. The work was monotonous and it gave him time to think, which he wasn’t sure was a good idea.

  What if he had made the wrong choice?

  His father had once told him to always open the door when opportunity knocked because you never knew what the future had in store for you. The visit from Rodriguez had represented an opportunity. Sure, it was almost certainly illegal but didn’t they say that all great fortunes had begun with a great crime?

  Besides, he wasn’t craving a great fortune, he never had. What he wanted more than anything was to put his life back on track. The one thing he had loved above everything else had been taken away from him because of a tiny mistake.

  One little fucking mistake.

  That’s what you got for doing favors for people. Whoever had said that no good deed goes unpunished should have gotten a Nobel Prize or something.

  The Army had been his home and he’d been evicted like a deadbeat bum because of one little mistake, something that had been played out in less than five minutes. He didn’t have any remorse, nor should he, but the feeling of regret couldn’t be escaped.

  He took a deep breath and heaved a large roll of turf on his well-defined shoulders. He allowed his eyes to appreciate the scenery as a way to clear his mind. That’s when he saw a black BMW parked on the curb about 50 yards down the street. The windows were tinted and he didn’t think much of it. This was Bel Air after all.

  What he couldn’t possibly have known was that in this car was a stocky balding man who looked serious enough for an entire debate team. The man was on a mission.

  He had binoculars at eye-level and he was observing Preston. He lowered the Bushnell field glasses, looked at his flashy watch, and jotted down something in a leather-bound notebook.

  Chapter 5

  Preston and the guys had been sent home early because they had to come back later in the evening to complete the irrigation system and water the new grass, their regular plumber having been delayed.

  It didn’t make much of a difference. By the time Preston got home the sun was setting and the entirety of Tujunga Sunset Estates—a presumptuous name for a trailer park, in Preston’s opinion—was bathed in an orange glow. At least the place lived up to its name.

  Even though the sun was declining rapidly, this was the moment where it was the hottest in the trailer. All the windows were open and the ceiling fan was on the highest setting. It had no effect whatsoever. Preston made a decision on the spot to buy a table fan on his way to work tonight.

  Now he was in the kitchen where he was getting ready to start dinner. For a few hours he had felt like fried baloney along with frozen tater tots, but this stifling weather put a damper on things. There was no way he would risk turning on the oven. He decided instead on a baloney sandwich and potato chips.

  Just as he was spreading mustard on the bread, tires could be heard on gravel. Instinctively, Preston craned his neck and looked outside the nearest window. A black car was coming to a halt right in front of his home. Peering closer, he made the car as a black BMW.

  Exactly like the one he had seen at work today.

  He wiped his hands on a paper towel, grabbed a nearby clean T-shirt he had laid out for tonight’s work, and stepped out of the trailer as he put it on. He wasn’t used to having visitors and particularly didn’t really care for them either. Two visitors in two days was pushing his limit.

  The balding guy who had observed the young man this afternoon leisurely stepped out of his BMW, taking a look around the premises. Preston, leaning against the doorframe of his home, sized up the visitor. His eyes darted to the license plate. It read BROWN911.

  “So, what’s your vice?” the man asked with a sleazy smile.

  Preston frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “Your vice, what is it? Poker, the ponies, the bottle? You like to chase the dragon, or chase the skirts maybe?”

  The stocky man wore a classy, well-cut suit, Preston had to give him that, but the way he strolled from the car to the front door was strangely annoying in its arrogance.

  “Actually, I like to strangle noisy lawyers, Mr. Brown. Wanna see my collection?”

  Brown grew uneasy and smiled nervously. “How do you know my name? How do you know I’m a lawyer?”

  “The name is easy,” Preston explained, pointing to the vanity license plate. “As for you being a lawyer, it was just a guess. Thanks for confirming it.”

  “Nice trick, well done.”

  He got closer to the front door still.

  “It’s a little hot to play charades out here and I have to be back to work soon. Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

  To the best of his knowledge, there was no reason to be visited by a lawyer. His divorce had been finalized over a year ago and he hadn’t done anything to get sued.

  Brown was back in control of the situation as the man with the answers and he relished this position.

  “It’s just that it’s a little puzzling to see you living in these conditions. You spent two years as a military contractor in Iraq. I would have expected
your living conditions to be better than this.”

  “So I’m a terrible investor,” Preston snapped. “Could we get on with it? You’re cutting into precious baloney sandwich time.”

  “Could we go inside to discuss this?”

  It was breezier outside and inviting him would signal to this lawyer that he was interested in what he had to say. Although watching him sweat in the tiny trailer would be the highlight of his day, Preston mused. In the end, he decided he didn’t have time for pleasantries.

  “No, let’s do this here.”

  “All right, no problem,” Brown replied in a way that clearly indicated there was indeed a problem. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

  “I already have one.”

  “What I have in mind is right up your alley. A mercenary job.”

  “I’m retired from that line of work,” Preston declared as he glanced at his watch and looked inside the trailer to signal his impatience, as if he was checking up on something on the stove.

  “The money involved would be substantial, I assure you.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  What was with all these people trying to employ him? Couldn’t they just leave him alone? As he turned around to go back inside, hoping the lawyer would get the message, a tall man rounded the BMW, smiling warmly at Preston.

  The man’s head was clean shaven and his face had its fair share of wrinkles though few of them could be attributed to age. They were wrinkles of stress and years spent outdoors. He was close to 60 and his attire of Arnold Palmer golf wear reflected his maturity.

  Preston recognized him immediately. His name was Embry. The young man stopped in his tracks and hated himself for not following through. Closing the door would have turned away his visitors and put an end to this whole employment business.

  And he hated what he recognized as a perfect flanking maneuver on Embry’s part. The old man had waited until Brown was losing his verbal pitch to appear.

  “Everybody’s interested in that kind of money, Mr. McSweeney.”