He’d spend an hour flying on one of those eight-seater planes, and then grab a commercial flight from Seattle to L.A. He purposely hadn’t shaved in a week. With a ball-cap, his reading glasses, and his graying stubbly beard, he didn’t look much like Alec Baldwin, movie star morphing into character actor. He looked more like, well, a construction worker. He could live with that. Usually in an airport people were racing too quickly from place to place to recognize him, unless they were the most psychotic of fans.
Baldwin pulled the Jeep up in front of the terminal, left it running. He hopped out, did a quick pat down. His keys and wallet were in place, his cell phone in his jacket pocket. Hanner climbed out as well, went to the back of the Jeep and hauled out the travel bag. “Call me with your arrival time.”
“I will,” Alec told him, taking the gym bag. “We’ll eat at the Stock House when we get back.” His daughter, much like both her parents, had her own mind. She was a carnivore in spite of them, and the Stock House was a favorite steakhouse of both Hanner and Addie. Had a good salad bar, too, and made the best apple pie Alec had ever tasted. It would be a great time.
Hanner settled himself in the Jeep, adjusting the mirrors and seat. “See you soon, Boss,” he said, leaning out and shaking Alec’s hand.
“You, too,” Alec said, watching him drive off.
Check-in was fast. Brenda Freshwater, who also worked at the library, was behind the counter and she quickly verified his ticket and the takeoff time. “You can take your luggage right out to the plane, Mr. Baldwin.” She smiled, and pointed out at a Beechcraft 1900 with its forward door open. Alec thanked her, and walked down a short hallway to the tarmac.
He knew if he had his own plane, he’d get in and out of here faster. A lot of actors owned them, but Alec didn’t think he’d have the time, or the patience, to really master flight. So, he was a little inconvenienced by the need to work around the schedules up here. Big deal. People not in the industry had to do that every day. His face had been on screens across the world, but even so Alec knew he was nothing special. He was lucky. He’d found something he loved to do, and he was paid staggeringly well for it. He was grateful, not just for the money, but for the ability to recognize his ridiculous good fortune. He had become rich by pretending. Rich for playing. You couldn’t beat that, but he also knew if you gave a jerk a lot of money, you usually ended up with a jerk in better clothes.
Out on the ramp, it was warmer than at the ranch. Heat shimmied up off the concrete. Alec leaned inside the plane, casually tossed his gym bag into the rear cargo area. Didn’t look like anyone else was flying this trip. That was good, he could stretch out in one of the seats. He had a hard-used paperback in his back pocket, a biography of Franklin Roosevelt he’d picked up from the library for twenty-five cents. Something about the old boy had begun to fascinate Baldwin. It was still cool inside the plane. Baldwin climbed inside, wriggled into a comfortable position, and immersed himself in Roosevelt’s story.
Alec read about fifteen pages and then checked his watch. Flight time was soon. There ought to be one of the pilots doing a walk-around, checking out the plane before takeoff. Alec swiveled his head, scanning through the window ports. No one.
He held out for another twelve pages. Okay, enough was enough. He was ready to get moving. He left the paperback on the seat, stuck his head out of the airplane’s rear hatch.
There still was no one on the field. He thought he could see figures moving inside the terminal; the sun was shining on the windows and the glare had washed them out a bit. The first flickers of irritation were building up in Alec’s chest as he walked across the asphalt and back into the terminal.
He noticed the noise first. Usually the terminal was a bastion of quiet conversation, the muted noise of luggage wheels on the tile. Now there were running feet, confused voices. And televisions. The TV in the small lounge was blaring. Some men in airport services uniforms were standing in front of the television, staring up at it. One woman was scurrying back and forth, from the bar to the arrival/departure monitors, which, instead of showing times and flights, had been switched to a news station out of Butte, Montana.
Brenda was standing in front of the arrival monitors, holding a cordless phone to her ear, describing what she was seeing. “The news guy, he looks like he’s gonna be sick. He looks so scared…”
Alec touched her arm, and she flinched sideways, like he’d awakened her roughly from a deep sleep. “Brenda, what’s going on?”
There was a long minute as Brenda changed gears. She’d been completely, totally somewhere else, and now she had to return to the terminal and deal with Alec in the very small here and now. “Mr. B,” she finally said, “…they hit Los Angeles. All flights are grounded.”
“What? Who hit what?”
Brenda gestured helplessly at the monitor. There was news footage of smoke and flame, buildings burning. “It was Al Qaeda, I guess.”
It must’ve been the Capitol Records building. Stunned as he was, Alec couldn’t help but thinking what pathetic, clueless punks these guys were. Hit the building because it had so much visual connection with Hollywood and the evil Jews who ran the world. Stupid bastards. “They blew up a building. How many people are hurt?”
Brenda lowered the phone. “Mr. B…they hit the center of the city. People don’t know with what. There’s been an earthquake and all these fires.” She gestured unconsciously at the monitor with the phone. “The news guys say it’s worse than 9/11. Ten, twenty times worse.”
Suddenly, Alec felt a kinship with the woman dashing from the bar to the monitor. He needed to know everything, but the news concentrated on the same shots over and over. Burning building. Pictures of destruction via shaky hand-held camera. But, damn it, there was no perspective. No aerial shots, no context-establishing overview. What was destroyed? How large an area? The yutz on the monitor was doing what all news anchors did in a crisis…working overtime to find new ways to describe the same information. Baldwin took a step toward the lounge, where a couple of delivery guys sat at the bar, their beers untouched as they gaped up at the TV.
“The worst, the very worst attack ever recorded on American soil,” the talking head intoned from above the bar. “Because of the chaos, it’s difficult to get an accurate estimate of the devastation. National Guard units have been put on full alert, in case of invasion from the South.”
National Guard on alert? The border was over a hundred and fifty miles from L.A. “Meanwhile, reports of disturbances are coming in from Chicago and Detroit. We emphasize, these are unconfirmed reports. We have confirmed that all domestic military forces and reserves are being recalled to immediate active duty. We are attempting to reach our affiliate offices in New York City for additional information—”
Alec turned away from the TV. Chicago, New York, Detroit? Jesus God, it was war.
He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone, ripped it loose, checked the signal. One lousy bar. Not good enough. Stabbing the speed dial, he hurried outside.
Kim’s house. “Come on,” he urged as the cell phone silently tried to connect. Then the message, “No service available.”
No. He stabbed another button. Kim’s cell phone. “No service av—”
His agent. “No serv—”
He forced himself to stop jabbing the buttons of the cell phone, and think for a second. Okay, cell service was out in L.A. Regular phone service might still be operating. Kim might call his parents in New York. Moving with rigid concentration, he pressed the 1 key and held it.
“No ser—”
Feeling a wild despair thudding in his chest, he tried each of his brothers in turn, with the same maddening, terrifying inability to connect. Finally, Billy picked up. He was in Florida, Baldwin thought. “Alec, what the hell—” his younger brother shouted, then there was a burst of static and a strange series of beeps Alec had never before heard coming out of his phone.
Baldwin had to resist the urge the hurl the phone across the asphalt. He he
ard a car horn. He looked up. His jeep was parked in front of the terminal. Hanner was standing up in the driver’s seat, looking around. Alec stuffed the cell phone in his pocket and trotted toward the terminal…then, he remembered his bag in the plane. He spun, raced back to the plane, slung the travel bag over his shoulder, and ran to meet Hanner.
The engine on the Jeep was still on, rumbling quietly. “I heard on the radio,” the older man said as Alec threw his bag in the back of the Jeep.
“I can’t reach Kim,” Alec panted, climbing in the passenger seat. “Damn cell phone won’t get through. I don’t know about Addie!”
Hanner dropped the Jeep into gear and pulled away from the uncertainty and confusion of the terminal. “Guess we’ll have to go see for ourselves.”
Alec nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t really believe in praying or psychic powers, now he was hoping, wishing, demanding for both to manifest within him at that moment. A thought was pounding in his brain, and, in spite of himself, he was willing it to be broadcast into the universal consciousness, willing it to reach Kim in time. Get Addie, he willed. Take the Hummer, get out of town, get to the ranch. Baldwin’s hand tightened around the roll bar. The thought quickly reduced itself to its essential element, pounding through his mind: Get Addie and get out. Get Addie and get out.
As Hanner accelerated up the main street, Alec was only vaguely aware of the activity on the street. People gathering in worried knots on the sidewalk, hurrying into stores and shops, looking for confirmation or refutation. Under the crushing weight of his helplessness, his inability to reach his daughter, Baldwin clenched his jaws, afraid the desperate plea radiating to the universe would leak out of him as a scream of rage and frustration and fear.
Lightning, 2008
The Warden replaced the portable phone carefully, slowly. He was glad to see that his hand didn’t tremble. He’d have been disappointed in himself if he’d folded now. Maybe he wasn’t as old as he felt.
He pushed back from his desk, the soft and worn leather seat sighing under his weight. The Warden took his spectacles from the desktop and put them on. He was still in a tee-shirt and an old pair of jeans. The night supervisor had awakened him when the call came from the Governor. The first thing he’d done after that was put the prison into a quiet lockdown, at least until he knew more.
The Warden walked over to the window. The night was just bearable. The coming Arizona day would be another scorcher. He looked down at the prison. He’d always been uncomfortable with the symbolism of his office being so high over the main yard, as if he were some loftier creature, god-like, watching over the lives of the men (and for the last several years, women) entrusted to his care. On the other hand, it made good strategic sense. If under attack, say during a prison riot, it was a good place to make a stand: narrow stairs, one elevator, a building made largely of stone. The lack of easy approaches would slow down an assault, and they couldn’t easily be burned out. He might soon find out just how strategic a location it was.
The lights across the prison flickered, a ripple that started near the back walls and flowed across the entire structure, including his office. The lamps dimmed, and then brightened. Good, the generators had kicked on, as designed. During one summer, five of his elderly prisoners, FIVE, had died during a state-wide power blackout when the generators had failed to light off. The entire prison had slowly baked in the sun until the heat killed the weakest.
The Warden found that unconscionable. The state of Arizona had allocated funds for the maintenance and upkeep of those generators, and by God, they would work. It had taken several firings and more than a little ass-chewing to get the physical plant supervisor to ensure the generators worked. There was a ten-thousand-gallon tank of diesel out there to power them. That much fuel would run the generators for a week at full power. If the prison reduced consumption, he might be able to extend that to a month. He wasn’t sure how long he would have, or if he would even need it.
He rubbed his jaw speculatively. He realized he was procrastinating. He knew what he needed to do. He took the phone in hand again. “I need Ms. Porter up here. Get her up…tell her we’ve got some work to do. Make sure she gets a chance to shower and eat, if she wants.” He listened to the strained voice on the other side. “I understand,” he replied softly. “You’ll get to see your family soon.” The Warden lowered the handset. He had to get dressed. There was work to do.
Taneisha was awakened by a light touch to her foot. She heard the familiar voice of Ms. Darcy saying, “Taneisha, wake up, girl.”
Surprised, she sat up. Her cell was still dark. She’d never even heard the door open, which surprised her. She never would have thought she’d be able to sleep in a place like this…an eight by sixteen cell with two bunks, a toilet, a sink, and usually a cellmate. Then again, she’d learned she could do a lot of things she once thought were beyond her ability. She must have been deeply asleep for the cell door to open without her knowledge.
Ms. Darcy, although not tall, was thick and formidable. She held a Maglite with her hand cupped around the lens to narrow the beam. “Get your clothes,” Ms. Darcy told her in a voice seemed to have been willed into calm. “Warden needs your help.”
“What time is it?”
“Keep your voice down,” Ms. Darcy told her. “It’s nearly midnight. You’re going to work. You can shower up in the guard house.”
Taneisha reached out, found her clothes. If it had been any other guard but Ms. Darcy, or any Warden other than Mr. Gutierrez, she would have been apprehensive. There was a time, a few years ago, when a few of the male guards had abused their position. Encounters between those guards and female prisoners could be consensual (if an incarcerated prisoner could truly be said to have the ability to consent), or they could be simply at the guard’s whim. A late-night visit like this might have been the prelude to violations of all kinds.
Taneisha pulled off her sweat pants and slipped into her prison-issue denims. “Carry the rest with you,” Ms. Darcy said, motioning for her to step out of the cell. Taneisha waited in the corridor while Ms. Darcy carefully closed the door, minimizing the noise as best she could. Taneisha listened to the sounds of the sleeping prisoners around her, all of them women. Someone was crying in her sleep. Silently, Ms. Darcy pointed at the painted line. Taneisha shuffled along quietly. She knew the routine, and she knew the way.
Ahead, there was a guard on the stairwell over the corridor. It may have been the night lighting, but the guard’s face looking down at them was strange: all planes and lines, black shadows and dead white. It might’ve been a charcoal drawing. Of the many scary things she’d seen since coming to prison, that guard’s still face and his silence as they passed might have been the most frightening.
Four years earlier, prison became very real to Taneisha when the large blond guard told her to “Bend over, spread ’em, and cough.” Since she was naked in a cell with this armed woman who looked as heartless as a stone, Taneisha did as she was told, her face hot with shame. The blond woman held a plastic bottle.
“Hold out your hand,” she said, bored. Taneisha extended her hand, which the guard promptly filled with cool gooey gel from the plastic bottle.
“Rub it in your hair and then your pubes,” she was ordered. Even as scared as she was, Taneisha noticed the arrangement of the order. Head first, then her pubic area. If she’d come in drunk or high, had fouled herself, and the order had been reversed, she would have taken part in a further humiliation. “It’s delousing gel,” the guard offered, watching her.
“Cooties?” Taneisha asked, that term from her childhood springing to her lips as she massaged the gel into her scalp.
The guard nodded. “Those little beggars would spread through the whole prison. Everybody would be scratching.”
Taneisha turned her head away from the guard and quickly scrubbed the gel through her pubic area. When she was finished, the guard held out a paper towel. “Wipe it away from around your eyes.”
> After wiping the suds from where the gel had trickled down her forehead and over her cheekbones, Taneisha stood quietly, waiting for the next order. A few minutes passed. The guard checked her watch, then motioned to the open shower stall in the back of the room. “You’ve got five minutes to shower.”
The prisoner stepped out of the shower in two minutes, looking for a towel. The guard grunted. “You might want to take those extra three minutes. Rinse your hair real good, otherwise that cootie-goo will really make you itch.” For a moment, a little demon of defiance climbed up into her brain, the same imp that had risen in her ever since the first time her father had taken a bicycle inner tube to her. He’d beaten her until his arm was tired, and he asked, “You had enough, smart girl?” Welts rising like mole tunnels on her back and legs, the ten-year-old girl looked up at him, and that defiant demon had lifted himself into her mouth and said, “No.”
Now the imp was whispering, She ain’t the boss of you. You get out of that shower right now. So, Taneisha stepped forward, leaving the shower behind.
The guard shrugged, handed her a pile of folded clothes. A towel that was so threadbare it was almost transparent was on the top of the pile. After toweling herself off, Taneisha dressed in the issue undergarments and prison blues. Neither the prison top nor the pants fit. The last year or so of her “lifestyle” had run her thin as a rail.
The guard led her to another room, an office. In comparison to the previously dim and slightly damp exam room, this one was bright and dry. A woman sat behind the desk in a nurse’s uniform. The guard told Taneisha to sit down in the chair in front of the desk.
The nurse held a clipboard. She read off questions in a flat voice. “Are you depressed?”
The Big Bang Page 10