“One?”
“Yeah. You still give a fuckin’ shit what other people think.” He drained the entire beer in four big swallows and set the can on the counter with a burp. Sweeping the towels up under his arm, he said, “Good luck tomorrow.”
A moment later the garage door banged. She couldn’t see how they were the same at all. God, she hoped not. Dara smirked at the thought of accepting insight from Johnny Cruz in the first place.
“Want to watch the late shows tonight?” Luke asked when she returned to the living room.
“No, we should get ready for bed,” said Maribel. “Dara needs her rest for tomorrow.”
“Guess you’re right.”
The women got into their nightgowns, and Luke stripped to his boxer shorts. Maribel slept in the center of their California King, between Luke and Dara, but depending on who got up in the night to go to the bathroom, the arrangement would shift. Luke was the first to fall asleep, then Maribel. The only real snorer was Dara, so it was always a good thing when she nodded off last. Sometimes she’d go to the computer and play a few campaigns online after they drifted off—they’d be in a deeper sleep when she returned, and the snoring wouldn’t be an issue.
Tonight she wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. While she was excited and terrified about the interview, that strange song wormed around her brain, looking for a way out. A fretful question fused with its insistent, broken rhythm: what if I’m late tomorrow?
She told herself to stop worrying and thought instead about what she’d set out to wear. Her black blouse showed a little cleavage, and she was starting to reconsider. Nothing else fit right, though. Her clothes were too baggy and old, all pre-surgery Dara. She just hadn’t had a reason in the last couple of years to buy anything new, because she didn’t care to go out to fancy restaurants or night clubs. That was more Luke and Maribel. The damn blouse was what Dara wore when they dragged her to those kinds of places.
For a few moments she mulled over other outfits but systematically disqualified them.
Just wear the damn blouse. Don’t over-think this.
She just had the jitters. She was ready. She had prepared and prepared. In the morning, she would get up, get as pretty as she could possibly get, eat a micro-bowl of cereal, and then head out early, because one of the interviewers liked punctuality. Another liked visuals, so she’d printed some distribution graphs and public outreach spreadsheets, which highlighted her knowledge of office-based programs. Maribel had helped her with those and had created a fairly info-fluffy résumé. It was all there. It was more than enough to qualify her for an entry-level public relations position. She had memorized all the correct answers, and, barring any stammers or nervousness, the only thing that could mess this up would be the people on the other side of the table.
Dara really hoped she got this job. She wanted to show Luke she could do this. Over the past year she’d felt more worthless than she could ever remember. Luke and Maribel were good at what they did, but Dara had never found a career path. The height of her experience in the work place was as an assistant manager in the fragrances at Macy’s. She’d been considered to manage her own department briefly, before the company eliminated several positions, and she refused to take a pay cut. Commissioned retail wasn’t for her, anyway. She wasn’t pretty or smart enough to drag in a bunch of sales.
Time worried her more than anything. She wasn’t getting any younger, and her marriage with Luke and Maribel wouldn’t keep working if they grew in success and she continued to wither in failure.
Her mind wandered for an hour. Her eyelids dipped once or twice. She was starting to let sleep take her, but the stir of butterflies in her stomach got her pulse racing again. She needed a sedative, or a good stiff drink. There wasn’t any booze in the house, though. Maribel and Luke were so out of it, Dara imagined slipping out to Shasta’s for a quick rum and coke. Oh, but Johnny is there right now. So much for that fantasy.
You thought about going to the bar, though—maybe he was right, maybe you are alike.
As much as Dara tried to change the tangent of her thoughts, they remained on Johnny Cruz, sitting in that dive bar, alone. It was the last thing on her mind before the song came. The memory returned, not in pieces, but all at once, heavy and imposing, the bottom of every crevice in her consciousness surging up in harmony. She thought the violence of its presence would wake her up, but her eyes shut and she drifted off.
And all the while she slept, it reached out its shadow-dripping claws to the waking world. Normal dreams would not come to her in the presence of something so dominant. It metastasized with a promise to wake her when it was potent enough. On and on, it spread. A solved puzzle inside a lock-box. A death mask draped over the world. Crazed sanity in the drooling mouth of reason.
The strident song echoed through the colonnades of her mind.
Chapter 7
In this life and in any other, Johnny had just one simple wish.
Succeed. Just finish one damn thing he could look back on and say yeah, I did that and I did it the best way it could be done. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered to still care, seeing that he had burned every major bridge in his life.
The biggest bridge still seemed ablaze, slow roasted for his displeasure. His son from his second marriage, Beltran, was living in Arizona with his step-father, Charles Reinhardt. He was calling this guy “dad,” a man who’d been a stranger just a few years ago. But it wasn’t as though Johnny hadn’t had another crack at fatherhood. Fate gave him another chance. After a stroke and series of unexpected heart attacks brought on by chronically mismanaged diabetes, Beltran’s mother, Lisa, slipped into a coma and passed away. A month later, Charles put Beltran on a plane to California to live with Johnny.
A weird feeling tugged at Johnny and a shiver ran through his bones. He shook it off and took a sip of beer. There was nothing to be ashamed of. He and his son both gave it their best shot.
Only lasted six weeks.
When it got really tough for them, the Rhodeses had suggested that they watch over Beltran while Johnny got his shit together; they’d be sort of like godparents with more authority. Beltran loved all three of them, so it’d seemed perfect at the time.
But when exactly would Johnny get his shit together? That was the problem they didn’t want to see, but one that Johnny picked up on right away. Alberto “Johnny” Cruz would never rise above his own bullshit. He’d still be in Beltran’s life, and being nearby, with unlimited access, was dangerous.
Like the afternoon he promised to take Beltran to the drive-in, but had a few too many Coronas after lunch and ended up napping until ten. When he woke and went out into the living room, his son, only five at the time, sat on the couch watching an infomercial about bread-making machines.
Can I go back to my real dad now?
It’d felt like Johnny had been smacked with glove full of rocks. Charles isn’t your real dad. You’re no Reinhardt. Look in the mirror, mijo. You’re a Cruz through and through.
What about Maribel’s house then? I don’t like it in this house.
No, you just don’t like me, Johnny told him.
Beltran bowed his head and said nothing.
Mama’s gone. I’m all you got now. We’re family.
Can we just go see my dad? Please?
Look you little bastard. We’re going to the movies! Now get out of those pajamas and put on some real clothes.
They went to the drive-in theater in Rubidoux. The last movie showing was some shoot-em-up cop flick. Beltran fell asleep right after the opening car chase. Johnny watched the movie but didn’t really pay attention to it. He just kept flogging himself inside. What kind of a fucking asshole calls his son a bastard? The little boy just lost his mother and you can’t handle it like a man. He doesn’t deserve this. You’re going to keep hurting him like this.
Lisa shouldn’t have been the one to go.
Johnny remembered Beltran looking through the back window of Charles Reinhart’s ca
r, the love of his father melting in his eyes. That was the moment—Johnny should have taken note—the moment he still had Beltran. But he let him go…
No, fuck that, I made the right choice.
Johnny wiped the mist out of his eyes. He’d only left the Rhodes house about half an hour ago, but he was already pretty drunk and getting emotional on top of it. Better calm the hell down. Focus on the matter at hand.
And it was good timing for that. Lou Parcette had just walked into the Shasta Bar and Grille. It wasn’t safe meeting at Lou’s seedy little pawn shop in downtown Riverside, so Johnny had called him here. Getting involved with a guy like Lou wasn’t a great idea, but something had to give after what happened at the plant. He’d be damned if he was going to work for Grover Franklin even one minute, though. Better to take his chances now with Lou, if this was going to happen.
Lou hadn’t changed. He still had the posture and featheriness of a scarecrow left out in a field for a hundred years. Although the man went through sports cars like underwear, he normally wore a wife beater and a pair of khaki slacks. Tonight was no exception. He sat down and shook Johnny’s hand. His was wet and cold, and Johnny almost said something snarky but shut up for once.
Glancing at the bar and raising his eyebrows, Lou beckoned the waitress. She came over, and he ordered an Irish car bomb. Johnny noticed that the man’s complexion had worsened over the years. The acne on his cheeks and jaw not only looked hideous but also painful.
“I got a lot to do tonight,” said Lou, leaning his head against his thumb. “So what’s up, four-eyes?”
“The price of copper.”
“You said you had a family and didn’t want in.”
“Well that’s changed, okay?”
Lou’s eyes thinned, seeming to humor him. “Okay, okay. Let’s keep this quick big guy.”
Johnny took a quick sip of his Tecate, and said, “So, I figure we take like five devices and meters, one double check, and one construction meter, and that’s like what, five thousand per site?”
Lou’s close set eyes narrowed. “Are you joking? You didn’t think I’d let you…oh I can see you’re not joking.” Lou glanced at the ceiling and shut his pale eyelids. “You simple motherfucker.”
“Calm down there, Lou.”
“You think I’d allow some three-hundred-pound jerk to go copper farming in this city? With my name tied to him? It’s disrespectful for you to even think I’m that stupid.”
“I did it before.”
“Times are different now.”
“Well, let’s start over.”
“No, let’s keep going,” said Lou. The waitress set down his cloudy white drink, and he pushed it aside. “This isn’t a silly little game for extra pennies. You have to be fast on your feet to strip devices now. The cities are losing money, and they’re more likely to pounce now when their copper fittings end up gone. You’re bound to get on camera at some point. Police don’t usually move on it because there’s nothing for them to go on, but you’re unmistakable—”
“Sure, there are no other fat guys in the world.”
“Even if you had a head-start, most coronaries in a rent-a-cop outfit could catch your blubbery ass—”
“Okay then, your point is friggin’ taken. I’m confused, though. Why even meet me about this?”
Lou cocked his head and stuck his bony chest out. “If I’ve got your attention and respect now, let me lay this down, and don’t interrupt me again.”
Johnny lifted his hands, palms up.
“I know a place…it’s, well, it’s a storage yard for someone else’s take—this city, Corona, San Bernardino, Upland, Cucamonga. These guys are everywhere, and they take their time with exchanges, so there’s probably over a million in value crated in their yard. Every other Thursday they pack a trailer to drive out at night. They don’t show up until the afternoon. My buddy has a truck—”
“Hold the fuck up! I’m not as simple as that.”
Lou shook his head and frowned. “If you interrupt me again...“
“Well, explain it to me, shithead.”
“You’re lucky I need some help. First of all, let me come out right now and say you’re not getting any copper on that trailer.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“But if you get me and Jimmy into the yard, help us hook up the truck…shit, while we’re in there you can take as many crates as you want.”
“I only got my bike. Sold my truck a year ago.”
“Rent something then and load that shit up.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Johnny took a breath. “When?”
Lou took a long, thoughtful sip of his car bomb and then wiped some cream off his thin lower lip. “I’m out to Vegas in a few days, so let’s do this first thing tomorrow morning. Best shot is around six sharp. Bring your U-Haul or whatever and show up with your best tool box, too.” Lou took out his smart phone and began typing on the touch screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting you the address. You’ll get inside and take down the control box for the cameras that face the driveway. Go around to the field, north of the facility. We figured out they only have dummy cameras back there. Jimmy already cut the fence open—even you can wiggle through it.”
“Thanks.”
“They haven’t noticed the opening in the fence either—that was kind of a little test we set up. These guys are too busy making money to notice much, but all the same, you should probably bring a piece with you.”
Johnny shrugged. “No problem.”
Hell fucking no, I’m not bringing a gun.
Suddenly Johnny’s leg vibrated. Lou’s text message had come in.
“Got it?” Lou asked.
Johnny took his cell out, checked the screen, and repeated the address.
“That’s it.”
Lou killed his drink, stood, and knocked on the table. Shadows tumbled across his face, like brawling tigers ripping each other apart. Johnny rubbed his eyes and winced. The strange feeling from before returned.
A loud whisper rattled through Johnny’s ear: Dara
“Excuse me?” he said.
Lou lifted an eyebrow. “I said delete that text when you can.”
“Oh… yeah.” Johnny put his phone away.
“What happened to your wife and son?” The man must have felt the need to end on a different note, a sentiment Johnny didn’t quite share.
“They’re free now,” he replied lowly.
Lou snorted and knocked on the table again, before heading for the exit. “Six o’clock. Don’t stay out drinking.”
I guess I have to buy the bastard’s drink too? Goddamn it.
Six o’clock in the morning would be rough at this rate. Johnny flagged down the skinny-minny waitress for a menu. Needed some food to soak up all the poison. She was bent over another table, talking to a woman with curly red hair and a squat man who seemed in perpetual pain. Nodding, nodding, smiling at their inane blather, she spotted Johnny, and he imagined she might have been happy for a release from the conversation.
“Can I have a menu?”
She pulled one out from behind the napkin dispenser right in front of Johnny. “There you are.”
“Oh…what a dumbass.”
“Pardon?”
“Not you, me.”
Her thin claret lips peeled away to reveal some awkward-looking teeth. “So, are you going to have another twenty-four ounce of Time?”
Johnny blinked.
“Tecate?” she repeated. “You want another?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.”
“Do you know what you’re ordering to eat yet?”
“Can I have a minute?”
“Just let me know. There’s no rush.”
Johnny already had the chicken nachos in mind. Extra jalapenos, extra sour cream. He reviewed the menu a few times to be sure that was what he really wanted. Now and then he’d look up at the vague figures lined up on the bar stools. It looked like everybody was
drinking. Some drinks boiled white in the neon glow of the beer brands suspended in the vacuous space above, others appeared muddy and red, curdled almost. The sight of the beverages made him queasy, and Johnny pledged to not order another drink after this next one—he wasn’t even buzzed, but he’d been throwing them back at a considerable velocity lately and getting shit for sleep and all-day hangovers as a result.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the remaining inch of Tecate in his mug had the same bright, white glare as some of the drinks at the bar. He pinched his eyes together. It was hot in this joint. All the money they made on crap beer, you’d think they’d spring for better climate control.
Johnny swept up his mug, now warm, and finished his drink. It crackled and sparked against his lips, more like electrified soda pop than lager. A strange sensation pulled at him, but he decided it wasn’t from the drink—this sensation had been growing, strongly, since just about midway through his conversation with Lou. A familiar song banged in the unfathomable depths of his mind, the melody also playing from farther away. Like a storm, lightning rich clouds slowly expanded and sought a conductor. Johnny recognized that, somehow, the storm wasn’t originating from him. Not yet anyway.
Dara Rhodes. This nightmare’s for her. Her mind sleeps now, but when she fully awakes, IT will too.
In the back of the bar, in a brown leather booth, sat five tribesmen, spears and all. Nobody questioned their presence. The waitress even asked the large-muscled warrior at the end of the booth if he wanted to order something. He didn’t answer, and she left. He and the other four stared at Johnny Cruz with dreadful interest. Their maroon eyes were the same color as the drinks at the bar, and the bone piercings through their noses, necks, and biceps appeared ethereal purple from an ultra-violet Jagermeister sign.
“How…,” Johnny began to say, then thought his question. How do you know Dara?
The Bone Men glanced away now.
A sound on the table made Johnny jump. The waitress delivered his next beer. She crinkled her nose, “Sorry. Deep in thought?”
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