by Marc Laidlaw
“She says she’s not going. Her own job and all. But she will. She’s already giving in . . .”
“You’re really going to stop writing your book?”
“My book? It doesn’t mean anything now. It was my escape from this place. I’ll have to find something else for Texas.”
“What if—what if I did drawings for it? We always wanted to do a collaboration. How about that?”
Scott actually smiled for a moment. “Oh . . . okay . . . yeah. That would be great. I’ll leave you the story and you can go ahead and start.”
They heard a desperate bleating from one side of the garage. Scott’s only window was draped with a thick beach towel. He pulled it away as if drawing the curtain on a small, hot stage.
The window was level with a scruffy patch of dirt yard scattered with Walter’s collection of junk: auto parts, a cast-iron wood stove with no door, and a pyramid made out of two-by-fours and plastic sheeting, inside of which a heap of metal scrap was turning orange. The pyramid’s metaphysical properties (Walter claimed it could sharpen razor blades and garbage disposal units) apparently could not stop the advance of simple rust. Chickens pecked at the burr-clover.
In a far corner of the yard, raising dust, Walter was wrestling with the goat he’d bought a few months ago. A coil of rope was slung over his shoulder. They watched him drag the goat over to the bushy lemon tree whose branches shaded the whole yard, and without which it would have been unbearably bleak. He pressed the animal to the trunk, pinning it in place with the weight of his body. Walter looked grim and determined; teeth bared, he was talking to the goat—or to himself—in a growling voice. He knelt to tie the goat’s hind legs together, cinching them tight.
“What’s he doing?” Mike asked.
“Lightening the load.”
Walter slung the free end of the rope over the lowest, thickest limb of the lemon tree and yanked hard. The goat swung upside down into the air, screaming like a child. Walter tied the rope to the trunk, and then moved between the goat and the window, reaching for his belt. Mike went cold when he saw Walter unsheathe his hunting knife.
What Walter did next, his body hid from view; all he knew for sure was that the goat stopped screaming even as he wanted to start. Walter jumped back so he wouldn’t get sprayed, and Mike found himself staring at the goat, hanging limp, its jaws drenched in blood that poured out and pooled in the dirt. Walter turned toward the window, blood in his beard, and came rushing at them. Mike let out a yell, but Walter was only chasing a chicken. He snatched it up and turned away, busy with the knife.
Mike backed up and sat on Scott’s bed, numb, dizzy and cold. He closed his eyes and let the grayness close over him. It felt like a familiar friend.
When he came back to himself, Scott was shoving magazines in his face. Slick ones, with an odd musty smell. The pictures flashing from the pages made Mike come suddenly awake.
“Here,” Scott said. “I’m bequeathing these to you.”
It was hardcore pornography, some Danish magazines Scott had been hoarding.
“Wh-what?”
“Go on. I can always swipe more from Walter. It’s a crime you don’t have any decent stroke-books.”
Mike blushed, staggering to his feet and pushing them away. “Get out of here.”
“Go on, take ’em.”
“No, I don’t want—”
“Sure you do.” Scott shoved them into his hands.
At that moment, someone pounded on the door. Walter shouted, “Scott!”
Heart pounding, Mike jumped up to hide the magazines in his backpack.
“What do you want?” Scott said sourly, a challenge in his voice.
“Open this fuckin’ door before I kick it down.”
“Go ahead,” Scott said under his breath, but he crossed the room slowly all the same. He unlatched the door, leaving Walter the work of opening it.
Walter was even taller than Scott, so he didn’t bother entering the room. Bent, he peered in at them, grinning when he saw Mike.
“James the man. Helping out the Scooter-Pie?”
“A little,” Mike said. Walter was scariest in his jolly moods.
“Far out. Work up an appetite and stay for dinner. Think we’re gonna barbecue tonight. Have us a bon voyage party.”
“That sounds good,” Mike ventured.
“You bet it is. Ever eat goat before?”
Mike glanced out the window. The goat still swung from the lemon tree. Flies were circling.
“I—I don’t know if I can stay,” he said. “My mom, ah . . .”
“Suit yourself,” Walter said and walked off chuckling. “Scott, I’m gonna need a hand butchering this baby, so when you two are through . . . ”
“I’m going to do him like that goat,” Scott whispered, kicking the door shut again. “There’s lots of places to hide a body in Texas.”
It struck Mike then with terrible finality that Scott was really leaving, and nothing the two of them did, no harebrained plot they hatched, was going to change a thing. As long as Scott was a minor, Walter controlled his fate. Scott, his best friend, whom he’d assumed he would know for the rest of his life—or at least throughout high school—was leaving. He was practically gone.
“I’ll kill him if it’s the last thing I do,” Scott swore.
Three days later, he was gone.
13
The windows of Raymond’s Porsche were tinted so dark that Lupe could almost convince himself it was evening rather than noon, but the illusion was spoiled by exhausted tourists shambling past in swimtrunks and sandals, looking beaten by the sun. Their children slouched by, dragging plastic sand shovels. The spear-point eucalyptus leaves along the avenue dangled straight down without stirring. He kept the air conditioner turned all the way up.
Finally the door of Bohemia Travel, Raymond’s agency, flew open. Raymond came grinning toward the car, tipping up his sunshades to peer in at Lupe. He carried piles of bright brochures.
Lupe leaned over to unlock the driver’s door.
“Aloha!” Raymond said, slipping in.
He dropped the brochures in Lupe’s lap, letting his hand rest on Lupe’s thigh a moment before drawing it slowly away.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a week’s vacation—let alone a month? You’d think a travel agent would get away more often. But the place doesn’t run itself. I hope I can forget about it long enough to relax.”
Lupe leafed through the pamphlets, repelled by photographs of leafy green tropical forests, exploding volcanoes, snowy mountain peaks, sunny beaches. He’d had all he could stand of beaches and sunshine. Bohemia Bay was bad enough. If he’d thought they might actually make it to Hawaii, he would have been itchy with dread.
“The condo reservations are all squared away, everything’s set. Are you as excited as I am?” After a moment, Raymond looked over and caught Lupe gazing at the sidewalk where a tall tan boy was striding past, swim fins hooked on a finger. “Rico?”
Lupe nodded slightly.
“Rico . . . what’s wrong now?”
Lupe shrugged. He was thinking of all he had yet to accomplish before their “trip” could begin. He had convinced Raymond to take a whole day packing and setting last-minute things in order so they wouldn’t have to rush for the plane. The flight didn’t leave until tomorrow evening; he had until then to finalize his plans.
“If you’re getting in one of your moods again, let me warn you: Don’t. I won’t put up with them today—they’re inappropriate. We should be celebrating! When I see you like this, I start to doubt everything. I mean, if you’re going to sulk for the whole trip, I’d just as soon stay home and work. At least there I feel useful.”
“I’m not sulking,” Lupe said. “I’m thinking about how much fun we’re going to have.”
“I hate it when you lie to me. And you’re so blatant about it!”
“Don’t tell me you know what I’m thinking, Ray. You’re not a mind reader.”
“I told you, I need time to myself. I need my own space.”
“I leave you alone all day! There’s nothing you have to do, you’ve got a room of your own, and I never bother you even when I am home! I mean Christ, Rico, I give you everything you could need or want. I’d give you so much more if you would only trust me. . . .”
He must have sensed Lupe’s tension winding tighter now. They had been down this path before. If they’d been at home, Lupe would be heading for the door now; as it was, his hand kept straying to the handle.
“Not that I mean to pressure you,” Raymond added quickly. “I have too much respect for you to . . . to impose on you. But I can’t help feeling, sometimes, just the slightest bit, that you’re—you’re using me. I mean, if you only showed a little appreciation once in a while. But instead, with you, it’s just nothing. Nothing!”
The Porsche had pulled into a gas station. Raymond shut off the engine at the pumps. His words were becoming too much to stand: the whining in his voice, his subtle hints of how everything could be better between them if only Lupe would give himself away. For a moment he felt that it wasn’t worth it, that this whole routine was nothing but trouble. He could do without Raymond’s house if he had to. He had no intention of initiating the man, bringing him into the gang. His death would therefore be needless, wasteful, and Lupe hated waste. He should get out now, before the luxuries of life with Ray made him totally soft and indecisive.
Go on, he told himself. Do it alone, the hard way, like you always have before. It’s cleaner. Less mess.
He put his hand on the door and opened it.
“Where are you going?”
“This isn’t working out.”
Raymond’s face went white. “No, Rico, wait, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He stretched across the car, grabbing at Lupe’s arm. “Please don’t go. I didn’t mean anything, I didn’t mean it. Just sit down, please. Stay!”
Half out of the car, Lupe hesitated. It was hard to give up everything he’d been constructing for these past few weeks. The security of a house with fully stocked cupboards, conveniently located in the hills. And a stretch of at least one month ahead of him, free and clear, during which he would have the whole place to himself, and no one would come nosing around since everyone knew that Raymond was away . . .
He could give it all up; it was only a plan. Still, he was proud of the situation because, after all, it was his creation. He had invented Rico for Raymond to fall in love with. Rico had coaxed Raymond into planning a month-long Hawaiian retreat for the two of them, hinting that in Hawaii Rico might finally let go of his inhibiting fear and mistrust—might finally give himself to a man who had done so much for him, and received so little in return.
Raymond was desperate to receive his reward. He was utterly in Rico’s power.
Yes, it was hard to let go of that. Very hard.
Yet . . . wasn’t it better alone, living by his own resources, close to the edge of things?
Lupe wondered if he was going to have to pry Raymond’s fingers from his arm. The long nails were digging into his flesh.
Hoping for an omen, some sign of his own mind, he looked up and saw where he was.
It was the same gas station he had visited his first morning in town. There was the phone booth where the Pump Jockey had seen him ripping out a page. And here came another station attendant, dressed just like the Pump Jockey, in the same blue uniform and cap. For an instant he thought it was the Pump Jockey, appearing without warning in the full light of day.
The realization that it was an older man, a living man, did little to calm his racing heart. The thought of the Pump Jockey had already shaken his determination. Things were never completely in control, no matter what he thought. It could all get out of hand if he wasn’t careful.
That was why he should hold on to Raymond’s house and stick to his plans for the month ahead. Nature guaranteed nothing, apart from what he could scavenge for himself. His whole life was proof of that. He needed something to fall back on.
The man came right up to him, stared him in the face. For a cold moment, Lupe thought they recognized each other, though he could not say how. It was a fleeting impression, maddening.
“What can I get you?”
He turned away, stammering, and slid back into the car, pressing himself deep into the leather seat. He pulled the door shut. Raymond looked grateful, as if Lupe had just given him a gift. The attendant went around to the other side, where Raymond was holding a bill out the window. As the man leaned over to ask Raymond what he needed, his eyes reached into the dark interior, glancing again at Lupe. Yes, there was recognition there. Something to be feared. Something unpredictable.
Lupe sank deeper into the seat, knowing he should never have let Raymond talk him out of leaving the house. He shouldn’t be seen in public at all for a while.
It was weak of him, he realized, to hold on so desperately to Raymond’s things. He was becoming as weak as Raymond; such was the older man’s influence.
Well, it wouldn’t matter after tomorrow. Raymond’s house, without him in it, was no threat. Lupe would rule there, restored to himself, alone except for his boys.
And even if the man in the blue uniform had recognized him, what could he possibly do?
***
Hawk and Alec sat in the cramped space of the trailer, in stifling afternoon heat that drew the smell of gasoline out of Alec’s stained blue uniform. The sixth can of a sixpack stood on the Formica table between them. It sat unopened, and Hawk kept staring at it, waiting for Alec to make his move. Alec had drained the other five himself. Somehow Hawk’s restraint seemed to trouble him, since he couldn’t convince Hawk to drink. Hawk was not even tempted. Alec’s cigarette, though . . . He had quit a year ago, but they were always a temptation. Especially when the trailer was chokingly full of the smoke, and there seemed nothing left to say. It would have been easy to occupy his mouth with a cigarette, reverting to idle chatter. But he had asked Alec to stop spouting and wait, asked him to hold it and keep the picture fresh in his mind while they waited for their guest. They had been waiting for almost an hour. It was nearly dusk, but sometimes the trailer stayed hot until late at night. The sea breezes didn’t seem to cool this year.
At last Hawk heard a car pulling into the lot. It could have been anyone—people were dropping in on him all the time—but he got up and swung open the door, and it was Randy all right. He got out of his pickup truck and stood looking at the trailer. He wore a Stetson, blue jeans, polished Western boots, and a red bandanna around his neck.
When he saw Hawk, Randy came loping forward, his hand out. “Hawk,” he said. His smile was a bit suspicious, but he had no real reason to doubt Hawk. Nothing had ever gone bad between them; Randy had simply moved on.
Hawk shook his hand and led him into the trailer. When Randy saw Alec, he hesitated on the threshold.
“Saved this one for you,” Alec said generously, lifting the final can.
“Uh, no—no thanks.” Randy stepped inside and pulled the door shut. His Stetson bumped the ceding. He took it off, casting Hawk a quizzical glance.
“Have a seat, Randy,” Hawk said. “How’ve you been?”
Randy looked at the choice of seats. Apart from the unoccupied bench opposite Alec, there were two unmade beds at opposite ends of the trailer; one was Hawk’s, the other Stoner’s “temporary” heap on the couch. Randy leaned against the wall instead.
“Good enoug
h,” he said.
Hawk nodded. “Listen, I called you—well, I had a feeling I should talk to you instead of Sal.”
“What about Sal?” Randy said, moving off the wall, taking a subtly defensive stance.
“It’s just—I think I have better rapport with you. I don’t know how Sal would take this.”
“Take what?” Randy looked at Alec, who flicked a look at Hawk. Hawk nodded for him speak.
“I saw a guy at the station today,” Alec said. His voice was slurred and phlegmy. “A kid, really—sort of Mexican looking, real young but built. Pretty memorable, now that I think of it. But somehow I never remembered him till then.”
Randy looked curious. “Remembered him from when?”
Alec popped the beer for himself, and took a swallow. “The day before Craig Frost, you know . . . ”
Randy apparently saw where this was leading. He moved closer to the table.
“See, I sort of remember Craig and this Mex kid—or somebody who looked damn like him—I remember them getting into a thing that morning.”
“What kind of thing?”
“I’m not sure. The kid was over by the phone booth. I think maybe he ripped a page out of it; Craig never said. He’d gone over to scare him off, maybe hassle him a little. No big deal at the time. But it bothered me when I saw this kid all of a sudden today. Like, what was he still doing around? I only saw him right around the time Craig died. Thing is, I sort of remember him going to the beach that morning, down by the storm drain. . . . It’s kind of unclear. But I told Hawk I’d tell him if I thought of anything, you know, that bothered me. And the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I might have seen that kid the next day, like on the morning Craig died. On the beach or the boardwalk or somewhere, maybe just out the corner of my eye, like that. I’m sorry it’s so confused.”
It had been less confused a sixpack earlier, Hawk thought irritably. Alec had been sure of it then.
“And . . . so . . . what does this have to do with me? Or with Sal?”