by Marc Laidlaw
She scrawled her name at the bottom of the page, tore it off, shoved it at him. Maggie, he read. At least he knew her name now. “You’re sticking around, right?”
“He said to.”
“Give him that when he gets back.”
“Muh—me?”
Maggie swung around on the bench and started pulling on a pair of boots. That done, she reached for her cigarettes, saw the pack was empty, crumpled it with a curse. She got up, bootheels loud on the floor of the trailer, slung a big leather purse over her shoulder, and headed for the door. Mike sat watching her, folding the note nervously.
“Bye,” he said as she stepped out.
She glanced back briefly. “Yeah, right.”
He watched her through the dusty window. She stood at the edge of the lot with her thumb out, hitching east. Within minutes, a car pulled over and let her in. Some surfer-looking guy—definitely not an egghead. Within minutes, he supposed, they’d be pulling over and having sex in the back seat.
Oh fucking well.
Mike opened the note and reread it a few times. Maybe he should rewrite it, he thought. Soften the blow. Make it easier on Hawk. Make it easier on himself, when Hawk read it!
Then he remembered Maggie, her constant bubbling anger, and tried to imagine what she would do to him if she found out. Now, instead of thoughts of seduction (which had dampened considerably since he’d seen her handwriting) he pictured her long red fingernails gouging his eyes out, her smoke-stained teeth biting off his nose.
Leave the note, he thought, smoothing it on the table. Stay out of this. Go home and wait for Hawk to call. Give him time to get over her.
Then he thought about his room, once his sanctuary, and the condition it was in. He remembered the hole in his wall. After that, he couldn’t bring himself to move.
21
Hawk stood at Edgar’s door, the sound of chimes fading inside the house for the third time. He went back down the path to the Jeep, shaking his head.
“No help there, huh?” Dusty said.
“I’ll find it.”
He raced to the end of Shoreview Road, parking where he had the night they stashed the grenades. He gave the bug-flecked chrome crucifix a burnishing swipe with his cuff before jumping the gate. It was too hot to move fast, too dry to talk. Hawk looked for landmarks along the dirt fire road.
Stoner’s goofy grin popped into his mind. “Told the fucker to leave those things alone,” he said suddenly.
“He never said nothing about them to me, Hawk. And it still don’t make sense. The key . . .”
“Nothing makes sense anymore.”
“Well, yeah . . .”
“The only ones who knew about that stash were Stoner, Edgar and me.”
“Edgar was with that kid last night,” Dusty said. “I dropped the two of them at his house around midnight.”
“Edgar’s part of this, I know it. He can’t keep out of trouble.”
“What about that other kid?”
“I’m not sure about him.”
“He’s in the shit, though, that’s for sure. I just can’t see Stoner trashing his place.”
They tramped through cactus and sage and thistles; everything looked brittle and prickly. It was a different land by day. Down in the Greenbelt canyon a creek ran through green meadows dotted with grazing cows, but up here everything was rust-colored, wheat-colored, brown or dead. Foxtails worked their way into his socks, stinging his ankles with every step. He knew he was on the right track when they passed through a thistle field and came out at the top of a slippery sandstone slope. After sliding to the bottom, Hawk slowed to check the base of every bush they passed.
Before long, he found a rope twist covered in dust.
“Here it is.” He knelt and grabbed the rope. In a sigh of dirt, Edgar’s hidden hatch tilted up.
He fell back gagging, caught in a cloud of stench. The hatch banged shut.
He had smelled death before, but never so concentrated. Fresh death, on the road, blood and bowels, hosed away before it dried, so the place would never stink of anything more than burned rubber and spilled fuel. He’d smelled mortuary death, a dusty perfumed pressed-flower odor, no more offensive than a prim old woman dressed for church. But never anything like this, never so hot and rank and carrion, so personal.
The closest thing in his memory was a cow’s carcass, found in the hills in midsummer when he was a boy. He had smelled it from a distance, and never went farther than necessary to take a long, fascinated look at bones and flesh blackened like fly-crusted jerky.
But this. . . this was like falling head-first into the carcass. Like swimming in it.
Dusty knelt in front of him. “Jesus, Hawk . . . did you see?”
He had seen enough before the hatch fell. He didn’t want to think about it.
Dusty left and came back with a long stick of bamboo. Hawk sat cross-legged, letting him work. Dusty hooked the thick, splintered end of the stave into the rope loop, and hauled up on it. The bamboo bent, the hatch groaned open. The second wave of smell was not quite as bad as the first—that would have been impossible. But what he saw now, as the hatch fell open, was worse than he’d imagined from his glimpse.
Stoner’s head—and it had to be Stoner—was black, as if syrup had been poured all over his skull and left to coagulate. Beetles and ants had come to feed. His eyes were . . . boiling. His body was crushed into a corner, as if the stench had shouldered him aside on its way out of the pit.
“Gaaah,” Dusty said, pinching his nose. “Stoner, dude. You poor fucking loser.”
Don’t put it off, Hawk told himself. Do it while you’re still numb. It’ll only get worse.
He got down on his knees and began to crawl slowly toward the hole.
“What’re you doing, man?”
It wasn’t so bad if he looked straight down, avoiding direct sight of Stoner. But why should he humor his weakness? Couldn’t he face death? Wasn’t exactly this confrontation at the core of everything he believed, everything he preached? They would all come to this sooner or later, deserving or not, by means peaceful or violent.
Fuck that, he thought. I’m close enough as it is. I don’t have to look him in the face. That’s not Death there, not some Gothic-lettered symbol. That’s my friend. That’s Stoner. Or it was.
At the edge of the hole, he lowered himself to his belly. Eyes narrowed, he thrust his head over the edge. From inches away, the seethe of insects was deafening; he breathed through his mouth but it really didn’t help. He didn’t want to puke here; it would have been sacrilege, defiling Stoner’s grave. But he might not have a choice.
He pushed himself forward until he nearly lost his balance and toppled in. At that moment, without having to be asked, Dusty clamped his hands around Hawk’s ankles. He wriggled farther over the edge, dangling until he had a view down the dark tunnel into the little chamber.
There was just enough light to see that the little cave was empty. Gouges in the dirt showed where the trunk had been dragged—but that told him nothing.
He tried to climb back up but couldn’t get a grip. “Okay!” he choked. Dusty hauled him out by the ankles.
He scrambled away, gasping for air, and was satisfied to vomit several yards away from the hole. Willpower . . . Stoner’s expression hung in his eyes, so he forced them open, looking down to see his shirtfront covered with dust and stickers. He beat the dust from his chest, started to pull out the foxtails and burrs. It was something to do while the burning in his throat subsided.
“Well?” Dusty said.
“The whole crate’s gone,” Hawk said.
“You sure?”
“You want to look for yourself?”
“Shit,” Dusty said, looking philosophical. He had seen more death, and at closer range, than Hawk had. “I never exactly trusted Stoner with all them grenades, but at least I knew the dude. You gotta wonder what we’re dealing with now.”
Hawk gazed into the pit for a minute. He would have
met Stoner’s eyes for a farewell, if the insects had left him any to meet. In a fury he took hold of the hatch board and flipped it back into place.
“What’re you doing?”
“Burying him.”
Dusty started to say something, then shrugged. “Guess we better, for now. Don’t want to tip off we were here.”
“I don’t want to tip off the police either. I want that fucker for myself.”
“You think it’s the same one who killed Craig?”
Hawk just stared at him. He got to his feet and started kicking dirt over the board to cover it again. The smell pervaded everything, but that might have been because it had saturated every cell in his nose. He knew he would smell it forever. Olfactory nerves went straight to the brain; they would make sure he never forgot what had become of Stoner. What became of them all.
“I want to say a few words,” he said.
“Be my guest.”
Hawk clasped his hands and looked down on the hidden grave. He had practiced for years to prepare himself for moments like this, and the words came in a rush. Improvisation around a core of grief; a litany that felt polished, rehearsed, even as he invented it.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all that other bullshit. Why Stoner deserved this kind of death, I’ll never know. He was just a boy, Lord, a wild boy grown way too big for his body. He had a boy’s heart, a boy’s head, a boy’s appetites. He was always searching for the fastest bike, the loudest explosion, the biggest tits. Stoner was no thinker. He believed everything he could ever need would come from somewhere outside himself, and for some reason, Lord, you never showed him otherwise. You never saw fit to raise him up and make him a man. When I talked to Stoner about the spirit or the soul, I know all he pictured was a spook in a bedsheet. He looked grown-up, Lord, but I was never fooled. I think that was a stingy trick to play.
“He never saw it coming, did he, dear sweet Jesus?”
Hawk turned on his heel and walked away. Bootsteps came crunching after him as Dusty caught up.
“Fuckin’ Stoner,” he said. “Amen.”
As they approached the fire road, going wide through bushes to avoid the thistle field, Dusty said, “So what’re you gonna do about that kid?”
Hawk felt mild amazement. “Why is he my problem all of a sudden?”
Dusty shrugged. “I thought . . .”
“I don’t even—I don’t know anything about him. He’s Edgar’s friend, and Edgar’s responsibility.”
“You tell Edgar that?”
Hawk stopped, threw back his head, and screamed at the sky: a wordless curse—something the usual obscenities wouldn’t cover.
As the sound died, he heard cracking noises in the brush, startled animals. Dusty stood tense, looking nervously around. “Thought I saw someone,” he said. “Musta been a deer.” They listened for a minute, but heard only the expected sounds of the Greenbelt. Hawk sighed, spying the road ahead of them, starting forward again.
“Why is it, every time some kid gets in trouble—why do they come running to me?”
“Hey, I hate to be the one to break the news, but you set yourself up for it, preacher-man.”
Hawk kicked a rock from his path.
“The boys look up to you, Hawk. I mean, you can’t hold yourself up like some kind of hero, then just pull out when things get rough.”
“I wasn’t planning on pulling out. I want this guy. I’m gonna get him.”
“Good for you. But meanwhile, that kid. He has no idea what’s going on, you know? I don’t think him and Edgar go back very far, you know what I’m saying?”
Hawk silenced him with a gesture. “All right, you’re right, shut up already. So what do you think I should do?”
“Shit, I don’t know. He’s gonna need protection. Someone to cover his ass. You could see he’s scared—but maybe not scared enough. He don’t exactly look tough, you know. You gonna let him go it alone against whoever did Stoner?”
“Lupe.” Hawk spoke the name with certainty.
“Yeah, him. Looks that way. Sal’s bro.”
“Why do you think the kid would have to go up against him?”
“Hell, seems to me the dude left him a calling card. Sort of like, ‘Sorry I missed you, I’ll drop in later.’”
“You don’t. . . not a word about Stoner, not to him anyway. I don’t want him more scared than he already is.”
Dusty shrugged. “Cool. It shouldn’t matter if he never knows. We’ll all of us fuckin’ take the guy out, that Lupe fuck, we’ll all do it and the kid’ll never have to know how close he came.”
“All who?”
“All your boys. The gang. Say Lupe’s gonna come back for that kid; say he can’t help himself, right? So let’s stake out his house. Like we did Sal’s, but do it right this time, real thorough. Work in shifts, surround the place. Get some boys on the hills below the house, some to watch the streets, a couple more to check the fire roads in case the freak pays his respects to Stoner. It could happen.”
Hawk considered this for a long time, while they walked on. He’d thought he heard twigs breaking while Dusty spoke, but they were gone now; nothing louder than lizards scuttled. Finally, reluctantly, he nodded. “Okay, let’s do it. I just wish Edgar was in on this. He knows these hills better than anyone.”
They finally reached the gate at the end of the road and climbed over. Hawk got in behind the wheel, lost in thought until something jarred him back into the world.
“Jesus.” He stiffened. “How did that happen?”
His crucifix was missing from the hood of the jeep. Nothing remained but a jagged chrome stump.
“Fucking vandals!” Hawk jumped out of the seat and danced around the front, pounding on the hood. He bent to look under the car, but the asphalt was bare.
“Jesus fucking Christ! This is sacrilege!”
“Well, whoever took that mother better not go wearing it around his neck,” Dusty said. “Every cop in Bohemia knows that chrome cross on sight.”
***
It was late when Hawk returned to the trailer. He had covered Bohemia Bay from one end to the other, grabbing his boys when he saw them, visiting their hangouts, working up a plan with Dusty. After arranging for a meeting in the morning, he had dropped Dusty at a bar and headed home. He needed time to heal and ready himself for the days ahead. He was feeling worn thin, all his mental padding rubbed away. He looked forward to seeing Maggie. Sometimes a few words with her was all it took to get his head on straight. Her kisses had restorative powers.
Jesus, he thought, I can’t even tell her about Stoner yet. And I know she loved him in a way . . .
He tried to fight the growing feeling of isolation.
He was amazed to see Mike waiting for him as he pulled into the lot. He had figured the boy would’ve gone home long ago, but there he was, silhouetted in the open door of the trailer where Hawk had left him half a day earlier.
Jesus, the kid looked pathetic. He hoped Maggie had given him something to eat.
He got out of the jeep and trudged toward the trailer, wondering about how much of the plan he should reveal. He could share his methods, but not his motives. He was proud of the scheme he’d worked out with Dusty: a net of watchers waiting to catch the killer. It should make Mike feel secure. He had spent most of the day working for this kid’s benefit. In an altruistic mood now, he didn’t expect anything for his labors but the satisfaction of a job well done. The real payoff would be getting his hands on Lupe Diaz. He doubted the boy could appreciate everything Hawk was about to do for him, but what the hell. Kids.
The twitching shadows of giant crosses swept the sides of the trailer, moved by the headlights of passing traffic. Mike wavered in and out of view.
“Hey,” Hawk said. “Thought you’d be gone by now.”
“You said to wait.”
“Oh, well.” Hawk chuckled. “I didn’t mean forever. Maggie take care of you?”
“Uh,” the kid said, blocking the doorway. “
Maggie . . .”
“What?”
Mike handed him a piece of paper, folded so many times that it looked like a piece of crumpled Kleenex.
“What’s this?”
“I’m sorry,” said the boy. “She made me write it.”
22
Sal’s front door flapped like a jabbering mouth. Visitors went in and out, in and out, all day and all night. Neighbors in any other suburban neighborhood would have suspected what was going on, but it hadn’t escaped Lupe’s notice—little did—that when cars parked in neighboring driveways, they belonged to realtors showing houses. Sal didn’t have many neighbors to bother.
Some of the customers swaggered up to the door and knocked loudly, not caring what sort of attention they drew. Others stood there twitching and sneaking nervous glances from side to side, jumping at every car that passed. Barefoot hippies in tie-dye bell bottoms and floppy knit caps; suntanned skateboarders in bathing suits and dark glasses; older men, neatly groomed, professional. Very few women came around; those who did were mostly hippies in sandals, long skirts, no bra. Lupe sank back deeper in his blind when they appeared, fearing they might feel his eyes from across the street. Women had intuition.
Twice a day, the cops cruised past. The prowl car never slowed, and the men inside hardly glanced sideways at the house, even though the curb was often crammed with everything from beat-up VW buses to shiny sports cars.
Sal had them fooled, he supposed. He put on a convincing front as an art studio. Every afternoon, the garage door opened and a handful of Sal’s boys went to work, laying sixteen or twenty canvases in rows on the concrete floor. They went down the lines, working them in sequence, like assembly-line artists. They sprayed the canvases with black paint, then globbed on thick ropes and blobs of color which they swirled and spread with spatulas. These hideous works left the house as soon as they were dry, tucked under the arms of Sal’s customers.
At other times of day, Sal gathered his boys in the back yard, leading them slowly, in unison, through the poses of tai chi. At first Lupe shifted his vantage to watch the exercises, but they were always the same and he soon stopped bothering. He was more concerned about the few—very few—intervals when the flow of customer traffic let up, the boys cleared out, and Sal was left alone in the house.