When It All Comes Down to Dust (Phoenix Noir Book 3)

by Barry Graham

  As Laura and David walked from her apartment to his car, David’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller I.D. and sighed. “I have to take this. It’s my editor.”

  He walked away from her, until he was just out of her hearing range, and answered the phone. She stood leaning against his car, feeling the hot metal through the fabric of her jeans, and watched as he walked around in a circle, talking. After a minute he ended the call and walked back to her.

  “I’m guessing you have to skip breakfast,” she said.

  “Yeah. You know who Mad Marky is, right?”

  “Sure, who doesn’t?”

  Marky Moorhead was a legend in the Valley biker community. For years, he had headed up a local gang and violently resisted assimilation by the Hell’s Angels when the Angels moved into Arizona and forcibly assimilated every other gang. When the Angels eventually won the war – with the assistance of the Phoenix Police Department – they realized that they were going to have to either kill Marky or give him some serious compensation. They appointed him second-in-command of the Valley of the Sun chapter, and, when his commander-in-chief did too much crank and rode into the back of a semi, they decided to let Marky run the show. He turned out to be good at it, and the cops never managed to nail him for anything serious, until he beat his lover and her husband to death in front of witnesses, which he had been on trial for. But he wasn’t on trial any longer.

  “It seems he just walked this morning on some technicality,” David said. “Some police screw-up. I don’t know the details – I don’t think Jerry knew either, and he’s too dumb to explain even if he did. But he wants me to head over to Marky’s house and see if I can get him to talk to me.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Because I’m so charming.”

  “If he won’t talk to you, are you gonna write an article anyway, then bug him till he sleeps with you?”

  “Quack, quack, quack. Look, I have to roll. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Okay. Listen, I feel like a dork for saying this, but be careful.”

  “Sure will.”

  “Or as careful as you can be when you’re bugging hairy psychopaths.”

  He squeezed her ass as he kissed her, then got in his car.

  Laura walked back to her apartment. She logged on to the Internet and did a search on Marky Moorhead. She couldn’t believe how worried she felt, and reading Marky’s bio wasn’t making her feel any better.

  Mad Marky lived in a stucco house in a suburb of Mesa. When David arrived, the entire Valley media seemed to be camped there already. He recognized some T.V. guys, and Richard Ortega, the daily paper’s metro columnist, who hated David nearly as much as he hated having to leave his office and do some leg work.

  “Hey, man,” David called to a camera guy. “Any sign of him?”

  “Yeah, Ricky Ortega went and knocked on his door, and Mad Marky came out and actually chased him.”

  “No shit? Cool. What happened?”

  “Ricky pissed himself in fright. Seriously. He actually pissed in his pants.”

  “I’m surprised he’s still here.”

  “He left and then came back. His editors must have sent him back.”

  “Yeah. Or maybe he went home to change his pants.”

  The guy laughed. “So, what are you gonna do?”

  “Me? Nothing. Just hang out.”

  “As soon as it’s past our deadline and we’ve all gone, you gonna make your move?”

  “You know it, brother.”

  “Good luck.”

  David called his editor and told him what was happening. Then he called Laura and told her.

  “So you’re gonna stay there?”

  “Yeah. The T.V. people won’t stay all that much longer, once they know they’re not gonna get anything in time for the six o’clock news. Then I’ll see if I can get him to open his door.”

  Laura had never thought of herself as being religious, but when she got off the phone with David, in absence of faith she still got down on her knees and prayed.

  As time passed and his bottled water ran out, David felt as though his organs were sizzling in their own juices. When the T.V. people finally left, he wished he could go with them. He had never felt less like confronting a violent criminal. The thought of a cold bottle of beer in an air-conditioned bar seemed almost pornographic.

  He thought about Laura, and thinking about her made him remember how it had been when he’d first moved to Phoenix. He was working a piece-of-shit job that paid just enough to cover food and rent and gas, and not enough to cover car insurance or pay to have a phone connection in his apartment. He was looking for another job, and when he saw ads in the paper he would walk to a public phone nearby and use it to make the call. One Saturday morning, he went to call a restaurant about a dishwashing job, and found that somebody was already using the phone. The guy was around David’s age, and spoke with a Southern accent. “I really love you,” he said. “I miss you so much. So damn much... you know?”

  David moved a few steps away, trying not to invade the guy’s privacy, but to remain near enough to still be in line for the phone. After a while the guy said, “Well, I better go. It’s real hot out here, and there’s a boy waiting for the phone...”

  After he’d hung up, he smiled at David. “Sorry I took so long. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah,” David said, but it wasn’t true. He didn’t know how it was. He felt sad for the guy that he was so far away from someone he loved, but he also envied him, because he had someone to be far away from. David wasn’t far away from anyone, and he wasn’t close to anyone. He was just where he was. It didn’t really matter that he didn’t have a phone, because there was no one he had to call, except for restaurants looking for kitchen labor.

  He called the restaurant and they told him to come over, and they hired him on the spot. As he washed dishes that evening, he imagined how it would feel, having someone to call, even if she was far away, someone to call and tell her how he was doing and ask how she was doing and tell her how much he missed her. He realized that he actually did miss her. He missed what he had never had.

  Now, as he sat in his car and felt the heat bake him dry, he thought that the person he’d been missing might be Laura. The thought made no sense, so he pushed it away and decided it was time to do something.

  He got out of the car and stretched. Then he began walking slowly up the driveway. The only other reporter still around was Ortega, who was now following David at a distance. When David reached the front door of the house, Ortega stood about ten feet behind him and waited.

  David knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, harder. No answer. “Hey! Mr. Moorhead! The T.V. guys have all left. I’m from a newspaper. I don’t have a camera. I just want to ask you a couple questions that nobody else has asked you.”

  No answer, but the sound of movement from inside the house. Ortega heard it too, and started to move closer.

  “Mr. Moorhead,” David called again. “What I wanted to ask you is, are all the Hell’s Angels fags, or are you the only one?”

  Ortega fled.

  “I mean, I hear you gave up fucking your mother because you like to suck cock so much. I was just hoping you’d come out here and confirm or deny that. Or are you gonna hide in your house all day like a frightened little bitch?”

  When Mad Marky Moorhead threw open his door and stepped outside, he found David sitting on the hot ground with his back to him.

  David looked over his shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t hit me. Please.”

  When Laura’s phone rang, she grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” David said, his voice strange. “I need some help.”

  “Shit. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, but I’m too drunk to drive, so I need a ride. Got things to do.”

  “Drunk? Where are you?”

  “At Marky’s house. We’ve been hanging out and watching movies and talking."

  “What the fuck, Da
vid...”

  “I know. Will you come pick me up?”

  “I guess. Where is it?”

  He gave her the address and she wrote it down. “So, should I just meet you outside or something?”

  “No, just knock on the door.”

  “Let me get this straight – you and Mad Marky are buddies now?”

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “I guess he’s just misunderstood, huh? Just needs a hug.”

  “Come and get me and I’ll tell you.”

  Mesa is a sprawl of identical suburban streets and houses, and it took Laura a while to find Marky’s place. It didn’t help that it was getting dark. She saw David’s car, parked nearby, got out and knocked on the door of the house.

  Marky looked like he’d been provided by Central Casting. Bald-headed and hairy-faced, wearing jeans and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, his gut hanging over his Arizona state flag belt buckle, a bottle of Budweiser in his hand.

  “God damn,” he said. “Davey never told me you looked so fine.”

  “Thanks. Where is he?”

  “Davey! Get your drunk little ass out here!” Marky called, and David appeared behind him.

  “Sorry, I was in the bathroom,” David said. Marky clapped him on the shoulder. “I figured that one out for myself. You want something to drink?” he asked Laura.

  She looked at David. “Do we have time?”

  “Actually, no,” he said. “We need to get rolling.”

  “Hell, I see how it is,” Marky said. “You come over here, you cast aspersions on my masculinity, you drink my beer, you watch my movies, and as soon as a fine lady shows up you run off with her. Damn, boy.” He held out his hand for David to shake. “For real, though, Davey – come back any time. We’ll watch us some of that Godard.”

  “Godard?” Laura said as she drove.

  “Yeah, we were watching Truffaut movies, and I asked him if he liked Godard, and he does. He’s really into the French New Wave.”

  “Okay, I think you owe me some explanation here.”

  “I’ll do more than fucking hit you,” Marky said, as David sat on the ground and looked up at him.

  “Why would you do that?” David said, so quietly that Marky could barely hear him.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “I asked why you would want to do that. You’re bigger than me and I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid to even stand up.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth. You weren’t scared to come to my house and knock on my door and call me a fucking fag.”

  “Please don’t hit me. Listen for just a minute, okay? I’m not trying to be a smartass. I came to your door because my boss told me to and it would cost me my job if I didn’t. I yelled all that shit because the little weasel you chased away earlier was following me to your door and I wanted him to bolt...”

  “Did he run away again?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know if he pissed in his pants this time. I heard he did before.”

  “You gonna piss in your pants?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared. I am. And I’m hoping you’ll just tell me to fuck off and let me leave. Then I can tell my boss I did what he told me and you wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “You from the Weekly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “David Regier.”

  “You can stand up if you want to.”

  “You won’t hit me if I do?”

  “No, I won’t hit you.”

  “Thanks.” David got to his feet. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been sitting out here without any water for hours. Could I have some?”

  Marky looked at him. “I’m not sure you’re not fucking with me, and, if you are...”

  “I’m not, I swear. Look, I’ll just leave now. I’m sorry I asked.” David turned to walk away.

  “Hold up. Hell, come on in and I’ll get you some water.”

  The living room had a couch, chairs, coffee table, T.V., D.V.D. player and dozens of D.V.D.s lying around. A movie was playing.

  “Hey,” David said as Marky came out of the kitchen and handed him a glass of water. “Is that Jules et Jim?”

  “Yeah. You seen it?”

  “A few times. I love that movie.”

  “Fucking right,” Marky said. “Fucking Truffaut, man. It’s a goddamn crime that nobody around here watches these movies just ’cause they’re in French. Illiterate motherfuckers. It ain’t so hard to read the fucking subtitles.”

  “No shit. You like any other French stuff?”

  “Fuck, yeah. I love all those New Wave guys. Truffaut, Chabrol...”

  “I like both of them, but Godard is my guy...”

  “Jean-Luc is the fucking tits, man. Breathless... I fucking cried.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably my favorite.” David gulped down the water.

  “Listen,” Marky said. “Want a beer?”

  “So we hung out, drank, watched a couple movies. He asked me what it was I wanted to write about him, and I told him I didn’t have anything I wanted to write about him, I just wanted to tell the story. So he said we could do an interview, just so long as I promised to quote him fully and accurately. That was how he said it – fully and accurately.”

  “Why were you in such a hurry to leave?”

  “Because I want to get the story out there fast. I can’t get it in the paper until next week, obviously, but my friend Bill has his radio show every week night. I called him and he’s gonna have me as his guest tonight. I can post a link to the show on the paper’s website. So I need to eat something and sober up...”

  She dropped him off at the radio station. She asked if he wanted her to pick him up after the show, but he said the host would give him a ride to his car. As she drove home, she turned on the radio and found the Bill Goldberg Show.

  “My guest tonight is Phoenix Weekly reporter David Regier, who today gained an exclusive interview with accused murderer Mark Moorhead. He’s here to tell us all about it...”

  When she got home, she ran to her apartment as quickly as she could so she wouldn’t miss too much of the interview. She listened to it as she lay in bed, but not for long. She hadn’t realized how exhausted the stress of the day had left her, and she fell asleep with David’s voice in her ear. She woke a couple hours later to the jabbering of a sports commentator.

  She got up, turned off the radio and got back in bed. Then the phone rang.

  “Hey,” David said. “What are you doing?”

  “Laying in bed, thinking about you.”

  “That’s good to hear. Did you listen to the show?”

  “Not all of it. I fell asleep. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Mmm... I wish you were here right now.”

  “Me too.”

  “Tell me what you’d do if you were here with me.”

  “How about if I just come over there and show you?”

  “You don’t mind driving? It’s late.”

  “No, I’m not sleepy. I’m still amped up on adrenaline.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  He arrived about fifteen minutes later, and joined her in bed. Afterwards, as they lay together, she said, “Will you be able to sleep?”

  “I hope so. I’m tired, but I still feel kind of hyper.”

  “That makes sense. You kicked ass today. You’ve got every right to feel stoked.”

  “I don’t feel stoked. I feel wired, but kind of depressed under the skin.”

  She touched his face. “Why?”

  “When I told Marky I was afraid of him, did you think I was just working him?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “I wasn’t. I was telling him the truth, and he knew it. He could feel how scared I was. If I’d lied, he’d have known it, and the medics would be stitching my face back together right now.”

  “That’s what’s depressing you?”

  “Kind
of. I’ve just been in fight-or-flight mode all day, and it gets old. I don’t enjoy being afraid for my life, and I do it all the damn time.”

  “You don’t act like you’re scared.”

  “I’m the biggest coward on the planet – I’m just good at not showing it. The only difference between me and Ricky Ortega is that he turns and runs and I don’t. But I’m just as frightened as he is. If being a chickenshit ever becomes an Olympic event, I’ll bring home the gold medal.”

  She didn’t say anything, just reached for him and held him tight.

  “Truth is, I’m just fucking sick of journalism. Sick of that whole world.”

  “Why? I thought you liked it.”

  “It can be a rush, sure. But that’s one of the things I don’t like about it, even though I do.”

  “Huh?”

  “What I mean is, I do like the rush of getting a story and beating other people to it, but I don’t want to like it. It’s just an ego trip. I don’t want to be that guy. It’s pathetic. Journalists are pathetic little ego-trippers too busy competing with each other to live their lives. I’m just sick of spending my time looking for the most fucked-up shit I can find. I mean, guess what I’m supposed to write for the second week of next month.”

  “Tell me.”

  “An article about cartoon porn.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Cartoon porn.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  “No reason why you should know. Who needs to know that? Who really needs to see pictures of Smurfette getting gang-banged by fifty smurfs?”

  “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was. You wouldn’t believe what’s out there. Bugs Bunny, for Christ’s sake. To me, that kind of shit’s even grosser than real bestiality.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, if somebody’s sexually attracted to animals, that’s gross, but, okay, whatever. But how the hell can you want to fuck Bugs Bunny? Look, I’ve interviewed some seriously scary motherfuckers. I did today. But I do not want to interview anyone who wants to fuck Bugs Bunny. I just don’t need that in my life.”

  There was a second or two of silence, then David felt a tremor within Laura. Then it got stronger, and she could no longer hold it in, and she was laughing so hard it shook the bed.