by Weston Ochse
“Good.” Blockbuster closed the refrigerator and shuffled through a pile of mail on the table in the cramped dining room. “This is yesterday’s. Milk in the fridge is still good. School lets out at three, so he should be here by four.”
“That gives us enough time to search the place.”
“And then some. What are we looking for anyway, Bobby?”
“If he hasn’t taken it apart, it should be a picture frame about yay big.” He held his hands apart.
“What’s inside?”
“Elvis Presley’s Double Platinum Award for Heartbreak Hotel.”
Blockbuster whistled. “The real thing?”
“I think so. I’ve never seen it. I just learned of it a little while back.”
“And this is yours?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Bobby Cracker got himself an Elvis connection.” Split grinned and his gold tooth winked as it caught a ray of light through the blinds. “I seen your tattoo, just didn’t think it meant what it did. That explains why Lucy is all hot and bothered to help you.”
“What’s a platinum album look like?” Blockbuster asked.
“The size of a 45,” Bobby said, but when he saw the incomprehension on their faces, he rephrased: “I mean just a little bigger than a CD. Should be a whitish-silver in color with the words Heart Break Hotel by Elvis Presley, 2,000,000 Million Sold. And then at the bottom the initials RIIA.”
“I thought you said you’d never seen it.” Split eyed him critically.
“I’ve seen pictures. The award used to hang in Graceland.”
Split stared for several long moments, then turned and headed to the back. “Let’s do this. I want to be ready when the Pajiero returns.”
Each of them split up. The gangbangers took the back two rooms and left Bobby in the front. He didn’t want to touch anything. Just looking at the cushions and the walls made him feel dirty. He tossed the cushions and upended the sofas. Other than change, a comb, a disturbing amount of used tissue and some food crumbs, there wasn’t a hint of an album.
He moved to the kitchen, and by the time he’d finished the floor was covered with his efforts. Why should he respect the privacy of a perv? He’d upended every jar, bag and box of food he’d found. At first he’d done it slowly, but by the end he was hurling Cheerios across the room.
“Whoa there Mr. Clean up in Aisle Four. You sure you emptied everything?” Blockbuster chuckled as he laid a pillowcase filled with odd-shaped objects on the kitchen table. He grabbed the mail and shoved it into the bag. Seeing Bobby watching him, he said, “I have a cousin who specializes in identity theft. Utility bills are gold mines. With what I lifted and the mail, this trip is paid for.”
“You stealing from him?” Bobby dropped the empty cereal box, crunched across the floor and checked in the bag. A few watches, a velvet box and some silver coins jumbled against each other.
Blockbuster pushed Bobby aside and took control of his bag. “You can’t steal from someone like this. You steal from a citizen. You steal from someone who lives life the right way. Stealing is a bad thing.”
“But this guy’s different. He’s a perv.” Split came into the dining room with his own bag. He set it on the table next to Blockbuster’s. “On the scale of crimes, he’s worse than a serial killer. Laws don’t apply to him, which means that when we kill him, it ain’t murder.”
“That’s right. Think of it as a contribution to the community.” Blockbuster chuckled. “Community outreach, that’s what they call it.”
Blockbuster and Split began to argue, but Bobby was getting a bad feeling. He’d seen people die. But he’d never seen two more sadistic people than these gangbangers, who had actually begun to argue over the best way to kill the man. Whatever they’d do would be nasty, and Bobby wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of it.
Chapter 13
Kanga sat on the bench outside the Martial Arts Studio, a three-foot glass sign with the letters KU emblazoned in red and centered on the window behind him. Inside Mark was giving a class to kids, concentrating on the most effective ways to disarm a knife-wielding maniac, something that must be a regular occurrence on their playgrounds for it to be taught with such conviction. Wedged between the Red Door Vietnamese Restaurant and a Croatian cobbler, the plate glass window of the studio allowed passers-by a clear view of the goings-on inside.
But Kanga wasn’t interested in the intricacies of a wrist lock or the success probabilities of escaping from a schoolyard headlock from ten different positions. He didn’t care about the man up the street cursing his wife for not giving him more money for another drink at The Spot while she washed the family’s clothes at the Laundromat. He didn’t care about the yuppie who’d stopped for a quick pint at the liquor store, who was now whining into his cell phone about the dent on the front of his Boxter made by a Buick with three different kinds of paint and more dimples than a golf ball.
Instead, Kanga’s attention was focused on the halfway house across the street. He’d heard the rumors. He’d seen the people pacing back and forth in front of the three-story, yellow and red, H-shaped building. He’d even talked to young Bobby about it, but more to create a mystique than to render fact.
He stared at the house because a thought had seized him with more hope than he believed he possessed. What if the rumors were true? What if he could speak to Laurie? There’d been so many things they hadn’t talked about. So many things left unsaid because they’d thought they had a lifetime. What if her spirit was hovering there, waiting for him? She’d known about the place, and it would be logical for her to come here. He leaned forward on the bench and gripped the edge. He began to rock as he watched.
Seventeen people moved about in front of the house. Besides the occasional pedestrian who decided not to cross the street when he saw them, the people of the halfway house went largely undisturbed. Seven were nondescript regulars who sat watching the others. Wearing gray shirts and black pants, the result of the uniformity made them seem more like wardens at a loony farm.
One particularly large gent, who sat on a broken-backed Barcalounger, seemed to be in charge. Odd that Kanga had never noticed this before. Every so often the man would gesture toward one of the ones who talked to themselves if they got too close to the curb or too far away, then one of the wardens would rise and escort them back to the center of the sidewalk. The more he stared at the wardens, who leaned and sat with a casual alertness, the more he noticed how hardened they appeared. They had to be ex-cons. Some seemed fresh out of the stir. He watched their eyes for a while and saw how they twisted and wrenched back and forth with each passing car and startling noise, the fear of being jumped still fresh in their minds.
The remaining ten couldn’t be more different. Four men and six women of all races and from both sides of the tracks.
A sixty-something white man with tennis shorts, a Polo shirt and a hundred dollar haircut stood stock still in the middle of them, staring directly into the sky. His mouth seemed to be moving impossibly fast, reminding Kanga of the Hail Marys and Our Fathers he’d seen the Panamanians rattle once when a Great White began circling all of their boards as they’d been surfing the Pacific entrance to the canal.
An old black woman dressed in a faded blue dress, her skin so wrinkled the contours of her face had disappeared, shuffled in a small circle. Occasionally she’d clap her hands and shout hallelujah, then return to her private geometry.
A Hispanic kid who couldn’t have been more than fourteen held his face in his hands as he sobbed. His shoulders shook so violently that Kanga wanted to rush across the street and embrace the boy. Sometimes he’d stop, look up, then run a few feet away, only to repeat the process all over again.
An old man with a missing left arm walked in a wide circle around everyone, like a sailor marking watch. Even though his eyes were on a distant horizon, he never made a misstep, and he was never forced to change directions.
A middle-aged woman who could have been
a soccer mom sat and colored with big pieces of chalk. She spoke audibly, the words lost to the traffic, as if she were playing with someone invisible right beside her. A smile never left her face, even when she cried.
Triplet women, each at least as old as God, stood in a circle facing each other with their heads down, foreheads touching. They wore tie-died sarongs, formless dresses made of a thin piece of cotton tied at the neck. Their skin was deeply tanned and wrinkled. Their stark white hair was pulled tightly into buns. Black sunglasses covered their eyes.
Kanga had heard of these three. They’d spooked plenty of guys who’d come down to the cove to surf. The women were often referred to as the Three Blind Mice, but not to their faces.
A young, twenty-something, heavyset black man swaggered from side to side, corner to corner, and all points in between. He had bling hanging from his neck. Rings studded his hands. He wore a dirty Sean Jean light blue velour sweat suit stained gray with sweat and grime. He didn’t leave the front of the house, but he looked for all the world like he wanted to.
A young Hispanic woman, pregnant and angry, cursed the air, jabbing her finger in front of her like it was a lance and could skewer the subject of her vexation. Her dyed red hair shook as she railed against her invisible foe, spittle flying from her lips.
Kanga didn’t want to get in her way. Hell, he didn’t want to get in anyone’s way. He just wanted to see if what he’d been thinking was right, or just a farfetched dream.
He watched for a time, and found that the people didn’t interact. They seemed like performers on different stages. Even the persons he couldn’t help but refer to as wardens let people do what they needed to, which gave every appearance of speaking to the dead.
As soon as he thought it, Kanga laughed. The closer he came to committing, the more self-conscious he felt. Was he to join them? How crazy was that? Did it even matter? Would he hate himself for not trying, for not putting himself out there to find out if Laurie was truly waiting for him?
He grabbed the rail of the bench and pushed himself to his feet. What was there to lose? He had no life and nothing to show for it. Other than thirty years of memories, he’d contributed nothing and left no footprint. Some people defined themselves as parents. Once he’d been asked to and he’d run. This time he wouldn’t run. He needed to be a parent, even if his daughter was dead.
For a brief, shining moment he wondered what would happen after, but then he realized that there was no after. He was done. He was ready for a change. He stepped out into the street. Waiting for a Suburban to pass, he crossed the two-lane road and paused at the ascending curb to check his moral compass.
No more would he be one with the sea. No more would he be able to find a special place and meditate. No longer would he be free. He’d surf no more. He asked himself the hardest question he’d ever asked. Is it worth it?
The answer was yes.
He stepped from the street to the curb. Looking up, he stared at the simple front of the building. No one would ever know that this place was a magnet for souls. So many drove past and blocked these people out. Like the homeless or the forlorn, they weren’t part of anyone’s daily commute.
He took another step. Now he could hear the people, and the hearing did little for his state of mind.
“No, Mommy. I didn’t mean to. Please, Mommy.”
“Motherfucking GeeBees. When I get a hold of them they’ll wish they was dead.”
“That’s right, Mikey. Kick the ball. You got it.”
So disparate. So desperate.
“Mona.” The name was stretched to snapping by the man with the upturned face. Whoever he wanted seemed to be gone. Still, his ardent need spun Kanga around as he watched, transfixed by the image and the keening of a man who should have had dozens of grandchildren bouncing around his knees, but instead stood in the middle of a Los Angeles sidewalk, searching for the ghost of his Mona.
Kanga looked around, wondering how it was done. Did he just stand there until she spoke? The thought made him giggle, but he stifled it with a smile. No levity here; even his own self-conscious reflex to laugh seemed disrespectful.
Or did he trust in his belief and speak to her? Looking around, he realized that that seemed to be the way. He felt his determination gel. It wasn’t too much different than praying. Speaking to God was an act of faith, not so dissimilar from speaking to Laurie.
All he had to do was believe.
Desire became deliberation but could not find voice. He tried twice, yet each time nothing came. It was ridiculous. How could this be real? Why was it that only these ten people could speak to the dead? No. He wouldn’t let himself be swayed by reason. The very nature of faith precluded reasonable examination. He needed to forget the rules. Society didn’t matter. Nothing that came before mattered. The only thing that mattered was being a father.
He took a deep breath and merged into the mix of people. Finding a place, he stopped. With a glance to the man with the upturned face, Kanga spoke. Tentatively. “Laurie? Are you there?”
Nothing.
“Laurie? It’s your father.”
Nothing.
“Laurie. If you’re there, honey, answer me.”
Nothing.
“Laurie. Don’t hide darling. I love you too much.”
Nothing.
But he would not be deterred. He lowered his head and began to pace, finding his path as he went. Every now and then he’d call her name. She never answered, but he knew she would. It was only a matter of time. So he paced. And he called. And he paced. And he called. Until he felt one with the other ten. Until he felt right.
Occasionally one of them would reach out and touch him, but not for long. They seemed to understand his need and did not disrupt him. After all, he was her father and he needed to be there. He was her father and she needed him. It was only a matter of time.
* * *
At four-fifteen a green Honda pulled into the narrow lot and parked beneath the building. A minute later, Alvin Verdina plodded up the stairs, his eyes down, his shoulders slumped with a day’s labor. He carried a brown leather briefcase. Of average height, his narrow hips and chest supported a hundred and fifty pound frame. Brown hair parted severely on the left side. Dull blue eyes framed by rows of shadowy wrinkles. Without looking, he stuck his key in the lock, turned the handle and entered. No sooner had he closed the door behind him then a meaty hand clamped onto the back of his neck.
“About time you got here.” Split leaned against the kitchen counter, picking his teeth with an ice pick.
“What? Who are you?” Verdina tried to turn, but Blockbuster’s grip held him fast. The small man glanced once at Bobby standing in the corner beside the front window, then stared fearfully at Split.
“Shut the fuck up if you want to live.” Split pointed the pick toward Verdina.
“But I don’t want—”
WHAM! Blockbuster’s hand smashed into Verdina’s left cheek.
“I said shut the fuck up.”
“But I’m not—”
WHAM! Blockbuster found the right cheek.
The man began to cry. Blood ran from a tear in the skin of the right cheek. He brought his hands up, but Blockbuster smacked them down.
“Stand there and be still.” Bobby crossed the room and patted the front of the man’s jacket. He found something and stuck his hand into the jacket pocket. A can of pepper spray in a plastic shooting device that looked like a futuristic pistol—a kid’s toy really. Bobby wondered if it was real. He held it to the man’s face and pretended to squirt. Verdina screamed and lurched backwards. Yep. It was real. “He’s clean,” he said pocketing the weapon and returning to his spot against the wall.
Split paced slowly like a cat. He dragged the pick across Verdina’s bloody cheek, down his shirt only to let it rest on the man’s brown corduroy crotch.
Verdina couldn’t help but stare. He wanted to speak, he wanted to beg, but he was afraid of getting hit. His wide eyes spoke for him, pleading wit
h Split to leave him alone. The eyes flashed at Bobby, but the gaze found no purchase and returned to Split.
“You have something we want, pajiero. Where is it?”
Verdina blinked madly and began to shake his head.
WHAM! “Answer him.” Blockbuster adjusted his grip on the back of the small man’s neck and grinned cunningly at Bobby.
“I don’t know what you—” Sucking his breath crazily, he managed to pull his crotch away from the pick that pressed against it.
“That wasn’t answering the question. That was called begging for your life. When it’s time to beg, I’ll let you know. Until then, answer the fucking questions or I’ll turn you into a girl.”
“Wha—what do you want?”
“That’s better. Don’t you think so BB?”
Blockbuster rolled his eyes.
“So tell us Funky Cold Verdina, where is the record?”
“What record?”
“The one you stole from Graceland School for Boys?”
Verdina’s eyes shot wide, then narrowed like a cat’s. “I don't know.”
“Come on, my friend. You’re not talking to some burrito cop, you’re talking to me. We’re talking about the thing you took from the Graceland School. We know you took it. There’s plenty of proof, so there’s no reason to deny it. Know what I mean?”
“No. I swear I didn’t—”
“—steal the platinum award,” Blockbuster finished.
“No. No. I swear I didn’t.”
“You didn’t take it at all, did you?”
“No. I promise. I—”
“You know,” began Split sucking in his cheek as he nodded self-consciously, “I believe you.” Split stood and began to walk toward the front door.
Verdina sighed dramatically. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
Split waved his hand. “No problemo.” Then he paused and turned. “But I do have one question, mi amigo.”
“What is it? Anything.”
“You swore to me that you didn’t take the award.”