Okay? Has he lost his mind, too? How is everything going to be okay? Everything is not going to be okay. If they fail to come clean immediately they will be pursued, and caught, and tried and convicted and after all their appeals are exhausted they will be the first American couple executed since the Rosenbergs only they will be more reviled than the Rosenbergs since the Rosenbergs never actually had anyone killed. A soon-to-be-former Congressman and his ex-twirler wife. She could write a book about their ordeal during the appeals process. From the Rose Bowl to Death Row, Confessions of a Drum Majorette.
“You better take the day off,” he says.
“Thank-you, I think I will.” She grabs a wad of bedside tissue and violently blows her nose. The pressure makes her ears pop.
“Just don’t talk to anyone, all right?”
“Who the fuck am I going to talk to?”
She throws the obscenity in his face like acid. Ordinarily, Randall would upbraid her for using profanity. He tries not to curse and he prefers that she not use bad language either. But today he gives her a pass. Instead, he suggests she take a few aspirin, get some rest and says he’ll call later. She can’t bear seeing his face anymore, with it’s combination of terror and doubt forced into a grotesque simulacrum of equanimity. When he leaves the room she pulls the covers over her head again, blacking out the world.
On the drive to the day’s first event, a visit to a senior center, Randall considers calling Dale. But he quickly discards that idea. What good would that possibly do? The less contact he has with Dale at this point, the better it will be. He will tell Maxon to get his brother out of town as soon as the election is over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
An overweight woman in her fifties with a coarse blonde bob and wearing a pink tracksuit is talking to Maxon. She holds a red tee shirt with the logo RE-ELECT RANDALL across the front and I’M A DUKIE printed on the back in white lettering.
“You know ‘dukie’ means turd.”
Maxon sighs, tries not to show either his exasperation or exhaustion. “It’s a play on Randall’s name.” He would like to snatch the tee shirt out of her pudgy hand and wrap it around her sagging neck but this is belied by an expression of amused forbearance. He sips a non-fat latte and throttles a tennis ball with his free hand.
“My son told me,” she says, shoving her cell phone at Maxon. “It’s youth slang. He’s on the phone, you can talk to him.”
Ignoring the phone, Maxon tells her, “Randall’s name is Duke, that’s what people are going to think. Please don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Do you want to ask my son?” she says, waving the phone. “His name is Kirk.”
“No, thank-you.”
The woman shrugs and walks away. Maxon can’t believe that with his plan having blown up in his face, this is what he’s dealing with right now. It’s just after eight in the morning at Duke Headquarters and the storefront is filled with volunteers milling around drinking coffee and nibbling on pastries laid out in boxes of flimsy cardboard. There is a phone bank in the back where ten campaign workers are calling potential voters.
He steals a glance at the small crowd of people who have assembled. A desert cross-section of seniors and gays, League of Women Voter types and a handful of fresh-faced college interns, they are clad as ordered in comfortable shoes and campaign tee shirts. Maxon’s twenty-three year old aide de camp Tyson Griggs stands nearby checking names on a clipboard. A tall, skinny kid with a shock of hair that makes him look like Bob’s Big Boy, he catches Maxon’s eye, holds his wrist up and points at his watch. They’ve got to get the first wave of Dukies on the streets.
Maxon’s sleep was shattered by the phone call from Dale and he’s been jittery for the last three hours. The morning has been an orgy of self-recrimination. He’s been cursing himself for discussing the situation with the poetical ex-con. But it’s over and all he can do is wait. It had been embarrassing to have to report what had happened to Randall. Should he have even told him? Has he compromised the deniability he had been so concerned about? Someone taps him on his shoulder.
“Maxon, are you okay?”
He looks up and sees Tyson.
“I’m fine.”
The words are steel filings.
Maxon claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. The din of conversation dies down and the crowd faces him. In their campaign tee shirts, they’re a giant red blob, a faceless mass of hope and energy. It always amazes him that people volunteer for political campaigns. That they think they have a voice in the process, that the fix is not in. Which candidate ultimately wins will not matter in a larger sense since Maxon hews to the view that elections might be framed in the context of ideas but what they are truly about is who controls the flow of dollars to the entities that fund the elections. Whether it is Mary Swain or Randall Duke, the post office will deliver the mail and the borders will be defended. Ordinarily, it would be touching to him that these people are here this morning in their comfortable shoes and their silly tee shirts. But not today. He girds himself to give a short talk about the value of democracy.
“Thank-you for coming,” he says. “What you’re doing is incredibly important because this election is about you, the people.”
They applaud this sentiment and he smiles.
At this moment, Maxon notices the door to the street open but no one seems to be there. Then he shifts his perspective and realizes the reason no one appeared to be there is that the man in the doorway is only four feet tall. He would be just under six feet were he to stand but he is seated in a wheelchair. As if summoned by a malevolent sprite, Dale has arrived.
Maxon can see him saying excuse me to several of the volunteers as he maneuvers his manually operated chair toward the front of the crowd. The dodgy teeth flash when he smiles at the volunteers who make way. From their reaction, Maxon can tell that many of them know the identity of this late arrival. At the front of the room, Dale stops the chair and grins. Maxon nods hello, swallows.
“You all know Dale, everyone,” Maxon says. “The Congressman’s brother.”
Dale waves like he’s the one running for office. There is mild, uneasy applause, then the volunteers turn their attention back to Maxon who finishes giving instructions to the workers. When he is done he tells the group to ask Tyson if they need clarification about their assignments for the day.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Maxon and Dale are in the back room of the headquarters. Campaign literature is stacked on shelves and various cardboard signs with messages like Be a Dukie and Randall Again! are arrayed against the walls.
“I’m not staying in that apartment no more. Had to call the fire department. Those boys got me a wheelchair, and I’ll tell you what, it’s a piece of shit.” Maxon takes a moment to consider what to do with Dale. He clearly cannot send him on his way. “Want me to answer phones?”
“God, no!”
“Then get someone to take me to Randall’s house, cause that’s where I’m staying until this gets fixed.”
“You can’t stay at Randall’s house.” As Maxon says this he feels his throat constricting. What to do with this misfit? He can’t trust him in a hotel.
“Why not?”
“You can’t be seen with him and you can’t call him.” Maxon catches himself as his voice begins to rise. He can’t be observed screaming at Dale. More quietly: “You haven’t called him, have you?”
“No.”
“Don’t. And don’t ask me to explain.”
“Maxon, you know you got to take care of me, right?”
This hangs between them for a moment. Both men are aware that Dale could blow the doors and windows off the edifice with one phone call that could land everyone in jail for the rest of their lives. Maxon might not have ordered Dale to put his plan in motion, but who knows what song Dale would sing should he wind up on trial. Where can he possibly stow him for the next few days?
“You can stay with me.” Maxon says. “You’ll be looked after
.”
Hard lies in bed in his boxers. He feels the weight of his head, never a good sign. There is a dull ache at the base of his skull and it is radiating upward, valiantly attempting to join forces at the top of his throbbing head with the sharp pain pushing up from his temples. Adding to this, something percussive is going on behind his eyes. There is no sense of his body below the neck except for his bile-filled stomach. And he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. He has no recollection of going to sleep, doesn’t even remember driving home. Steels himself for the onslaught of daylight and the havoc that will ensue as his cornea sends a terrified message to his weakly pulsing brain receptors—Danger, sunlight!—that in turn will alert the pain center to hit the panic button. He opens his right eye a crack. The predictable sensation of hot knives being inserted is mitigated by the realization that Vonda Jean is no longer in the bed. Already things are looking up.
Hard rolls on his side and waits for his stomach to settle. This takes a moment as the various internal ducts recalibrate and determine whether or not to send the contents of the Marvin stomach pouring out. The bourbon-drenched volcano rumbles, threatens, sloshes it’s sour lava, but mercifully fails to erupt. Hard places a tentative foot on the floor. The brain seems preoccupied with it’s own horrifying situation and the pressure of the floor against the pad of his foot does not provoke an unmanageable reaction. This leads Hard to place his other foot down. Collects himself for the task at hand: standing. Takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the sensation that a preternaturally strong and malevolent chimpanzee is manhandling his cerebral cortex. One, two, three: pushes his hands against the sheets and—there, he’s standing. Wobbles. The stomach again, riled. Hard waits a moment for the seas to calm. He lurches toward the bathroom.
He throws some water on his face. Opens the medicine chest sees a bottle of eye drops. He puts them in and blinks. He gargles mouthwash and spits it out. Looks at his stubbly face and considers shaving for a moment but decides that is entirely too ambitious a plan. He opens a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol and swallows four.
“Any coffee left?”
Vonda Jean cooking eggs at the kitchen stove. She is wearing workout clothes, her hair pulled back with a clip. She tells Hard to help himself. Hard dressed in a robe now, still unsteady, takes a ceramic cup from the pressed wood cabinet and fills it with coffee.
“You go for a run?”
“It’s a beautiful day,” she says. “Where’d you go last night?” Her voice sounds like broken glass.
“You asked me to get rid of Bane, so I did.” His own voice sounds to him as if it is coming from someone else, someplace far away.
Hard takes the coffee and goes to the living room. He does not want to engage with Vonda Jean any further right now. He sits in his recliner and sips the coffee. He’s supposed to do some campaigning for Mary Swain today, and he doesn’t want to leave the house feeling like this. Through the picture window in the living room he looks east over Twentynine Palms. The town has grown into a little metropolis since the Marvins settled here over twenty years ago, the population closing in on thirty thousand now. There’s a big new hotel being built and retirees, artists, and students at the new community college are all moving in because of the good land values. And all that’s not even counting the upwards of five thousand Marines at the combat training base just outside of town. Hard considers the place well on it’s way to being a redneck Palm Springs and he likes the idea of being mayor. Doesn’t just like it, but puffs up at the thought. In Los Angeles, two former Chiefs of Police had run for Mayor and been elected. One of them had even been a black guy and that was before black guys were getting elected to anything. It’s as good a starting point for a political career as any and Hard intends to find out how soon he can file papers for the next election.
The knock at the door is as welcome as shingles. Vonda Jean has girlfriends in the neighborhood and they sometimes stop by unannounced to visit. Hard has requested she tell her friends to call before dropping by but the women either don’t care or, more likely, Vonda Jean hasn’t bothered to relay his instructions.
Vonda Jean’s voice from the next room: “Harding, can you get the door? I’m still eating breakfast.”
He does not like this at all. It’s bad enough they drop by without calling, now he has to drag himself across the room and pretend to be nice to one of Vonda Jean’s friends when the mere thought of human company makes him more ill than he already is. He takes another sip of his coffee before placing the mug on an end table. Then he rises and ties his robe. Pads toward the door, fighting the Mexican Revolution in his gut. When Hard opens the door and sees Detectives Arnaldo Escovedo and Cali Pasco, his bloodshot eyes narrow and his head tilts slightly to one side.
“Sorry to bother you, Chief,” Detective Escovedo says
“What are you doing here?” Hard trying to keep any sense of doom out of his voice. Right now he regrets cursing out Escovedo the other day. Had he filed a grievance?
Detective Escovedo produces an official-looking piece of paper. Pasco is looking directly into his eyes. For a moment he thinks Vonda Jean is going to accuse him of having an affair with her. He hopes she stays in the kitchen.
“Chief, we have a warrant to search your house,” Escovedo says.
Hard’s mind rockets back to last night: the desert, the dog, the fire. The fire! Was he supposed to get a permit for the fire? Who could have seen him in the wash of scrub? He is certain there was no one around for miles. And even if it is illegal, and yes, it probably is, this is the jurisdiction of the Sherriff’s Department, not the Desert Hot Springs Police Department. What are his own people doing here asking to search his house, no, not asking but telling him they are going to rifle his home? Reflexively, Hard grabs the piece of paper out of Detective Escovedo’s hand and stares at it. Rendered in bold print at the top of the page are the words Search Warrant. At the bottom of the page is the signature of Judge Allan Diemer, a magistrate Hard knows to be rigid. Now Hard is desperately hoping this is some kind of horrible practical joke that will be revealed to him in a moment, people jumping out with video cameras, shouting happy birthday or April Fools, but he does a quick survey of his logy mind and remembers it’s not his birthday and it’s November, and no one jumps out yelling anything, the only sounds the cars rolling by on the long highway below. Until Vonda Jean pipes up from the next room.
“Harding, who is it?”
“Some people from the force.”
Vonda Jean appears in the doorway. “Howdy,” she says. “Should I put more coffee on?”
“They’re here to search the house.” No one says anything for a moment. Arnaldo and Cali look at Hard. Vonda Jean does, too. Hard looks out the door toward the desert. A shaft of sunlight falling through the picture window illuminates a river of dust motes that refract the light as they loop and twist in a chaotic ballet. Cali and Arnaldo exchange an uncomfortable glance.
“This house?” Vonda Jean says. Her voice rises slightly at the end of the second word. “What for?”
Cali tells her that someone Hard knew was murdered and before she can say another word, Vonda Jean asks, “So why are you here?”
Arnaldo says, “M’am, would you mind stepping out of the house, please? Chief, I’ll need you to do the same thing.”
At this moment, two Sherriff’s Deputies reveal themselves, young men in their thirties, ex-Marines. Hard knows them both, nods hello as he and Vonda Jean walk past them and on to their scrubby lawn. The Deputies greet them neutrally. There won’t be any fraternization this morning.
The Marvins are standing on the street looking toward their house. The sun is still low in the sky but it’s not as hot as it was yesterday. Hard sees a red-tailed hawk soaring overhead, searching for prey. He can feel Vonda Jean looking at him.
“You want to tell me what the hell this is about?”
The District Attorney’s Indio office is usually empty on Saturdays but Jimmy comes in to start getting caught up. He is seated in
his basement office sifting through the files when Oz Spengler appears at his desk and wants to know if he would like to get something to eat. Although Jimmy is not hungry, Oz is his new boss and he has vowed that he is going make more of an effort to get along with his superiors so he says he’d be happy to take a break.
To make conversation on the drive to the restaurant in Oz’s Ford Taurus, Jimmy asks if he’s got a wife and kids. When Oz answers in the affirmative, Jimmy asks if the family owns a dog. “Hairball,” Oz says. “A rescue.” A smile creases Jimmy’s lips and he tells Oz about The Book of Dogs. Oz says his young sons would like to see it. This is encouraging to Jimmy who allows himself to think, however briefly, that they might actually connect on a human level.
Now the two men are seated across from each other at Cactus Jack’s, a desert chain restaurant just down Highway 111, Oz saying “I believe in second chances, all right?” Jimmy would have preferred if Oz had not mentioned the circumstances of his arrival at the District Attorney’s office but he was determined to make it to his pension without further turbulence so he let it slide.
The place is half-filled in the middle of the afternoon, families and workers getting off hotel shifts. The two of them seated in a rear booth. Jimmy chewing his jalapeno burger when Oz asks him what went wrong up in Desert Hot Springs.
“It’s all in the record,” Jimmy says. Wishes Oz would just let it go.
“I read the record. I know what’s in there. Prior to the incident did you and Chief Marvin have a personal beef?”
Jimmy takes another bite of the jalapeno burger, chews, swallows. Oz not one of those guys that have to fill a silence with the sound of his own chatter. Jimmy likes that. But he feels the first inkling of temper. Takes a sip of his soda. Remember to breathe, one count in, two counts out.
“I don’t have personal beefs with anyone. People might have them with me. If they do, I can’t control it. It’s their problem.”
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