Veteran Avenue

by Mark Pepper

  ‘I’m the fucking provider round here, not you!’ he yelled, and hurled the mangled tin at her head.

  Despite her hurt and horror, Hayley managed to duck and the missile went astray. She scrambled for the apartment door, moaning and tasting blood, but Larry clawed her hair and foiled her escape. Then she was flying, and beneath her was the coffee table, an empty hoop of wood.

  She landed dead center. The table collapsed and she crunched down heavily on a carpet of glass slivers, screaming at the insult of multiple lacerations.

  She didn’t need a mirror to gauge her injuries; they were reflected in her husband. His rage had fled, gone in an instant, and in its place there was only shock. He was wide-eyed as he surveyed his handiwork.

  Hayley was on her stomach looking back at him. Her left arm was burning with pain, the impact having further damaged the broken bone. She pushed her tongue through the gap where her upper teeth had snapped off. Her lips felt ten times their normal size, and now the cuts to her palms and forearms and face were coming alive, beginning to leak blood furiously. There were so many levels of physical hurt, but they paled beside the emotional trauma.

  ‘Oh, shit, no,’ Larry said, welling up. ‘I didn’t mean ... I’m sorry ... I love you ...’

  There was a lump under Hayley’s thigh, which her brain identified with crazy glee. She lifted her leg and delved down with her good arm. Larry’s .45 was a real handful, but she thought nothing had felt so sweet in her grasp, although her grasp was darkly red and slimy. She thrust the gun towards him, cocked it and pulled the trigger – pure gut reaction, no thought for the consequences.

  Hearing the hammer strike the firing pin, Larry yelped, but there was no bullet in the chamber and he moved quickly to claim his weapon.

  Hayley had seen him work the slide when cleaning it, but she needed two hands and her broken arm wasn’t up to the job. The gun was snatched from her and she thought it was all over, that he’d use it on her. Instead, he retreated behind the sofa, and Hayley understood she didn’t need the gun; the picture she presented was killing him. He wasn’t drunk like last time; he was stone cold sober, barely a swallow of beer inside him, nothing to cloud the image of his beaten wife. He began sobbing lustily. His life was in ruin. Career, now marriage.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Hayley screamed, the words distorted by her new dental arrangement, but the message crystal clear. She climbed unsteadily to her feet, screeching glassy shards against each other. ‘You bastard! You fucking cunt! What are you crying for? You made it all go wrong, not me! What did I do? What did I do, huh? Now look at me. I’m meant to start filming next week. How? With a face like this? I got no teeth! I’m cut to fucking ribbons! You broke my arm! I didn’t even sign the contract yet! You think they’ll wait for me? They’ll give the part to someone else!’

  Larry was bawling.

  ‘Why am I even talking?’ Hayley said. ‘We’re finished.’

  She wobbled to the door, her left arm held protectively to her stomach, each footstep turning the carpet a haphazard crimson. Dipping her right hand into the groceries on the sideboard she produced her door keys and meaningfully left them on one side. Then she lifted out a bottle of Champagne and placed it beside them. Where she had held it, blood ran down the gold foil.

  Three of the office walls were decorated with citations, plaques, photographs, and police badges in cloth and metal. As Joey entered, Captain Gilchrist dropped the blind on the fourth wall, a window that gave onto the corridor. Joey assessed his superior to be barely in control of a foul temper. On his uniformed chest, his shield was crossed by a black mourning band.

  ‘Sit down, DeCecco.’

  ‘Sir, I’d rather stand, sir.’

  ‘Cut the crap and sit down,’ Gilchrist said, and claimed his own seat behind the desk.

  ‘Sir, yes, sir.’

  ‘And quit the double sirs, you’re not in the Marines now.’

  Joey settled himself stiffly on the chair. Gilchrist was staring hard at his subordinate. Suddenly he picked up a report, let his eyes light on it for all of three seconds, then placed it back down.

  ‘You seem fully recovered,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you know why I called this morning? What you’re doing here?’

  Joey nodded solemnly.

  ‘Kevin Mallory was killed last night.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And Larry Roth has been suspended pending an investigation by Internal Affairs.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  Gilchrist eyed him suspiciously. After several seconds, Gilchrist broke the moment by taking a mouthful of coffee from a mug bearing the image of an LAPD captain’s shield.

  ‘Right now, DeCecco, IA has a few questions need answering, questions that Roth seems unwilling or unable to answer.’

  Joey said nothing, and felt sick to his stomach that he was effectively in cahoots with a dangerous lunatic. Gilchrist picked up the report again and read from it.

  ‘“Then some guy with a shotgun showed up. Black clothes, black hat. Looked like a pro, something military. Moved quick, stealthy.” Any ideas, DeCecco? Because I can assure you that IA is formulating one or two of their own.’

  Sitting there in his black sweatshirt and black Levis, Joey only just managed to maintain his poker-face. He shook his head.

  ‘That your mourning outfit, then?’

  ‘I like black, sir. My wife says it suits me.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Gilchrist looked Joey up and down, appeared to reread a small section of the report, then looked Joey up and down again.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Joey said, ‘You’re not suggesting that was me last night?’

  ‘Not in those clothes, no. Your clothes from last night would have been covered in narcotics, so I imagine they’ve been disposed of already. But have you been so thorough with the vehicle you were driving? You couldn’t have gone on your bike, not with a shotgun. Which means, however well you think you cleaned it, your car will be contaminated, and that’s something CSI would have no trouble proving – if I decide to point them in your direction.’

  Joey pleaded The Fifth with his silence. Gilchrist pushed himself backwards and the castors rolled him to the window. He stood up and looked out, speaking to the glass.

  ‘Aren’t you at all curious as to who made the statement I just read to you?’

  ‘No, sir, why should I be?’

  Gilchrist turned round. ‘A vagrant. He was in a doorway near where you entered the building. You obviously didn’t see him.’ Gilchrist allowed himself a smile. ‘Which is pretty lamentable for someone trained in the art of reconnaissance, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Well, I can’t see a whole lot from my living room, sir, not with the curtains drawn.’

  ‘Really? So how would you feel about a line-up? See if our witness picks you out.’

  Joey shrugged. ‘Night-time, dark hotel. It would be easy to mistake a person. Especially for a witness who was probably drinking.’

  ‘How do you know it was a hotel? I didn’t say where it happened.’

  Joey went blank. Perhaps only for a second, but it was such a panic-filled second that it felt like a lifetime. Then he had his simple answer.

  ‘The guys downstairs.’

  It wasn’t the truth, of course, but it was plausible enough. Cops talked to each other at shift-change, and Joey realized he had nearly been caught out by an extremely facile challenge. Gilchrist seemed to know it, too, because he smiled and nodded.

  ‘Okay, Joey ...’ he said, ‘... okay, here’s what I think: I think you were there. I know someone was there, someone with enough skills to put Larry Roth out cold. And it wasn’t any of the perps because they died where they stood. Plus, they had automatic weapons. If they’d been able, they’d have done the same to Roth as they did to Mallory. But all Roth suffered was a near-busted jaw.’

  ‘What’s Roth saying about it?’

  ‘Says he slipped and knocked himself out. Which is possible – ther
e was a lot of blood and narcotics on the floor – but I don’t believe it happened that way.’ Gilchrist resumed his seat. ‘You and he had some sort of a spat in the parking lot the other day. Someone witnessed a weapon drawn. You want to tell me about that?’

  ‘Roth was just showing me his forty-five. A Tanfoglio. Expensive. He’s very proud of it.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You keep calling him Roth. Why not Larry? You’ve been partners a while now. Certainly long enough to get on first-name terms.’

  ‘I don’t like him,’ Joey said.

  ‘Well, that’s probably the first truthful thing you’ve said to me. So what’s he done to piss you off?’

  ‘I don’t like his manner, sir,’ Joey said. ‘We have very different styles of law enforcement.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Joey experienced an acute what-the-hell moment, and spoke his mind.

  ‘Larry Roth is a complete liability as a police officer. There’s no saying what he’s capable of. I believe he came unglued when Frank Dista died and he’s now hurting so bad he doesn’t give a fuck if everyone else around him gets hurt. Or killed. Sir.’

  ‘So, for Christ’s sake, Joey,’ Gilchrist said desperately, ‘help me take him off the street.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Have you forgotten that an officer died last night?’

  ‘No, sir, I haven’t. That’s something I won’t ever forget. But I repeat: I have nothing further to say on this matter.’

  ‘Joey, if you’re worried about your own position, I promise I’ll do everything I can to help.’

  Joey merely shook his head and Gilchrist gave up.

  ‘I’m not impressed, DeCecco. Your military record says you were an outstanding Marine. But things obviously change because, in my opinion, you don’t deserve to wear the uniform of the LAPD.’

  ‘But as long as I am wearing it, sir, I’m at least a day away from becoming some low-paid rent-a-cop patrolling a warehouse full of electrical goods.’

  ‘So you’re saying your involvement would see you out of a job. That’s very interesting.’

  ‘I’m saying … I’m saying this is a job I know I can excel at, and I damn well intend to continue doing it.’

  ‘Well, that may not be your decision. Not if I speak to IA.’

  Joey paused to regain the proper humility of a chastised subordinate. ‘Sir, I can be a real asset to this department and I believe you know that, but you’ve got to allow me to handle the situation my way.’

  Gilchrist leaned back in his chair and hoisted his feet onto the desk. He looked like he was past caring, but Joey couldn’t be sure, and posed a dangerous question.

  ‘Sir, will you be impounding my vehicle?’

  Gilchrist pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes. ‘No. Though I can’t stop IA formulating their own opinions as and when certain facts come to light. So if you are going to handle this situation, Officer DeCecco, I suggest you set about doing so pretty smartish.’

  Joey nodded. ‘Absolutely. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And I’d also suggest you have your car professionally detailed. Or that you take it somewhere remote and set fire to it. And that is not a suggestion I made because this entire conversation did not take place.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And you can work tomorrow and Friday, DeCecco. Make up for yesterday. Plus, we’re a little shorthanded right now.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Gilchrist gave a dismissive wave in the direction of the door. Joey was almost out of the office when Gilchrist produced a Columbo-style afterthought.

  ‘Oh, did I mention? I received a call earlier from a West LA officer. One of their patrols picked up Roth’s wife this morning. She was wandering the streets. She’s now in hospital. Someone had given her a severe beating. But it looks like she’s as dumb as you are, DeCecco, because she won’t point the finger, either. So it seems that man can do pretty much anything he likes and get away with it. I’m just glad you’re okay with that situation, because I’d hate to think how guilty you’d feel if he really lost control.’

  It had been tough going. Without the snow chains it would have been impossible. The Jeep had struggled through the drifts, maintaining forward momentum but snaking left and right. There had been more than a few hairy moments. During their climb, the sky had turned from blue to a laden grey. The deputy’s advice had been sound: the roads higher up were not impassable, but only the foolhardy would have ventured on. His hunch about the unmapped ghost town had also proved correct. Along the 82, in the valley between the Mountains and the National Forest, they had stopped in the town of Wallowa and had enquired. An old guy in a hardware store had – with a glint in his eye that said he was glad to be sending tourons to their doom – given directions that eventually brought them to the primary trail that led up to Fortuna.

  At this point, Virginia had taken over behind the wheel. John wanted to be a passenger again, as he had been at eight years old. In the end, his faded memories had not helped. Success had come from exhausting all possible routes. Where they found evidence of previous vehicular access, they realized they were simply covering old ground and the tracks belonged to their own Jeep.

  Eventually, Fortuna had given itself up to them, like Brigadoon, tired of evading their search. They had rounded a bend and there it was. But for its stark whiteness, the scene had not changed. A clearing in the forest, gently sloping, undulating. Sagging grey wood structures, rusty, defunct mining machinery, and log cabins on the periphery, all loaded high with snow. Virginia switched off the engine.

  ‘Is this it?’ she asked.

  John’s silence answered for him. He felt overwhelmed. He had thought about his unexplained childhood encounter so many times over the intervening years and had often mused whether he might one day return, but he had never believed he would. Occasionally, he had dreamed about it, and that was how it felt now: like a surreal imagining made solid. The bright winter stillness of the place only added to his sense of awe.

  ‘Would you like to get out?’ Virginia asked.

  ‘Not here. There’s a path beyond the trees over there. I don’t know whether this leads onto it. Can we try?’

  She restarted the Jeep and crept forward. Heavy snow could disguise some dangerous ground, level the terrain, and it was hard to tell where it was safe to drive, but Virginia persevered. John secretly watched her out of the corner of his eye. Her features were pinched with concentration, her focus just ahead of the Jeep’s hood. His heart full of flutters, he marveled at the way she could act on faith, risking her neck to satisfy his silly whim.

  They reached the tree line and Virginia stopped; there was no obviously beaten path through the firs.

  ‘Where now?’ she asked.

  ‘Somehow, the other side of these trees.’

  ‘You know, if we get stuck we could be in real trouble. That sky’s threatening some serious weather. Also, it’s gonna be getting dark in a couple of hours and we don’t have any survival gear to speak of.’

  From her tone, John gathered she was only acting as Devil’s advocate. She seemed almost as keen as him to complete their quest.

  ‘We can go back,’ he said.

  She gave a slight shake of her head, shifted into first and entered the forest. The Jeep weaved through the firs, its submerged tires seeking traction, but the snow had not settled so deeply beneath the canopy and their progress was slow but assured.

  They emerged a minute later, but even in those sixty seconds the world had greyed. The sky was hoarding, bulking up on its wintry cargo. The deputy’s warning was playing in John’s head: Weather fronts can roll in real quick.

  ‘Left,’ he said. ‘Up the hill.’

  Virginia turned the Jeep and applied some gas. Although whited-out, the route was obvious now. It hugged the edge of a mountain valley, one side trees, the other side death. A middle course seemed appropriate.

  ‘Was it far from
here? Do you remember?’ she asked.

  ‘Five minutes maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. It was so many years ago.’

  ‘Could you see the cabin from the track?’

  ‘No, it was some way into the forest.’

  ‘Well, let’s time five minutes from now, then stop and take a look around.’

  As John checked the clock in the dash, the first flakes of snow began to blot the windshield.

  It took them over two hours to find the cabin. John had misjudged at five minutes. Assuming it was more rather than less, they had ventured further up the mountain, stopping the Jeep every ten seconds or so to search into the forest. They had stayed together, knowing it would take longer, but preferring that option to one or both of them getting lost.

  It was the V8 pick-up that first caught their eye, still parked where Chuck had left it that fateful day. Against a backdrop of tree trunks, its rusting hulk was easier to spot than the log cabin.

  It had been a timely discovery; driving had become impossible. The snow was now a descending white wall, obscuring everything. The forest provided some respite, but the firs stood apart sufficiently that the snow had no trouble finding the ground.

  John ran back to the Jeep to bring it off the track. He weaved it through the trees, pulled alongside the pick-up and cut the engine. Virginia waited for him to get out. After fifteen seconds he was still sitting behind the wheel, so she climbed in next to him and closed the door.

  ‘You okay?’ she said.

  He smiled crookedly and put the wipers to intermittent. The wintry deposit was swished from view.

  ‘This is eerie,’ John said. ‘I think we’re the first people to see this place in thirty-five years.’

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’

  He looked at her quizzically as the wipers struck again.

  ‘The body,’ she explained. ‘If it’s still inside, then we are the first. Do you hope it is?’

  ‘Yes. Not because I’m morbid. I just want everything to be as it was. If the body’s been removed, I imagine the cabin will have been cleared as well.’