Everything is Broken

by John Shirley

  EVERYTHING IS BROKEN

  John Shirley

  For My Sons

  Special Thanks to Michelina Shirley and Paula Guran

  Copyright © 2012 by John Shirley.

  Cover photo by Christian Lebon.

  Cover design by Telegraphy Harness.

  Ebook design by Neil Clarke

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-341-9 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-292-4 (trade paperback)

  PRIME BOOKS

  www.prime-books.com

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  For more information, contact Prime Books at prime@prime-books.com.

  For everything born must truly die and truly out of death comes life. Facing what must be, cease from sorrow. All beings are invisible before birth and after death are once more invisible. They are seen between two unseens . . . There is no greater good for a warrior than to fight in a war of duty. There is a war whose fight opens the gates of heaven, Arjuna! Happy is the warrior who fights this war. Prepare for war with peace in thy soul . . .

  —The Bhagavad Gita (circa 500 BCE)

  Author’s Note

  This novel’s setting is purely imaginary. I made up my own “Freedom, California.” There is, somewhere, a town called Freedom in California, but that is a different place. That “Freedom, California” is real—and mine is not. This novel’s “Freedom, California” is quite dissimilar geographically and, doubtless, in every other respect, to any real-life town of that name. Nor should anyone suppose that any town anywhere called “Freedom” is in any way the model for my fictional town.

  Also please note that this novel is set a short distance in the future . . . not too far but just far enough.

  PART ONE:

  Welcome to Freedom

  Streets are filled with broken hearts

  Broken words never meant to be spoken—

  Everything is broken

  —Bob Dylan

  “Everything Is Broken”

  PROLOGUE

  “My name is Dickie Rockwell and I fucking rule Freedom, California!”

  He yelled it at the rising tide, the churning waves; yelled it so loud he was hoarse with shouting. “My name is Dickie Fucking Rockwell and I’m twenty-seven fucking years, two fucking months and three fucking days old, and I stand before you in Freedom, fucking California, in the fucking U! . . . S! . . . A!”

  Gazing over the cold October sea, staring all the way to the horizon, the edge of reality, Dickie raised his arms like a prophet. The seagulls on the beach, big dirty-white birds squawking under the gunmetal sky, were his followers. “My name is Dickie Rockwell, and I will rule, I do fucking rule! . . . in Freedom, California!” When he raised his arms he could feel the 9mm Glock, moving against the small of his back, where the pistol was stuck in his belt under his fringed brown leather jacket.

  Some of his followers—the Grummon brothers and Mike Sten and Nella—were forty yards behind him, getting impatient waiting on the asphalt walk next to the highway. But they weren’t like real followers—not enough like that. They did what he said, most of the time, sure. Only, that wasn’t good enough.

  But still: Dickie knew how to make things happen. He declared what he wanted, declared it to the edge of the world, and when he did that his words went echoing out over the horizon to cook in the sun’s rays out there . . . and then the declaration would come burning back—and make everything true. Sometimes it took awhile; sometimes he had to kick some ass to help it come true. God helps him who helps himself. But when he made these declarations, events seemed to line up with them, one way or the other.

  He ran a few steps forward, splashing the foamy edge of the water, yelling again, “My name is Dickie Rockwell!” He turned and ran at the gulls, the leather fringe on his jacket whipping in the wind, the birds roistering around a big old log where someone had left a bag of chips half empty. “And I rule in Freedom, California!” The birds scattered before him, rising up to declare Dickie Rockwell the master of Freedom, California. He could hear it in the squawks of the seagulls. He rules!

  Dickie raised his arms over his head and shouted, “Freedom California, U! S! motherfuckin’ A!”

  He closed his eyes and thought: It’s coming to me. Coming to me . . .

  And sure enough, just when the gulls were starting to settle down again, Dickie felt his declaration confirmed: it was coming back to him, bounced off the edge of the world. Like a vibration in the ground, a rumble, a small earthquake shiver under the balls of his booted feet. He could even hear the rumble. Saw the birds take off again—they felt it too.

  Dickie rocked in the backwash from his declaration, taking deep breaths. The sea smelled good.

  Then he dropped his arms and spun around, waited one beat—and raised a fist. And his peeps up there on the asphalt walk, above the line of busted-up boulders, knew enough to give him thumbs up and fists up and nods and grins. Except for Sten, of course, but Dickie understood that—Mike Sten had to stay in who he was, stay in the Cool Thing, or he’d just melt away. He wore those dark glasses and he kept that little amused smile on his hatchet face and he just waited for the right time. That was Mike Sten.

  Dickie trudged back up to his boys, feeling the cold now, the rising late afternoon wind off the sea licking damply at his neck. Nella was standing with them: a girl he fucked sometimes. She always said she was one of his boys too.

  “Gettin’ cold out here,” Liddy Grummon remarked, as Dickie walked up. Liddy was squinting, the sun was in his eyes. Like his brother Randle, Liddy had a drawn out, flexible face and it got all twisted up around the squint. He wore a long, dirty gray coat over a stained San Jose Sharks jersey.

  “That a complaint? Poor Liddy gettin’ cold? I was down there all of ten minutes.”

  “No, I wasn’t complainin’. My ears is getting cold, but um . . . ” Liddy had a funny way of flicking his hands, like he was trying to get something off them, to emphasize every phrase. “I was just thinkin’ that with the sheriff being down at Buried Cove, this is the time to deal with Buff.” Flick.

  “Good fucking thing I’ve got you to advise me, Liddy,” Dickie said, taking all intonation out of his voice as he said it.

  Randle spoke up for his brother. “Dickie, come on, he just means sheriff’s not gonna be busy with a burning trailer forever . . . ” Randle was a plumper version of his younger brother; same crooked teeth and long, lank brown hair and little sharp blue eyes, but sloppy around the middle from almost perpetual beer drinking. He had a tall can in his left hand right now, in a paper sack.

  “We got time,” Nella said. “Shit, Sheriff Duncan moves slow as molasses in January—in the Arctic.” She grinned. Her teeth were yellow but they were straight. One was missing, on the left corner of her smile. She was a skinny white girl, freckled, but she kept her red-brown hair cornrowed—mostly so she wouldn’t have to wash it much. She had a tattoo of a rose on her neck that said Dickie under it. The Dickie was partly crossed out, but he’d gotten back to her before she’d finished crossing it out and after a short beating Nella had decided she wanted to keep the Dickie tat. She’d even added another one, fancier, on her left tit.

  He really needed to get another woman in the Sand Scouts.

  “I’m pretty sure Buff was up all night,” Nella added, one hand searching through her ski jacket pockets for a cigarette. “Buff went to sleep maybe two hours ago. That’s what Twotty says.” She found a crumpled pack, half a cigarette left, lipped it out.

  “Twotty’s always tweakin’, ” Dickie said. “Not reliable.”

  “Ha,” Sten said. “Twotty tweakin’. ” He never actually laughed
but sometimes his wolfish face drew back into a kind of snarl when he was amused and then he’d say, “Ha” out loud. Now, with a practiced, effortlessly dramatic movement, he zipped up his old-fashioned black leather jacket. Sten was skinny, got cold easy. His hair was receding, Dickie noticed. How old was Sten? Hard to tell, with him. He lived in some kind of cool-greaser Neverland where the inhabitants never seemed to age. Anyway, he was the oldest of the Sand Scouts.

  “I’m already on my fucking way to see Buff,” Dickie said wearily, pushing Liddy to one side so he could cross the road into Old Town Freedom. It had been Old Town Ferry Landing before the mayor got town council to change the name. Supposed to help the tourist thing. They’d aged the signs to make them look like the place had always been called Freedom.

  Dickie strode across the highway, the others hurrying to follow, as a semi-truck pulling a trailer of logs boomed past, blaring its horn angrily, just missing them by maybe two seconds, its slipstream skirling the smell of wood, diesel, peeling bark.

  They walked between the coffee-and-fish smells of the Rusty Pelican café, and the incense smells of Deanna’s Gift Shoppe, where sometimes Sten bought rolling papers. Then they headed up the gravel alley to the thin, cracked concrete road that twisted its way up the hill rising over the highway. The hill shouldered most of the houses, old and new, in the central area of Freedom.

  Near the top of the hill they trooped up a cracked concrete driveway to the little cracker box house where Buff lived with Twotty, when Twotty happened to be at home and not off on some speed run.

  They found Buff snoring, alone, facedown, on a futon in the back bedroom. He was half-wrapped in a blue, unzipped sleeping bag on a foam-rubber futon, his fat, hairy ass exposed. His thick, pale bristly legs flopped off the futon, angled across the gray-painted wooden floor. Around him, open cardboard boxes overflowed with dirty clothes, junk food wrappers, dope paraphernalia, odds and ends of legal papers, leather pouches, dirty backpacks, empty bottles. There were no decorations in the room. One box contained brassieres, women’s underwear, leggings—Twotty’s shit, probably. Dickie didn’t see any guns or ammunition, but he noticed that one of the nylon backpacks, unzipped close to Buff’s disheveled head, was bulging just enough. He squatted by it, picked it up, felt the distinct weight of a handgun in it. He looked inside: yeah, a .45 Colt pistol. And next to it, a half-ounce of yellow-white crystals, probably bathtub meth. Didn’t look like the stuff Dickie sold.

  Dickie stood up, swinging the little backpack like a pendulum, as he looked around. Buff had been staying there more than a year and he was still living out of boxes. “See, I move into a place,” Dickie said, as Sten and the others went to stand over the snoring man, “I like to spread myself over it, put my imprint on it, organize it.” It was true: his own place, at what used to be Jenner’s Jerky Ranch, was neatly organized, everything in its place, the walls covered with pictures of men he admired. Benito Mussolini, General George Patton, Julius Caesar, Erwin Rommel, Al Capone, and the white supremacist metal-rapper, Skizmo. On his bedroom door was a poster for the 1960s Omar Sharif movie Genghis Khan. He’d watched Genghis Khan on VHS six times; Patton he’d seen seven times. “But this Buff, he’s into living out of fucking cardboard boxes.”

  Buff groaned and snorted and changed position, at that, and went back to snoring.

  “Ha,” Sten said. “Sleeps like a baby just off the tit.”

  Nella laughed. “What a big smelly hairy fucker.” She was from Winnipeg, way up north, had a slight Canadian accent. “He used to be buff, when he was takin’ the steroids, that’s why they call him Buff, but now look at him, all fat and flabby.”

  “Naw, they call him Buff because he used to sell buffalo meat,” Randle said. He had a tendency to divert criticism from heavyset people. “He’s got an uncle, dude had one of those buffalo ranches and he used to go around—” He broke off, seeing Dickie staring at him.

  “Randle?” Dickie said. “Shut up.”

  Then Dickie kicked Buff hard in the ribs with a steel-toed boot; the boots still had sand on them from the beach. He felt a couple of Buff’s ribs crunch. The snoring abruptly became a squealing, with Buff floundering about. The Grummon brothers laughed.

  Dickie drew Buff’s gun from the backpack, seeing at a glance that it was loaded, and made sure it was the first thing Buff saw when he tried to sit up, writhing around that busted rib.

  “Ow! Fuck!”

  Dickie pointed the gun at Buff’s head. “Buff, you’ve been selling crystal in town here and you were told not to,” Dickie said softly. “We had an understanding about who sells what, and where.”

  Sten had tugged out the little .32 he liked and Nella had her buck knife open. The Grummon brothers had their .45s showing.

  “Whuh the fuck, what you doin’ here, you bust my ribs, I never sold no fucking nothing in your—!”

  “Stop lying,” Dickie said, his tone all calm and advisory, “or I am going to shoot you in the nuts.” He shifted the gun to point at Buff’s testicles.

  Buff went to whimpering, shaking his shaggy head. He scratched in his brown beard—the kind of raggedy beard a guy grows unintentionally, because he’s forgotten about shaving. “I thought—you stopped dealing . . . ”

  “I did,” Dickie said. “For a month—maybe two. Because the State Troopers came around. And we had to burn down our cookin’ trailer too. But that doesn’t mean somebody else can start up because I’m laying low, Buff. No. I was just waiting for the heat to die down. And it’s only been a few weeks. Now—everything clear?”

  Buff was clutching his side; there were tears trailing through the grease on his fat, hairy cheeks. His mouth twitched and pretty obviously Buff wanted to say something about his ribs. The pain. The injustice of it all, and such. But he didn’t. He just bit his lower lip and stared at the floor. Finally he managed, “Clear. It’s clear. I got to get to a doctor, get an X-ray and shit.”

  Dickie shook his head. “Oh—did I give you the wrong impression? That we were done with you just because you finally understood me? No, Buff. It’s actually too late for that. Help him get dressed, Randle. You too, Nella.”

  “I got to touch the fat fuck?”

  “Get it done.”

  It took them some time to get him dressed enough, red hoody sweatshirt and torn sailor pants—from before Buff was kicked out of the Navy—his big belly sagging over the buttons as he staggered out the door. They’d hidden their guns away again, except Dickie had the Colt out, down close to his side.

  “You want me to get my ve-hicle?” Sten asked, as they went out front. For some reason he liked to say the word like that: ve-hicle.

  “No need,” Dickie said. “We got his. We gonna keep that one anyway.”

  They all climbed in Buff’s big old rattletrap VW bus and drove him to the old salt quarry, about a quarter mile inland, a little ways off Seaward Road: a sandy depression in the ground where a broken earthmover rusted.

  All the way there, Buff was saying things like, “I’ll pay you whatever you say, you already punished me, Dickie, you busted my ribs, fuckin’ hurts, and I didn’t even do it!” with boring repetitiveness.

  Buff was jabbering like that right up until they dragged him out of the van, shoved him up against the old earthmover. Then he got quiet. His gap-toothed mouth was open wide, one hand holding up his pants, as he looked at the guns ready in their hands; how they were standing around him in a circle. The realization was suddenly there on Buff’s face. Like a man turning on the light to find he’s stepped into a nest of rattlesnakes.

  “That’s right . . . ” Dickie said. “Now you’re getting it.”

  He noticed an abandoned bird’s nest, a big one, in what was left of the tractor’s seat, behind Buff. Maybe an omen. Dickie believed in omens big time.

  That’s when he felt the rumble under his feet again, coming from the direction of the sea. Whoa. He’d really made contact with the edge of the world!

  The others felt it too, looking arou
nd, frowning. The ground shaking a little . . .

  “That’s right,” Dickie went on, “you remember how we do it, me and my people. All together, so we all take responsibility as a team.”

  “This’ll be like bear hunting,” Liddy Grummon said, his face twisted around a grin.

  “Ha,” Sten said. “Bear hunt. Cornered that ol’ bear.”

  “No—listen—” Buff licked his lips. “I thought of something you want to know. It’s about Shipman—he’s—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Dickie hissed, pointing his gun at Buff’s leg. Good place to start.

  “No!” Buff yelled, and tried to run, but Dickie shot the big man’s right knee out from under him, and he went down, spurting leg kicking, and then the others were shooting down at Buff—the Grummons and Sten, firing with an ear-bruising racket of gunshots.

  “Enough!” Dickie shouted, after a few seconds. They stopped, as the acrid blue smoke drifted around them.

  What had Buff said? Shipman? He didn’t like to think about Shipman so he’d told Buff to shut up, but now that he considered it, he wanted to know. “What’d he say about Shipman?” Dickie asked, waving smoke away.

  Liddy Grummon squinted at him through the smoke. “Joe Shipman—from when we was in Sea Scouts. He came back to town. He’s trying to sell his old house or something. Might still be in town . . . ”

  Joe Shipman. Within reach.

  Buff gargled and sobbed and bubbled. All those shots, but Buff wasn’t dead yet. He was dying, a pool of dark red already sinking into the sandy ground around him, but he was still wiggling around, and groaning. So Dickie gestured to Nella, telling her to get in close with the knife.

  Everyone had to be part of it. They all had to commit. She got in close, knelt by Buff, and he thought he saw a sort of Mother Teresa look on her face. Sometimes she pretended she was harder than she was.

  Maybe it was more like when his mom had taken him to get the Rottweiler put down. The vet’d had a look like that, injecting the hotshot into the dog’s neck. Just getting it done.