One Day You'll Burn

by Joseph Schneider

  He made a left up Micheltorena, slowing to read the numbers on curbs and mailboxes. The address the couple gave on their sign-up sheet was 6120, and he still had a ways to go. He checked his rearview and saw he was alone, no cars following him, and that made him happy. Bonda knew crimes committed during the day were considered higher risk for the offender, but experience taught him there were advantages too. Most people in a given neighborhood were gone during the day—that was a plus. Second, neighbors who were home were apt to be less suspicious than they were at night. A strange car on the street could go unnoticed for hours, and Bonda had got his routine down to just about a minute from the moment he shifted into park. In and out, slick as you please.

  He was in the four thousands now and remembered the even numbers would be on his right. He began to get more excited as he got closer. This would be a treat and a real departure for him. The couple who’d come to him to learn their wedding dance was much older than he was used to. The woman looked like she was in her forties, with crow’s feet around the eyes and enormous, matronly jugs, but she was still pretty in a kind of bookish way. Her fiancé was at least ten, maybe fifteen years older, mostly bald, and as forgettable and dull a client as Bonda had ever had. He was only their dance teacher, so they didn’t confide in him too much, but they’d both hinted at previous marriages. At one point the woman—Katherine—said she’d all but given up on remarrying until she’d met Bill. And oh, how fabulous he was, and oh, what a gentleman, and oh, how he even looked forward to doing a wedding dance when so many men dreaded them. Bonda had smiled and congratulated the couple, had even given Bill a manly clap on the arm and told him he was thrilled to work with such an enthusiastic groom. And all the while, in his heart, he wanted nothing more than to destroy this couple, to rip apart their second chance at marriage like a rototiller through a flowerbed. He wanted to grievously wound that boring, unremarkable man, a man who despite his crippling ordinariness and ridiculous, shining head seemed strangely confident and even—somehow—tough. And the woman, with her bubbly optimism and shelflike tits, how Bonda wanted to hurt her the most, to kill her spirit and leave her broken.

  He’d wished and hoped for two things, and they’d both come true. His first wish was that they lived together. It seemed about half his couples did, but just as many did not, waiting for that special day to move in with each other. And bingo, they did live together, at 6120 Micheltorena. His second wish, and this was the biggie, was that they were the proud and happy owners of a dog. And oh yes, they certainly were, of a scurrying little Maltese that’d demanded all of Bonda’s acting ability to pretend he thought was cute. They’d brought the yapping puffball into the studio on more than one occasion, cooing over it between run-throughs of their dance routine while he, Bonda, imagined the little fucker writhing on its back, blowing fluid from its mouth and its ass until respiratory failure finally killed it.

  He harvested the poison from the banks of the LA River, where Cicuta douglasii Calflora—California water hemlock—grew in wild profusion. It was such a pretty plant: a tall, branching perennial that blossomed with small, white, umbrella-shaped flowers. All parts of it were highly toxic, but the most concentrated poison was in the roots. All you had to do was shave off a chunk, and you’d start to see a yellowish oil begin to flow. That was the good stuff, the real deal. Toss that with some ground round and you’d have quite the “spicy meat-a-ball.”

  Bonda chortled. He was almost there now. 6080, 6090, 6100…and then he saw the house. It was drab, slate-colored, and boxy, surrounded by a high wooden fence—what homeowners called a good-neighbor fence, because you couldn’t see between the slats. The last time he’d staked the place out, it had been nighttime, and he hadn’t been able to tell just how ugly it was. What was important, though, was the way the house was built. It had a large front yard, which you could easily see down into if you drove a little farther up the hill. There was no backyard, just a deck that hung over a steep drop. That meant the dog had to play in the front, something that was also confirmed by the chew toys strewn about the grass and the doggie door cut into a side wall. It was ideal. Not that Bonda hadn’t had to deal with backyard dogs before, but he preferred it this way. It was more certain the meatball would land intact and in a place accessible to the animal.

  He glanced in his rearview again. A Jetta was making its way up the hill behind him. Bonda pulled over, and soon the car passed him, the driver not sparing him a glance as he continued upward. Bonda liked this street. There were no pedestrians about, and the sight lines were terrific; he’d know far in advance if anyone was approaching from either end. Only a few cars were parked along this stretch, and there was plenty of empty space in front of 6120.

  Bonda pulled in front, slipped on a pair of vinyl food-prep gloves, and was about to go to work when he noticed something. About a block ahead of him, on the other side of the street, was parked a service van. Neptune Pool & Jacuzzi, it read on the side, followed by the slogan, “Keepin’ you in blue since ’72!” Bonda frowned. He didn’t like workmen being around when he did his thing. They kept records of their jobs, when they arrived and when they left, and if—worst case scenario—they spotted Bonda, they could easily help an investigator put together both a timeline and a suspect description.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his frown deepening. Should he go get some food and come back in an hour? He checked the time, nearly three in the afternoon. The wedding ceremony would be starting soon, and after that, there’d be champagne and canapes while the happy couple took pictures, then dinner, then drinking and, of course, the wedding dance. A bland nightclub two-step he’d choreographed years ago and recycled for every couple that came to him with a ballad. (Bill and Katherine had picked “Crazy Love” by Van Morrison. Not exactly original folks, hate to tell ya.) And after all that, there’d be cake and the usual silliness with the garter belt and the bouquet and the requisite drunk uncle swatting a bridesmaid’s ass. Bonda knew he had plenty of time before the newlyweds, ready to boink their little hearts out, came back in the limo and found their dog cold and stiff. But four o’clock would be right around the time the assholes in this neighborhood began coming home from work, first just a few, then a flood. There might even be kids playing in the street. Probably not, as steep as it was, but you never knew.

  Shit.

  No, he’d do it now. And not just because he’d been looking forward to it ever since he’d met this couple. The risk was greater if he waited. For the reasons he’d already considered, but also because a car leaving and coming back had a higher likelihood of being noticed. It was better to do it now. He could be pulling away from the curb and back on his way in a minute—a measly little minute—and Mr. Neptune Pool & Jacuzzi could just go fuck himself.

  It was decided. Breathing a little faster now, he opened his center console and took out the Ziploc bag of meat. He’d already mixed in the poison back at his apartment, and this was all ready to go—eight ounces of raw ground chuck finished with an eyedropper-full of hemlock oil, more than enough to send a Maltese to doggie heaven. He opened the bag and dumped the meat into his waiting right hand. It was pure death he hefted there—death and a misery that would last for years, hopefully a lifetime.

  Using his still-clean left hand, Bonda pulled the door handle and stepped into the street. He glanced both ways, keeping his handful of meat out of sight inside the car. Nobody either on foot or on wheels. He gave the Neptune van a lingering look. No technician heading toward it for a part or an invoice, not yet anyway.

  Bonda stepped around the back of his car and approached the house, moving quickly. This is for you, he thought. This is for you, you fucking bitch.

  His divorce had cost him exactly five hundred and twenty thousand dollars, a staggering sum. Now, instead of owning his dance studio free and clear, he’d be paying off the mortgage until the day he died. His retirement? That was a laugh. Gone. Gone along with everything else. I
t’d all been his money to begin with, his savings, not hers, and now he had to teach six days a week to stay afloat. Six days a week of stumbling beginners who could barely clap out a rhythm, let alone move to one. Six days of fat-assed women who always wanted to be lifted like ballerinas, of horny single men hoping to get lucky in his group classes. It was endless. The faces changed, sometimes anyway, but the people were always the same. And it would go on and on and on.

  But it was the wedding couples most of all. The wedding couples didn’t merely depress him; they infuriated him. Of course, he hated the bitchy ones and the occasional screamers, those who fought in front of him like he was their shrink, but the lovey-dovey ones were the worst. It was the promise in their eyes—the promise of a bright, happy future, one that in Bonda’s mind always included a little house with a tire swing and a new kid getting farted out every couple of years. Oh yes. And, of course, the family dog. Well, he couldn’t do much about everything else, but he could certainly fix that last part.

  He wound back his arm, looking first left, then right. If only I could stuff this right into your lying, whoring mouth. He threw. The tennis-ball-sized hunk of meat sailed in a graceful arc over the fence and disappeared. Bonda was on his way back to the car before it even landed, feeling full of giddy life, ready to hop in and grab a pizza and think about the look on Bill and Katherine’s faces when the vet told them yes, Plushy or Muffy or whatever the fuck it was called had in fact been poisoned. Killed while they celebrated the happiest day of their lives.

  Bonda gave a squawk of laughter and was reaching for the car door when there was the whoop of a siren and the purr of a fast-approaching engine. He looked up and watched openmouthed as a police car came roaring down the street.

  It’s not for me. It can’t be.

  There was another whoop, this time from behind him. Bonda turned and saw another police car ascending the hill, also moving fast. Then the back doors of the Neptune van opened, and several people got out. First, there was a beanpole of a man with a dopey haircut and glasses. Bonda could see he had a gun and badge on his hip, and so did the next two who followed him out. They were the couple he’d known as Bill and Katherine. They looked right at him, and they smiled.

  The police cars came to a stop on either side of him, and four officers leapt out, guns drawn and shouting commands. Bonda did as he was told, getting down first on his knees, then full on his stomach. His hands were cuffed behind his back, tightly, one of them biting into the skin of his wrist and making him shout. Then he was hauled to his feet and pressed against the side of his Daewoo. Hands moved briskly up and down his body then, finding nothing but his wallet and cell phone, and kept him pinned in place.

  “Don’t move,” a voice commanded.

  “I’d like a lawyer.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “I want those bagged right now,” said a different voice.

  “On or off?” another asked.

  “On. Leave the gloves on him. I want pictures back at the station.”

  An officer drew paper bags over his hands and secured them with rubber bands. The cops turned him around then, and the beanpole one was there, flanked by Bill and Katherine or whoever they were.

  “The Dog Catcher,” Beanpole said.

  A uniformed cop reached inside the Daewoo and switched off the idling engine. He hit the unlock button, and a second cop opened the passenger door and began photographing the interior of the car.

  “Get a good close-up of my Del Taco receipts,” Bonda said but without as much vitriol as he’d wanted to muster.

  Another car joined them—obviously a cop car, but the kind detectives drove. A fat Mexican in an ill-fitting suit got out and limped over, joining the trio who were sizing him up. After staring at Bonda for half a minute, he spoke up.

  “I got a dog.”

  Bonda gave no response.

  “Belgian Malinois. Took him in after his handler was killed in the line of duty. Had him six years.” He stepped closer.

  Bonda’s natural instinct was to retreat, but his back was already pressed against his car. All he could do was watch as the fat cop took one step, then another, until Bonda could smell the man’s Speed Stick.

  “Fuckin’ coward,” the cop said and stayed in his face for a few more seconds, as if daring him to do something. He finally moved away, and Bonda realized he’d been holding his breath.

  “He ridin’ with us?” the fat cop asked Beanpole.

  “Yeah. Think so.”

  Another uniformed cop strolled into view, smiling and carrying a transparent plastic bag. Inside, Bonda recognized his meatball. It was a little worse for the wear from its trip over the fence, and a few blades of grass clung to its misshapen body, but there it was.

  “I want a lawyer,” Bonda said again.

  Beanpole gave a nod, and two more cops—there were about ten of them milling around now—closed in on either side and shepherded him to the back of the car driven by the Mexican. Just like on the TV shows, they pushed his head down so he wouldn’t bang it on the doorframe.

  It wasn’t like the normal cop cars—no grate between the front and back seats. There was even a shotgun near him, but it was locked into a mechanism that looked like it needed a special key to release it. He glanced up as the passenger door opened and Beanpole got in. The fat Mexican cop was still outside, talking to the uniformed ones.

  “You’re breaking the law,” Bonda said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Didn’t read me my rights.”

  Beanpole let out a thin, mirthless laugh. “I haven’t asked you anything yet. Don’t have to read your rights till then.”

  “I want a lawyer,” Bonda said for the third time.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Okay.”

  They sat in silence, watching the activity outside. A few neighbors had stepped out of their homes by now and were gathered in clusters, chattering, pointing.

  “Get me out of here.”

  “In Zoroastrianism,” the cop said, “dogs are considered sacred. Did you know that? They guard the bridge to heaven. In fact, if a dog is pregnant on your property, whether she’s yours or not, you’re required to make sure she and her puppies are safe.”

  Bonda sighed, a little shakily.

  “I got you,” Beanpole murmured.

  “What?”

  “I said I got you.”

  Bonda still didn’t think he’d heard the man correctly and leaned forward.

  Beanpole met his eyes in the rearview. “I made a promise that I would. You see”—he turned around now, so that he was looking right at Bonda—“you’re only this big.” He held out two fingers, about an inch apart. “And the rest of the darkness is just as small. But you’re tenacious, that much is true. You don’t want to go, and you make a lot of noise while you’re here, so people notice. But you’re this fucking small.”

  The Mexican cop finally stopped talking and got in on the driver’s side. “We good to go?”

  The skinny cop didn’t answer at first, just kept looking at Bonda with an expression somewhere between fascination and disgust. Then he turned away.

  “Yeah. Good to go.”

  The car pulled a U-turn and headed back down the hill to Hyperion, which would take them to Sunset, then Wilcox, and finally to Hollywood Station.

  * * *

  Tully Jarsdel rolled down the passenger window and took in the cool January breeze. They went around a curve, and he caught a brief view of the city. His city. There was the Vista Theatre and Children’s Hospital and, far off, the spire of the Capitol Records building.

  I’m here, and I’ll make it right, he’d told Brahma. Yes, it had been a foolish promise, the kind you make without knowing what the terms really are.

  But still, he’d made it. And now he m
ade it again. And for a little while, at least, he felt some peace.

  Reading Group Guide

  1. When Dustin Sparks—a special effects professional—discovers the victim’s body, he notices that it resembles some of his work in horror films. Do you think graphic violence in movies can affect how we perceive reality? Why or why not?

  2. Jarsdel found his career as a history professor unendurable and left his field to join the police force. What do you think inspired his career change? Do you think he made the correct decision?

  3. Describe the relationship between Jarsdel and his parents. Why is there so much tension between them? Do you think it’s fair for his parents to be resentful of his career choice?

  4. What do you think of Jarsdel and Morales’s dynamic? Do you think they work well together? If you were a detective, who would you choose as your partner? Why?

  5. In what ways does Jarsdel’s academic background influence his police work? Is his background always helpful, or does it get in the way of the investigation?

  6. Aleena and Jarsdel debate the existence of true evil—Aleena claims that people do bad things to each other because of their circumstances, and Jarsdel believes that sometimes a person’s ‘badness’ is inherent. Which side do you agree with? Are all people capable of evil?

  7. What do you make of someone like Jeff Dinan? Do you think he’s a good person?

  8. Would working a disturbing case like this make you question your notions of good and evil? Do you think it’s possible to investigate violent crimes without becoming jaded?

  9. What kinds of things do you associate with modern-day Hollywood? Do you agree with Stevens that the magic of old Hollywood has been lost?