Mammoth

by Douglas Perry

  “You in town on business?”

  She smiled again, pleased to have provoked interest. “Why, yes, I am. Big meeting, big client. The whole team is here.” She rolled her eyes.

  She had to be mid-thirties, Billy thought, possibly more without the makeup. He guessed a divorcee. An executive assistant to some asshole.

  “What’s that?” she said, eyeing the big bag in his arm.

  “My life’s savings.”

  She barked out a laugh, spackling the elevator doors with spittle. “Oh, you’re a funny one,” the woman said.

  Billy was warming to her. “How much longer you here?” he asked.

  The door opened and she stepped out, half-turning back to him. “Tomorrow’s our last night.” She offered a conspiratorial smile. “Well, I’m right here.” She pointed to the first door in the hallway. Billy nodded as the elevator doors closed.

  Billy was feeling surprisingly good all at once. He replayed the woman’s seal-like laugh. She reminded him of someone. He searched his memory. Right, the girl outside the bookstore last year. Jennifer . . . Jane . . . something like that. Same laugh. Same hair. Billy still had the W.I.N. button—Whip Inflation Now—that she was giving out to people. It was in an old Folgers container on his bedside table. He had promised her he would wear it if she’d have a drink with him, and of course she wore hers, too, right next to her heart, until he pulled the blouse over her head and plopped her down on his bed.

  Billy couldn’t believe it had been more than a year since that day. President Ford’s anti-inflation campaign had failed miserably, just as everyone knew it would, despite all the free buttons. Nobody could afford to save any money. That’s why decent men turned to crime. That’s why Jennifer/Jane couldn’t find a real job.

  The elevator eased to a stop and he stepped out. The woman—the executive assistant to the asshole—hadn’t told him her name, he realized. He kept walking. It didn’t matter; he’d remember which room was hers. Smiling, he now realized he was looking forward to returning to Stockton tomorrow. That was all it took—a woman’s throaty laugh.

  He strode down the hallway until he found Room 720. He opened the door, placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside door handle, and then went straight to the safe in the closet. The bag wouldn’t fit in it, so he put the contents inside one stack at a time until it was full. He still had some left, mostly loose paper bills, so he wrapped the bag into a small bundle and stepped into the bathroom. He opened the cabinet under the sink, kneeled down, and jammed the bag between the pipe and the back corner. He peered in, checked from every angle, and decided it was good enough. Even if a cleaning lady did come in here, she was unlikely to see the bag.

  This was definitely better than taking the money back to Mammoth View with him. Safer. Safe was his middle name. It was the reason he’d never been in the can. Becky’s death had made him careful, which, in his world, made him unusual. Billy understood how easy it was to get cocky. When you’re running cons, pulling jobs—you’re the one in charge. You plan it out, step by step. So after it works a few times, you start to think nothing can go wrong, that you’re the puppet master. All you have to do is follow your list, scratch through each item when it’s done, and carry on to the next one.

  The real world, of course, didn’t work that way. Unexpected problems cropped up, people proved untrustworthy, you made mistakes. A real pro—and Billy thought of himself as a real pro—expected the unforeseen, and so he could adjust on the fly. Like his daughter ending up at the police station in the town where he’d just pulled the biggest heist of his career. Maybe he should have been able to see that possibility, but he didn’t. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t fazed. Not much, anyway. And he figured it out. He felt confident it was all going to work out just fine.

  He took Highway 99 south out of the city. After all those hours on the tiny, two-lane 120, fighting that goddamn truck, the 99 felt huge, like he was cruising through outer space. He guessed it would be past dawn by the time he collected Tori and they made it home to Bakersfield, and that was assuming he had no trouble with Officer Barea.

  The radio babbled news: Reggie Jackson struck out three times today and was now on track to set a season record for whiffs. Something about the CIA conducting mind-control experiments. California’s snowpack was at an all-time low. Billy’s breath stuck in his throat when he heard the voice say “. . . town of Mammoth View in the southern Sierra. Three are dead and a panic ensued after . . .” He punched the button, cutting off the report.

  Billy took a deep breath and slowed the car. He tried to anticipate how this new piece of information—a piece that was highly predictable—could go wrong for him. Who might have spotted him in Mammoth View and made something of it? He came up empty. There might be roadblocks coming out of the town, but since he didn’t have any of the money on him, he wasn’t worried about that. He banished the radio report from his mind.

  Once he put Stockton’s industrial district behind him, the drive became pleasant. Collections of trees and bushes along the sides of the road were interspersed with open stretches that offered expansive views of farmland. He found the perfect rows of crops fascinating. To him, it looked like some higher form of life had designed them. Humans didn’t create such perfection. He watched the hills that rolled along the horizon. This was pretty country, he decided. People thought of Los Angeles and San Francisco as California, but this was the real California, the breadbasket of America. Los Angeles only existed because it had stolen the Central Valley’s water. He’d seen Chinatown a second time—on his own, at a matinee—so he could understand what exactly it was trying to say. The first time he saw it, Tori asked him afterward what Faye Dunaway meant at the end, when Jack Nicholson was slapping her, and Billy didn’t have an answer. He still wasn’t sure.

  He noted the sign for the Sierra National Forest and swung into the exit. Coming out of the turn, he accelerated. He hated the idea that he was driving back into Mammoth View—right back into his own crime scene—but he was in a good mood anyway. He liked Jack Nicholson. The man had style. And he felt confident he could brazen it out at the Mammoth View police department.

  He also was happy that he’d be with Tori soon. He could admit that to himself. She was a good kid. A pain in the ass sometimes, but smart and talented. It wasn’t just Becky’s genes; he’d had something to do with it. He’d raised the girl. Guided her. He enjoyed spending time with his daughter. He loved the rare Bakersfield night when it rained—always a deluge, the gutters clattering, windows keening with the wind. Because Tori couldn’t sleep with the noise and the worries it brought. She would sit up with him, talking about the Dodgers and the Los Angeles Strings, matching him drink for drink, hers being iced tea or hot chocolate.

  If she went to college, he realized, he’d be alone. He thought about that. He had no friends, an occupational necessity. Friends expected you to have a story, a history they could delve into like the card-catalog files at the library. You could keep things from your child much easier than from a friend.

  He tapped the brake to bring the car down to the speed limit. He wondered how Tori had done at the running camp, if she really was as good as her high school coach said she was. Billy marveled at how smooth she was at full sprint; she looked more natural running than walking. In the meet against San Pedro, the first time he’d ever seen her really doing her thing, she’d come around the final turn in fifth or sixth place. He could tell she was going to win going away. Everyone else looked like they were being lashed, but Tori’s face offered only determination. It was the first time he’d made it to a meet, and she wanted to win for him. That’s what she said afterward. He was very proud. Being able to run like the wind came in handy in his line of work. He’d had to hoof it a lot of times, from property owners and security guards. He ran pretty good, too, though nothing like his daughter.

  He gazed out the side window at the mountains on the horizon. He h
ad no sense of their actual size, which bothered him, and he quickly turned his eyes back to the road. He was going to be a better father, he decided. Spend more time with Tori. It was important to him. He started to tell himself he was going to give up the criminal life for her, but he stopped the thought. Now he was just being sentimental. What would he do, bag groceries like that fifty-year-old retard at the Pac ’N Go? Besides, life was good just as it was. It amazed him how easy the bank job had been. Maybe this was the secret: little towns, just like Dillinger did it in the 1930s.

  He reached for the radio. The newsman had said three people were dead. The other two must have been from the fire at the city warehouse. He had picked the site because he figured there wouldn’t be anyone there early in the morning, and there definitely wasn’t anyone there when Sam struck the match. The dead men could be firefighters, he thought. They’d be volunteers in such a small town, and so they’d be incompetent. Whatever the case, the report sat in his stomach like bad meat. He regretted the fire. They didn’t need it; they had enough diversions already. He considered finding out who the victims were and anonymously sending their families some cash. He should probably do the same for the bank manager, he thought. He regretted that, too.

  He turned the dial on the radio. He didn’t want to think about the bank manager. He didn’t want to think about his poor impulse control, about how he’d taken a man’s life and wrecked a family. He’d already begun to wall it off, to squeeze it into the part of the brain left over from caveman days, the part that felt nothing and remembered nothing. He’d found he could fit a lot of shit in there. He kept rolling the dial until it alighted on a high-pitched voice and stopped, thinking it was a Johnnie Ray song. “My woman takes me higher, my woman keeps me warm . . .” Nope—not Johnnie Ray. He rolled the dial some more. “Captivating, stimulating, she said you sexy lady . . .” Nope—Black music. He rolled again. Wait. There. He inched it backward until the static blinked out. Dino. He patted the dashboard. Good dog. He preferred the jazzier, lesser-known Sinatra version of the song, but you couldn’t complain about Dino. Billy joined in: “The world still is the same, you never change it. As sure as the stars shine above. You’re nobody ’til somebody loves you. So find yourself somebody to love.”

  Tapping his foot to the rhythm, suddenly happy, he turned his mind to Tori. Being able to run like that—like a bat out of hell—there were no two ways about it, it was a definite plus in his line of work. He was warming to the idea of getting her into the business with him rather than sending her to college. What she’d been through today—the cop on the phone made it sound like it was traumatic but that she was okay. The man called her brave. Billy smiled to himself. Of course she was. She was Billy Lane’s girl. Nerves of steel.

  The Chevelle’s engine groaned as it began to climb toward Mammoth View. He couldn’t believe that a town existed so far up in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere. A whole town, with shops and a barber and a police force—all so that rich people could come along in the wintertime and go skiing. What a country, he thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Melvin couldn’t get up. It took too much energy, and he needed all that he had left for his brain. There were too many problems to work out, too many possibilities—so many that he didn’t want to get started. Besides, his right eye throbbed. The pulsing headache made him feel swollen and sick. His tongue had no place to go: it crowded his teeth, lolled at the top of his throat. He looked up. Gordon had his hand out, offering to pull him to his feet. Melvin ignored him. He’d already decided, he didn’t want to get up. He couldn’t face the hard miles they had to put in tonight. He watched an endless chain gang of ants marching out from under the log and circling around it. The ants had a purpose, Melvin thought. They had each other. He only had his brother.

  Melvin couldn’t see an easy solution. Not without the car or a hostage. They were going to have to walk into the mountains. There, he’d admitted it. They were going to be Mountain Men. He hoisted himself to his feet and brushed off the underside of his pants. Homer wouldn’t have hesitated to head into the mountains. He loved his weeklong hunting rambles through the Sierras. Melvin, when he was twelve or thirteen, asked to go with him, and the old man had laughed in his face.

  “I bet the girl hasn’t gone far,” Gordon said. “She’ll get lost and walk right back to us.”

  “Forget the girl.”

  Gordon looked up like he’d been slapped. “Why?”

  “We’ve got bigger problems.”

  “Like what?”

  Melvin started walking east, into the black night. The moon had fallen behind the mountain, blotting out the world. Melvin kept a hand in front of his face, in case a tree jumped out at him. Gordon fell in behind him and matched his stride. They had a cousin outside Bishop in Inyo County—Bobby Lee. They’d have to hide out at his place before getting a car and heading for Mexico. On foot, they could get to Bobby Lee’s place in about three days, maybe four, assuming they could find food and water. Melvin couldn’t stand Bobby Lee. The last time he saw him was at Homer’s funeral. The guy finished every sentence with “baby.” Hey, Melvin, baby! This is a tough day, baby. Real tough, baby. Bobby crated dates for a living, but he liked to talk like a hippie. Melvin wanted to tell him his hair wasn’t long enough to be a hippie. And that he was too fat. Hippies weren’t fat.

  He figured the sheriff might not find the car until the morning. That would give them a good head start. He and Gordon might be coming up on Red Mountain by then. It’d be like finding a needle in a haystack for the police. The forest there was deep and thick. They’d be so far gone it’d be like they never existed. The cops might not find the girl and her boyfriend either. Gordon was actually right about something; it was easy to get turned around out here if you didn’t know what you were doing. You get tired and woozy, and pretty soon you just lie down and go to sleep.

  Melvin wondered if they’d get blamed if the girl died of exposure. Everybody always cared a lot more if it’s a girl that dies. Damn it, we didn’t do anything, he complained to himself. He figured they shouldn’t be on the run at all. They didn’t kill those two in the bank. And the girl and her boyfriend attacked them, not the other way around. They should turn around, march into Mammoth View, and file a police report. He and Gordon were the victims.

  Melvin didn’t turn around. He continued to head east, away from Mammoth View. That girl was something, he had to admit. A thoroughbred. Almost as tall as him, long goddamn legs. Think of the son she could produce for him: a real ballplayer, a natural centerfielder. Joltin’ Joe! He thought about his Padres tryout, the three girls behind the backstop, their chanting and laughing. Hey, hey, batter, swing! Hey, hey, batter—suh-wehhng! They were having fun out there. He was trying to achieve something, trying to be someone, and these chippies were messing around, messing him up. He had cut them a look after his second swinging miss, and they laughed and clapped.

  God, he remembered them so clearly. The one in the center had a round face with bright eyes that caught the sunlight. The girl next to her, the one closest to the dugout, was sexier, round everywhere except the face, her Padres T-shirt a size too small. She grinned at him, and it tipped directly into a leer. The girl on the other side was indistinct, lost behind her cap and windbreaker. Melvin dug deep into the batter’s box. He didn’t even see the next pitch; he’d lost his concentration. Despite his disappointment in his performance and theirs, he still looked for the girls when he walked into the parking lot at the end of the day. He figured they were there for a good time with a ball player, but there was no one waiting except family members: hard-eyed fathers and trembling mothers and sullen younger siblings.

  “You okay, Melvin?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I don’t know. You look kind of peaked.”

  “How would you know? You can’t see anything out here.”

  Melvin could feel his brother trying to not
get mad. “I can see fine,” Gordon said. “Clear night.”

  Melvin stopped. The forest floor had given way to an upward slope, and he’d lost his breath. He craned his neck and blinked vigorously. The land shook off all signs of life as it rose. No trees, no bushes: the first hint that the desert was out there at the horizon, spreading its tentacles, pushing further into the woods every year. He could see the sky now, and his vision cleared for a moment. It was a beautiful night. He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. His head throbbed harder, be-bopping over his face and into his throat. And now he felt his foot again. He wondered if it had started bleeding.

  “Melvin?”

  Melvin hawked up a wad and spat. It hit the dirt in front of him. He stared at it, studied it. Some blood from his foot seemed to have gotten in there. He straightened up. “I’ve got to take a dump.”

  “Right now?”

  “If bears can crap in the woods, so can I.”

  “Well, all right.”

  “Stay here, relax. I’ll be back in a minute.” Melvin returned to the forest. He pushed on a tree to propel himself forward, held out both hands as the darkness fell. He kept walking until the woods closed around him, sealing him in. He worked at his belt, but instead of pulling down his pants and squatting, he sat down. He needed to rest. He worried that Gordon wouldn’t be able to make it all the way to Inyo County. Gordon had never gone into the badlands with Homer. He’d never really been an outdoorsman, except for that one year he did Boy Scouts. They’d be skirting the edge of Death Valley on the second day, so it was going to be hot as hell. They would have to hit all of the lakes along the way, drink as much as they could. He dropped flat on his back and let out a long breath. They should walk all night and hole up somewhere during the day, that was the smart way to do it. But he was pretty tired right now, and you had to listen to your body. He closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed. His head kept pounding, but flat on his back, the pounding spread evenly through his body, drumming him into a comfortable reverie. His whole body jerked as his bowels evacuated, but he didn’t notice.