A week later, I spot a man crouching behind the Supra to read the plate. He makes a call. I round up a posse of stockbrokers, mainly macho Italian New Yorkers, and my friend Carson, a strapping bodybuilder from Idaho – both of us high on meth from lines we snorted earlier. We dash into the lot, take the elevator and rush to my car. Carson gets a handgun from his car. We surround the repo man.
‘What’re you doing messing with my car?’ I yell.
The repo man’s rugged face remains unmoved. ‘The dealership sent me. It’s their car and they want it back.’
Irked by his attitude, I say, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s probably a car thief!’ Squinting like a gunslinger, Carson draws his weapon on the man. ‘Don’t fucking move!’ he yells, his facial muscles flexed.
The man’s arms shoot up as if to catch a frisbee. ‘Hey, don’t fire.’
‘Get away from the car!’ Carson yells.
Gazing at the gun as if rethinking his occupation, the man cowers away from the Supra.
High from the altercation, I jump in the car. ‘Keep him here until the police arrive!’ I screech away and exit the parking lot. A car gives chase. Manoeuvring at high speeds, running red lights, I ditch it. I call Kelly: ‘Repo men are hunting me down. Pack some clothes real quick and let’s go to Sedona. My client who owns the Red Rock Lodge said we can have a jacuzzi room any time. If they want to play games, I’ll put some miles on this car. We’ve got to leave in a hurry, so chop up two master-blaster lines of crystal. I’ll be right there.’
With the thrill of an outlaw on the run, I take off for Sedona. On the freeway north of Phoenix, the houses disappear; sand, cacti, weeds, bushes and rocks dominate. When there’s no traffic in front, I accelerate to 150mph. The Supra trembles as if trying to take off.
Over an hour later, I park by chalets nestled into a red-rock landscape. In the fresh, cool air, I breathe more easily, as if my lungs have shed layers of insulation. My client thanks me for the rise in her Motorola stock and takes us to a jacuzzi suite behind a prickly-pear cactus whose flat green leaves and little red pods resemble table-tennis bats and balls. The sight of a jacuzzi big enough to swim in raises our spirits. We snort meth, undress and frolic in the bubbles, safe from repo men, yet excited they’re hunting us down.
Half an hour later, noticing my shrivelled fingertips, I say, ‘Should we get out now?’
‘Why don’t we go to Oak Creek, exchange blood and swear an oath of love?’ Kelly says.
‘Exchange blood! Like how?’ I ask, climbing out of the jacuzzi, aroused by the prospect of committing a vampiric act.
Kelly gets out and begins towelling herself. ‘Like Mickey and Mallory Knox,’ she says, referring to the serial-killer couple in the movie Natural Born Killers. Kelly collects books about serial murderers.
Falling in love with Kelly, I’m ready to agree to anything. ‘Let’s do it!’ I say, relishing the coconut scent of her skin cream.
Kelly puts on a black leather skirt with silver studs down the sides and a tight black sweater.
At Oak Creek Canyon, we get out of the car to the sound of water crashing against rocks. Cliff faces tower over thick green vegetation; the sandstone changes from white to buff to red, a red that darkens at the bottom as if the rock is leeching the lifeblood from the earth. We walk by Navajos peddling wares on tables.
Kelly stops. ‘I gotta check this jewellery out.’
The Navajo trader – hair in a bun, wearing a satin skirt, velvet top and concho belt adorned with turquoise – squints at Kelly.
‘Which do you like the most?’ I ask, fishing a wad of dollars from my pocket.
‘This is awesome!’ Kelly says, fingering a sterling-silver slave bracelet: a ring connected to a bracelet by a chain, black onyx stones on the ring and bracelet. Kelly haggles the price down to $50.
As I walk towards the forest, my lungs fill with the vanilla fragrance of the ponderosa pines. We venture into the trees. Animal calls replace human sounds. I bask in the pleasure of being liberated from civilisation.
‘Here’s a good spot,’ Kelly says, forging ahead.
A raccoon chatters, runs, disappears, swallowed up by the forest. The last rays of the day are filtering through the pines.
‘It’s so quiet,’ I say.
‘Peaceful,’ Kelly says. ‘The New Agers say this is a vortex site.’
I close my eyes and inhale. ‘I can feel some kind of energy.’
‘I should hope so with all the drugs you’re on.’
I giggle. ‘You want to do the ceremony here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You first.’ I’ll give myself an itsy-bitsy cut that won’t hurt.
Kelly extracts a razor blade from her handbag. Without hesitation, she slashes her left index finger and raises it to show blood leaking from a deep gash. ‘Your turn.’
Holding the blade, I have second thoughts.
As if reading my mind, Kelly says, ‘Here, I’ll do it.’ She takes the blade.
I offer her my hand, tensing my arm to keep it steady.
‘I’ll be quick.’ Before I can reply, she slices a finger.
‘Ow! Fuck!’
‘That’s not very romantic. Here, link fingers.’ She presses her finger against mine, intermingling our blood.
‘Now what?’ I ask.
‘Now we’ve got to make a vow to each other.’
‘OK, you first.’
‘With this, we will be bonded for ever, and I shall love you as a wife. Now your turn.’
‘With this, we will be bonded for ever, and I shall love you like a husband. Till death do us part,’ I say, imitating Mickey Knox the serial killer.
‘Good. Now put your jacket on the ground so I can lie down.’
‘What for?’ I ask.
‘You know what for.’
‘You mean conjugals right here?’
She arches her eyebrows and smiles in a way that leaves me little choice but to scan the ground for dangerous insects.
Overtaking cars on the US-93, dancing in my seat to the beat of a Commander Tom CD, admiring the twisted branches and bayonet-shaped leaves of the Joshua trees, I own the day – until my car sputters, chokes and dies. Rolling off the road to Las Vegas, I say to Kelly, ‘Cellphone please?’
‘Where the hell are we?’ Kelly asks.
‘Past Bagdad,’ I say, pressing buttons. ‘Shit! The cell’s not working! Now how am I going to call a tow?’
‘It’s getting hot in here,’ Kelly says. Poppy groans.
‘Be like a greenhouse in a minute. Better get out. Maybe someone’ll pull over and help us.’ I open the door and exit, exposing my head to the scorching sun. ‘I’ll raise the hood to signal we need help.’
We gaze down a highway gleaming in the distance with a mirage effect. Cars roar by, drowning out the drone of cicadas, leaving a stench of exhaust fumes and hot tyres, their occupants mocking our helpless faces. Some honk, raising our hopes, but don’t stop. Sweat is trickling down the inside of my thighs by the time a truck pulls over.
A wizened old woman leans from a window. ‘What y’all doin’ out here?’
‘We broke down on our way to Vegas. Is there a phone we can call a tow from?’ I pray she’ll take pity and give us a ride.
‘Sure is. Why don’t y’all get in, and I’ll take you there.’
We jump in, happy for the help.
After pulling onto the highway, she turns her head towards us. ‘Do y’all believe in God?’
I look at Kelly, who turns to Poppy, whose face is abnormally pale and sunken as if he’s ill from too much crystal meth.
‘Er … God … might as well have Him on your side, eh?’ I say.
‘In Matthew 24 it is written,’ she begins in the tone of someone who has plenty to say, ‘many will turn away from the faith and will betray and hate each other. It’s a sign of the Last Days, when so many city dwellers have turned away from God. But God doesn’t turn away! He’s always ready to take even the
blackest of sheep back into His flock. Did you know that God loves you so much He gave His only begotten son, Jesus Christ – who was nailed through the palms of His hands! – to pay the price for all of your sins and all of our sins for all eternity?’
The nod I give to Kelly says, You answer her.
Kelly’s eyes respond with, Why me? but then her expression changes to, I’ll show her. ‘Oh, yeah. I guess. And what about Moses? Back in the day, Moses left the party and went up the mountains. The bush got hit by lightning, and history shows that area had a lot of lightning strikes back then. So, he’s sitting there, and I reckon the plant he was in front of could have been an opium plant, ’cause where they were in Turkey the opium plants ran wild. So, he’s sitting there, getting high off opium – pure opium, too – and he’s tripping. He looks down, sees the pagans down there having a good ol’ time – dancing, jumping, drinking, fornicating, having fun – and he starts tripping hard, like on LSD, and he sees God ’cause he’s high, and God starts telling him what all y’all’s doing is wrong, and ’cause he’s high and feeling guilty, he starts writing down the Ten Commandments as he’s talking to God. That’s how the Ten Commandments came about.’
‘For shame!’ the lady says.
Hoping she’ll back off, I nudge Kelly. ‘How do you know it’s not true?’ Kelly says.
‘Because of faith! No matter what sins you’ve done, God is merciful. All you have to do is ask Him to come into your life.’
Passing a payphone by a trading post, I wonder where she is taking us. She drives for miles, expounding on the second coming of Christ and the evils of city dwelling. She turns onto a desolate road that rises and dips. Trying to ignore her preaching, I absorb the landscape: saguaros, huge boulders, deep washes, mesquite and Palo Verde trees, a hawk gliding, roadside lizards.
‘I’m gonna throw up,’ Poppy whispers as her truck launches down another dip.
The lady is in full flow about the Rapture, when Kelly says, ‘Ma’am, can we stop for a minute? He feels sick.’
She pulls over. Poppy opens the door and almost collapses into a forward roll. Unsteady on his legs, he vomits. The sight of him stumbling around, with thick strings of stomach contents dangling from his chin, his eyeballs lolling all over the place as if he is exorcising demons, excites the lady. Her tone becomes more fervent as she warns us to leave the city and join the people of the hills – the group she belongs to – because soon it will be too late to save our souls.
‘Ma’am,’ I say, feeling a sickness coming on, partly in sympathy with Poppy, but also because of her preaching, ‘we’ve really got to get to a phone.’
‘I’ll take you to a town.’
She drives to the kind of town I think only exists in cowboy movies. Bearded men in dungarees and chequered shirts are gathered around wooden-plank buildings. She parks down a gravel road by some old trucks. We get out. A canine resembling a wolf keeps charging at us and retreating, baring fangs one minute, trying to sniff us the next. The locals emerge from buildings to squint at the newcomers. I wonder how long it has been since they’ve seen a black person, and if Kelly is afraid. I squeeze her hand reassuringly. We follow the lady to a hut, where mechanics are drinking beer. They stare at us and grunt. The old woman explains our situation. I use their phone.
‘Your tow distance is in excess of the 100 miles of free towing your membership qualifies for. You’ll have to pay the driver $150 to cover the extra miles that aren’t covered by your membership.’
‘OK. My sports car’s low to the ground, so can you please send a flatbed? How soon can you get someone out here?’
‘It’ll be at least an hour.’
We leave the mechanics in a hurry. Locals collect around the old woman, striking up small talk, their eyes glued to us. When a truck pulls up with guns racked in its back window, and hillbillies in hunting gear emerge and leer at Kelly, I feel uneasy. Detecting the change in the atmosphere, the old woman ushers us into her truck. The wheels kick up dust as she drives away. She preaches all the way to the car, gets out and continues.
‘Where do you live?’ I ask to change the subject.
‘Up in those mountains,’ she says, pointing at a distant range.
‘I’m going to give you my business card. I’m a stockbroker. Maybe I can help you with your investments.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ She takes the card. ‘Best be getting on my way then.’
‘Thanks for your help. We’d probably still be stuck out here if it wasn’t for you.’
‘I didn’t do anything Jesus wouldn’t have done. Don’t y’all forget, no matter what you’ve done bad, you can change your lives and make everything right by asking God to come into your life.’
Two weeks later, one of the receptionists at the stockbrokerage buzzes my phone: ‘Shaun, you’ve got to come up front and see this.’
‘See what?’
‘Just come up front.’
I hurry to the reception.
‘This box just came from Wikieup. It’s full of religious books. What do you want to do with them?’
‘Wow! Unbelievable. They’re from some old preacher lady who helped us when I broke down on the way to Vegas. I’ll just put them at the back of the office and see if any of the brokers want to take them.’
Expecting to be mocked, I say, ‘Listen up, here’s a box full of religious books. Help yourselves if you want any.’
The brokers stampede from the quads, flock to the box, barge each other and argue over the books.
Chapter 16
High on meth, I speed to Chupa, a rave in an old warehouse building on Madison Street in downtown Phoenix run by DJs Eddie Amador and Pete ‘SuperMix’ Salaz. Kelly, Poppy and I get out of my new car, a twin-turbo Mazda RX7, two-tone Montego blue with sleek feminine curves, beige leather interior, a body like a spaceship, Bose surround-sound speakers that funnel around the interior and a far sexier posterior than the Supra, which I surrendered to the dealership after negotiating compensation.
On a street corner, I give $20 to hobos gathered around a fire in an industrial drum. ‘If you make sure no one messes with my car, I’ll give you another $20 next week.’
We weave through a zombie tribe of crackheads spilling from an alleyway, their eyes bulging unnaturally from sockets hollowed into sunken faces as if searching for the sleep they haven’t had in days. We make minimal eye contact with them, and even less with the gangbangers cruising by in lowriders thumping gangster rap. The bap-bap-bap of bullets firing in a building hastens our pace.
It’s a relief to get off the street. Familiar faces greet us at the door. Red lights guide us down a hallway and past a room with a flooded toilet reeking of sewage. A purple strobe beckons us into the darkness like a Hindu goddess waving multiple arms. We disappear into a smoke-machine cloud that smells of burnt cotton candy and lines the insides of our noses with soot. We hug the regulars. Drag queens. Club kids. Ravers. We dance for hours to hypnotic music – trance, tribal, house – mostly without lyrics, except for phrases repeated by bizarre voices. Robotic voices. Androgynous voices. The voices of divas. Voices I hear long after they’ve stopped.
Like a ball of energy dropping in from another dimension, a stocky Native American dressed in black – long dark hair, baseball cap on backwards – bounces onto the dance floor. Moving as if his bones have liquefied, he mimics loading up a shotgun, pulls the trigger and blasts everyone dancing around him. People crowd to watch. A man bumps into him. Smiling, he dances around the man and, meticulously in sync with the beat, pretends to elbow him multiple times in the back. I suspect he’s on Ecstasy, pure stuff, and I want some.
Later on, I approach him outside. ‘You dance so well, you should be in music videos.’
‘Thanks, dude,’ he says, a peaceful quality to his voice.
‘I’m Shaun. Here from England. I’m having a hard time getting Ecstasy.’
‘My name’s Acid Joey. I can get you anything you want.’
We grin as if a s
pecial relationship has begun. I get his number.
I’m dancing at the back when Kelly disappears down the hallway, hastening for the entrance. She must need fresh air. I keep an eye out for her. Minutes later, she charges in as if on the warpath. She starts to raise her Derringer .22, a small silver gun, level with the back of a massive black guy.
‘Kelly!’ I sprint, my heartbeat bashing my eardrums, drowning the music out. ‘Kelly!’ I grab the cylinder of bracelets around her arm and push the gun down. ‘What the fuck are you doing in here with that?’
‘I’m gonna shoot that asshole!’ she says, straining to raise the gun.
Worried about getting shot, I yank her towards me. ‘What’re you talking about?’
‘That guy there!’ She nods at the man. ‘He gave me problems outside The Works one night. He’s out to get me.’
‘Are you sure it’s him?’ I ask, dreading having to deal with him.
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say? Did he threaten you?’
‘It’s him!’
‘He looks like he’s just minding his own business to me. Look, if you think it’s him, then I’m going to talk to him. Maybe he’ll apologise. But first we’re going to put your gun back in the car. Come on.’ I escort her outside, open the passenger door and toss the gun under the seat. Back inside, I say, ‘You wait here. I’m going to have a word with Carson before I approach this guy.’ I leave her glued to the wall.
Picking up on my agitation, Carson frowns. ‘What’s up?’
‘I just stopped Kelly from shooting someone.’
‘You’re shitting me.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Told you she’s a gangster,’ Carson says, shaking his head. ‘Who’s she wanna waste?’
‘That guy over there,’ I say, pointing at the man. ‘She said he gave her problems at The Works. I said I’ll go and talk to him and see if he’ll apologise.’
Carson’s eyes widen. ‘Apologise! You’re gonna get your ass beat down. Look at the size of him! He’s the biggest guy in here!’
‘I know. I’m not really going to ask for an apology. I’ll just play it by ear. But I need you to watch my back.’
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