Drawing Dead

by Grant Mccrea

  After he pocketed the twenty-dollar bill, Elmer told us a story.

  Other night, he says, over t’other trailer thar.

  Which one? I asked.

  Down thar, he said, indicating a pale blue thing on stilts a hundred yards in the other direction. All on a sudden they’s a crowd of guys over there’n. So I gets me up, go over yonder scrubble bush, get me a view. Figured it was a fight, a car accident, or somethin’.

  And?

  And I look’n over they heads, the gennelemen thar, and right thar, in her doorway, right thar, Dick, across the street thar.

  Yes?

  She’s buck fuckin’ naked, Dick.

  Who is?

  Lady lives in that thar trailer, Dick.

  You’re kidding me.

  I am not, Dick. I wouldn’ do that to ya. She’s buck fuckin’ naked and doin’ some kinda dance, kinda swayin’ around. She got a bottle in her hand.

  Really.

  So anyways, ’round about thar the cops showin’ up. Guess’n her husban’ called ’em or whatnot. They come on over. Put a blanket on her. Calm her down. Get her back in the trailer.

  I guess the gentlemen were kind of disappointed.

  I dunno ’bout that, Dick. They got a dern good show fer they money.

  I guess, I said.

  Nothin’ ain’t nothin’ but it’s free.

  Right, I said.

  Elmer chewed a bit. Spat a bit.

  Elmer, I said.

  Yeah, Dick.

  This got anything to do with the other lady? The one I’m interested in?

  Nothin’ what I know about.

  I thought about asking for my twenty dollars back. Decided against it.

  Elmer, I said.

  Yeah, Dick.

  I loved that turn of phrase. ‘Buck fucking naked.’

  Say what?

  ‘Buck fucking naked’? I love that.

  I don’t git what yer gittin’ at, Dick.

  Ah, forget about it.

  Guess I was jest about figurin’ to do that, Dick.

  Well, Elmer, I said. You have a good one out here.

  Ayup, he said, spewing a yard-long skein of black into the dirt. Gots to say I use-ally do.

  Well, that’s good, then.

  Ayup.

  We parked the Shelby off the access road a bit, half concealed behind a pile of rocks. The damn thing was stupid conspicuous. Hadn’t thought of that. Butch and I took turns in the car, with the air-conditioning on. There was no way to minimize your carbon footprint, on a stakeout in the desert in July, sitting in a Shelby Cobra on the shadeless dirt. If you didn’t keep the air on, you’d die. And then, when the bad guy showed up, you’d be useless dead.

  Whichever one of us wasn’t in the car hung around as discreetly as we could, fifty yards or so from Eloise’s trailer. There was a stack of gray rotting plywood out there you could skulk behind. We had to change places every half hour or so. Too easy to lose your concentration out there in the prickly mirage-inducing haze. Start counting ants. Never knew when the Bad Guy might show up, give you only a nanosecond’s glimpse of his Evilness, during which you had to absorb and process an almost inconceivable amount of information, nearly all of it unreliable, and come to a conclusion about What Action to Take. Which conclusion might well turn out to be irrevocable. Permanent in its consequences. Especially given the surrounding circumstances.

  Were there circumstances that did not surround? I made a note to look it up.

  I was on my eighth plywood shift. My ass, my lower back, hurt even more than usual. The likelihood that I would later compensate for these difficulties, by means of some otherwise inexplicable heinous act of road rage, well, it was increasing by the minute. I was about to call Butch, tell him to get the hell back here and relieve me before I detonated the explosive device that I did not have, out of spite, or at the very least refuse ever again to pick up the tab at the Wolf’s Lair, when a black Chevy Suburban pulled in through the trailer park gate, slowly crunched its way down the dirt road, rolled onto Eloise’s green gravel lawn.

  A guy got out of the Suburban. There was something seriously wrong with the picture. I mean, he had the right vehicle, but it was the wrong color. It was supposed to be brown, out here. Pale blue, for the adventurous.

  And the guy was hooded. He was wearing a hood. The kind of hood they wear in the ’hood. Except this wasn’t the ’hood. It was the desert. In July.

  Jesus, I whispered to myself. We got something here. But what? The whole thing seemed way overdone. How many lonely little old ladies in neighboring trailers were peering through their curtains, reaching for the phone to call 911?

  Not my business.

  Lights. Action. Where was the camera? I pulled out the Canon digital. Pushed the zoom to maximum. Snapped a shot of the plates. New York plates. Okay. Job one.

  I pulled out the cell phone. Called Butch.

  Something’s up, I said.

  I saw.

  Okay. Get out here. Cover me. I’m going to try to get close.

  I got you.

  Mr. Hood moved quickly. He didn’t go to the front door. He skulked around the side. The left side. Exactly what I’d done, days before. Or was it weeks?

  But this guy didn’t hesitate, look around.

  He knew the place.

  I looked back towards the gate. Saw Butch duck behind a trailer five to the right of Eloise’s. Okay. Now I had to move. I didn’t want to move. I was scared shitless. But I couldn’t just sit there. Sure, the old ladies might have called it in already. The trusty constabulary might already be mounting their steeds for an investigative run to the Happy Sunshine Trailer Park and Rest Home. But maybe they weren’t. And if they were, it’d be another half hour, minimum, before they got there. And this thing had all the marks of something that could get seriously nasty. Procrastination, unfortunately, did not seem to be an option.

  I had to find out what the guy was up to, at least. Louise would expect nothing less.

  Damn. Would I feel this way if my client was a pockmarked old fart?

  Yes, I decided. I would.

  The debate with myself finally over, I slunk out from behind the plywood. I tried to look as normal as possible. Tough to do when you’re slinking. I regretted neglecting to put on my mailman costume.

  My footsteps on the sand felt loud as gunshots. I saw Butch around the side of the trailer next to Eloise’s. He nodded towards the back. I slunk around the left, following the guy’s route. Flattened myself against the side of the trailer, right before the gate. Waited a beat or two. Couldn’t hear anything. I climbed as carefully as I could over the fence—didn’t want the gate squeaking. Peered around the corner. The guy wasn’t there. Nowhere to be seen.

  Which meant only one thing: he was already inside the house.

  The situation took on a sudden urgency.

  I crept up to the bedroom window. Given the necessity for speed, I squashed a couple of geraniums on the way. I mean, I think they were geraniums. I really wouldn’t know. I’m not a flower guy. What the hell were geraniums doing in the desert, anyway?

  I don’t know how I knew it was the bedroom window. But my memory is clear as a suburban swimming pool, that I knew it. And, for some reason I can’t explain, even now, I also knew what I was about to see.

  65.

  I PEERED IN THE WINDOW. Just one eye. I was saving the other for the stereophonic view.

  Eloise was lying on a big brass bed. Her arms were over her head. Her head was turned away from me. She was mostly naked. The Hooded Man was standing over her. He had something in his hand. It was long and black, with a bulge at the end.

  She was moaning.

  The Hooded Man reached for something. Oh shit. It was a knife. He stuffed the black thing in his belt. Grabbed her neck with his right hand. Put the knife up to her face.

  God, please, no, she said quietly.

  Hey! I shouted.

  The Hooded Man looked up. Let go of Eloise. She screamed.
<
br />   What the fuck? he said.

  He ran out of the room. Before I could react, he was lunging out the sliding glass doors. His face was masked. He threw himself at me.

  I ducked down. Grabbed at his knees. Pulled them towards me. The knees buckled. But he fell forward instead of back. Right on top of me.

  I tried to roll to my left. I didn’t get far. The guy was heavy. He got to his feet. I tried to stand up, too, got to my knees just in time to get whacked in the left ear by the black thing.

  It paralyzed me. Long enough for the guy to rear back for another blow. I tried to duck left to avoid it, but the thing caught me flush on the spine.

  My legs gave out. I thudded to the ground like a sandbag tossed from the back of a truck. I watched him turn and run, back around the side of the house. The guy moved fast.

  I heard the Suburban start up. Spinning wheels on gravel. The roar of a big V-8 fading down the dirt road.

  I lay there for a while. I made an inventory of body parts. Legs: tingling fiercely. Back: sore as hell. Arms: aching. Head: pounding. Genitals: we’d worry about them later. Butch: where the fuck was he?

  I sat up. Felt my head. Looked at my hand. No blood, anyway. But my ear was at least double-size already.

  I stumbled back to the glass doors.

  I invited myself in.

  I found the bedroom. Eloise was still on the bed. Her arms were still over her head. I saw why. She was handcuffed, both hands, the handcuff chain looped over the brass rail at the head of the bed.

  She had on some black silk thing. It was half torn from her. I got to see more of her than was appropriate in the circumstances.

  Eloise, I said, trying to cover her with the bedsheet, are you all right?

  She turned her head to me. Her eyes were red. Her mouth hung open. She rattled the cuffs.

  You have any tools here? I asked.

  The shed, she said blankly, indicating the backyard with her eyes.

  I went back out. Butch was there. I pulled him around the side of the trailer.

  The fuck you been? I whispered. I almost got killed.

  No you didn’t, he said. I was watching.

  The fuck you were.

  I fucking was.

  Why didn’t you help me?

  Happened too fast. Then you went into the trailer. Figured you and the sister wanted a heart-to-heart. So I waited.

  You waited.

  Yeah. Called in the plate.

  And?

  Nothing. Rental. We can track it down. But something tells me the guy who rented it doesn’t exist.

  I wouldn’t bet against it.

  But I’ll run it down anyway.

  That’s your job.

  Yeah.

  Protecting my ass doesn’t seem to be in your job description.

  Fuck you.

  Fuck you, too. Wait out here. I got to talk to her some more.

  I’ll be right here. Covering your ass. Unless I’m back in the car. Getting cool.

  I found a pair of pruning shears in the garden shed. Best I could do. They looked pretty strong.

  When I got back, she was hunched over, as much as possible given her restraints, sobbing and shaking. I stroked her hair for a few moments.

  It’s all right, I said. I’ll get you out of those in a second.

  She nodded.

  It took a couple cracks at it, but I broke the cuffs’ chain. She still had the shackles on her wrists, but she was freed from the bed frame.

  The cops can get those off, I said.

  She turned her face to me, streaked with black, and bruised in more than one place.

  No cops, she hissed.

  Eloise. You got to report this. That guy’s maybe on his way to … attack someone else.

  No, she said, back to her flat voice. No. No.

  Listen, I know this is traumatic. But you can’t let this guy just get away.

  You don’t understand, she said.

  What don’t I understand?

  I can take care of it.

  I admire your self-assurance, I said. But this is not something you can handle alone.

  I’m not alone.

  Well, I’m flattered. But I’m not a cop. I can’t chase this guy down.

  Not you, she said with a hint of contempt.

  Oh. You mean Vladimir? Is he here? Looks like he took care of you real well.

  She stared at me, silent. Her eyes were hard.

  Sorry, I said. That was inappropriate. Let’s get you some clothes.

  I can get my own clothes, she said, pulling the shreds of black silk around her chest. Please leave.

  Jesus, girl, I can’t leave you here alone, like this. He could be coming back. If you won’t let me call the cops, you at least have to let me stay. A while, at least.

  Whatever, she said. Wait in the living room.

  I went to the living room. Slumped on the divan. Took one of her Benson & Hedges. Lit it up.

  She took a long time.

  I thought about what I’d seen. I hadn’t gotten much of a look at the guy. Stocky. Maybe five foot nine, ten at the most. Strong. When he’d opened his mouth, I’d noticed his teeth: snaggly on the bottom. One missing on top.

  That was about it.

  I was kicking myself for waiting so long. What a pussy. She’d been beaten up pretty bad. Bruises on her neck, her ribs, her thighs. There was blood on her mouth. Shit. I could have prevented all that. Or some of it, anyway.

  On the other hand, I thought. Lucky the fucker didn’t gutshoot me. Or use that knife. It’d looked pretty nasty.

  Three smokes later, just when I was about to get worried about her all over again, she appeared.

  She was wearing a floor-length embroidered thing. Looked like some kind of eighteenth-century Russian thing, or something. Maybe it was Nepalese. It provided full coverage. She was wearing a very large pair of sunglasses. She’d cleaned up her face, covered the marks with some kind of makeup. If you hadn’t known she’d just been brutally assaulted, in the dim of the trailer you might not even notice.

  You have to leave, she said calmly.

  Do we have to have this argument again? I asked. I absolutely refuse to leave you alone. At least let me call Louise. She can get some help over here.

  No, she said sharply. You will not tell Louise about this.

  I wondered what the punishment would be, if I transgressed.

  I won’t be alone anyway, she said, turning her back to me.

  Oh. Well, let me at least stay until he gets here.

  That’s not a good idea, she said, her monotone returned, reinforced with steel.

  Damn. This was a woman who meant what she said.

  Her hair fell in elegant trails down the dress, gown, whatever it was.

  Get out, she said between her teeth.

  I got the message. I invited myself out. I retraced my steps, the steps the Hooded Man had taken. I scoured the ground. Nothing of interest, that I could see. But then, I was no forensics expert.

  Butch was back at the Shelby. He didn’t look happy. I saw why. The passenger-side window was shattered.

  I got in the car. The glove box had been rifled.

  Lucky it was a rental.

  I filled Butch in. We talked about hanging around. See if there really was somebody coming. Had to be Vladimir, right?

  Unless, I said.

  Unless.

  Unless that was Vladmir.

  Rick.

  Butch.

  Sometimes you’re a bit slow.

  Yeah?

  Yeah.

  Enlighten me.

  Vladmir wouldn’t need to sneak around the back. Wear a mask.

  We ll—

  Rent a car.

  Unless—

  And didn’t that Toni bloke tell you he was tall?

  Oh, yeah, right.

  My back hurt like hell. My feet felt numb. And I knew Eloise was watching, to make sure we left. I could feel it. I wouldn’t put it past her to be calling Vlad right now, t
elling him it was me that did it to her. Have him come over and impale me.

  Fuck it, I said. Let’s get the hell out of here.

  No argument from me, said Butch. He pulled the Shelby around.

  Shards of safety glass fell on my head from the broken window.

  Shit, I said. I don’t think I got the optional insurance coverage.

  66.

  I WOKE UP. Or something like that. My eyes were open. I could feel pain. Real pain in real time. This meant, I concluded, that I was not only awake, but alive. Though I felt ambiguous about both. I considered closing those eyes back up rolling over, going back to the swirling dream from which I had awoken. Something about failure. I’d been a test pilot. Crashed the plane. Somehow survived the impact. They weren’t happy with me. Whoever they were.

  Going back to dreamland was not an option, though. Too much pain. Too many questions. The best I could do was drag myself through a hot shower, grab a glass of scotch and a few painkillers, watch some vapid television and wait for the head pain to subside.

  After the shower, after I’d poured the scotch, scarfed the meds, lain back with the remote for a while, found some weird foreign film, I mused. Musing can help head pain.

  I can’t believe how far I’ve come, I contemplated. Was it so long ago that I was reading every volume in the Hardy Boys series? And yet here I am, watching a Japanese film about a man and his pet eel. Without subtitles.

  The eel was talking to the guy.

  I mused about Eloise. Something was off. How could someone get shackled, trashed, humiliated, beaten up, and then refuse any help? Jesus, she could have got killed. Had to be that Vlad was coming. That she figured he could find the guy. Break his kneecaps.

  But how was he supposed to figure out who the guy was, still less find him? I just didn’t get it. It was as weird as the guy talking to the eel. But that was a movie. At least, I thought it was. It had a way of drawing you in. Even if you didn’t understand Japanese. There was something about the relationship of the man and his eel that was … mesmerizing. Much like my reaction to Eloise, I began to think. I’d had a view of more of her than I’d been entitled to. And I was probably out of line to think about it, but it was awfully hard to repress. Long and slim. Smooth as milk. If you ignored the bruises. Breasts … well, breasts to conjure with. And tough. I loved a tough woman. And a tough woman with a body like that, well. How could I not at least think about it? Muse awhile.