by Boston Teran
Dane started to laugh. Essie wagged the empty bottle at him and grinned. "My sentiments exactly, until, until, until about five seconds later and I realized"— Essie hit the bottle down on the table as if it were a gavel—"what if she were right? What does it say?"
"She either keeps making the same mistakes over and over again, or she's right, and there is… only one man."
"Exactly." Essie tapped her beer bottle against his. With the booth being so small they kept inadvertently brushing against each other and then they'd politely have to reshuffle themselves so the other had a little space.
"What about your life on the home front?"
Dane hesitated. "My father is dead, my mother doesn't realize she isn't. And sometimes I wish I were twenty-five without all the extra baggage."
He drank his beer. She watched his neck muscles tense as he killed off the bottle. When he set the bottle down Essie asked, "That's a pretty blunt answer. You want to expand on the details? The when, why, where, and how it makes you feel?"
Dane stared into that open room where they played pool under low overhanging lights. He looked as if he were caught in the spell of some deep grievance. "Let's not, and just say we did."
* * *
DANE WALKED Essie back to her place in silence. The alley was quiet and they could hear the music coming from Sugar's. It was a ballad of sad romantic charm. A track straight off Tulare Dust. Neither could see Roy's car in the deep shadows across an open lot of weeds.
As Essie unlocked her front door Dane said, "I screwed up my life. I told you that. I just can't talk about it. I'm sorry." He turned to go, then, as an afterthought said, "I wonder if we're all just accidents with the power to think."
* * *
PINTER WATCHED Dane get into that funky black Rampage pickup he drove. He'd gotten the plate number earlier that night.
Chapter Twenty-One
NATHAN'S OFFICES WERE on the second floor of the Discovery Bay Yacht Club building. Ivy had been put in charge of re-decorating and she had done so with a careful eye toward class and pretention. It was old prestige California as seen through the pages of Architectural Digest. All the couches had to have the Monterey stamp on them, and every cushion used original fabrics or flawless replications. The rooms swam with the colors of summer and you got to the offices by way of a wide open veranda whose windows looked out on a showcase of docked yachts.
When Nathan asked Ivy why she'd spent so much on originals when copies would have served just as well she said, "If you give them class, they will give you money."
* * *
ESSIE HAD just returned from her monthly go round with the company accountant. She scooped up her messages from the switchboard operator who told her, "I left a box on your desk that was delivered here for Nathan. He was in a meeting and told me he didn't want to be disturbed."
Essie was listening with one ear as she read through her messages. "Fine, I'll take care of it."
"Essie, I need to tell you something." What caught Essie's attention was the tone of the girl's voice. "The box," said the switchboard operator, "it has blood in it."
* * *
THE BOX was twelve by twelve by twelve. It said on the side PLASMA, along with all the usual cautions and warnings about handling. There was an envelope attached made from fine bonded paper. She did not need to look at the bank's return address to tell her the package was from Charles. She had enough copies of his handwriting in that paper mountain she'd stored away to tell her that much.
She opened the envelope, read the note.
Nathan—
As per Merrit Merton. This is to be delivered to the
Animal Blood Bank in Tehachapi—
THE DOOR to Nathan's office opened and Dane walked out. Essie waved to him, and through the doorway as he passed she could see Ivy on the phone and Nathan as he paced and listened. Occasionally Ivy would ask Nathan a question and he would rifle back an answer that she would relay to the listener. Then he abruptly closed the door.
Dane came to Essie's desk. "It seems my opinion is valued when it comes to deciding whether escargot or scampi would go better with veal."
He noticed the box sign: PLASMA. He turned the box a bit. "Did somebody here order a transfusion? 'Cause I could sure use one after the last hour."
"Taylor did charity work for animal shelters and vets who had those free clinics. If they needed plasma or something Taylor would pay to have it flown or driven there. Paul… he always paid Paul to do it."
Essie had been staring at the note the whole time, slapping the bonded edge against her fingers. When she looked up her mouth flexed. She handed Dane the note. "Charles never did anything like this in his whole god damned life."
As he read the note Essie bent down and from under the desk brought up her briefcase. "The only charity I could imagine getting him off would be if some rocker on the skids was forced to auction his guitars."
She snapped open the briefcase clips, took out the master list of names she'd been collecting. "I think I recognize this Merton from the list of Nathan's calls 'cause he has the same first name as the General." Essie thumbed through that two-inch stack. She held up a page, "See?"
There were a dozen numbers listed under Merton's name, with the dates calls were made to each number. The area codes covered a wide swath of California and Mexico. One particular international number was notated: SIERRA LEONE. And, as Dane quickly realized, the calls began a few days after the tribute to Taylor.
As he handed her back the list Nathan's office door opened and he quickly strode toward them. Dane slid across the desk in front of Essie trying to give Nathan little or no opportunity of seeing, then questioning, that two-inch dossier she was nervously stuffing back into her briefcase.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ES, I'M LOOKING for the…" He saw the box…"That's it."
She handed him the note. It was now back in the envelope. "This came with it. I assume we're helping some shelter or vet?"
Nathan didn't bother to open the note. "An investor friend of Charles is an animal freak and Charles told him what Taylor used to do, so he passed my number along."
"Can I help?" asked Essie.
Nathan snatched up a piece of paper and a pen. He started to write. "You can help with the boys downstairs. I've got to put together a dinner for six or eight, in the private room."
Dane watched Essie lift the box. "Where is it going?"
"Ah…" Nathan was forced to take the note from the envelope…"Tehachapi."
"How's it going to get there?"
"By plane."
She reached for the phone. "You want me to call Paul to see if he can take it?"
He stopped writing and took the box from her and set it down beside him. "No."
"But Paul always—"
"The Fenns are gonna take care of this."
"The Fenns?"
Nathan's office door opened and Ivy, who was still on the phone, covered the mouthpiece and called to him. He motioned for her to hold still. "Charles talked to the Fenns. They'll handle it."
"Are you sure that's the way to go?"
Ivy called again. Nathan's hand tomahawked at the air for her to be quiet.
"Are you sure?" Essie repeated.
Dane could hear her tone was becoming querulous.
"I'm sure," said Nathan. He went back to writing out his notes.
"You want me to take the box to the airport?" said Essie.
"I'll take it."
"I can do both."
"I know you can," Nathan said. "But you can't."
Ivy called to Nathan again, this time she was adamant. Nathan hurriedly finished his notes then handed them to Essie. "Get all this together, will you, Es?"
As Nathan was about to go Dane put on a goodwill smile. "Nathan, after all that talk of food I could use a little exercise. Why don't I drive it out to the airport. That way you can both get things done."
Nathan slapped Dane on the shoulder. "After all that talk of food, yo
u need a little exercise." He aped a grin. "Let me tell you, son, when you get to be my age you just pass a restaurant and you'll gain five pounds. Thanks for the offer, but when I get a few minutes I'll drive it.
"Stop by the dinner tonight, though. About nineish. I want a few people to meet you."
Nathan went back to his office, leaving the box on the desk.
As the office door closed Dane turned to Essie. "He sure didn't act like it was a big deal."
"Then why did you want to drive it to the airport?"
"For the same reason I assume you did."
"I don't trust the Fenns. I don't understand all these little comings and goings."
Dane motioned for her to keep her voice down.
"Maybe I could take the box in the bathroom," she said, "and open it before he comes back." The box was heavily taped with masking and would have to be closed back, right and clean. That would take time and the proper tape. "Maybe it is nothing."
"At least sound like you believe what you're saying."
"I want to know, how's that?"
The light had moved across the window and was now directly in Dane's eyes. He slipped on his sunglasses and stood. He stared down at the box.
"What are you thinking?" asked Essie.
* * *
WHEN NATHAN came out of his office Essie was at the window watching Dane's pickup hustle out Marina Road toward Discovery Bay Boulevard.
"Essie?"
She turned abruptly.
"Where's the box?"
She took a breath to calm herself. "Dane said you looked tired, so he thought he'd do you a favor."
* * *
IVY WAS just starting to dial Charles when Nathan came back into the office, closed the door and leaned against it.
"Put the phone down."
The way he said it made her put the phone down.
"He took the box. Dane…"
The crows' feet at the corners of her eyes went white ever so slightly. "Do you think it'll be all right?"
* * *
DANE MADE sure he was well out of Discovery Bay and miles down Marsh Creek Road before he pulled over.
He found a spot of ground along the train tracks hidden from the road by trees. There was debris everywhere. Beer cans and bottles. Discolored mattresses with rusting springs. A rising mound of white toilets and strewn clumps of used food wrappers.
He stared down at the shotgun seat where the box was. Does the act of one person, in some way, profoundly affect us all?
As he reached for the box an Amtrak came racing up from the southeast. The ground shook the truck shocks and the box trembled. Willow branches were sucked into the maelstrom made from those metal bodies that clacked violently as they ran on. The blue and red cars strobed against the sun across his windshield and in the waketide of those disappearing cars trash confetti came spiraling back to earth as Dane began to open the box.
* * *
NATHAN WAS hovering over Essie when her phone rang. He was working on the dinner arrangements but his thoughts were decidedly somewhere else.
"Discovery Bay… Nathan Hale Greene's office."
"Pandora's Box has been opened," said Dane.
Her eyes slanted nervously up toward Nathan who was a bare foot away. "Mr. Greene prefers all forms of solicitation be made in writing. Letter or e-mail."
Nathan's eyes gleamed onto hers.
"I understand," said Dane. "Just know, it isn't blood in that box."
Essie was frightened. Her adrenaline rushed making the front of her throat just throb. "We look forward to hearing from you."
"Diamonds," said Dane. "That's what's in the box."
She fought off strains of vertigo as she looked at Nathan. "Thank you," she said, and hung up.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THE ROCKET BOYZ' hangar door was open when Dane pulled up. He stepped out of the truck but intentionally left the box on the shotgun seat.
* * *
THE INSIDE of the hangar looked as if the Fenns had ripped off the Paul Caruso school of interior decorating, then done a student body left. The walls were full of movie posters from such cultural masterpieces as Pornogothic, The Girls from H.A.R.D. and Lethal Projection. There were photos that featured oiled-up chickies with fake blood running down their naked flesh while they ate each other to death. There was a collage of Mea Culpa stills in her most pouty, bondaged poses, and magazine centerfolds so far off the path of anyone's food chain it was downright frightening. Some strip and stroke shots set new standards for fetished sleaze and there were bumper stickers interspersed with such classic phrases as "Kill 'Em All And Let God Separate 'Em…" and "Blowin' by Jesus."
But the Fenns did show an occasional touch of wit. In one poster they had superimposed Dolly Parton's plastic grin on some sadomaniac in black leather who stood in a dungeon and wielded a whip, while around her boots were hundreds of human skulls Dane could only imagine were staring up at her with ultimate devotion. In another, Michael Jackson's face had been pasted onto the bare caped body of a white hermaphrodite who was impersonating the Wicked Witch of the West.
Shane was bent into the cowling of their Piper Super Cub grinding down the tail of Cherry max rivets on a doubler he'd made to shore up a crack. Tommy was at his desk computer doing a parts search.
The grinder was putting out 12,000 rpms. Sparks and all, it was loud work. Neither heard nor saw Dane enter, so he watched the Boyz to absorb, if he could, a little more of their world, and who they were.
On a cork board were snapshots of Tommy when he served in Kuwait. The only snapshots with Shane were of him doing the pussy cling. Dane noted a signed photo of Maurice Richard, the wild-eyed tempest who had been hockey's first real cult hero.
Tommy noticed Dane and stood. He whistled to his brother, who didn't hear him. Dane waited through the grinding screech as Tommy slipped under the wing and hit his brother on the shoulder. Shane must have been putting out some concentration because he came around startled and angry at being startled till he saw it was his brother whose jaw pointed for him to look about.
When Shane saw who it was he shut off the grinder and set it down on top of a MIG welder. His goggles were covered with flecks of metal, as was his white bleached hair. He lifted the goggles. "The dude with the hip eye shades." To his brother, "I told ya, check 'em out. They are strictly."
"What's doin'?" asked Tommy.
Before he answered Dane pointed to that signed photo of Maurice Richard. " 'The Rocket'… is that how you got your company name?"
"You into hockey?"
"When I lived in New York and I needed a taste, I'd go see the Rangers or the Islanders. Sometimes we'd trip down to Philly and see the Flyers."
"You don't come across like you'd be interested in hockey."
"No?"
"No. You seem too…" Shane took his hand and got it down near his balls and let it tremor slightly…"You know what I mean? You know what I mean."
"Sure," said Dane. "You think I'm the type that likes to stay home, jerk off, read Camus, make model airplanes and sing 'Kumbaya'… when I'm not cruising the truck stops looking for some humper in a cowboy hat to put his boots up my ass."
Tommy smirked. Shane's lips curled to hold back a laugh. "You gave him a little stage one and he upped you," said Tommy.
"I'm broken, man, I'm broken… call the pallbearers." Shane walked over to his workbench and looked back at Dane. " 'Kumbaya'… fuck me." He started to wheel a torch cart back toward the plane.
"Why you here, man?"
Dane was checking out the Super Cub. "I got a delivery for you guys." He thumbed a hand toward his pickup.
"What delivery?"
Dane didn't answer Tommy right away. He kept looking the plane over up close and drifted into: "A couple of guys in The Burrow were talking about this type of plane. They said it could land on a matchbook and needed a nothing stretch of ground to lift off. The wet sand on a beach… a field… a small piece of flat hilltop. Practically anywhere."
Shane and Tommy glanced at each other. The last time they had dropped that Super Cub into a field was a looming and shadowy distance that suddenly and inexplicably hung over them and Shane said to his brother in passing, as a way of almost playing with that night, as if tempting its presence, "Magic from the dooms linger." Then, as he opened the nozzle on the oxygen and acetylene tanks, "And a little taste of moral outrage to go with it."
Dane noted the odd drift of looks between the brothers and the enigmatic phrases and Tommy asked again, "What delivery?"
Dane turned to him now. "The guys were saying this plane was perfect for running drugs and slipping past the law."
Tommy didn't like someone throwing around inferences, but unlike his brother, Tommy used silence to get a point across. He didn't want to make any more of it, but Shane, "We don't know anything about that shit, Officer. Our only drug is Christ the King. We get high on our Lord and Savior."
"Right," said Dane. "And slip me an Ecstasy pacifier, so I don't break out laughing at all that Quo Vadis crap."
This was becoming a turf war of shit talk and Tommy wanted it done. "We don't have all day, guy."
Dane pointed to his truck. "Gill left a box at Nathan's. It's plasma. I guess you guys are gonna take it down to Tehachapi." Dane noted the turn their attention took. "Nathan was backed up with work so I brought it over. You want me to—"
"I'll get it," said Tommy.
As he went to the Dodge Shane got that cutting wand lit. "I heard you had an eye transplant and Taylor was the donor."
"That's right. But it was the cornea, not the whole eye."
"Right. Well, I saw this movie once. A guy gets a transplant and starts seeing shit from the other person's life. It was one of those soft core movies and he starts seeing bits of pussy… chicks he fucked… chicks who sucked him off."
Shane looked up at Dane. Dane's stare was fixed, his face blank. "You have any of that shit happen to you? Anything?"
Dane kept staring at Shane but said to Tommy who had passed behind him with the box, "When I was carrying that to my truck, a guy in the parking lot bumped into me and knocked it out of my hand. You may want to open it up and make sure everything inside is all right before you fly it to Tehachapi."