Whatever the Impulse

by Tina Amiri

  “That was fun…and you’re cute,” she purred near his ear. “Might ya be lookin’ for somethin’ else tonight…somethin’ for free?”

  He barely heard a word she said. “No, that’s it. Thank you.”

  “Got nothin’ but killin’ on yer mind tonight, huh?” She spun the other way and shrugged. “You take care, y’hear.”

  ****

  Andrew decided it was time to exchange the broom he’d been using as a crutch for something he could use in public, like a real cane. The bullet that had ripped through his leg might have only been half so damaging if it hadn’t shattered his fibula. But walking had become bearable again, and he could now pull off a steady gait, at least for short distances. He cloaked his other wounds beneath fine attire and masked his emotional insult behind a proud face and eloquent words…at least around others.

  He managed to get from his car, into the drugstore, without the help of his broom. A saleswoman approached him, eager to assist the distinguished gentleman with his purchase of a walking stick.

  As he passed the rack of magazines near the front checkout, he stopped and leaned heavily on the brown stick to peer at one particular cover. The title of Morning’s Desire drew his attention to the glossy teen magazine. He scanned all four faces that made up this rock group, but his eyes returned to only one.

  He leaned his cane against the rack and picked up the magazine. Below the group’s name, right beside the tagline: “Their Upcoming Tour,” was a page number. He stared at the familiar image, but it frustrated him that he couldn’t quite determine if it was Night or Morgen. From what he knew, it had to be Morgen, but his expression revealed a softness, or rather a stunnedness, that clearly screamed Night.

  For just a moment, Andrew considered stashing the magazine inside his overcoat, but he laid it on the checkout counter, instead, and muttered, “My niece likes these…these…”

  The woman smiled, dispelling his rare feeling of awkwardness. “I have teenagers myself—and they are both mad for this guy,” she added, tapping the image of his bastard grandchild.

  In the car, he didn’t start the engine until he’d fully inspected this “special edition”. He turned to page forty-two and read the lengthy article about Morning’s Desire’s upcoming tour, including the interview with the band’s lead singer-guitarist.

  Q: Did you expect such amazing success so soon after you were signed?

  A: I didn’t even know what success meant and then suddenly I was in the middle of it. I’m just so thankful…and I’m not the only one.

  ****

  Q: What is the best part of this whirlwind success you’ve achieved?

  A: Everyone is finally happy and I feel like I’ve accomplished what I was always meant to do. The concerts are great, and the people I get to work with are great. I still can’t believe it’s real.

  ****

  Q: Your lyrics hold a lot of mystery. Everybody speculates about the meaning of your songs.

  Can you explain, for instance, what “My Other Side” is really about? Are you referring to yourself, a friend, or perhaps a girlfriend?

  A: I don’t think I should tell everybody that. (laughing) When something is truly your other side, there’s hardly a difference. It’s all those things. You can’t hide from it, or ignore it. It finds you, even if it has to visit you when you’re asleep.

  ****

  Q: What advice do you have for bands out there that dream of making it, like Morning’s Desire?

  A: No matter who you are, or what your situation is, it can happen. I mean, if it could happen to me… (Pause) You have no idea.

  ****

  Andrew put the folded magazine on the seat next to him. Night just told him what was real—right off the page! It made him steam. After all the effort he’d expended to keep Night out of the relative handful of hearts around town, he’d somehow succeeded in making himself central in an orgy with the entire continent! Night was probably laughing at the reality of this every day as he flaunted his breath in every cardinal point on the compass. The speedometer shot up with Andrew’s blood pressure, but he had to keep it together. By the end of this tedious scavenger hunt, that he vowed would lead him to Night, neither of them would be laughing.

  ****

  While the world grew fevered at the mention of Morgen Dahlsi, Doris cooled toward “him” more with each passing day.

  In the studio, she brushed past him when he tried to say hello. He regretted having to distance himself from a beautiful girl who had no qualms about showing him affection, but he didn’t have a choice if he didn’t want to jeopardize his own future and his brother’s legacy. Morgen had, once again, supplied him with an excuse, albeit a lame one.

  “We’re in a group, and we’re all supposed to be equal. I think that’s what Aden wanted us to see since the beginning.”

  “That’s just great, Morgen. What was I thinking?” Doris muttered while checking over the connections on her keyboard. “Who ever heard of a rock star being involved with another band member? Just say it, if you want to play the field.”

  Whatever she was suggesting sounded all right, but he did wish he could make her a part of it.

  ****

  Their new drummer, Colby Field, had taken the band by storm and today’s dinner meeting had everything to do with honoring him. Gin called on the band members, and most of their extended team, to hear out a list of Colby’s ace recommendations, and to officially assign him with the task of standing next to their lead in all the formal interviews. Aden pointed out that Colby would also have to handle all the usual questions about fitting into the shadowy tracks of a leaving member.

  Colby did fit in. He consistently played cleaner and harder than their former drummer, but he also dared to bring his own backup and supporting vocals into songs that Morgen had already perceived as perfect. His considerable experience might have funneled him into his lofty standing, but as Morgen called it, from afar, Colby was another musical prodigy.

  A final item hit the agenda with Brandt’s suggestion to throw a real white tiger into part of their show. The white tiger, the band’s emblem, would be led onto the stage by their platinum-haired lead singer in select performances. Despite the extra work and red-tape, their publicist, manager, and even their lawyer, quickly got on board to make it happen.

  Brandt elaborated. “This could put the band over the top, if we make this stunt into a cause, like saving endangered species, and we donate a percentage of the ticket sales to some wildlife foundation. Morning’s Desire will be more than a rock group…these guys will be heroes.”

  Their publicist nodded explicitly. “It’s perfect. Brilliant. We can call this their Roaring Desire Tour.” He looked at the group’s manager. “What do you think?”

  Gin shrugged. “Yeah… We’d have to limit it to one, maybe two, shows—team up with a local handler in those states, make sure the animal doesn’t get exposed to too much noise or travel. We don’t want the animal welfare groups to end up turning this against us, right? Beyond that, it’s perfect. Brilliant…like you said.”

  Night glanced at his watch, wondering how Morgen had managed today. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with this recent problem of Morgen expecting, and truly needing, him to be in two places all the time. He shuffled in his seat, no longer able to ignore the clamoring at his consciousness that sounded a lot like Morgen ordering him to get his ass home.

  ****

  Tonight, the nameless intruder appeared to make it his mission to leave a more persuasive and permanent message on Morgen’s garage. He whirled around at hearing Sandy’s voice through the darkness.

  “Hey…” barked Sandy. “Was this work contracted by the owner of the house? I’m guessing not, but I can make sure you get recognized for your work.” He ignored the man’s serpent-like glare as he held up some snapshots, all fanned out, in front of the trespasser.

  “Can you see that…?” He pointed to a window, on the second floor, where a small square box peeped over the
ledge. “It’s too bad that I’m down here because I’d rather be watching this on my monitor, upstairs.”

  The man’s jaw finally gave like a seized-up metal hinge. “I can make it worth it to you not to talk.”

  “I thought you could. It won’t cost you much. A couple hundred dollars, every Friday, behind that gatepost over there… Mister Dahlsi won’t ever have to see your image. By the way, I like what you’ve done here. Kind of reminds me of Morgen.”

  The intruder backed away, nodding, his eyes still piercing Sandy’s face before he turned and ran across the property, and through the open gates.

  ****

  Night’s anxiety level climbed as he approached what he now called home. After any long day, he feared what he might find inside his brother’s guestroom. He sped down Morgen’s driveway, but then he slammed on the brakes so everything loose inside the car showered against the dash. He left the engine running as he stumbled toward the strange, grotesque-looking object suspended on the garage door. It turned out to be the poorly de-boned rib cage of an animal—presumably just some grocery store poultry—but it was unsettling nonetheless, and it made Sean’s intentions unmistakable.

  The minute hand was now only a hair away from twelve o’clock—not on his wristwatch, but on the notorious clock that the messenger had boldly drawn on his garage door in red spray paint. Night pitched the corpse into the trashcan in Morgen’s garage and bounded up the steps, two at a time.

  He dashed to Morgen’s bedside to find him, as feared, battling for air, and convulsing uncontrollably. Night leapt onto the bed, without a thought, and hoisted him upright.

  “Stop it,” he yelled, clutching Morgen’s wet face to search for signs of awareness. Like other times, but more desperately now, he reached for some towels that he kept near the bed, pushed Morgen forward and thumped on his back until he lurched up all the fluid that tried to solidify his lungs.

  “You’re going to break my fucking back,” Morgen managed through his violent tremors and gasps. “Where’d you put the morphine? I need it. You got it, didn’t you?”

  Night ignored him and drew up a syringe, using one of the many vials he’d placed in the usual drawer. Morgen had entered delirium, and with both of them now shaking, it amazed Night that the needle still found his brother’s vein on the first try.

  The infusion had a quick effect, allowing Morgen to relax enough to start pacing his tortured breaths. Night sat on the edge of the bed and waited for the morphine to deliver his brother into unconsciousness before he wiped his brow, paused, and then kissed his mouth.

  The telephone rang and Night grabbed it in the common room before it could ring again.

  “Yeah?” he said softly.

  “The one and only Morgen Dahlsi, I assume?”

  “Uh…” Night glanced at his watch. “Yes, it’s Morgen.”

  “I hope you’re not working yourself too hard, Morgen,” said the voice…a man’s voice.

  “Who’s—?”

  “That would leave very little time for you to reflect on who you once were.”

  “Sean?”

  “Just make sure it’s not too difficult to come home when it’s all over.”

  He was having a waking nightmare while every aspect of his being fought to deny the source.

  “I’m your biggest fan,” the man continued, “and I’ll be watching you… ‘Every move you make. Every step you take’…”

  These words ended with a click. Night looked behind him as though he expected to see eyes already there. He didn’t see any, but he could feel them. He shuddered before he began his mission to find Morgen’s address book, which he now did with extra determination.

  Sean’s messily-written name jumped off the page and Night tore the whole page out. Morgen had credited him with having a photographic memory, and this might have been true, but he didn’t want to take any chances when it came to shooting the right person.

  Night’s last chore of the day involved visiting Morgen’s car, one more time. He opened the glove compartment and placed the address book entry, completed with driving directions, on top of his gun. Now, he simply had to take action, before Sean’s sinister cartoon clock could strike midnight.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Nothing induced more panic in Night than the threat of someone invading his suite. He’d just completed the new, more involved, morning routine with Morgen when he heard Frederick’s assertive footsteps slowing down in the hallway. Night tore through the bathroom to meet him.

  “Hi son,” Frederick greeted as Night burst into the common room. “I want you to know that someone will be coming by the house, today, to refinish your garage door… I assume you’ve seen it.”

  Night nodded.

  Frederick glanced at his watch as though every minute mattered, yet he took the time to perform a cursory inspection of the bar. He gave Night a distrustful smirk when he found nothing.

  “Maybe you should keep your gates locked from now on,” he continued. “I don’t understand. Such a curious gesture, to paint a clock face on the door. It almost seems personal.”

  “Yes, maybe someone made a mistake.” Night aimed his gaze at the south-facing window, the direction of Sean’s address. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Just lock your gates from now on.”

  ****

  After Night pulled out of the driveway to meet with his latest coach, the animal trainer, Sandy looked for his first deposit of two hundred dollars around the gatepost. When he didn’t find it, he figured it would show up after dark, and he headed for the beach. There, he sprawled himself on a park bench with a beer in one hand, savoring his mercenary achievements—even daring to imagine what it would feel like to take over the world.

  The sun touched the horizon before Sandy put the newspaper down and abandoned his bench. The comics had blurred in front of him, all afternoon, as he kept envisioning various scandalous headlines at the top of the page.

  In waning light, he strolled back to the parking lot that stretched for a mile along the beachside road and brilliant sunset. He took little notice of the silver Challenger that had parked next to him, on the driver’s side—at least not until its passenger door flew open, right beside him, and knocked him onto his hands. In a flash, he was reliving the grocery store incident as the knee of a hefty assailant crashed down on his back; only, this time, no knife touched his rear to silence him, just a hand over his mouth. He heard a set of heavy heels on the concrete behind him, which signaled that a second perpetrator had just joined the party.

  “So you like to play with cameras?” a male voice with a slight drawl initiated, after squatting beside his left shoulder. “You’re some cocky son-of-a-bitch. But you gotta learn when it ain’t so smart to show it. I can certainly get why Morgen paid to have your ass whooped. Anyway, about the camera… I guess we all have a secret. Morgen’s obviously got a secret, I got a secret, and if you don’t keep your secret,” the man spat at his ear, “then nobody’ll have a goddamn secret!”

  Sean sprang up and left Sandy with the human boulder on his back. A few seconds later, Sean’s Challenger started up and reversed, in a wide arc, out of its parking spot. Sean’s cohort picked up his struggling victim, ripped down his jacket to trap his arms, and hauled him into Sean’s trajectory.

  Sandy both felt and saw lightning when the thug heaved him to the ground. The second bolt came as the car’s right wheels thumped over his legs, rolling him over twice as it sped away.

  If timing hadn’t been on Sean’s side, someone might have noticed his burly associate sprinting away from the crime scene, before catching up with the Challenger on the southbound lane. But any potential witnesses were absent at this time, still leisurely roaming the beaches.

  ****

  With Morgen’s old directions on the seat beside him, Night found his way to the deserted country road where Sean lived. He slowed down to scan the property before speeding around the bend to park where the car couldn’t be seen from the house.<
br />
  The wildflowers dotting the landscape struck him as eerie. Tumbleweed rolled across the barren front yard of Sean’s ranch-style house. It looked neglected, which whispered to Night that Sean didn’t care about his home and perhaps not even about his life…an asset for both of them if it were true.

  He crouched behind a crest of rock and spied on the house. His hands clenched the grip of the pistol that he rested on the surface of the ridge, and he stayed this way until the last shred of daylight faded on the horizon. It became clear that Sean wasn’t home when no lights came on in the house.

  As he rolled back on his heels, prepared to accept failure, headlights beamed into his face.

  The Challenger pulled into the driveway—after having passed Morgen’s glaring white car around the bend—so as Night saw it, he now had very little choice. He couldn’t steady his aim before Sean walked into the house, but then the lights came on outside, the door creaked open, and his target stepped out again.

  Night lifted the muzzle and aligned the front ramp sight with his target. Fear overflowed his crystal eyes and sweat formed on the bridge of his nose. He released the safety—quickly this time—but he recoiled as though he’d just fired the gun when a large dog charged from the house. It bounded past his owner and galloped in circles in the front yard. The pistol skipped from Night’s hands and bounced off the rocky ledge, to his knees. The animal looked his way and growled, but became distracted when Sean tossed a stick.

  Night swept the gun up with one hand and took aim. He adjusted his pressure on the trigger, a few times, always sure the next second would be the right one.

  Sean grabbed the dog’s collar and guided it toward the open doorway. Panicked, Night tensed his finger and the result shocked him like a wallop from thunder itself. Numbness swept his entire body. His hands quivered, his heart felt like the lead slug he’d just released, and it hurt to breathe, as though his lungs had petrified. Then, every one of these sensations slammed him a second time as he realized Sean had made it through the front door.