T. Parker - The Famous and the Dead

“Go to hell, Mike.”

“I think I missed something,” said Owens.

Bradley walked around the dance floor and through the tables, headed for the stairs. The orchestra started up “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” The dwarves sat on opposite sides of an empty table, leaning forward and arguing loudly, an ocean of empty glasses between them. An old woman wearing a prim and very faded Victorian dress, one of the few old people in the room, caught Bradley by his shirtsleeve and thrust a silver flask at him. He swallowed some and gave it back her. She didn’t let go of his arm. “I’m Eva. And Mike told me that you met Beatrice.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What did you think of her?”

“I kind of felt bad for her.”

“Well, don’t forget what she is. She’ll be out in a few short years. There’s always been lots of back and forth between us and the dullards we’re trying to keep from ruining humankind. Mike is so swashbuckling sometimes, and darling, too, of course. I’ve never seen him happier than he is now. It’s all your fault! I’m very happy to have you with us.”

“Nice to be on the team.”

“Your timing is pitch-perfect, and the West has always been the most interesting territory, bar none. And this economy is making people question everything they think they know. They’re so angry and afraid and sometimes desperate. You wake up in the morning and can’t help but smell the fear. It’s the most delightful peacetime work environment I’ve experienced since the Great Depression.” She reached up and pinched Bradley’s cheek.

He stood outside where guests arrived and the valets dashed into the dark with tickets in their hands. He dialed Erin and while the phone rang he rocked up and down on the balls of his feet, feeling the strong flex of his calves, and recalled in detail, though for no apparent reason, flying a kite with his brother when he was five, a big blue Chinese dragon with a six-foot wingspan and a long tail and big white teeth. They were at Huntington Beach on the twenty-second of August, 1991, the water was sixty-eight degrees, and the swell was out of the southwest. Now Bradley could clearly see that kite wobbling back and forth in the stiff onshore breeze, zigzagging higher and higher into the blue sky, slashing away with its great white teeth, and he could feel the pull of the plastic handle, and the warmth of the sun on his back, and the grit of the sand trapped between his skinny boy hips and his low-slung canvas trunks.

“Hi, baby.”

“Brad. I was sleeping. How’s the convention?”

“It’s over and I’m on my way.”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m tired and I want to sleep, just me and Thomas tonight.”

Bradley said nothing for a long beat. He felt the optimism draining out of him like milk from a ruptured carton. “I’m very disappointed.”

“Tired is tired. I wrote a song today. Maybe tomorrow we can see each other.”

“When? What time?”

“Please let me sleep on it.”

“But for tonight I could just curl up on the couch like I have been. Or on the floor in your room. Whichever you want. I wouldn’t even wake you up.”

“That’s a really nice offer. But no. Not tonight, Bradley. Thomas is quiet now.”

“That’s really good, honey.”

“I don’t like your tone of voice.”

“I love you.”

“I know you’re furious at me. You can’t hide it. I’m sorry it’s like this, Bradley. I don’t know how else to get through.”

“Let me be with you.”

“Not tonight.”

“I love you with all my furious heart.”

She clicked off. Bradley stood for a moment in the cold February night, then gave his ticket to the cashier and paid the parking charge. He headed west to Sunset and the Whisky, where he had first seen Erin McKenna six years ago. She had been onstage with her first band, the Cheater Slicks, and he’d fallen for her before the first song of their first set was over. He was sixteen but looked nineteen, had a good fake ID and a solid vodka buzz. Two nights later he finally caught her eye and he had not let go. Now, heading for the front door of the Whisky, Bradley remembered their first conversation perfectly:

When you look at me it’s like walking into a beautiful room. I’m Brad Jones.

That’s a pretty thing to say.

I’m short on words right now.

I’m Erin McKenna.

After the last set tonight, we need to talk.

Oh, we need to, Brad Jones?

Yes.

What are you going to talk with if you’re short on words?

I’ll find something.

In honor of that memory Bradley had a vodka rocks, listened to the band, thought about Erin. Six years with her. He knew that thousands of men had seen her perform here in L.A., and half of them had fallen for her just as he had. But he had had the luck. He was the one who got her. She had given herself to him, along with her trust and love. She would soon give a child to him.

Mike’s cool cucumber potion continued to stoke his memories, bringing them back in splendid detail. But his memories of Erin were not a comfort now; rather they were bitter torments of regret and frustration and of all that he had lost in her. Lost. Every beautiful remembered image cut him; every fond recalled word rang with impermanence. He drank two more vodkas hoping that his anger would soften but they only made it worse. He called her but she didn’t answer. He headed out of town on the 101, then cut east on Interstate 10, which took him to Monterey Park, where the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department was headquartered. He pulled into the parking lot of a Circle K he knew.

Looking back and forth between the storefront and the rearview mirror he tied a black bandana loosely around his neck. Then he set the lucky Santana Panama on his head and dropped the heavy.40 caliber derringer his mother had given him into the breast pocket of his tuxedo coat. He got them ready as he walked across the lot. He came out with a plastic bag stuffed with cash and a tall can of sweetened tea for the road and a promise from the facedown clerk not to get up off the floor for exactly five minutes. He had apologized to the terrified clerk and removed his wallet, added five twenties to the eleven lonely dollars inside, and worked it back into the man’s pocket.

Yorth stood at the open side of Hood’s cubicle with a cup of coffee in his hand and a frown on his face. He was haunted by Cepeda, and Hood could see it in his red eyes and the gray crescents under them and hear it in his voice. “I don’t know why Washington has to choose times of crisis to make things even worse for us. But the SAC wants you in L.A. in one hour.”

“For what?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

“Fine with me, but it’s a two-and-half-hour drive even if you flog it.”

“They’re sending down a helo. It’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”

Hood raised his eyebrows. “Don’t I feel special. What’s up, Dale? Cough it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe they want to talk more about Reggie. Or Wampler or the Stingers.”

“Why talk to just me?”

“I told you, Charlie, I don’t know.”

Ten minutes later Hood was tucked into a little Department of Justice Bell, looking down at the diminishing Buenavista Airport. The pilot introduced himself as a U.S. Marshal and those were the last words he spoke. Hood was taken not to the rather swank ATF regional headquarters in Glendale but to the westside Federal Building. He saw twenty-something chairs around the conference room table but there were only four people in them except for himself. He recognized two-a congressman from California, who was talking on his cell phone when Hood sat down. The other was Fredrick Lansing, acting deputy director of ATF, who shook Hood’s hand and gestured to a chair but said nothing. He’s a long way from headquarters in Washington, D.C., thought Hood. Then he interlaced his fingers on the table and looked out the window at Century City and wondered if he should have stayed in the Buckboard clubhouse to help Cepeda handle Wampler instead of going after Skull when he bolted. Maybe then Cepeda would still be alive and Wampler would have bought the farm instead. Really, where could Skull have gotten to? Well, the same place Wampler had gotten, Hood thought: away.