Robert Ferrigno - Scavenger hunt

"Walsh should have called O. J. and asked him for a lift," said Jimmy. "Killers helping killers-it sounds like a bumper sticker."

"How could he not have any money?" said Tamra. " Firebug did over seventy million domestic. That's a cost-return ratio of almost fifty to one. He's got to be sitting on a pile."

Jimmy turned around and stared at her.

"What?" said Tamra. "I majored in business at community college."

"Mr. Walsh was pretty nervous that night," said Rollo. "Pretty drunk too. He kept asking me to run red lights and dodge through alleys. I think he was scared we were being followed. Fans can be pretty aggressive." The van lurched, and he fed it more gas, then suddenly veered off the main road and onto a barely visible gravel path, the wheels spitting up stones. "Mr. Walsh told me to stay on the paved road, then had me drop him off in front of this big house. He said it was his place, but I watched him in my rearview as I pulled away and saw him pretending to unlock the gate." Rollo grinned. "He's a tricky guy. I guess you have to be when you're famous." The van hit a pothole, and Rollo's chin banged against the steering wheel, but he was so pleased with himself that he didn't seem to notice. "So I started back down the hill, then cut my lights, parked on the shoulder, and waited. Sure enough, ten minutes later I see Mr. Walsh walking up this path. I tagged along on foot. He had to stop a couple of times to throw up, and I thought once he heard me, but now I know where he lives. Smart, huh?"

Jimmy looked out the side window. They hadn't passed a house since the turnoff-no lights, no mailboxes, no safety rails.

Rollo gasped as the van skidded toward the edge, fighting to regain control. The road narrowed still further, not even gravel now, just dead grass and hardpack.

Tamra caressed Rollo's neck. "Is Walsh working on a new project?"

"How's my makeup?" Tonya asked her sister. "Heather Grimm. The photo of her in Entertainment Weekly-her hair was in a French braid. Walsh must like that."

"Yeah, he was so turned on by her hairstyle that he raped her, then stove her head in with one of his two Oscars," said Jimmy. "That's a sincere compliment."

"I don't get your point," said Tonya.

"Mr. Walsh paid his debt, Jimmy," said Rollo.

"No, he didn't."

"Yeah, well…" said Rollo. "Anyway, now he's just trying to get his life back together."

The VW crested the hill. Jimmy could see a large house above the ridge, and a trailer nearby, dimly lit, a beat-up Honda parked beside it. The road abruptly ended, and as Rollo hit the brakes, the van skidded to a stop. The engine idled roughly, and the headlights illuminated the landscaped slope, lit the arrangement of boulders behind a large pool of water that had white lilies floating on the surface. At the center of the pool, balanced precariously on some rocks, a man stood with his back to them, jeans hanging loosely around his hips, barefoot and bare-chested, caught in the headlights' glare as he pissed merrily into the koi pond.

Tamra giggled.

The man turned his head toward them, blinking, as he casually shook his penis, a cigarette jutting from his mouth, sunglasses pushed back on his forehead. The black water seemed to be boiling, fish churning around his toes, their gold scales flashing in the light.

"Oh yeah," said Jimmy, "he's putting his life back together. He's almost got the puzzle complete now."

Walsh plucked the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it into the koi pond as Jimmy and Rollo approached. The sizzle was loud in the stillness. He started toward them, slipped on the rocks, and went into the dirty water up to his knees, staggering closer now, bringing the stink of booze and dirty water with him.

Jimmy held his ground, but Rollo took a step back. The twins were still in the van, working on their hair and makeup, preparing for their big entrance.

Seven years in prison, and Walsh still had the same insolent mouth and sleepy eyes, the same Wayfarers perched high on his head, and three days of stubble. The bags under his eyes were bigger now, his face puffier and more dissipated, but it was still the same bad-boy mug that Newsweek had put on the cover twice, once when he won the Oscars and again when he was convicted of murder. The tattoo on his right shoulder was a jailhouse-issue devil with a pitchfork, the tattoo as sloppy as his sunburned torso, a shim of gut drooping over the waistband of his jeans. He looked a lot better than Heather Grimm did.

"Mr. Walsh-it's me, Rollo. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember you," growled Walsh, slouching, his thumbs hooked into the back pockets of his jeans. His eyes shifted from one to the other like he was trying to decide something. He settled on Jimmy. "The tough guy here looks familiar too."

"Hope you don't mind us dropping by," said Rollo. "We're playing a game."

"You already played me, kid," Walsh said to Rollo, still keeping watch on Jimmy. "You fooled me good with all that yakkety-yak about movies, and you being a fellow filmmaker. Well, I have only myself to blame."

"I'm not sure I understand, Mr. Walsh."

"Shut up, Rollo," said Jimmy, who did understand.

"Yeah, shut up, Rollo," Walsh said evenly. "You did your job, you don't have to pretend anymore." He smiled at Jimmy, his teeth uneven and nicotine-stained. "I know what you're here to do, tough guy, but don't worry, I'm not going to make you sweat for your paycheck. I just want a few minutes to make my peace."

Jimmy saw Walsh doing something with his right hand behind his back.

Walsh bowed his head. "Now I lay me down to sleep," he said, inching closer, "I pray the Lord, my soul to-" He whipped the linoleum knife out from behind his back, the curved blade catching the moonlight as he swept it low, going for Jimmy's belly. "Making spaghetti," that's what the disemboweling stroke was called in prison, intestines spilling out in a red sauce of blood.

Jimmy had been waiting for the Chef-Boyardee move ever since he saw Walsh slip his hands in his back pockets. He pivoted to his left, barely avoiding the blade, then punched Walsh in the face, caught him just under the nose, and knocked him backward. The knife spun off into the night. A linoleum knife was a smart choice for an ex-con. Anything with more than a four-and-a-half-inch blade was considered a deadly weapon, but a linoleum knife, equally deadly in the right hands, was just a tool.

"Thanks, Jimmy," said Rollo, rushing over toward where Walsh lay sprawled on the ground, groaning. "That's really mature."

Jimmy smiled as he rubbed the throbbing knuckles of his right hand. Moonlight shimmered on a small gold ring through Walsh's right nipple.

"Mr. Walsh is sure to help us now," Rollo muttered. "What do you care if we win the scavenger hunt?" He sat Walsh up, then picked the Wayfarers off the ground and tenderly fitted them back into place on his forehead. "You're always settling scores that aren't any of your business, Jimmy. Mr. Walsh did his time. Why is it your job to decide what he had coming?"

Jimmy watched the blood trickle from Walsh's nose. "It's not my job," he confided to Walsh. "It's more of a hobby."

"You hit-you hit like a girl," Walsh said to Jimmy.

"Stand up. I'll try to do better this time," Jimmy said softly.

Walsh stayed where he was, thinking. "Rollo called you Jimmy."

"That's my name."

"You're Jimmy Gage?" Walsh squinted at him in the dim light. "Rollo told me about you. The magazine writer…" He spit blood. "You're not here to kill me."

"I tried to tell you." Rollo looked around. " Is there somebody trying to kill you?"

Walsh looked at Jimmy. "You cold-cocked me just for the fun of it?" He dabbed at his nose with his fingertips, winced, then wiped the blood on his jeans. He stood up, still wobbly. "I've gotten bad reviews before, but this is the first time I got punched out by a critic." He grinned at Jimmy, but there was no humor in it. "I owe you one, tough guy."