Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

El Jefe pulls himself out of his dented BMW, where he’s been sitting with the air conditioner blasting for the last half hour. He mutters something to the Guatemalans, who bow their heads and nod, reluctant to meet his gaze, then marches across the yard to check our progress. Out of habit, I guess, he still carries himself like a military man — back straight, shoulders squared, one hand always resting on his hip, where his sidearm would be if he were in uniform. It’s funny seeing him strut around like this now that he’s gone soft and sprouted a belly, but I don’t dare laugh, not with those crazy eyes of his and his history.

He walks into the backyard and then returns a few minutes later and motions with a quick snap of his wrist for me to join him. We step softly along a stone path that leads to a covered patio where we can look down onto the swimming pool, which sits at a lower elevation than the house. Two nude men are sunning themselves, side by side on chaise lounges. As we watch, one of them stands and kisses the other before diving into the water.

“Fucking maricones, ” El Jefe whispers. He raises an imaginary rifle to his shoulder and aims it at the men.

“What’s the big deal?” I ask.

“It makes me sick, those putos .” He removes his mirrored sunglasses and wipes the sweat from his eyes with the palm of his hand. “We flushed our shit in Managua.”

I shrug and say, “Free country and all that.”

“And this is freedom, to fuck another man?”

“To fuck whoever you want, I guess. Who cares?”

“What?” he says, staring at me with disgust.

I don’t want to get into it, so I return to the front yard and prepare to go back to work. El Jefe’s all fired up, though, and won’t leave it alone. He hovers behind me and says, “This country has lost its way.”

“Yeah yeah,” I snap. “And you used to be hell with a cattle prod and a pair of pliers. I’m busy here, okay?”

I’ve never popped off to him like this before, and I’m afraid to look up to see what effect it’s had on him. Sweat is running down my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, and a few drops fall into the can of paint I’m stirring. After a while his shadow slides away, and I hear him walking across the lawn. When he reaches his BMW, he calls to me.

“Hey, gringo.”

I try to strike a defiant pose as I stand to face him.

“You think I am a bad man?”

He looks almost sad now, almost ashamed, but I’m not about to back down. “I think you’ve done bad things,” I reply.

An unripe date drops from a palm tree above his car and bounces off the hood with a loud bang. He stiffens at the sound, a slight flinch, then relaxes again and says, “So it’s lucky that only God will be the judge of both of us.”

Before I can fish up a response, he gives me a quick salute and slides into his car and drives away. At quitting time he returns with liquor on his breath and hands each of us our pay sealed inside an envelope, as is his usual custom. I open mine at a stop sign on the way home and find an extra fifty-dollar bill tucked among the twenties.

THE BEDROOM IS dark; darker still the figure filling the doorway. I strain my arms and legs, try to sit, roll to the floor, yell, but nothing works. He walks slowly to the side of the bed and jams the barrel of a pistol into my mouth, twists it past my lips and teeth, pulls the trigger. An awful goddamn dream. I awaken with ringing ears, my heart heaving against my ribs like an animal struggling to escape a trap. I taste gunpowder and oiled metal, and even before the world has fully congealed, I’m on my feet. The shotgun and shells Moriarty loaned me are hidden on the top shelf of the closet, inside an old gym bag. I carry them out to the living room and sit on the couch.

The porch light stains the curtains orange. A moth’s shadow flashes huge across them. It’s bright enough in the room for me to make out the TV, the DVD player, the stereo, everything where it should be. I’ve never been out here naked before. My balls feel funny, resting on the cool vinyl of the couch. I raise the gun to my nose, and the smell brings back my nightmare. A shudder runs through me.

There’s something sharp beneath my bare foot. I reach down to pick up Whatever it is, one of Sam’s toys, the man who found out he was a robot. It seems important that I help the little guy by giving him the new head he wants. I’ll fix him and leave him for Sam to find in the morning, a kind of miracle. Thinking there must be more of the figures scattered about, I slide to the floor and lie on my stomach. I sweep my hand through the dark and dusty cavern beneath the couch, but find nothing except an old soda straw and a penny.

“Honey?”

Maria startles me. I roll over and grab the shotgun and point it at her, and then lower it just as quickly when I realize what I’ve done. My God. My fucking God.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Is that a gun?”

The refrigerator grumbles under its breath in the kitchen.

“I got it from a friend,” I say. “With all the burglaries, I thought it might be good to have around.”

“So you’re going to shoot someone?”

“Scare them maybe.”

I pull myself back onto the sofa, upsetting the box of shells. They fall to the floor one by one, clank and roll, clank and roll. I’m an idiot. Maria slips into the orange glow, arms crossed over the front of her robe, her worried look tempered by a quizzical smile. My shame only burns more intensely when she sits beside me and reaches out, probably afraid, to lay a hand on my shoulder. Her lips touch my cheek, and I feel as soft and black as a piece of wormy fruit. I squeeze the man who found out he was a robot so hard he cuts into my palm. How do normal people live with all the mistakes they’ve made?

AFTER WORK ON Wednesday I stop off at the supermarket to pick up milk and eggs, and who do I spot but Belushi. He’s slouched in the condiment aisle, brow furrowed, rubbing his temples with his index fingers. His black-clad frame sways like a tree rocked by the wind.

I know he lives in the neighborhood, but our paths have never crossed before, and I marvel at how strange he looks compared to the other shoppers. Big bubble sunglasses hide his eyes, and tattooed leopard spots tumble out of the sleeve of his T-shirt, which advertises five-cent mustache rides.

I don’t have it in me, the guts it takes to set yourself apart like that. I had my ear pierced once, but it only lasted a week, until a carpenter on the job I was working at the time made a smart remark.

“Boo,” I say to Belushi when I finally sidle up next to him.

He glances over at me and smiles like we do this every day. “Twenty-five kinds of barbecue sauce,” he says. “And all that mustard, man.” His speech is slurred, and thick strings of saliva stretch between his lips.

“You shopping?” I ask.

“Nah, nah. I came in for cigarettes and got distracted.”

He loses his balance and almost topples over. A security guard at the end of the aisle pays close attention.

“Truthfully, I’m pretty fucked up. Could you give me a ride home?”

His apartment is only a couple of blocks away, in a nice building, much nicer than mine. It must be true what Moriarty says about him coming from money. He invites me in for a beer, and I say sure, because it looks like he might need help getting to his door.

The walls and ceiling of the elevator are covered with a mosaic of tiny mirrors. I crouch and make a monkey face, and it’s like watching myself on thousands of little TVs. Belushi staggers into the kitchen when we reach his apartment. He’s got a computer and a plasma screen, and there are two or three electric guitars lying about. Instead of a couch, fat pillows surround a low table covered with those religious candles they sell in Mexican stores.