Richard Lange - Dead Boys - Stories

There are those kids, too, the ones selling Chiclets and silver rings that turn your fingers green. Or sometimes they aren’t selling anything. They just hold out their hands. Barefoot and dirty — babies, really. So many that after a while you don’t see them anymore, but they’re still there, like the saddest thing that ever happened to you.

Liz and I stand on the sidewalk in front of the bar, waiting. The power lines overhead, tangled and frayed, slice the sky into wild shapes. Boys cruise past in fancy cars, the songs on their stereos speaking for them. The barker for the strip club next door invites us in for a happy hour special, two for one. It’s all a little too loud, a little too sharp. I’m about to suggest we have another drink when Tracy floats up to us like a ghost.

“You know, Trace, fuck,” I say.

“What a hassle. Sorry.”

A hot wind scours the street, flinging dust into our eyes.

THE RESTAURANT IS on a side street, a couple blocks away. We don’t say anything during the short walk. Men in cowboy hats cook steaks on an iron grill out front, and we pass through a cloud of greasy smoke to join the other gringos inside. It’s that kind of place. I order the special, a sirloin stuffed with guacamole.

Tracy pretends to be interested in what Liz is saying, something about Cassie and Kendra, but her restless fingers and darting eyes give her away. When she turns to call for another bottle of water, Liz shoots me a quizzical look. I shake my head and drink my beer. The booze has deadened my taste buds so that I can’t enjoy my steak. Tracy cuts into hers but doesn’t eat a bite. The waiter asks if anything is wrong.

We go back to Revolución to get a cab. The sidewalks are crazy, tilting this way and that and sometimes disappearing completely. You step off the curb, and suddenly it’s three feet down to the pavement. Tracy begins to cry. She doesn’t hide it. She walks in and out of the purple afternoon shadows of the buildings, dragging on a cigarette, tears shining.

“Must be one of those days,” she says when I ask what’s wrong.

We leave it at that.

She cleans herself up in the cab, staring into a little round mirror, before we join the long line of people waiting to pass through customs. We stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and the fluorescent lights make everyone look guilty of something. There are no secrets in this room. Every word echoes, and I can smell the sweat of the guy in front of me. Four or five officers are checking IDs. They ask people how long they’ve been down and what they’ve brought back with them. When it’s my turn, a fat blond woman glances down at my license, matches my face to the picture, and waves me through. We’re all waved right through.

Tracy’s mood brightens immediately. In fact, she laughs and laughs as we leave the building and board the trolley. Everything’s funny to her, everything’s great. The train is less crowded this time. We each get our own row of seats. Just some marines at the other end of the car, talking about whores. “Oh, this little bitch, she went to town, ” one of them groans.

Tracy reaches into her purse and takes out a bottle of pills, opens it and pops one into her mouth. She smiles when she catches me watching her.

The trolley clicks and clacks like it’s made of bones. I stretch out, put my feet up. The reflection of my face is wrapped around a stainless steel pole dulled by a day’s worth of fingerprints. Tracy dozes off, head lolling. Liz, too. I watch the sun set through rattling windows, and all the red that comes with it.

The trolley lurches, and Tracy’s purse tips over. It’s one of those big bags you carry over your shoulder. A half-dozen bottles of pills spill out and roll noisily across the floor. I chase them down, mortified. Tracy opens one eye. I spread the bag wide. It’s full of pills, maybe twenty bottles, all with Spanish labels.

“You’ve got kids,” I whisper. “Beautiful kids.”

“That’s right.” She grabs the bag away from me and hugs it to her chest.

“Tracy.”

“Look, I didn’t ask you to show up; I just didn’t say no.”

“I wanted to help.”

“I fully realize that.”

I try to talk to her some more, but she pretends to be asleep. Nothing I say means anything anyway, because she thinks I’ve had it easy. Liz is suddenly beside me. She takes my hand in both of hers. The jarheads are rapping. Bitch. Skeez. Muthafucka. I could kill them. I could.

WE CAN SEE the fire from the freeway. The entire hillside is ablaze. Tracy’s condo is up there somewhere. Flames claw at the night sky, and smoke blots out the stars. I don’t even know how you’d begin to fight a thing like that. Maybe that’s what the helicopters are for. They circle and dip, lights flashing.

Tracy is still asleep. She could barely walk from the trolley to the car but wouldn’t let us touch her. “Stop laughing,” she yelled, so messed up she was imagining things. She’s curled up on the backseat now, her arms protecting her head. We decide not to wake her until we’re sure of something.

The police at the roadblock can’t tell us much. The wind picked up, and everything went to shit. The gymnasium of a nearby high school has been pressed into service as a shelter. We are to go there and wait for more information. A fire truck arrives, and they pull aside the barricades to let it through.

“How bad are we looking?” I ask a cop.

He ignores me.

I back the car up and turn around, and Liz guides me to the school. We pass a carnival on the way, in the parking lot of a church. A Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, a few games. People wander from ride to ride, booth to booth, swiping at the ash that tickles their noses. A beer sign sputters in the window of a pizza parlor. A kid in a white shirt and black vest sweeps the sidewalk in front of the multiplex. His friend makes him laugh. A mile away everything is burning.

My stomach is cramped by the time we get to the school. I can see into the gym from where I park. Cots are lined up beneath posters shouting GO TIGERS!!! Two women sit at a table near the door, signing people in, and farther away, in the shadows by the drinking fountains, a group of men stand and smoke. That’s about it. Most people have somewhere better to go. Tony must have told Kendra about angels. What a thing to put into a kid’s mind.

A news crew is interviewing a girl who just arrived. She’s carrying a knapsack and a cardboard box full of china. They shine a light in her face and ask about what she lost and where she’ll go. She says something about her cat. She had to leave it behind.

I close my eyes and bring my fists to my temples. I have to be at work early for a meeting. I can see Big Mike sliding out of his Caddy, squeezing his gut past the steering wheel. He’s my mentor, he likes to say. He’s been married four times. He gets winded walking to the john. There’s nothing lucky about him.

“I want a baby,” I say. The words just get away from me.

“Jack,” Liz says. I’m afraid to open my eyes to look at her. Tracy giggles in the backseat, and we both turn. She reaches up to scratch her face and grins in her sleep.

AFTER WE TAKE CONTROL OF A BANK AND SUBDUE THE security guard, it’s my job to watch the customers while Moriarty slides over the counter and empties the tills. I’m not sure why this task fell to me. Even after all this time, I’m not the most convincing bad guy. I’ve worked on my posture and stuff in the mirror, practiced evil glares and unnerving twitches, but I still worry that someone is going to see through me.

The gun I carry helps. A big, ugly, silver thing, it’s fairly undeniable. I’m careful not to abuse the upper hand it gives me, though. You see psychos playing those games in movies, and you’re always glad when they get theirs. And I’ve been on the other end of it, too, shortly after I moved to L.A. I know what it feels like. As I left a liquor store one night, a couple of peewees rushed me and flashed a piece. My wallet practically flew out of my pocket and into their hands. It took me weeks to stop shaking. I vomited right there on the sidewalk. I keep that in mind when we’re doing our thing. No need to push it.