Dead Boys (6 page)

Moriarty found me at the unemployment office in Hollywood. I ignored him on his first approach, because everybody there seemed so strung out and crazy, and who knew what this blond bastard with the crooked smile was up to.
Just let me fill out my forms and be on my way
was my philosophy that morning, but he kept at me, asking to borrow some of my newspaper and following me outside to the catering truck parked at the curb, where we stood eyeing each other through the steam rising from our coffee.

He says he could tell right then that I was the one, but I don’t know how. That first conversation, as I recall it, was nothing more than your standard two strangers shooting the shit kind of thing: a little sports, a little music, and each of us maybe trying a little too hard to convince the other that we were worth more than the three hundred bucks a week we were waiting in line for. In my version it wasn’t until later — when we retreated to a bar to wash the shame of the morning from our craws — that the truth began to come out. When Moriarty wrapped his hands around his beer like he was praying and sighed, “I’ll tell you what, getting by is killing me,” that’s when I first thought we might have something in common.

Turned out we lived in the same part of Hollywood, so we started getting together for drinks once a week or so. Bank robbery was a running joke from the beginning, or at least I took it as a joke. Moriarty would say, “I’m serious,” and I’d laugh and say, “I know you are.” To me it was like, “Hey, let’s make a movie,” or, “Let’s open a pizza place,” one of those shared pipe dreams guys sometimes use as an excuse to keep meeting when they’re too uptight to admit they enjoy each other’s company. You know, “This isn’t just drinking; we’ve got business to discuss.” You get to fantasize together, share your plans for all the money you’re going to make, act a little foolish.

Even when Belushi came into the picture — an old college buddy of Moriarty’s — and Moriarty got into the insurance racket, and we started meeting at his office instead of the bar because he decided we shouldn’t be seen together in public anymore, I still didn’t take it seriously. And how could I? I mean, the three of us — us! — sitting around hefting pistols and discussing timing while studying maps Moriarty had drawn of the various banks he’d cased — it was hilarious. I remember laughing to myself the first time we actually drove out to scout an escape route, because I knew an hour later I was going to be home playing patty-cake with Sam and helping Maria clean the bathroom. That was real life. My life.

So how, then, do I explain what happened next? I don’t. I can’t. BOOM! There I am, standing in one of those same banks on legs that are shaking like a pair of Slinkys. I’ve got a gun in my hand and pantyhose pulled over my head, and when I yell, “Get down on the floor!” you’d think it was the voice of God rumbling out of a thundercloud, the way the customers throw themselves at my feet. I’d always imagined that when you crossed the line you saw it coming, but it turned out to be more like gliding over the equator on the open sea. Don’t let them kid you, it’s nothing momentous, going from that to this.

E
L JEFE PHONES
early Monday morning with an offer of a few days’ work on a house in Los Feliz. He was a bigwig in the Nicaraguan army until they ran his ass out on a rail after the revolution. Now he’s got a rinky-dink painting business here, with most of his jobs coming through flyers he leaves in mailboxes and under windshield wipers. When white people hire him, he calls me in, because he jacks up his prices for Caucasians and figures they won’t complain as much if some of it is going to a fellow gringo. Besides that, white women feel more comfortable with one of their own around, he says, “to keep an eye on us thieves and rapists.” It’s a hundred tax-free bucks a day, and it’ll keep my mind off the heist.

The house is a big, two-story Spanish-style that we’re taking from dull tan to something slightly darker. It’s me and a couple of short, silent Guatemalan Indians doing the labor, with El Jefe supervising between cigars and chats on his cell phone.

The best thing about painting is that it has a rhythm that allows you to drift away. On this morning I run through our first Christmas in the mountains, tweaking the vision bit by bit until it snaps into perfect focus, right down to the broken-glass sparkle of the new snow, the pop and hiss of the logs burning in the fireplace, and the smell of the tree that Sam and I will cut down and drag home through the wintry woods. It’s such a pretty picture that the sun chewing on the back of my neck doesn’t bother me at all, and I’m almost reluctant to put down my brush and descend the ladder when lunch rolls around.

I get the sandwiches and thermos of lemonade that Maria made for me out of the cooler in the bed of my truck and settle against the shady side of one of the palm trees planted in the strip of grass between the street and the sidewalk. The Guatemalans sit on the curb some distance away, talking quietly as they peel back the foil from their burritos. We haven’t exchanged two words all morning, but that’s the way it goes on these jobs. I think they know why El Jefe brings me around, and I’m not about to stroll over and plop myself down beside them and give them a “we’re all in the same boat” speech, because we’re not, and they know that, too.

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.

T
HE 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?

A
FTER 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.

Belushi returns with a bottle of Heineken and hands it to me, then drops onto one of the pillows. It feels a little hippy-dippy, but I join him. I wish he’d open a window or at least twist the blinds to let some sun through. It’s like an animal’s den in here, or the end of some dark road. I imagine bones in the shadows, jagged rocks, old burned wood. He takes a noisy hit from a purple bong and asks in a high, choking voice whether I’m nervous about tomorrow’s job.

“Sure,” I reply. “I’ve barely been sleeping. You?”

“I’m a fucking mess,” he says with a smile. “This is the last one. The big one. Your old lady doesn’t know what’s up, does she?”

“No way. No. She’d flip.”

“How are you going to explain coming into money?”

I shrug to avoid answering. I’ve given the matter a lot of thought, but he doesn’t need to know that. He’s got plenty of other things to make fun of me about.

“You and Moriarty have been friends for a long time, huh?” I say.

Belushi lights a cigarette. The ashtray is a coiled rattlesnake with red rhinestone eyes.

“Yep. Me and the buttfucker go way back. He’s my favorite Martian. The same spaceship stranded both of us on this prison planet, and we’ve been looking for a way off ever since.”