Halfway House (10 page)

She’d gone a block before she heard it again.
Click
.
Snap
. She couldn’t figure out what it could be. Her heart climbed into her throat. She felt her breathing increase. She tried reasoning with her fear, but it wasn’t working. Halfway down the block, she spied her car.

Click
.
Snap
. There it was again. She whirled. No one was behind her. She heard more sirens from the docks. Cars revving their engines. Her own heartbeat.

Click
.
Snap
.

She took off at a sprint. She had only about fifty yards to her car. As she ran she tried to root in her purse for her keys, but she couldn’t find them with all the stuff in her purse. She looked down. Just as she found the keys, her foot found an uneven chunk of concrete. She lost her balance and fell. Her hands, occupied, were unable to cushion her landing. Her face slammed into the sidewalk, pain exploding in her chin and cheek.

She moaned through a mouth suddenly filled with blood and pushed herself to a sitting position. She’d felt like this once when she was eight and had fallen off her bike at full speed. She brought a hand to her face, but the area was still pulsing with adrenaline and swelling, so she couldn’t determine the extent of the injuries. She needed to get to a mirror. She needed to clean the wounds and see if they needed stitches.

She pushed herself to her feet. What a miserable way to end the evening. She realized she was a little woozy. Her knee hurt. Looking down, she saw where she’d ruined her stockings. Blood ran from a ragged tear atop the knee.

Miserable
was an understatement.

She took a shaky step, stumbled, and caught her balance on a tree. She was right across the street from her car. She took a moment to look back and saw a wizened Croatian she recognized as a man from the neighborhood walking down the sidewalk, slapping the side of a large flashlight. She watched as he thumbed the toggle.
Click
.
Snap
. And nothing happened. He cursed and tried again.
Click
.
Snap
. He smacked the side of the flashlight, then brought it up to his face and shook it hard. Still nothing.

Suddenly Laurie felt pretty silly.

She was glad no one she knew was here to see her.

She stepped from the curb. To keep her balance, she kept her hand on the hood of a parked Camaro and used it to hold her weight until her knee stopped throbbing. When the pain began to subside, she stepped forward. Fishing in her purse for her keys, she let go of the hood and limped out into the street.

Three steps later an El Camino thundered through her, catching her just above the knees. Her legs shattered. Her pelvis snapped as her body twisted counterclockwise. Her head whipped back on her neck, slamming her eyes shut. She never even had a chance to scream. By the time she began to ricochet down the street, she was already dead.

*  *  *

Bobby woke to a Mexican kid poking him in the chest.

He’d ended up drinking a half a dozen more beers, then had tried to work his way back to Jap’s Cove. He’d only made it as far as Point Fermin Park before curling up on a bench where he dreamed of his father doing hula hoops with the girls of Blue Hawaii. When the kid poked him again, Bobby snapped his eyes open and growled.

“He’s just a fucking wino, dude. This ain’t the guy,” the teenager said, one sparkling gold tooth, a wispy mustache, and a banker’s smile the only thing setting him apart from the other baggy shorts- and wife beater-wearing gangbanger.

“I’m telling you, this is the guy.”

“But he’s all drunk and shit, Blockbuster.”

“You never been all drunk? Just get him up.” The other ran a pick through his short hair as he spoke. Tattoos enshrined his shotgun arms.

“He better not puke on me. If he pukes on me I’m gonna kick both your asses.”

“You can’t kick your momma’s ass, Split. Poke him again. I think he’s waking.”

The kid named Split reached in, poked Bobby in the chest, then leapt away. “His eyes are open and he’s breathing, but he ain’t doing nothing.”

“You should see my uncle Nestor, he sleeps with his eyes open. Scariest fucking thing you’ve ever seen. You don’t know if he’s watching you or not.”

“This isn’t like your uncle Nestor.
Cabrón
reminds me of a zombie. You know, like in
Dawn of the Dead
.”

“New one or old one?”

“It doesn’t matter. Zombies are zombies.”

“Doesn’t matter? Are you kidding me? You tell that to the poor lardass white people who can’t outrun them Olympic sprinter zombies in the remake. In the first one they were all about doing the Frankenstein with their arms out and moaning. But not in the second one. Hell, no! Them zombies looked like brothers running from the police.”

“What I meant was that whether they’re fast or slow, zombies are all the same,” Blockbuster growled. “They eat people. Live people. And if there’s one thing that is just so fucking wrong it’s to be eaten
while
you’re alive.”

“It’s okay when you’re dead, then?” Bobby sat up slowly and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Must have been past midnight and the offshore breeze had brought the temperature down into the sixties.

“What?”

“He asked you if it’s okay to be eaten when you’re dead.”

“Motherfucker. What kind of question is that?” Split frowned. “Being eaten is never okay. But if I was to choose between getting eaten when I was dead and getting eaten when I was alive, of course I’d choose to be dead.”

“One thing’s for sure. Dude ain’t a zombie.”

“He might wish he was when all this is over.” Split made fists and jabbed at the air above Bobby.

“What’s the deal? Are you looking for me?”

“You Bobby Dupree?” Blockbuster asked.

Bobby nodded.

“Then we’re looking for you.”

“What for?”

“Lucy sent us. Told us to come get you. Says he knows where your missing person is.” Split shook his head. “Better get off your ass and come with us, Zombie Dupree.”

Bobby sat up straight, ignoring the smaller man’s gestures. “How’d he get the information so soon?”

“He went to a fortune teller. How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Split cast a look Blockbuster’s way and rolled his eyes. “Anyway, do you really fucking care about how he found out, or do you want the info?”

“I want the info.”

“Then get off your ass and let’s go.” Split turned and headed for a late, neon green, 1950s Chevy tricked out with chrome and lowered until it hugged the ground. “You better not get sick.”

“I’m fine,” Bobby said as he struggled to his feet.

“Serious. If you puke in my car, I’m tossing you into Sunken City.”

“He said he’s fine, Split. Chill out.”

“I am chill.”

“Then what’s your problem?” Blockbuster asked.

“I just wish we were doing what the others were doing.”

“Lucy wanted us here.”

“I know. I know. I should be happy, Blockbuster. We went on a drunken white boy scavenger hunt and came back a winner. Fucking wow. I bet this makes you proud to be a Salvadoran. I know it makes me proud to be Mexican.” He waved both hands in the air like a mock champion.

Blockbuster held open the back door for Bobby, who had to get low to slide onto the red velour seat. Blockbuster climbed into the passenger seat while Split crawled behind a steering wheel covered in white leather. The engine rumbled to life and they low-rode to Lucy’s.

The gang leader sat in a lounge chair on his porch. His father and another older man played dominoes, neither willing to lift their eyes from the tiles as Bobby arrived. Sitting beside Lucy was one of the bangers Bobby had seen before, but all of the others were gone doing whatever it was Split had wanted to do.

As they pulled to a stop, he asked the question he’d wanted to ask the whole ride. “Hey, why do they call you Split?”

Blockbuster snorted.

“Don’t say a word,” Split warned, pointing at the banger in the passenger seat. “He ain’t earned the right to know.”

Bobby felt the rebuke. He didn’t want to piss these people off. Split’s response to Bobby’s seemingly simple question reminded Bobby that he ought to keep his mouth shut.

The car coasted to the curb on the driver’s side and Split opened the door for Bobby who climbed out, careful not to touch the paint. He stood, his back and legs aching from his unplanned
siesta
on a concrete park bench. He adjusted his cap, wiped sweat from his face and strode up the walkway, his hands in his pockets. He stopped at the bottom step of the porch.

“Hey, Lucy.”

“Feeling better?” The big man wore only sandals and baggy shorts. His shirt lay on his lap revealing acres of tattoos sliding in and out of prodigious rolls of fat.

“I’m doing good,” Bobby said, looking left and right. He didn’t want his problem broadcasted. He thought Laurie had promised him that Lucy would be discreet. He caught Split make a fist, push his thumb to his mouth and raise his chin, the universal sign of drinking.

“You been drinking, Bobby?”

“No more than you,” he replied, eyeing the empty Tecates on the ground next to the lounger. Seeing Lucy’s eyes widen, Bobby didn’t give him a chance to get angry. “I’ll have another one if you’re up for it.”

“Get us two
cervesa
, Split.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You.”

“But I’m not a—”

“I’ll get them,” Blockbuster said. But as he made a move toward the red cooler on the grass, Lucy stopped him with the slash of a hand.

“Get the fucking beers, Split.”

Gold tooth made as if to argue once more, but saw the malevolence on Lucy’s face. After a moment, Split rushed to the cooler, grabbed two ice-cold beers, and passed them to Lucy. Then Split stared at the porch, afraid or smart enough not to make eye contact with the gang leader. He backed away and shuffled his feet. The only other sound was the click of the domino tiles and traffic coming from Pacific Avenue.

To Blockbuster, Lucy said, “If you ever question me like this
puto
, I’ll drag you behind my truck on a chain until all that’s left is your chin. The only reason I don’t do the same to Split is because he’s just a little retarded, and I don’t automatically kill retarded kids.”

Bobby watched as Split’s eyes widened. The boy’s lip twitched madly. He wanted to defend himself in the worst way, but Lucy had put him in the position where it was impossible. A sadistic control strategy. Lucy was smarter than Bobby had originally thought. When the gang leader finally looked his way, Bobby couldn’t help but grin.

“And you? What’s with you sleeping on park benches? Someone’s going to mistake you for the homeless.”

Bobby shrugged. “I
am
homeless. I usually stay in the beach shack with Kanga, but we had a disagreement.”

Lucy stared at Bobby for a moment as if digesting what was said. Finally, “You don’t need to act like you’re homeless. Show some self-respect. The beach is private, but that park is public. You let everyone know your situation and they’re going to treat you different.”

Booby felt his ire rise. He didn’t like having his mistakes pointed out to him.

“Don’t get pissed at me, Bobby. Just listen and believe. I think you’re cool, but I’m not going to blow smoke up your ass. If you’re wrong, then I’m gonna tell you.”

Bobby drank deeply of his beer to keep from saying something that could get him into trouble. Lucy thought he was cool because of the Elvis connection. If it wasn’t for the probability that Bobby was the bastard love child of Elvis Presley, Lucy wouldn’t give him the time of day. For all of the Elvis detractors, any one of them would bask in the King’s aura for a minute if they could, a Los Angeles gang leader included.

“Split said you had information. Is that true?”

“Yep. We found old Al living in Van Nuys. We checked and we have an
Albert Verdina
arriving in Los Angeles a year ago from Tennessee. We think it’s the same one.”

“Are you serious? You actually found him?” Bobby was truly amazed. He’d thought the task too daunting. He’d never really believed he’d find the man to confront him. A tickle of fear danced in his stomach.

Lucy grinned as he sucked down his beer.

“What do we do now? Break in? Go in with guns?” Excitement was taking Bobby over.

“You’re a civilian. You don’t get a gun.”

“Fine. But what now?”

“Now we plan on going to Van Nuys tomorrow morning. When my crew gets back, we’ll send two cars. That’s Blood territory so I’m going to make some arrangements.”

“Is this something I’m going to owe you for?”

“You can count on it.”

Bobby had finished his beer. He grabbed one from the cooler and passed it to Lucy, then took one for himself. He found a place to sit on the middle step, his back to the stoop. He drank long and slow, savoring the moment.

Raised in an orphanage and always passed over because of his epilepsy, he’d been prepared for a life where mediocrity was his azimuth. No family, no home, no prospects, he only had himself and what he’d learned from Sister Agnes to carry him to adulthood. Until he’d gotten the letter. He’d literally read it ten times before even beginning to believe it. Had it not been written in Sister Agnes’ hand, and had he not known her as a person who never lied, he would have thought the paper a forgery, some bad joke by the home’s administration.

But it wasn’t a forgery. It wasn’t a joke. What was in the letter Sister Agnes believed to be true? Once he began thinking along those lines, he suddenly realized an entire universe had been opened to him that had previously been closed. And he wasn’t even talking about outside influence, but self-identity, the way he saw himself.

As simple Bobby Dupree, the path to greatness was invisible. But as the son of Elvis, he was automatically great and he had but to grasp the mantle. What an opportunity. What a glorious ending to his life story.

He was humming
Heartbreak Hotel
to himself when sirens broke out all over. Lucy sat forward when the sound didn’t go away. An ambulance and a police car sped past the entrance to Pacific Avenue, heading toward First Street. They listened and could tell when they converged, the pitch and tone changing. Something bad had happened.