Immortality Is the Suck (20 page)

clothes. So…I found room in my garage.”

“You didn't have to.”

“Your death certificate arrived this morning. And the disbursement

papers. A pension comes to your next of kin. Since that was me…”

Fuck.

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“I think I'll just keep depositing the checks in your account. I've got a

power of attorney and I've gotten them to issue a new debit card. The pin is my

birthday. I'll…send it to you when you tell me where you are.”

Fuck fuck fuck. “Thanks. When I decide where I am I'll tell you.”

“Or you could come by and pick it up,” he said. “I'm home now.”

Breathing. His, I think. “Listen, Peter, I haven't slept in days, and I was

about to crash.”

“Right. So you've found a bed?”

“A friend is putting me up.”

“Oh.”

Oh, Christ, I knew what he was thinking now. And he was right, in a

fashion. It made me feel shitty all over again.

“I'll call you,” I said, and hit the disconnect before I could stop myself.

Then I turned the phone off and stuffed it under a pillow. I lay there, feeling the

sun rising, but not feeling guilty. No way. Or lonely. I closed my eyes and the

sex and the pot wrapped thick fingers around my brain and I passed out.

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133

Chapter Twelve

The hunger woke me.

Actually, a really fucked-up dream woke me. Full of coyotes talking like

Carlos Castaneda, bloodied goats, and a border patrol guard smoking a thick,

hand-rolled joint and telling me to bend over.

No, wait, that had really happened.

Anyway, I woke chewing my pillow, my hands like claws, raking at the

mattress and absolutely no qualms about tearing Albert's head off and drinking

directly from his gushing aorta. Thank God he wasn't in the camper. Though I

didn't thank God at that moment. I ranted and pounded on the walls of the

trailer and tore through the tiny refrigerator, finding nothing but making a

helluva mess in the process.

In a cupboard over the sink, I found Albert's supply of bourbon and

hopelessly tried to numb myself with that until the sun set and the sides of the

trailer cooled and I could put on some clothes and go out into the empty circle

of earth where nothing but traces of oil marked the spot where Albert had had

his bike.

It was weirdly eerie that he shouldn't be there. At the time I couldn't

exactly place why. Except my roll of money was untouched in my pocket and

Albert was never one to walk away from wads of cash.

My cell phone rang. “Peter, fuck off,” I said, before I heard Whitey's voice.

“Uh, I know it's been more than eight hours, man, but I tried to call

earlier.”

“What do you have?”

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“I don't know who you are, and I don't want to, but this Ozone dude is bad

news. I think I should get paid more. Just because of the risk factor if they find

out I told you.”

I'd show him a “risk factor,” I thought to myself. “Where are you?”

“Th…the s-s-same place,” he said. “Are you okay, man? I mean, it's just

business, right?”

My voice sounded weirdly serpentine in my own ears. “Yess. In an hour,

then.” I disconnected. The first star had appeared in the east when I pulled my

bike back onto Mulholland and headed south again toward Los Angeles.

* * * * *

Unchanging and unchangeable despite the passage of time in the world around

it. Eternally tacky, cheap, and tawdry. It was a bad advertisement for

immortality, I thought, standing at the doors and looking around the

restaurant for Whitey.

The little shit wasn't there. I waited about thirty minutes, drinking coffee

faster than the waitress could pour it, her arm extended fully as if keeping her

distance as much as possible, eyes wide when she stared at me from the

corners, then quickly looking away.

I still needed to piss, it seemed, because my bladder became suddenly

urgent. I went into the men's room and was standing at the urinal when I

smelled the blood.

Whitey was stuffed into a stall, his body curled up like a ball of pale,

bloodless taffy. The holes, I found with my searching fingers, over his heart this

time. I stuffed his wrist in my mouth, but the blood was cold and putrid. I spat

it out and backed away from the body, only noticing as I exited the bathroom

that I had blood on my hand where I'd wiped my mouth.

Several faces gaped at me from surrounding booths as I bolted for the

door and my bike.

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135

The smell of Whitey had only made it worse, and the hunger was a high-

pitched whine in my head. All I could think about was moving and getting. I

toured the city, heading toward Hollywood and places I thought I might be able

to find someone who wouldn't notice if I maybe sucked on their neck a little.

Maybe somebody who would even take some money from me for the privilege.

Okay, I wasn't thinking straight.

It was like prickly heat under my skin, a taste of metal in my mouth. I

passed strangers walking Sunset and it was like driving through a bakery.

On Vine I veered right and saw the Dunkin' Donuts sign. It was a cop

hangout, so I should have been watching out for cops, but I remembered how

the sugar always helped the jones when I was hooked on coke and my wheels

carried me there out of habit and hope.

I chose the most ghastly, glazed, cholesterol-saturated doughnut in the

case and a cup of coffee. It helped. It really did. I sat and waited for the ensuing

drama in my belly but the doughnut didn't appear to have enough real food

value to cause disruption. Guess sugar and fat were okay.

I thought of Twinkies and my mouth watered.

“Can I get you anything else?” asked the girl behind the counter. She was

young, pink, and dusted with sugar. My mouth watered even more. I saw her

respond to what was probably my ravenous look, with a little bounce and

blush. That blood in her cheeks.

Christ, I hadn't given a woman the once-over in years.

“No,” I said, getting the hell out of there so quickly I almost tripped over

the threshold going out.

There was construction all the way down Fountain during the day, but at

night only the orange cones, backhoes, and flatbeds loaded with pipe remained.

I felt safer near the big machines than near pedestrians, and jogged west. On

my right was the new Motion Picture Academy Archive building. I remembered

when the AIDS Healthcare offices were set up here.

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As I rounded a barricaded gaping hole in the sidewalk, I suddenly came

across a small group of men huddled in the shadows of a crane. They were up

to something less than legal, because they scattered as soon as they saw me,

like bugs when the light is switched on. All except one short dark Hispanic

gentleman. He held his ground, stepping directly into my path in the road,

actually, smoking his cigarette like a vaquero or something. Pinched between

thumb and forefinger, hand masking part of his face.

“You got a light,
señor
?” he said, doing his best Pancho Villa accent.

I could smell him from ten feet away. It was like getting a whiff of a steak

dinner. My mouth filled with saliva and I could feel something weird happening

to my teeth, making my lips recede. “Your friends are calling you,” I told him.

Except I kind of lisped on account of my teeth. “Your friendth…”

He didn't notice anything about me. Probably because he was hopped up

on something. I could see it in his eyes, the way he rolled on his feet, and one

side of his mouth smiling higher than the other. Mostly I could tell because

guys his size don't get in the way of guys my size.

Sweaty, stinky, musky, and raw, his blood pumping with fear and

whatever drug he was on.

I heard and felt, rather than saw, his friends reappear around us.

They're like packs of hyenas, these guys. None of 'em's a true predator but

they're dangerous as a group. The man facing me down was head hyena,

greasy ponytail down his back, and a Salvation Army khaki vest with pockets

all over it. He started coming toward me.

I backed away. “You don't want to do this, man,” I said.

They're closing in around me and my man has got this grin.

He took a few more steps toward me and I let him. His one hand waved

back and forth, opening and closing in a fist. I couldn't see his other hand.

He got a little closer and then the hidden hand came out sideways and

fast, a flash of silver following its arc. I jumped and just avoid getting sliced.

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137

He was obviously surprised at how quickly I reacted, but he spun around

and took another jab at me. I grabbed his arm and just jerked it and heard the

bone crack. He screamed.

I can't explain what happened next, exactly, but I threw him face forward

into a wall and got the knife, held his wrists with one hand, jerked his head

back with the other, and I think I planned to say “piss off” or something into

his ear, but when I got into the proximity of his neck I bit him.

You ever tried to fast with a chocolate cheesecake inches from your

mouth? No? Then shut up.

I bit him. Hard enough to puncture his skin and blood trickled across my

tongue and for a few amazing seconds all I could think about was how good it

was, how right, and it was awhile before I was in my right mind again and I

heard men screaming.

I dropped the Mexican's senseless body onto the ground. He had two big

bloody holes in his neck and there was blood all down the front of my shirt.

Goddamn, how do I go from bad to worse so fast? So I sprinted back down

Fountain toward the main boulevard, in the opposite direction of the pack that

was running away from me, leaping over fences and behind buildings.

I looked back at my man. He was moving around on the ground. So, at

least he wasn't dead yet. A part of me was urging my feet to turn around and

go back. There's more blood where that came from. Another part was afraid of

discovery. I'd like to say some moral code kicked in. Sorry to disappoint you. I

was then, as I always have been, solely motivated by the preservation of yours

truly. The delivery ramp to the Motion Picture Academy was on my left.

Somebody had left the door ajar. I jumped the railing and ran inside.

Down the stairs. They descended at least three levels.

I could smell the rancid odor of decaying film and saw stacks of dust-

covered white film storage boxes. The dull silver of old cans. I ran until I'd

reached the bottom level.

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There were no lights but that weird capacity of my eyes to see in the dark

kicked in. I looked around, and in the blueish glow I saw a large room with

doorways to two other small rooms. No windows. No light seeping in at all.

Some poor old bum had used a mattress in the corner. I could still smell

his piss and sweat. I sat down.

I dug out the prepaid cell phone and frantically dialed Peter's number.

“'Lo?” I'd woken him.

“Peter, it's Adam.”

I heard him sit up, look around. When he came back on the line his voice

had that clipped sound it got when I'd cheesed him off again. “Where are you?”

“In the basement of the Motion Picture Academy Archives. Don't ask…

just, Peter, I've got to get out of here.”

Above me and outside, I could hear the climbing wail of sirens. Probably

one of the Mexican's crew had called in the assault.

“And, uh, Peter, there might be some black-and-whites on the street when

you get here.”

Peter didn't answer. After awhile I realized that the call had dropped. So I

sat there in the dark with the smell of piss and thought about the taste of the

Mexican's blood.

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139

Chapter Thirteen

What do you see when you close your eyes?

I mean, after those little silver fish and floating dots subside. And all you

can hear is the surf in your skull and your own breathing?

I'll bet here is where you expect me to reveal my tormented past. The

rageaholic father and mousy mother, the best buddy killed in action in the

Middle East. Even those soft dark bruises in the psyche. Questions about my

own manhood, my own cowardice.

Well, that ain't happening in this story. Maybe the next one.

Working undercover is a lot like active duty in the corps. A constant state

of awareness, readiness. Reading every scenario for how it might play out. I

close my eyes, I see that look the kid in the corner gave the big goon by the