The Bones (43 page)

"Keep in touch," Lloyd says sardonically, turning toward the car.

"Patronize me more, babe."

Frank drives slowly toward the Pacific Ocean and wonders what led the two Tulsa cops to tape their tea party. He thinks about
the kind of country that produces people whose overwhelming desire is to see their image on a television screen. He reflects
on the armies of suburban couples shooting bedroom pornography and the increasingly common phenomenon of criminals videotaping
themselves committing crimes. He realizes these are among the disparate elements which have combined to create a culture where
the exalted place reserved for people who command attention through actual talent is smaller all the time. He knows everyone's
an entertainer now. Finally, the whole world is in show business.

As Frank flows along Mexican roads toward the distant sea, Stacy, Lloyd, and Dustin fly to Tulsa where, in an elaborate minuet
choreographed by the Los Angeles lawyer Stacy retained, Lloyd surrenders to the police and immediately posts a quarter-million-dollar
ball. A trial date is set for several months hence, and Lloyd is allowed to return to Los Angeles.

***

Three days after Lloyd left Mexico, Frank is in Playa Perdida seated in a lawn chair on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
He hadn't been to his house in almost a year and was not surprised to find that it had been broken into in his absence. Unfortunately
for the thieves there was nothing to take besides a cheap television and an old boom box, and after helping themselves to
those they left the place more or less intact. Now, Frank is sipping coffee and contemplating what to do with the rest of
the day. He considers calling Robert Hyler back in Los Angeles to let him know he's all right but worries the police may have
been in touch, and Frank doesn't want to put his old ally in a compromising position. He doesn't have much of a social life
in town. Having bought the house on a whim a long time ago, he would only get to Mexico sporadically, and the purpose of those
trips was to get away from everything anyway. He's heard there's a group of people down here wanted for serious crimes north
of the border, but doesn't suppose they have meetings and a clubhouse. He's read about a priest on the run from the usual
child molestation charges and the scion of a major industrial fortune wanted for multiple rapes in Arizona where he drugged
and videotaped his victims (another vile
auteur).
Both of these men had drawn the attention of certain elements that led to their arrest and forced departure from the world
of tropical dreams. Frank knows enough to keep a low profile. There was a local boy, a teenager, who spoke some English, and
Frank paid him to go into town and do some food shopping for him. He had most of the four hundred dollars that came out of
the till at the Texas gas station and, local prices being what they were, figured that would last him until he could come
up with a way to access some cash. A couple of weeks, a month, he'd think of something, the man always a survivor. If only
he had the energy.

Before landing on this Pacific bluff, when he flowed through the New York streets, snapping and popping through his early
days and then roiling down the Western boulevards after he'd reached the level of success at which he'd become so annoyingly
stuck, there was a reason to rail against the elements of his life that were conspiring to impede his rise, to plot, to plan,
to devise ways to keep going so when his time came, as he knew it surely would, he'd be ready. But now his time, his moment,
his place, had announced itself and he is regarding it over his shoulder, moving from light to shadow, speeding toward the
long night. It had already happened. He's had his eyes on the guttering lights for so long he's not sure where to focus them
now. Having wanted something for his entire life, the letting go is not entirely smooth. Now he hasn't seen a newspaper in
three days and it's about all the cold turkey he can do.

Playa Perdida is a small town but not so small it doesn't have two Internet cafes, one on the main street and another, more
modest one on a side street. It is here two teenagers play a video game, blowing the heads off intergalactic invaders. Frank
is next to them, sipping strong coffee in front of a computer screen. He had done a search on his name and come up with over
a thousand hits, more than he would have had at any time in his career. This is something about which he is understandably
ambivalent. He has examined what has been written about him on many of the major informational Web sites and finds himself
distressed at some of the coverage with its promiscuous use of words like
formerly popular
and
has-been.
If only he were dead, he thinks. Perhaps then the tenor of this coverage would be different. If only his drive through the
Melnick living room had ended in the extinguishing of his neon lights, perhaps then the perception of what Frank Bones was
would be different. He thinks about Jimi Hendrix. What if Jimi Hendrix had lived? Probably in and out of rehab for the next
four decades, and then corpulent and arthritic, dragged out on some 401 (k) Tour sponsored by an adult-diaper company. If
ever anyone should have ascended toward the heavenly spotlight young, it is Frank Bones.

Now he is reading the following article on the Web site of a major American daily.

Melnick Denies Knowledge of Bones Whereabouts

The man who confessed to the accidental shooting of a Tulsa police detective in a packed courtroom two days ago denied he
helped comedian Frank Bones elude a police dragnet. Flanked by his lawyers, Los Angeles comedy writer Lloyd Melnick claimed
not to have seen Bones in four days. 'After the gun went off and we left the motel room, I got out of town," Melnick claimed.
He went on to say, "I have no idea where Frank went or where he is."

Mercy Madrid, who is also believed to have been in the motel room when the shooting took place, has maintained her silence.
Her lawyer, Otis Cain, issued a terse "No comment" on her behalf when asked if she knew Bones's whereabouts. Ms. Madrid is
expected to be charged with being an accessory to attempted murder. Through her lawyer, she has denied this allegation.

Frank feels a twinge of regret upon reading about what Lloyd and Mercy are going through, but he is confident it will not
turn out too badly for them. He even appreciates that Lloyd has, once again, covered for him. Taking a final sip of his coffee,
he places the cup on the saucer, brings it to the counter, and saunters into the late-afternoon light. He considers whether
to risk a stroll down the main street, but decides against it. Thinks about what he's going to have for dinner and realizes
he hasn't been hungry all day. He is starting to wonder if he's depressed.

When the videotape of Faron Pike and Clay Porter came to light, those charged with administering the judicial system in the
state of Oklahoma took a dim view of everything having to do with the two brutal police detectives. Further sullying their
reputation was the surfacing of the tape player Frank used to record his act the night Tino Suarez was killed, which preserved
a conversation between Clay and Tino where they were conspiring to distribute illegal substances. So, upon looking at the
Wayman French home video, listening to the nefarious plotting backstage at Club Louie, and hearing all the testimony from
the parties involved, the jury in the case of the People vs. Lloyd Melnick voted unanimously to acquit the titular defendant.
As for the case against Frank, Faron Pike, in an attempt to negotiate a plea bargain in the Wayman French situation and save
his own skin, turned state's evidence against Clay Porter, claiming Clay had actually shot Tino Suarez and then planted the
gun in the car. For his cooperation, Faron Pike received twenty-five years to life, which is exactly what Clay Porter got.
They are currently serving their time in McAlester Correctional Facility in McAlester, Oklahoma, where they do not speak to
one another.

The murder case against Frank Bones was dismissed. What remained was a charge of jumping ball and a rather large debt to his
bondsman, Manny Escobar.

A little over two weeks after arriving in Mexico, Frank is feeling a certain longing, much the way a recovering alcoholic
does. But it isn't a drink he craves. The man who has spent his entire adulthood in front of groups of people has begun to
chafe at the enforced solitude he is experiencing, the personal Elba he has come to inhabit. He's been back to the side-street
Internet cafe several times to follow the progress of the legal cases against Lloyd and Mercy online, and at moments he thought
he might actually go back and turn himself in. But he recognized these thoughts as manifestations of weakness and vowed he
would not capitulate to them. Today he is feeling he can fight these nefarious urges, wrestle them into submission. As for
tomorrow . . . the tidal pull is strong on a weakening constitution.

Late one afternoon (he's already forgotten what day of the week it is) Frank is taking a nap, something he'd gotten into the
habit of doing soon after getting settled. It's been a warm day and as he's lying on the couch in the living room of his house
facing the wall and struggling into wakefulness, he's thinking about money. Getting himself set up in Playa Perdida has caused
him to go through about half of the cash he had brought down here, and it has occurred to him that it may be time to pay more
serious attention to procuring funds for his future endeavors, however modest they are currently projected to be. He has a
few thousand dollars in a Los Angeles bank account, but to access that he must reveal himself to people who will be legally
obligated to inform the authorities, so that is a nonstarter. He could call Honey and ask her to send him some money, but
they didn't part on the best of terms, and he isn't sure he can trust her. Lloyd's name briefly swims to the surface, but
Frank realizes even had he not completely decimated whatever goodwill his erstwhile traveling companion had previously felt
toward him, he could never again approach him as a supplicant. The fact is, Frank has foreclosed his financial options. The
anxiety this is causing as he eases toward wakefulness, though low-grade, has the potential to grow into something far larger
and more troublesome. He consciously finds himself pushing it back toward his subconscious and replacing it with sexual thoughts
about Mercy. He knows if he is thinking about sex, he can't be depressed, so he forces himself to think about sex and he's
not enjoying it. He is perspiring and wants to get up from the couch and get a beer from the cooler he bought when he realized
the refrigerator was not going to come back to life, but he doesn't have the energy.

"Don't move, asshole."

Still not entirely awake, Frank wonders if he's left the television on, then remembers the thieves stole the television. Who,
then, just said that? With no little trepidation, he moves his head from the cushion on which it is resting and turns toward
the room, where he sees Creed Baru standing and pointing a gun at him. This is something he has not anticipated, and it wakes
him up quickly.

"What do you want?" Frank asks, more irritated than scared.

"I believe you owe my client a big pile of money, Bones."

"Your client? What are you talking about?" Frank racks his brain, tries to recall some obscure gambling debt, wondering if
he's not dreaming.

"The name Manny Escobar ring a bell?" Frank has already forgotten the ball bondsman, but now a tsunami of bad memories hits
the beach. "Dude, he is pissed."

Three hours later in the folds of darkness, Creed sits in the passenger seat, his gun pointed at Frank, who is driving his
captor's beat-up Toyota Tercel east toward Durango, his wrist handcuffed to the steering wheel. They turned off the coast
road about an hour ago and now they are climbing in elevation. The night air blows cool through the open window, chilling
the inside of the car. Since technically this is a kidnapping, Manny has told Creed to bring Frank to Durango, and Manny will
get down there on a friend's plane and fly him back to Tulsa to settle their accounts. Frank knows regardless of how his other
case is adjudicated, the bail jumping is certain to land him in a numbered orange jumpsuit. In the meantime, Creed is saying,
"I'm figurin' with the money I'm gonna make bringin' your ass back, I can get out to L.A., maybe get into stunt work or somethin'.
Can't be too hard right? Drivin' fast, fallin' outta windows? I can do that . . . " Creed watches Frank as he runs his mouth,
but Frank only stares through the windshield, looking at the two-lane highway rolling through the Mexican night and wondering
whether he should talk to his captor about show business. Creed, getting no response from Frank, heads in a different conversational
direction.

"You like doin' it with my wife?"

Frank knows this can't end well so he keeps it neutral. "She's a good person."

"Fuckin' whore is what she is, dude. First thing I'm gonna do when Manny pays me is wave the money under her face and say,
'You coulda had this, girl.
You coulda had this!'
" silence for a few moments while Creed collects himself. He shakes his head, barely perceptibly, and continues, "Then I'm
gonna tie her to the bed and take that knife of hers and I'm gonna heat the point, you know, make a brand, like? Then I'm
gonna burn my initials on her ass so every time she gets fucked again the dude's fuckin' her gonna know Creed Baru was there
first." Frank swallows, still not looking at Creed. Wonders if he's serious, the guy scum, probably capable of most felonies.
"What do ya think of that, Bones? Then I'm gonna have a party, buy ten cases of tequila, invite everyone I know. Next day,
I'm gonna pack up and move to Hollywood. That's the only thing keepin' me from shootin' you in the neck, the money an' all.
Otherwise . . . " Here he cocks the pistol as if he just might pull the trigger, and Frank wishes he would. He remembers finding
his father in the basement and the rainy night in Los Angeles with the Hummer, and he tries to recall his exact state of mind
at the time, what he was feeling as the rain streaked the window of the monstrous vehicle and he hurtled toward wet, verdant
Brentwood lawns, blackhearted and deeply, deeply sad, and Creed continues to talk about Mercy and money and what he's going
to do to her and his own tawdry fantasies of American success as Frank twists the steering wheel. When the violent motion
of the car causes it to heave and take flight, roiling off the highway and into a culvert, he thinks,
Yes, I've finally done it, oblivion, it's over, yes, one more second and then . . .