A Guardian of Innocents (11 page)

“Don’t do that!” I snapped.

“Sorry,” she said as she stared down at her expensive-looking dress shoes, “Force of habit. I’m used to people not even knowing when I’m reading them. I’m sure you’re probably used to that too.”

“Yeah, well. . . I guess I’ve been staring at televisions for so long, I’m just getting weirded out cuz I’ve found one that stares right back at me.”

A little snatch of the Counting Crows song “Mr. Jones” played in her head
: I want to see me/Staring right back at me.
      

“I know how you feel,” she responded, “Look, I don’t like that bastard either. I want to take my nails and rake them across his eyes every time I see him. There are things I see going on in his mind that are just... fucking sick!”

After a brief pause, I asked, “Did you know that he raped his wife in front of his own little boy?”

“Yes,” she answered weakly, as if it hurt her to acknowledge it, “He’s done a lot more, but I think that’s the worst of it.” 

“Do you believe his absence from this world will make it a better place?”

She pondered my question for a moment, “Not by much. There’s so many other men out there like him.”

It occurred to me then before she continued that she possessed information that could help me.

“Alright look, babe, I can tell you’re a nice kid. A little idealistic and naïve, but nice—“

“I’m not a kid,” I interrupted, “I know I look young, but I’m nineteen.”

“Yeah, well, I’m twenty-six. I’ve got seven years of life experience on you and, believe me, that makes a huge difference in how you make your decisions. I came here tonight hoping I might keep you from doing something really stupid.”

More than a little irritated, I responded, “Stupid is waiting tables at a strip club when you could make ten times as much money dancing.”   

She dropped her cigarette butt onto the black asphalt of the parking lot and stepped on it, glaring at me with eyes full of malice, “Stripping is one step away from prostitution... and I am
not
a whore. A friend of mine told me the tips were great there and I was desperate for money when I got back from L.A., but—God, why the hell am I even explaining myself to you? You don’t know my past. You don’t know my history. So don’t even
attempt
to judge me.”    

“No one’s judging,” I said softly, trying to assuage her, “You called me stupid and I countered.”

She sighed, exasperated. She knew I hadn’t really meant anything by my comment. She was only defensive because she felt guilty about working in such an establishment in the first place.

Desiree crossed her arms and shivered. The breeze was picking up and carried with it some of winter’s bite.

“Look. If the only reason you came to the play tonight was to try to talk me out of doing what I know I have to do, well, then you’re just wasting both my time and yours. There is absolutely nothing you can say that’ll change my mind.”

Pensively, she smiled, “I didn’t think there would be. I felt your hatred for him that night. It was overpowering.”

She paused again, shuddering. I could tell she was considering giving me some vital piece of information, but I couldn’t tell exactly what it was. She wouldn’t let me. I could only get a hint of what it was she was mulling over behind those grey eyes of hers.

“He gets paid every Friday,” she said finally, “He uses a good chunk of his paycheck that night of the week going out to Harry Hines and picking up any one of the nicer looking boys that hang out around the corner near Sixth street.”

Harry Hines Boulevard is a very well-known street in Dallas, a section of it well-known for all the wrong reasons. If you’re a person with any kind of good sense, you do not drive through it at night, and if you have to during the day, you do so with your doors locked, your windows rolled up and your radio turned down so no one nearby hears what a great stereo system you have.

“And you’re telling me this—Why?”

Another sigh, “When I saw you that night, you were thinking of ways to
get
him. And I remember one of the ideas you kept coming back to was that you could pose as one of his umm. . . prospects.”

I shook my head in disbelief. I’d thought of myself as gifted for the latter half of my life, but now knew all I had ever owned was a pair of binoculars while this girl had the freakin’ Hubble Telescope.

“God, I must have scared the shit outta you,” I said.

“No apology necessary,” she replied, “Remember, I’ve seen a lot worse going through people’s minds. Even Galen wasn’t the worst. Strip clubs are like magnets for sick fucks. Oh, I don’t mean you and your friends. There’s plenty of guys who go there to stare at boobs and drink a few beers and have fun, but you don’t even have to be a mindreader to know who the pervs are. They come in by themselves, sit in some dark corner away from the bulk of the crowd and just watch everything. And if you dare to so much as make eye contact with them or acknowledge their presence, they glare at you like they want to kill you.”

Desiree shuddered again, and it dawned on me that if I’d been wearing a jacket, I would’ve taken it off and draped it over her shoulders, like in some cheesy romance movie.

As she started giggling, I realized in horror that she had picked up that thought. She cocked her head a little and smiled up at me, “A jacket would be nice, but I’m not looking for a boyfriend. You’re a little young for me,” then added with a slight touch of melancholy, “And I try not to get involved with guys who I know will end up in prison soon.”

“Ah, is
that
it?” I replied, attempting to sound cool and aloof.

“Don’t get me wrong. You’re cute, but. . .” Desiree let the sentence trail off, leaving it purposefully unfinished.

But I could tell. I could tell there was some unknown level of attraction she felt for me. She had constructed a virtual wall around herself to hide her thoughts, but there were some small cracks, little chinks in her concentration allowing certain things to seep through. She certainly wasn’t in love with me, but I could feel there was at least
something
there.

And before she could detect the breach in her mental armor by prying into that thought, I quickly changed the subject. “So if you don’t want me to kill him, why are you giving me information that’ll help me accomplish just that?”

“It’s not that I want him to live. It wouldn’t bother me a bit if he died; violently. . . painfully. But you look like a nice kid and I don’t want to see you locked up in prison. You
do
know what happens in there to guys who look like you, right?”

“Trust me—that crosses my mind several times a day now.”

“I hope it does. C’mon, I’m cold. Let’s go back inside.”

As we re-entered the building and approached the Performance Hall, Desiree was greeted by her two friends.

“Hey, Dez, these two guys invited us to a big party goin’ on in Plano? Wanna come?”

Desiree glanced over at the two men down the hall, and I’m sure she felt the same thing emanating from them I did: an eagerness to get laid. There were going to be free drinks at this party, and these two courteous gentlemen were going to make sure, very sure, these two lovely ladies never went thirsty tonight.

“Nah, I’m kinda tired,” Desiree said, “Will you still be able to give me a ride home?”

Both of the girls’ eyes got big with the universal “uh-oh” expression. And since she was busy reading them, I chose to aim my focus at Desiree to see what I could pick up. As the girls were explaining that Desiree lived twenty minutes in almost the complete opposite direction from Plano, I learned the two girls’ names were Megan and Becky (but while working the Hunter’s Den, they went by Celeste and Raven respectively) and that Desiree hadn’t owned a car since leaving California about five months ago.

Her head whipped around to face me, “Can you give me a ride?”

I was so caught off-guard by the question, it took my brain a second to register the request, “Ummm, sure.”

Desiree turned away from them immediately without saying any goodbyes, visibly upset she had been dumped for two “hard-dicks” (her word, not mine) who happened to know some people with money. She was making damn sure Megan and Becky saw how pissed off she was.

*          *          *

On the drive to her apartment, Desiree did most of the talking. I just nodded my head, said “Mm-hmm” in the right places and that was pretty much it. But I was okay with that. I liked listening to her.

It took several turns through the large apartment complex before we came to Desiree’s building. The white fluorescent lights throughout the parking lot illuminated everything in such a way that every object appeared gray and every shadow looked menacing.

As I pulled into a parking space, I watched out of the corner of my eye as Desiree extracted a crinkled white envelope from the depths of her purse. She scribbled something on the loose flap, tore it off and handed it to me just as I finished shifting the gear into park.

“That’s the number to my cell phone, “she explained, “If you behave yourself, I’ll eventually give you my home number.”

“Behave myself?” I asked.

“Behave yourself meaning don’t call me ten times a day or at three a.m. or leave psycho messages on my voicemail.”

I couldn’t help laughing at the way she rattled off those three items so quickly, “Sounds like you’ve had some experience with guys of that type.”

She sighed, but with a smile, “You’d think being a psychic would give a girl a little foresight into who she should and should not give her phone number out to, but the craziest ones always seem to be the ones who appear the most normal.”

“So you think I might be a Hannibal Lecter, or maybe a Ted Bundy?” I inquired with a silly grin.

Desiree laughed, “God, no. You’re the least normal guy I’ve met in a long time.”

And after she got out of the truck, she closed the door and looked me straight in the eye through the rolled-down window. Her telepathic voice resonated inside my head,
That was a compliment.

Chapter 8

A few days after our final performance, Bo invited Lloyd and me to witness the wondrous creation of his band’s first single. Each member of the band, then known as the Funk Punk Renegades, had been saving up money for several weeks to pay for half a day’s worth of studio time.

With nothing else better to do after class, I followed Bo’s written directions into Dallas. And since it was only about a mile away I took a detour and checked out the intersection of Harry Hines and Sixth Street.

The neighborhood was just as ugly and unwelcoming as I’d imagined. Even though it was just three-thirty in the afternoon, I spotted several grossly underdressed, glazy-eyed prostitutes (one of which was even carrying the proverbial bottle of liquor wrapped in a brown paper bag.) They dispersed themselves among three different corners of the intersection, leaving the fourth for the local drug dealer to conduct his business.

Upon the windows of every establishment were a set of iron bars, even on the old gas station which looked like it had been closed and unoccupied for the last decade. And, of course, the litter-covered sidewalks and graffiti spoke volumes about how the locals had long since given up trying to make this part of the city a nicer place to live.

I’d thought the studio would be in a large building and was surprised to find it was in a rather small one-story structure not much larger than an average size house. Although the neighborhood was definitely better than the one I’d just vacated, I still took note of the three black vertical bars that protected each window of this so-called music studio. Had it not been for his unmistakable, light blue van parked in the driveway, I would’ve been convinced I had misread Bo’s poor penmanship and had come to the wrong address.

I walked through the front door and felt how heavy it was when I pushed it open. It was built solid. No sense in having barred windows if you’re going to have a cheap-ass door anyone can kick through, I guess.

Since there was no one to greet me in the reception office, I took it upon myself to have a brief look around and then stepped softly down the threadbare carpet of a hallway which I assumed lead to the actual studio.

At the end of the hall and to the left I heard some people talking, Bo’s voice among them. I turned left and walked down a short flight of stairs into the building’s basement. I tried opening the door at the bottom. It was locked. I glanced up and noticed a blood red light bulb protruding from the wall just above the door, but it wasn’t lit.

I heard footsteps approaching from the other side, then Eli opened the door for me.

“Sup, dude!”

“Not much, man,” I answered, “Just thought I’d come by and listen in for a little bit—See how ya sound.”

“Eh, you might be disappointed,” Adam, another of the band members stated, “We all seem to be in consensus there’s something seriously fucking wrong with this track but none of us seem to know what the fuck it is, yuh know?”

“Wanna listen?” Bo asked. Before I could reply, he punched a button and was sliding something upward on the control panel.

It began with a drum solo that faded in, Eli’s bass guitar shortly following. The first thing I noticed was the pure
rawness
of the music. It seemed obvious Eli and the drummer were not gifted musicians.

Bo’s low, droning voice came on. I was relieved to discover the boy could at least sing. His style was reminiscent of Jim Morrison and Billy Idol.

“I went to the bar. . . lookin’ for. . . a cute lil’ piece of assssss!”

I couldn’t help cracking up just then. I held up my hand palm outward to ward off the tension I felt creeping into some of the guys.

“It’s not the music. You guys sound great,” I lied, “It’s just the lyrics. No one but Bo could’ve written that line.”

The next line passed while I was talking, but I caught the tail end of it: “. . . bitches think they got class!”

Adam’s lead guitar and Bo’s rhythm guitar made their entrances and the song improved vastly, but still couldn’t compensate for the inexperienced stylings of Eli and their drummer, Scott.

Halfway through the three and a half minute recording, it became obvious to me what the problem was. It wasn’t just that Eli and Scott were bad (I felt Bo and Adam were already painfully aware of that) it was that they didn’t even seem to be playing the same song. It sounded as though Scott was a little jumpy, anticipating the notes and smacking one of the drums or cymbals before he was supposed to, while Eli just seemed to be bee-bopping around to whatever tune was playing in his head..

The recording ended and I told them, “Yeah, seems like there’s something off, but I just can’t think of what it is. . . Probably cuz I’m not a musician.”       

I could feel Bo seeing right through me when I said that, but he didn’t call me on it. I sensed his decision to talk to me about it later.

Everyone played around with the incredibly complex and expensive-looking soundboard as I strolled around the place. I went inside the glass walls of the actual recording studio, being careful not to trip over any of the numerous black wires running across the wood-panel floor.

As I was looking around I remembered hearing these places were designed to be soundproof. I decided to experiment. All four members of the band were looking down at the shiny soundboard. I walked back to the door and shut it, then swallowed a big breath of air and screamed so loud and long, I saw little white sparks dancing and popping in my vision.

And none of them noticed. Not one of them had heard a damn thing!

A voice from the gutters of my mind spoke up then,
Wouldn’t you just love to hear Big Bad Galen scream like that?

“Yes, I would,” I whispered. An evil smirk spread itself across my face.

I sat down at the stool in front of the drum set and picked up the sticks left lying on the floor. I let loose with a quick barrage of strikes, paused while I glanced up to see if anyone noticed, and then pounded out an onslaught, smashing the cymbals with all my strength when the mood struck me. A plot was forming in my mind and the cacophony I was orchestrating seemed to be aiding my flow of consciousness.

As my musical assault and battery on the drum set was drawing to a close, I observed a balding man in his fifties enter through the basement door Eli had opened for me earlier. I laid the sticks back where I’d found them and walked quickly out of the studio.

“Hey, Uncle Bob!” Eli called out, “Don’t worry. We’re just wrapping this shit up before we head out.”

“Well, I’d letcha boys stay longer but there’s sumwhurr I gotta be soon,” he replied.

As I scanned him, I learned this was somewhat of a truth/lie. He had the red face of a lifelong alcoholic and was worried about getting to his favorite bar in time for happy hour, the same bar that was within walking distance of his house.

Eli was preoccupied as well. He was hoping his uncle wouldn’t bring up the thirty percent discount he’d given the band for the studio time since Eli was family. Instead of distributing the savings evenly amongst his fellow bandmates, Eli had chosen instead to pocket it and keep his mouth shut.

I’d have to drop a hint about that to Bo later. Nothing dramatic, just point out how funny it seems that good ole Uncle Bob would charge his nephew’s struggling band full price for a few hours of studio time.

After the guys had retrieved their guitars and other equipment, Bo and Adam were helping Scott pack up his drum set while Eli and his uncle sat at a small circular table away from the soundboard, smoking cigarettes. Anxious for a nicotine fix myself, I joined them.

“You’re not goan believe this,” Bob said to his nephew with a grin, giving me a slight nod of acknowledgement as I took a seat on one of the metal folding chairs, “Deez niggers come in the utter day want’n uh use this place...”

My blood went cold. Perhaps that’s a cliché, but it’s true. I absolutely cannot stand inbred rednecks who talk that way. It’s as if they think whites are the Blessed Ones From God sent here to govern the lesser races.

I tried not to listen, knowing I’d just get more pissed off if I did. I’d already lit up and was subsequently smoking as fast as I could, “hot-boxing” the cigarette, looking up and around at all the expensive equipment you weren’t allowed to smoke around, at least not close enough where ashes might drift into things.

“. . . so den I toal doze two I only cater to acts that pay by duh week and dat I ree-kwar a down payment.”

“Oh, shit!” Eli snorted, just yucking it up with him, “What’d they say?”

“They got all flustered and started talkin dare nigger-slang and sayin their gonna burn this muddafucka down and shit. . . I think they knew I was lyin out my ass bout the deposit!”             

“Hope you got insurance,” Eli said, shaking his head, “The ones around here’ll really do that shit.”

“Nah,” Uncle Bob replied, “They didn’t look like thayze from around this neighborhood. Dare clothes’re too flashy, too expensive.”

“Oh, so they weren’t
gangsta
rappers?”

“Nah, they looked more the R & B type. You know, the kind of guys who sing doze ‘baby, baby please fuck me’ songs.”

Eli leaned back in his chair with his eyes shut and a big grin on his face. His whole body shook with the silent laughter he was holding in.

I was seriously beginning to dislike Eli; his uncle I already despised.

Bo walked in then and saved me from reaching over and clocking them both by stating three simple words: “Van’s loaded. Ready?”

“Sure!” Bob answered as he stood up and smashed his cigarette out in the ashtray, “I’ll falluh you boys out, so I can lock up behind-juh.”   

As we were leaving, I probed good ole Uncle Bob’s brain with as much force as I could possibly muster while remaining upright and walking.

Bob began punching numbers into the small white panel next to the door only after the five of us college kids were safely outside where none of us could see in and find out what his top secret code was.

2-5-7-6, the last four of his social. Classic.

And as he closed the door and stuck his key in the lock to turn the deadbolt, I saw him glance over to the left into a line of thick shrubs that bordered the front side of the building. It was just for about two full seconds , but long enough for me to see through Bob’s eyes that there was something copper-colored hanging on a ring which hung on a small twig right up against the stem of the nearest bush. The dark reddish-brown copper blended perfectly with the stem, making the item practically invisible.

When it became clear what the item was, I grinned. I glanced around Bob’s property, imagining what it would look like with yellow tape lining the perimeter...

CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS

*          *          *

The biggest mistake I made that following Friday night was assuming that as soon as I got to that infamous corner of Dallas, that Galen would surely show up shortly afterward. The thought that he might get there and pick another guy before I made it out there (or that he might not show until two-thirty in the morning or not at all) never once occurred to me.

That scared me. It scared me a lot because it made me think,
What else did I forget?
Is there some factor, some unknown contingency I forgot to account for?

But it was too late now. I was already out there in what I still believe must be the scariest place in all of North Texas to visit at night.

My attire for the evening was very similar to what I’d chosen for Jack’s execution two years prior. Except now I had a knit cap pulled over my head to prevent the shedding of any hairs at the studio and a pair of thin imitation-leather gloves.

The previous night I’d driven by the studio and located the nearest dumpster about half a block away. I’d packed some of my regular clothes (along with a towel and two large bottled waters) into a white drawstring trashbag. On the day we’d torn down the set of Waiting Room Germany, I’d taken some of the pieces of glowtape that had been stapled to the many steps and stairs of the set and put them in my pocket. When I was packing the trashbag, I used clear scotch tape to adhere them to the outside of the bag so that I might find the bag more easily in the dark.

It was Thursday night when I sifted through one corner of the dumpster and placed that bag at the very bottom where hopefully no one would mess with it for the next twenty-four hours. All the while, my mind was scanning the immediate area for anyone watching me.     

I knew the trash wouldn’t run until Monday morning, so I wasn’t concerned with that so much as I was about some homeless person who might rummage through the dumpster and discover a white trashbag with little green rectangles taped to it. It would definitely be eye-catching, and my change of clothes would be history. I’d have to take that half mile trek back to my truck looking like a homeless teenage heroine addict who’s just slaughtered a cow.

I guess I’d just have to try to get as little of Galen’s blood on me as possible, just in case I had to improvise.

I parked my truck at one of the few strip clubs that offers free parking and set out for Harry Hines and Sixth. As it happened, that particular club was the perfect place to leave my vehicle. It was almost at the midpoint between my destination and the studio.