Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) (16 page)

One hundred and sixty-three pairs of eyes swing around and behold two young Marine Corps members—thank you, Maxon Brae!—polished in formal dress stationed in front of the bare wooden cross. They face one another, each holding a gleaming sword upward at a forty-five degree angle, tips touching, to make an arch that glistens in the light of the chandeliers. The Marines are rigid, their expressions severe. If either has predatory designs on the assembly of virgins, it is impossible to discern.

“Dads, take your girls and walk beneath those swords. Then I want you to get down on your knees in front of that cross, fathers and daughters together, and take the purity vow. Say a prayer, share a few intimate words, walk in the light.”

The string quartet begins to play “Are You Washed In The Blood” and attendees stand and form a quiet line. Two by two they proceed beneath the swords, past the stoic Marines and to the cross where they all kneel for a few moments. Some fathers whisper a few words to their daughters; some are silent, but all behave with a sense of purpose commensurate to the occasion.

Randall and Brittany are the last to go. Randall can feel the eyes of the room on him as they walk toward the Arc of Swords. Truly, he reflects, this is an excellent way to get votes. As they kneel at the cross, Randall leans toward Brittany and whispers, “I will always be there for you, my darling.” She rolls her eyes, but Randall does not see this since his own are closed as he concentrates on manufacturing devotion.

Father and daughter ride home in amiable silence. Randall is so pleased with how the evening went he fails to notice his daughter, slumped in the passenger seat and glued to her cell phone, is sending another labial trip-tych to her boyfriend.

His hope of getting to sleep without incident vanishes when he enters the bedroom and sees Kendra in a diaphanous white nightgown, propped up on a mound of pillows with a computer on her lap.

“Who
is
this Desert Machiavelli?” Randall tells her he doesn't know and asks what's wrong. “He outed me.”

“What do you mean, he
outed
you? You're not gay.”

“I swore I wouldn't read it but I broke down. He said someone working for that bitch Mary Swain told him I had an affair.”

“With a woman?”

“No, but that doesn't matter. He said I had an affair
,
Randall! Read this,” she says shoving the laptop over to him. Her voice has gone up several registers and as Randall glances through the blog he is concerned this might evolve into hysteria. She squeezes his arm, digging her nails into his skin. “The whole world's going to think I'm the sleaze!”

Sitting on the bed, Randall puts his arm around his wife's back and draws her close to him. She inclines her head on his shoulder. “If every politician who was suspected of having an affair had their career ended by it, I swear there'd be no one in Congress. You know that, right?” He sees her lower lip tremble and hears her sigh, but the expected waterworks do not arrive. “It's just a some dumbass blogger no one gives a flip about. Says more about the Swain campaign anyway.”

Ten more minutes of reassurance and a large glass of wine do the trick and Kendra is finally calm enough to try and go to sleep. As for Randall, he makes a mental note to ask Maxon why he hasn't found out who this Desert Machiavelli character is and gotten him to knock it off. At least Nadine hasn't contacted the blogger because if she had they would certainly know about it. Another day gone by and still she has not surfaced. That can only be good.

 

http://WWW.DESERT-MACHIAVELLI.COM

11.1 – 11:52
P.M.

So Randall Duke hosted a Purity Ball tonight. Irony of ironies, this serial cocksman, this epic horndog, this priapic pol had the gall to stand in front of a roomful of teenage girls and tell them they should abstain from sex until they were married? The Machiavelli would like to know where he gets the gonads? At the Gonad Store for Forked Tongue Politicians? The Machiavelli had a spy there—a supporter of the Stewardess? You Blogheads be the judges—and he reported lots of upstanding family guys who took time off from cheating on their wives to escort their precious teenage vestals to this sham of an event. Does Randall think these people are going to forget his wife's love of the gays and vote for him anyway? Apparently, this is exactly what is going on. Randall knows a basic fact about political life right now—wave Jesus in front of a certain group and their brains get all mushy. The Machiavelli heard there was a whole lot of Randall love in that room. These dads (and they're the ones who matter since the virgins can't vote) are the kind of guys Mary Swain would love to have in her camp, but Randall jumped on the purity idea first. If I'm her I'm kicking my campaign manager's ass right about now.

On the other hand, all may not be smooth sailing in Dukeville. Sometimes the best news comes in at the end of the week and by best I mean most salacious, embarrassing or damaging. Now this is just a tip and I don't know how reliable it is. Safe to say, if I was the New York Times, I would not print it. But since I am a blogger without that professional baggage, I can report it as a rumor and let you make of it what you will. Someone whispered in my ear that there might, and the key word here is might, be some financial irregularities in the Duke campaign. Irregularities as in shenanigans, shenanigans as in illegal. Again, let me be clear—this is a rumor. All I'm saying is people are saying. Cynics out there—you know who you are—might be thinking these malevolent leaks are coming from the campaign of the Stewardess. But you would be wrong. Let's just say that my source is reliable and there could be an audit. The Stewardess, on the other hand, would never have this problem because her husband can pay any bill and she does not have to sully herself with the demeaning activity of fundraising. She shakes that ass for free.

 

 

 

S
porting designer knock-off shades, smoking a Camel and doing his best Johnny Depp, Odin is at the wheel of a dust-covered blue '98 Impala moving toward Cathedral City in the early afternoon. Man in the passenger seat: House Cat, ten years older, exudes the maleness familiar to rough trade aficionados everywhere. Relaxed fit jeans and a white tee shirt across a barbell chest. House Cat runs his hand over his salt and pepper crew cut, every finger a ring, coral on his pointer, amethyst on his middle, turquoise on his ring finger, and onyx on his pinky. A turquoise bracelet adorns his right wrist as he leafs through a design magazine called
California Interiors.
This is not reading material he would have been looking at in Calipatria where he had been doing three to five for burglary when Odin met him. He'd done over thirty successful jobs in the desert and as far west as the suburbs east of Los Angeles before being pinched, earning his nickname by dint of hard work. But now House Cat has his eye on a piece of property, an old California Victorian south of Barstow, built at the turn of the previous century. Knows it would make a great bed and breakfast. Figures he can re-wire it, update the plumbing, be open for business in a year. House Cat in the hospitality business. Who says you can't start over in life?

“You wouldn't believe what it costs to get a decent sofa.”

“Just buy some shit down in Mexico and ship it up here.”

“You don't have nice furniture, you don't get the good clientele.”

“Long as their money's green, who cares?”

“It's not just the money, Odin. You want something with some taste and refinement.”

“Fuck that.”

“Where are you gonna get with that attitude?”

“To Vegas with a couple of hookers and a basket full of poker chips.”

“What about your cute little wife?”

“Long as I buy her a cute little truck, she'll be all right.”

“Think the two of you might want to work at the bed and breakfast?”

Odin's not sure if House Cat is kidding. Opening a bed and breakfast is the older man's dream, not his. Odin didn't even know what a bed and breakfast was until House Cat told him. And honestly, it sounds pretty damn gay. He doesn't want to tell that to House Cat, though. Where is the upside? Odin views himself as a practical man and there is nothing to be gained by pissing on his colleague's dream. If that's where the man wants to dump his money, it's fine by him. He notices House Cat is looking in his direction.

“Not the life for me,” Odin tells him.

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Turns his attention back to the magazine.

It's another sweltering afternoon and the Impala's air conditioning is balky so the windows are down. Odin's doing about seventy and a continuous rush of stifling air fills the car, gritty on their skin. Odin knows that House Cat wants to have sex with him, isn't put off by his frequent protestations that he's straight. But they have an understanding: the man so much as places a hand on his arm, Odin will get violent. House Cat tried it in a jokey way one time after a couple of sloe gins, got an elbow in his windpipe. It scared Odin that he had hit the old queen so hard, made him wonder exactly what was it he was reacting to so dramatically. When House Cat finally recovered the ability to speak, he told Odin he might want to think about what he'd done, one, because House Cat was his friend, and, two, because it could land him back in the joint on a parole violation, assault being frowned upon by those tasked with keeping tabs on ex-criminals. House Cat's circumspect, not to say kind, reaction nearly caused Odin to lose it again but he didn't have it in him to inflict further damage that day. He worries about his ability to feel sorry for someone like House Cat, makes him think he might be going soft. He'll have to make sure that doesn't happen. Show some belly and House Cat might take it the wrong way. Maybe he's on the far side of forty, but he is no punk. Guys didn't mess with him inside; the man could hold his own on the yard.

“We have to get the car washed,” House Cat says.

“The fuck is wrong with my car?”

“It's filthy, Odin, easier to indentify. If it's clean it just looks like another car.”

“So now it looks like another dirty car.”

House Cat exhales through his nostrils. “I'm just saying we need to take precautions.”

Odin doesn't like that his partner is frustrated with him, thinks maybe he should back off on the car wash, not worth a beef. “We'll get a car wash, all right? Don't have kittens.”

Odin wants the job to go well. Princess and Chance King are bursting out of their little house and he has promised her something roomier, something he can't afford on a mechanic's salary. The money he's going to split with House Cat figures to be the biggest payday he's ever had, a lottery jackpot. He'd like to buy health insurance for his family. In prison, he developed agoraphobia and the pills he takes to control it cost him nearly two hundred dollars a month.

 

Odin was working at Papi's Auto Salvage in Fontana pulling the engine out of a '94 Le Sabre when his boss told him he had a phone call. He hadn't seen House Cat in a year, hadn't missed him either. Odin's parole required that he stay away from ex-cons, but curiosity said hello to financial anxiety and he agreed to a meet at Chavela's Bar on West Highland in San Bernardino. The drive from Fontana to San Bernardino lacked appeal but when House Cat told him he was coming down from Barstow, way up north—relatively speaking—he relented. Princess was working the night shift at the Fed Ex depot so he brought his son to the meet, dosing the kid with Benadryl to prevent a fuss.

Country music on the jukebox, a couple of drunks at the bar, a gang of bikers in the corner, and a waitress who looked like Clint Eastwood. The kid snoozed next to Odin in the booth while he listened to House Cat talk over a tequila sunrise. Someone needed a job done and House Cat figured two would work better than one, was he in? Odin took a sip from his longneck and nodded. Didn't even have to think about it. He'd just been discharged from the military when he got popped for a DUI. It should have gone down like milk, no more than a night in jail and some legal fees if he hadn't grabbed for the officer's gun. The judge sentenced him to three years, no mercy for a veteran. Served nearly eighteen months, time off for good behavior. Out six months now, working part time on dead cars for peanuts, looking to move into the next tax bracket, listening to House Cat tell him someone needs to take a short vacation.

Tough to get ahead with a prison record following you around like a hangover. Odin hears doors closing in his sleep now, only job he can get at the auto salvage where he's the one worker who speaks English and the air reeks of engine grease and oil. Will I do it? Shit, yeah, I'll do it, I'm a lean, mean government trained killing machine, your motherfuckin tax dollars at work he told House Cat, as he adjusted Chance King's bottle in his mouth. How much Benadryl can you put in a kid's milk anyway? Had he given the boy too much? How could you tell? Kids were like algebra, another thing Odin doesn't understand. But he loved his son. Could have done without the crying, goddamn that was annoying. And he wanted to provide, be a man. Odin ordered another beer and asked when the opportunity was going to avail itself. This was yesterday.

The five large he received in advance is safe in his house, the next five payable upon completion of the job. Too easy. He only hopes House Cat doesn't put a hand on his knee. He might kill him and no one is going to pay for that.

 

Odin reaches under his seat and pulls out a .38 caliber military-issue pistol. He brandishes it in front of House Cat.

“Say hi to Sweet Thing.”

House Cat is not happy that his partner brought a gun along since he doesn't trust him not to use it.

“You gave your piece a name?”

“Marine special stole off a munitions depot.”

“Why don't you put Sweet Thing away?”

“You're gonna be glad we have it,” Odin says, shoving it back under the seat.

Times might have been tough recently, and Princess might have a foot out the door, but he knows the money from this job will make her give him another chance. There's still time to save his family. Odin hasn't felt a sense of purpose like this since he was hunting jihadis in the parched hills of Central Asia. And who knows, if this job works out, if he and House Cat turn out to be a good team, maybe it's just the beginning. Odin presses the accelerator, eases the Impala up to seventy-five, then eighty. He likes his future.