Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) (20 page)

 

 

T
here is a right way to break bad news and a wrong way. He knows the wrong way: come right out and say it. And what good has that ever done? The brutal truth leads to shock, keening, rending of garments. As for the right way, he isn't even sure what that looks like. But he's going to have to tell Kendra about Nadine.

Randall had been standing in his kitchen dressed in his pajamas drinking coffee just after seven in the morning when Maxon called to tell him to look at the web site of the
Desert News
. Randall had seen the item about the carnage at the convenience store and after a chasm of silence and dread managed to croak the following words: “Don't tell me this was your solution.”

“I mentioned our predicament to Dale.”

“To my brother? Why, Maxon?”

“Because you were reaming me out and I was frustrated.”

“Dale's in a wheelchair. How's he supposed to be involved in this rat's nest?”

“The boy has friends, Randall. Serious bad guys.”

There is another silence during which Randall tries to determine the most efficient course of action. His mind ratchets to the first time he had to disarm a live explosive device on his own. Not for a moment did he believe anything would go wrong. He knows how to perform under the kind of pressure that transforms a grain of sand into a pearl.

“Have you talked to him today?”

“Hell no. You want me to call him?”

“Leave it. Just hold tight.”

 

A few minutes have passed. Randall is extraordinarily displeased with Maxon, but cannot deliver the dressing down he deserves until after the election. And he is frustrated with himself for having brought the problem to Maxon in the first place. He has no intention of telling Kendra until he knows exactly what to say but when she staggers in from the bedroom hollow-eyed and clutching her own handheld device, it is clear she already knows.

Barely choking the words out, she says something that sounds like
oh my god
but he can't be sure because it could also be
I'm going to die
. Kendra is wearing a flimsy white cotton nightgown with a red and blue fleur de lys pattern she had purchased when accompanying Randall on a junket to Paris and her form seems to deflate as he envelops her in his arms. He squeezes her close and strokes her hair, still flat and tangled from sleep. She heaves and sobs until she is unable to catch her breath. Then she chokes, wheezes and subsides into a whimper.

Brittany is standing in the kitchen in a tiny tee shirt and plaid short-shorts. It is the kind of ensemble with which she could make a tidy living selling used to Japanese businessmen on the Internet.

“What's wrong with Mom?”

“She just heard some upsetting news.”

Brittany places an uncertain hand on her mother's back and rubs it with the passion of a gay man handling a female breast.

“Mom, do you have cancer or something?”

Kendra manages to discharge “No,” before lapsing back into convulsive sobs. Brittany looks at her father who shakes his head and shrugs, as if to say one day you'll understand.

Brittany nods and goes to the refrigerator where she takes out the non-fat milk and pours a glass for herself.

Over his wife's quaking back, Randall addresses their daughter: “Your mom's going to be okay.”

Randall isn't sure what Kendra says as she runs out of the room but thinks it sounds like
no I won't
. Brittany drains the milk, tells her father she's going to her boyfriend's house for the day and scampers off to get dressed. Her discomfort at having been exposed to this frightening world of adult emotion escapes Randall whose mind is elsewhere.

Maxon did not offer any details over the phone but Randall assumes whatever the plan was, a grisly bloodbath in a convenience store was not the intended outcome. Draining the rest of his coffee, he sits at the kitchen table. The morning sun shines like a joyful invitation. A full day of campaigning awaits, stops at shopping centers, a church fair, and a grip-and-grin is scheduled for the middle of the afternoon in the heart of the downtown Palm Springs business district. Kendra had said she would accompany him. The election is less than seventy-two hours away and every waking moment is supposed to be spent campaigning. In twenty minutes, he will be late for his first event of the day, a stroll through the clubhouse of a golf course in Palm Desert.

 

How had this happened? How had she gone from a Con­gressman's wife to an accomplice to what had somehow become a double homicide? Kendra lays under the covers curled in a fetal position, a pale green, six hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton sheet clutched in both hands and pulled over her stinging eyes. Thoughts careen through her mind at a pace so breakneck she can't parse them.

In high school she only wanted to lead the band on to the football field at halftime, her baton arcing through the western sky all the way to the University of Southern California where she remembers herself dressed in spangles, boots and a tall hat in front of crowds at football games each one of her four undergraduate years. And then she's standing in front of a microphone, and a fleeting image of the singing career she pursued upon graduation provides a second of relief, before marriage and motherhood plant their stake, and she takes brief refuge in the solid means of identity all of this had provided until a few minutes ago.

Now everything has come crashing down like the contents of a poisoned piñata. The last she could recall, before her mind had taken leave of its moorings, was that Randall had said he would take care of it. She had assumed that to mean that someone would have a word with—Kendra doesn't even want to think of the name, but it bursts through the still permeable wall of denial—NADINE! Good Lord! Dead!

Someone was going to talk to her
.
They were going to talk to her and take care of it
.
Did that not work? Had that not happened? Whose idea was
this
, this epic blunder, this abomination, this tragedy that had occurred a short distance from Kendra's home while she had slept and for which she believes herself responsible. Will it be possible for her to ever again be anything other than a fraud, that as far as pretending to be an ordinary human is concerned she will forever be an imposter since now, at her essence, she is a murderess.

Murderess? She's no murderess! She is a baton twirler. And a singer. Whose karaoke version of “Dancing Queen”, belted out at an early Duke fundraiser, will be forever cherished by the desert's gay legion.

Through the black fog of her confusion, regret, terror, and incipient grief—yes,
grief
, because no matter how irate Nadine's behavior made her, she had never denied the woman's essential humanity—Kendra knows that in the annals of overreaction this massacre will vie for a blue ribbon. Snot and tears stain the sheet. Her breathing is ragged. A massive headache blooms, it's iron tendrils extending from the crown of her head toward her temples, squeezing. This is misery so profound it cannot be quantified. Then she feels a hand on her shoulder and nearly jumps out of the bed.

Randall's voice: “Are you all right?”

“Nooohhh.” The sound comes from an uncharted place somewhere deep within her viscera. She can feel him sit next to her. His proximity causes her to curl into a tighter ball.

“Kendy, look,” she can hear him say. It is warm under the sheet and she can feel perspiration begin to collect in her armpits and under her breasts. It's suddenly too warm. Isn't the air conditioning on high? The back of her neck begins to itch.

Randall rubs her arm. She wishes he would stop. She wishes he would get out of the bedroom, the house, her life. She wishes she had never met him, married him, or had a family. She is seized with the desire to run out of the house, get into her car, drive to the police station and throw herself on the mercy of the law because everyone will instantly know who is responsible for the carnage so what is the point of resisting the inevitable and prolonging the torture of her guilt? That brain hemorrhage of a thought passes in a nanosecond and she thinks about swallowing a bottle of pills and the sweet oblivion that would bring, and that thought vanishes and she is back to contemplating the bleak futility of their situation.

Randall's voice: “Do you want to talk about it?”

She thrusts the sheet away and from her fetal position stares at him. By his reaction, she can only imagine what her face looks like. She's going to have to avoid mirrors for the rest of her life.

She manages to say, “What is there to talk about?”

“It obviously got out of hand.”

“Was this someone's plan?”

“We didn't have anything to do with it.”

“Don't tell me what happened. I don't want to know.”

“Maxon talked to her. That was all.”

“I told you not to tell me!”

“Everything will be okay.”

Okay
? Has he lost his mind, too? How is everything going to be okay? Everything is not going to be okay. If they fail to come clean immediately they will be pursued, and caught, and tried and convicted and after all their appeals are exhausted they will be the first American couple executed since the Rosenbergs only they will be more reviled than the Rosenbergs since the Rosenbergs never actually had anyone killed. A soon-to-be-former Congressman and his ex-twirler wife. She could write a book about their ordeal during the appeals process.
From the Rose Bowl to Death Row, Confessions of a Drum Majorette.

“You better take the day off,” he says.

“Thank-you, I think I will.” She grabs a wad of bedside tissue and violently blows her nose. The pressure makes her ears pop.

“Just don't talk to anyone, all right?”

“Who the
fuck
am I going to talk to?”

She throws the obscenity in his face like acid. Ordinarily, Randall would upbraid her for using profanity. He tries not to curse and he prefers that she not use bad language either. But today he gives her a pass. Instead, he suggests she take a few aspirin, get some rest and says he'll call later. She can't bear seeing his face anymore, with it's combination of terror and doubt forced into a grotesque simulacrum of equanimity. When he leaves the room she pulls the covers over her head again, blacking out the world.

On the drive to the day's first event, a visit to a senior center, Randall considers calling Dale. But he quickly discards that idea. What good would that possibly do? The less contact he has with Dale at this point, the better it will be. He will tell Maxon to get his brother out of town as soon as the election is over.

 

 

A
n overweight woman in her fifties with a coarse blonde bob and wearing a pink tracksuit is talking to Maxon. She holds a red tee shirt with the logo RE-ELECT RANDALL across the front and I'M A DUKIE printed on the back in white lettering.

“You know ‘dukie' means turd.”

Maxon sighs, tries not to show either his exasperation or exhaustion. “It's a play on Randall's name.” He would like to snatch the tee shirt out of her pudgy hand and wrap it around her sagging neck but this is belied by an expression of amused forbearance. He sips a non-fat latte and throttles a tennis ball with his free hand.

“My son told me,” she says, shoving her cell phone at Maxon. “It's youth slang. He's on the phone, you can talk to him.”

Ignoring the phone, Maxon tells her, “Randall's name is Duke, that's what people are going to think. Please don't worry about it, okay?”

“Do you want to ask my son?” she says, waving the phone. “His name is Kirk.”

“No, thank-you.”

The woman shrugs and walks away. Maxon can't believe that with his plan having blown up in his face, this is what he's dealing with right now. It's just after eight in the morning at Duke Headquarters and the storefront is filled with volunteers milling around drinking coffee and nibbling on pastries laid out in boxes of flimsy cardboard. There is a phone bank in the back where ten campaign workers are calling potential voters.

He steals a glance at the small crowd of people who have assembled. A desert cross-section of seniors and gays, League of Women Voter types and a handful of fresh-faced college interns, they are clad as ordered in comfortable shoes and campaign tee shirts. Maxon's twenty-three year old aide de camp Tyson Griggs stands nearby checking names on a clipboard. A tall, skinny kid with a shock of hair that makes him look like Bob's Big Boy, he catches Maxon's eye, holds his wrist up and points at his watch. They've got to get the first wave of Dukies on the streets.

Maxon's sleep was shattered by the phone call from Dale and he's been jittery for the last three hours. The morning has been an orgy of self-recrimination. He's been cursing himself for discussing the situation with the poetical ex-con. But it's over and all he can do is wait. It had been embarrassing to have to report what had happened to Randall.
Should
he have even told him? Has he compromised the deniability he had been so concerned about? Someone taps him on his shoulder.

“Maxon, are you okay?”

He looks up and sees Tyson.

“I'm fine.”

The words are steel filings.

Maxon claps his hands to get everyone's attention. The din of conversation dies down and the crowd faces him. In their campaign tee shirts, they're a giant red blob, a faceless mass of hope and energy. It always amazes him that people volunteer for political campaigns. That they think they have a voice in the process, that the fix is not in. Which candidate ultimately wins will not matter in a larger sense since Maxon hews to the view that elections might be framed in the context of ideas but what they are truly about is who controls the flow of dollars to the entities that fund the elections. Whether it is Mary Swain or Randall Duke, the post office will deliver the mail and the borders will be defended. Ordinarily, it would be touching to him that these people are here this morning in their comfortable shoes and their silly tee shirts. But not today. He girds himself to give a short talk about the value of democracy.

“Thank-you for coming,” he says. “What you're doing is incredibly important because this election is about you, the people.”

They applaud this sentiment and he smiles.

At this moment, Maxon notices the door to the street open but no one seems to be there. Then he shifts his perspective and realizes the reason no one appeared to be there is that the man in the doorway is only four feet tall. He would be just under six feet were he to stand but he is seated in a wheelchair. As if summoned by a malevolent sprite, Dale has arrived.

Maxon can see him saying excuse me to several of the volunteers as he maneuvers his manually operated chair toward the front of the crowd. The dodgy teeth flash when he smiles at the volunteers who make way. From their reaction, Maxon can tell that many of them know the identity of this late arrival. At the front of the room, Dale stops the chair and grins. Maxon nods hello, swallows.

“You all know Dale, everyone,” Maxon says. “The Con­gressman's brother.”

Dale waves like he's the one running for office. There is mild, uneasy applause, then the volunteers turn their attention back to Maxon who finishes giving instructions to the workers. When he is done he tells the group to ask Tyson if they need clarification about their assignments for the day.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Maxon and Dale are in the back room of the headquarters. Campaign literature is stacked on shelves and various cardboard signs with messages like
Be a Dukie
and
Randall Again!
are arrayed against the walls.

“I'm not staying in that apartment no more. Had to call the fire department. Those boys got me a wheelchair, and I'll tell you what, it's a piece of shit.” Maxon takes a moment to consider what to do with Dale. He clearly cannot send him on his way. “Want me to answer phones?”

“God, no!”

“Then get someone to take me to Randall's house, cause that's where I'm staying until this gets fixed.”

“You can't stay at Randall's house.” As Maxon says this he feels his throat constricting. What to do with this misfit? He can't trust him in a hotel.

“Why not?”

“You can't be seen with him and you can't call him.” Maxon catches himself as his voice begins to rise. He can't be observed screaming at Dale. More quietly: “You haven't called him, have you?”

“No.”

“Don't. And don't ask me to explain.”

“Maxon, you know you got to take care of me, right?”

This hangs between them for a moment. Both men are aware that Dale could blow the doors and windows off the edifice with one phone call that could land everyone in jail for the rest of their lives. Maxon might not have ordered Dale to put his plan in motion, but who knows what song Dale would sing should he wind up on trial. Where can he possibly stow him for the next few days?

“You can stay with me.” Maxon says. “You'll be looked after.”

Hard lies in bed in his boxers. He feels the weight of his head, never a good sign. There is a dull ache at the base of his skull and it is radiating upward, valiantly attempting to join forces at the top of his throbbing head with the sharp pain pushing up from his temples. Adding to this, something percussive is going on behind his eyes. There is no sense of his body below the neck except for his bile-filled stomach. And he hasn't opened his eyes yet. He has no recollection of going to sleep, doesn't even remember driving home. Steels himself for the onslaught of daylight and the havoc that will ensue as his cornea sends a terrified message to his weakly pulsing brain receptors—
Danger, sunlight!—
that in turn will alert the pain center to hit the panic button. He opens his right eye a crack. The predictable sensation of hot knives being inserted is mitigated by the realization that Vonda Jean is no longer in the bed. Already things are looking up.

Hard rolls on his side and waits for his stomach to settle. This takes a moment as the various internal ducts recalibrate and determine whether or not to send the contents of the Marvin stomach pouring out. The bourbon-drenched volcano rumbles, threatens, sloshes it's sour lava, but mercifully fails to erupt. Hard places a tentative foot on the floor. The brain seems preoccupied with it's own horrifying situation and the pressure of the floor against the pad of his foot does not provoke an unmanageable reaction. This leads Hard to place his other foot down. Collects himself for the task at hand: standing. Takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the sensation that a preternaturally strong and malevolent chimpanzee is manhandling his cerebral cortex. One, two, three: pushes his hands against the sheets and—there, he's standing. Wobbles. The stomach again, riled. Hard waits a moment for the seas to calm. He lurches toward the bathroom.

He throws some water on his face. Opens the medicine chest sees a bottle of eye drops. He puts them in and blinks. He gargles mouthwash and spits it out. Looks at his stubbly face and considers shaving for a moment but decides that is entirely too ambitious a plan. He opens a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol and swallows four.

“Any coffee left?”

Vonda Jean cooking eggs at the kitchen stove. She is wearing workout clothes, her hair pulled back with a clip. She tells Hard to help himself. Hard dressed in a robe now, still unsteady, takes a ceramic cup from the pressed wood cabinet and fills it with coffee.

“You go for a run?”

“It's a beautiful day,” she says. “Where'd you go last night?” Her voice sounds like broken glass.

“You asked me to get rid of Bane, so I did.” His own voice sounds to him as if it is coming from someone else, someplace far away.

Hard takes the coffee and goes to the living room. He does not want to engage with Vonda Jean any further right now. He sits in his recliner and sips the coffee. He's supposed to do some campaigning for Mary Swain today, and he doesn't want to leave the house feeling like this. Through the picture window in the living room he looks east over Twentynine Palms. The town has grown into a little metropolis since the Marvins settled here over twenty years ago, the population closing in on thirty thousand now. There's a big new hotel being built and retirees, artists, and students at the new community college are all moving in because of the good land values. And all that's not even counting the upwards of five thousand Marines at the combat training base just outside of town. Hard considers the place well on it's way to being a redneck Palm Springs and he likes the idea of being mayor. Doesn't just like it, but puffs up at the thought. In Los Angeles, two former Chiefs of Police had run for Mayor and been elected. One of them had even been a black guy and that was before black guys were getting elected to anything. It's as good a starting point for a political career as any and Hard intends to find out how soon he can file papers for the next election.

The knock at the door is as welcome as shingles. Vonda Jean has girlfriends in the neighborhood and they sometimes stop by unannounced to visit. Hard has requested she tell her friends to call before dropping by but the women either don't care or, more likely, Vonda Jean hasn't bothered to relay his instructions.

Vonda Jean's voice from the next room: “Harding, can you get the door? I'm still eating breakfast.”

He does not like this at all. It's bad enough they drop by without calling, now he has to drag himself across the room and pretend to be nice to one of Vonda Jean's friends when the mere thought of human company makes him more ill than he already is. He takes another sip of his coffee before placing the mug on an end table. Then he rises and ties his robe. Pads toward the door, fighting the Mexican Revolution in his gut. When Hard opens the door and sees Detectives Arnaldo Escovedo and Cali Pasco, his bloodshot eyes narrow and his head tilts slightly to one side.

“Sorry to bother you, Chief,” Detective Escovedo says

“What are you doing here?” Hard trying to keep any sense of doom out of his voice. Right now he regrets cursing out Escovedo the other day. Had he filed a grievance?

Detective Escovedo produces an official-looking piece of paper. Pasco is looking directly into his eyes. For a moment he thinks Vonda Jean is going to accuse him of having an affair with her. He hopes she stays in the kitchen.

“Chief, we have a warrant to search your house,” Escovedo says.

Hard's mind rockets back to last night: the desert, the dog, the fire. The fire! Was he supposed to get a permit for the fire? Who could have seen him in the wash of scrub? He is certain there was no one around for miles. And even if it is illegal, and yes, it probably is, this is the jurisdiction of the Sherriff's Department, not the Desert Hot Springs Police Department. What are his own people doing here asking to search his house, no, not asking but telling him they are going to rifle his home? Reflexively, Hard grabs the piece of paper out of Detective Escovedo's hand and stares at it. Rendered in bold print at the top of the page are the words Search Warrant. At the bottom of the page is the signature of Judge Allan Diemer, a magistrate Hard knows to be rigid. Now Hard is desperately hoping this is some kind of horrible practical joke that will be revealed to him in a moment, people jumping out with video cameras, shouting happy birthday or April Fools, but he does a quick survey of his logy mind and remembers it's not his birthday and it's November, and no one jumps out yelling anything, the only sounds the cars rolling by on the long highway below. Until Vonda Jean pipes up from the next room.

“Harding, who is it?”

“Some people from the force.”

Vonda Jean appears in the doorway. “Howdy,” she says. “Should I put more coffee on?”

“They're here to search the house.” No one says anything for a moment. Arnaldo and Cali look at Hard. Vonda Jean does, too. Hard looks out the door toward the desert. A shaft of sunlight falling through the picture window illuminates a river of dust motes that refract the light as they loop and twist in a chaotic ballet. Cali and Arnaldo exchange an uncomfortable glance.

“This house?” Vonda Jean says. Her voice rises slightly at the end of the second word. “What for?”

Cali tells her that someone Hard knew was murdered and before she can say another word, Vonda Jean asks, “So why are you here?”

Arnaldo says, “M'am, would you mind stepping out of the house, please? Chief, I'll need you to do the same thing.”