Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) (27 page)

 

 

J
immy has just returned to the District Attorney's Indio office after having interviewed a complainant at the Whispering Sands trailer park whose husband owes her nearly twenty-three thousand dollars in spousal support and has not been heard from in six months. Perspiration dampens his short-sleeved plaid shirt and there's a two-inch high pile of paperwork in the in-box. He gets started on it but his mind keeps wandering to Hard, to Randall and Kendra, to Oz Spen­gler, to Glenn Korver, and to Cali and whether anything's going to happen between them. Jimmy's not sure he wants a girlfriend in his life right now. And after the way things went down with the investigation, he's not confident they can recreate whatever it was they had shared that evening anyway.

Jimmy drinks several cups of coffee. He reflects on his parents and the simple faith they shared. Truly, he wishes he had that to cling to. Then, seated at his office desk, he has the following IM exchange with Bodhi Colletti.

 

Jimmy Duke

Is the dharma something to believe in, like a religion?

[email protected]

it's something you experience, and once you get a hint of the freedom inherent in the experience, you become motivated to practice more to develop the capacity to extend the experience for longer periods, even during difficult times in your life.

 

At first he is disappointed with Bodhi Colletti's answer. He wishes the dharma were something in which he could believe for the simple reason that belief is easy. If he could believe in something it would solve so many of his problems. If the dharma can be for someone who believes in nothing, it could be exactly what he is looking for. It's not that he believes in nothing. At the very least, he has an abiding belief in Jimmy Ray Duke. He is not sure how this squares with the Buddhist concept of no-self that he has recently discovered. At some point in the future, he will have to ask

In the waiting area an eye-catching woman is talking to the receptionist. She's wearing white short-shorts, red pumps and a clinging sleeveless black top with a scooped neckline that shows off several inches of tanned cleavage. Her long dark hair is parted in the middle and she wears large black-rimmed, designer knock-off sunglasses. He immediately makes her for an exotic dancer.

The receptionist, a middle-aged Latina with short dark hair and large gold hoop earrings turns to Jimmy, who is on his way to the bathroom. “This lady says she has information on the murders at the convenience store. That's Glenn Korver's case, right?”

“That's right,” Jimmy says.

“Mr. Korver's not here right now,” the receptionist tells the woman.

Jimmy introduces himself and extends his hand to the woman. “Mr. Korver's one of my colleagues.” Her handshake is light, airy, like a cloud. He notices her French manicure.

“I'm Princess,” she says. He asks her what she wants to talk to his colleague about and tells him she has information germane to the investigation. Because Jimmy can't face more paperwork, and because he would like to have sex with Princess despite how unethical that would be, and most of all because he wants to be working on this case, he suggests they go around the corner for coffee, his treat.

As they walk to the coffee shop Jimmy notices the outline of the red thong she's wearing through the fabric stretched across her perfect bottom. It's impossible to place her barely discernible accent but he wants to go there and lie on the beach under the shade of a palm tree while Princess, wearing exactly what she has on now, lovingly performs a cornucopia of sex acts on him. In the midst of this reverie he wonders if the Buddha ever had to deal with someone like Princess.

The coffee shop is a chain. Princess has taken a table in the back and she smiles at Jimmy in a practiced way as he places a coffee with cream and two sugars on the table in front of her. Her teeth are large and white. They are seated in the back and at mid-morning, the place is empty. A slightly overweight girl with an inch of dark roots in her lank blonde hair wipes the counter with a rag.

Princess looks around the coffee shop. When Jimmy catches her in profile he clocks the bruise surrounding her left eye. She says: “Can there be a reward in a case where someone got accused but now there's information saying someone else did the crime?”

“Why do you ask?” Wonders what exactly she's talking about and hopes it's not something dull and domestic.

“Do you have a tree in your backyard that grows money?” Jimmy shakes his head no, says he wishes he did. “Me neither. So how do you find out if there's rewards?”

“You can research this on-line, you know,” Jimmy hoping she gets to the point. Despite his attraction, the man has his limits.

“You know that case where they say maybe some police chief did two murders?” Jimmy's ears prick up like a Doberman's. He is no longer thinking of sex with Princess.

“Yeah?”

“That police chief, he didn't kill those people.”

“Really?”

She takes a sip of her coffee. Jimmy looks away, not wanting to pressure her. A pair of retirees, a husband and wife, is now seated quietly at a window table. Princess dips her head and lowers her voice. “A couple of days ago, those two people at the convenience store? That was Odin and another guy.”

“Who's Odin?”

“My husband,” she says.

The scenario where the aggrieved female looking for revenge lays something on the male's doorstep is one with which Jimmy is familiar so he looks directly into her eyes and says: “He knock you around?”

“You a social worker?”

“Just trying to figure out what's going on.”

“His name is Odin Brick, and you need to arrest him.”

“Someone's already being charged in that crime.”

Princess returns his gaze without blinking. “I'm telling you, they got the wrong guy.”

“How come you didn't notify anyone sooner?”

“What, like yesterday? This thing only happened a couple of days ago.” Rising, she smoothes her shorts over the inch of her thighs they cover. “I can go to the cops . . . ”

“No, no, no . . . wait” he says, grabbing her wrist. “Don't.” She bites her lip, hesitates, then she sits back down. Jimmy asks her why she didn't go to the cops in the first place.

“You work for the D.A., right?” Jimmy nods. “I like to watch my cop shows on TV. Don't the cops have to bring it to the D.A, before anything can happen?”

Jimmy tells her that's true. He asks her about Odin, and why she thinks he was involved in the murders, and the story she tells makes him think maybe she's more than an unhappy wife. But when she says this: “The other night he walks in and his face has been shot up. First he tells me it's a hunting accident, like I'm slow. I had to go to the hospital in San Bernardino and say I accidentally shot him”—that's when Jimmy is convinced.

“It wasn't you who shot him?” he says, testing her.

Princess glares across the table. “I should have gone to the cops.”

“Easy, Tiger.”

Taking out a pen and pad, Jimmy gets Princess to give all of Odin's particulars, full name, address, where he works, who his friends are, what kind of hours he keeps and whether he's armed. When Jimmy asks her if she and Odin are still cohabitating, she says she's at a motel. She's left her son with a friend and she'd like to go get him. This hangs between them for a moment. Jimmy thinks about inviting her to stay in his trailer. Realizes it might not look good. He takes his wallet out and counts six twenties, cleans himself out in the process.

“This should help you out.”

“I don't need money.”

Impressed, he folds the cash and places it back in his pocket. He assumed she would try to hustle him. “One more thing. What hospital did you say you took him to?”

“Our Lady of Lourdes in San Bernardino.”

He asks for her cell phone number and jots it down. Hands her his card, tells her he'll be in touch. Jimmy says goodbye to Princess in front of the coffee shop. As soon as she rounds the corner, he phones Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital to see if her story checks out. When he hears that a man came in with buckshot in his face and a wife who claimed to be the marksman he doesn't bother returning to the office. Jimmy punches a search into his hand held device. The results come up instantly. Odin Brick: Afghanistan vet, busted for assaulting a police officer, sentenced to three years in Calipatria, time off for good behavior. It does not escape his notice that Odin's dates at the prison overlap those of his brother.

 

As a teenager, Jimmy had gone to the Fontana Speedway a few times to watch the races and even then sensed there was something ridiculous about it, testosterone-choked men driving in circles like they had some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder. He hasn't been to Fontana in years. The town is an unsightly sprawl of mini-malls and cheaply built houses. Papi's Auto Salvage is on an industrial road a couple of miles from the Speedway. As Jimmy parks his truck, two young Latinos in green jumpsuits and baseball caps are removing an engine from a Chevy four door sedan that has been totaled. They ignore him when he gets out and heads for the office.

The first thing Jimmy notices is an old Pit Bull resting on a filthy pillow. The wall is a collage of naked women taken from girly magazines, a multi-ethnic forest of breasts, shaved pudenda, and perfectly formed derrieres so profuse as to almost be abstract. A wiry Latino with a gray ponytail that flops over a work shirt, greasy jeans and black boots looks up from a ledger.

“Can I help you?” The man's tone is friendly.

Jimmy holds off on badging him. “Does a guy called Odin Brick work here?”

“He owe you money or something?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Ain't seen him since last week.”

“He quit?”

“Ain't showed up for work, ain't called in sick. Ain't got a job no more, you know? I got a business to run.” The man smiles, but he's done talking. Jimmy senses the man wants him gone.

“What kind of guy is he?”

“You a cop?”

“Used to be. Now I work with the District Attorney's office.”

“What he do?”

“We're not sure yet, but I want to talk to him.”

Jimmy takes out a pad, folds it open and asks the man's name. The man says, “You first,” so Jimmy introduces himself and the man tells him his name is Roberto Ayala, but everyone calls him Papi. “I hired Odin ‘cause he said he been to Afghanistan to fight with the Marines. Support the troops, right?”

“Any of his friends ever come around?”

“Never saw no one.”

Jimmy ponders this as he glances around the office. He focuses on a woman in the collage whose face reminds him of Darleen's. Briefly, his mind flits to his ex-wife and he realizes he doesn't even know where she's living. He turns to the sleeping Pit Bull.

“One last thing. What's the dog's name?”

“That's Gasoline.”

“Mind if I take his picture?”

“No problem.”

As Jimmy pulls out his cell phone to photograph the dog, he hears a boy yelling “Papi, check this out.” Looking over he sees a young Latino kid, maybe twelve, popping a wheelie on a motorized bicycle with high, motorcycle-style handlebars. The engine on the bike is bright red and when the kid pulls up outside the door of the office Jimmy can see it's new.

“Nice bike,” Jimmy says to the kid. “Where'd you get it?” Papi glances at Jimmy. Where's this going?

“My uncle gave it to me,” the kid says, looking at Papi.

“I used to have one just like it,” Jimmy says. “Put the engine in myself.” He sees Papi relax a little. “Where'd you get the engine?”

“e-Bay,” Papi says. “Stuff they got is amazing.”

“Sure is,” Jimmy says, nodding. The kid looks at Papi, wondering if he did anything wrong. Papi stares at Jimmy. The Pit Bull stretches but doesn't get up, and Jimmy takes his picture.

“You got a receipt from the e-Bay purchase?” Jimmy says, casual.

“Threw it out,” Papi says.

Jimmy nods. “Of course you did.” Then, to the kid: “Enjoy the bike.”

He returns to his truck, marveling at a world where an auto body business in Fontana can be a chop shop for stolen wheelchairs.

 

http://WWW.DESERT-MACHIAVELLI.COM

11.6 – 2:17
P.M.

Every November the Machiavelli has his faith in our system restored. It may erode all other days of the year but Election Day is always a new dawn. Year after year the voters may send the same parade of lying pimps and crooked whores back to Congress but the beauty of democracy is that there's always a chance things might improve. Unfortunately, we in the desert don't have much of an opportunity to raise the bar today. The incumbent is a hack who reflects no glory on his constituents. But the challenger? She's not qualified to run a P.T.A meeting much less walk the hallowed if slightly tainted halls of Congress. She is a liar, a demagogue, and one of her major local supporters, suspended Desert Hot Springs Chief of Police Harding Marvin, is in the middle of a murder investigation. I'm no fan of Duke's, but compared to the Flight Attendant, he is Nelson Mandela. Today, I will hold my nose and pull the lever for him.

 

 

O
din and House Cat are in a motel room on Highway 16 just outside the town of Victorville at the northwestern edge of the Mojave Desert. It's a run-down single story place with a battered sign out front that reads
Cable TV Swimming Pool Vacancy.
Twin beds are covered with musty patterned bedspreads. On the side of the room closest to the window is a table with two matching wood chairs. Littered with fast food wrappers and pizza boxes, the place exudes a locker room fug. The Venetian blinds are drawn, the dark drapes closed and only the flickering light of the television illuminates the shadows.

The previous Saturday Odin had awakened from his drug-induced slumber to discover Princess had abandoned him, taking their son and five thousand dollars in cash. In what he believed to be a particularly cruel gesture, she also absconded with his agoraphobia medication, which left had him scared to leave the house alone. Fearful the police would show up to question him about his treatment for gunshot wounds at the hospital, he immediately called House Cat who drove down in his dented blood red '98 Toyota Corolla to pick him up. Odin didn't want to leave the Impala behind since he thought Princess might come back and steal it, so he convinced his partner to leave the Corolla parked on a nearby street. When House Cat asked Odin why they couldn't just leave the Impala on a nearby street, Odin had replied: Because I think the bitch has superpowers and she'll track it down like a fuckin Indian, that's why.

For the last three days they have been holed up in this room, waiting for Dale to come up with the remainder of the money he owes. Odin lies on the bed sipping a can of soda. House Cat paces as he talks on a cell phone. Neatly dressed in dark pants and a checked shirt, he could be on his way to talk to a loan officer at a bank. Belying the circumstances, his voice is relaxed, even friendly. “This is the fourth message I'm leaving. Today's the day, buddy. I won't threaten you, cause I don't think I need to. You already know what we do.” House Cat clicks the phone shut and runs his ringed fingers over his crew cut. Turning to Odin, he says, “Think Dale's gonna have the money?”

“Where's he gonna get it?”

“From whoever it was told him to hire us. Didn't need that lady out of the picture for himself, did he? We're subcontractors.”

“You gonna go down there and talk to him?”

“Am
I
?”

“I ain't leaving the motel room less you get me those meds.”

“I'm not talking to Dale alone.”

“What are you worried about? He's a damn cripple.”

“Maybe he's got a gun. Maybe I walk up to him and he shoots me.”

Odin finishes his soda, belches and tosses the empty on the floor. “Get me some Zoloft and I'm your wingman. Until then, I'll lie here and watch ESPN.”

“Can't you treat this thing you got with homeopathy, some herbs or something?”

“What, like oregano? I got a diagnosed condition, dude.” Odin's eyes steady on the football game. “I need some motherfuckin Zoloft.”

Odin rises from the bed and lumbers to the bathroom in his socks, leaving the door open behind him. House Cat sits on one of the chairs, places his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his hands. He's not happy with Odin who is proving to be significantly higher maintenance than he had originally anticipated. There was the call to scoop him up from his home in the Antelope Valley—House Cat had found him curled in a ball on the living room floor—after his wife bolted with the kid and the money. Odin brought his own pillow, which House Cat found peculiar, even after it was explained that a prison psychiatrist had advised having certain familiar objects with him if he was going to be away from home for an extended period of time. On the drive to Victorville Odin had insisted on lying in the backseat covered with a ratty blanket because he claimed it was the only way he could stave off an attack. Then he suggested that since he had been the one to get shot, and now his wife had stolen his share, House Cat should split his own share so Odin wouldn't come out of this with nothing but a shredded face. House Cat is getting tired of dealing with Odin. He's starting to understand why Princess left. Whatever homoerotic attraction existed has dissipated significantly in the wake of three days in this motel room. And now House Cat is supposed to track down Zoloft just so the two of them could make the trip down to Mecca to put the screws to Dale? This is not working for him at all. Where, exactly, is he supposed to get his hands on Zoloft?

“The V.A. Hospital in Los Angeles,” Odin says as he returns from the bathroom and once again reclines on the bed. “I'll give you my drivers' license and you tell them you're me.”

“There's no resemblance, man.” House Cat not bothering to look at him. “No one's gonna believe I'm you, especially if I'm trying to cop prescription drugs.”

House Cat would just as soon abandon Odin right here. Too scared to leave, whomever it is that runs this dump would eventually call the police and that would be the end of him. But then House Cat would have to deal with Dale on his own. Dale: he was wily, no mistake, and wouldn't allow himself to be surprised in his own bed again. No, House Cat would have to get his partner medicated so the two of them could go down to Mecca and collect.