Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) (28 page)

 

A
s the daytime blue seeps from the sky and washes of yellowish pink and vermillion appear on the Eastern horizon Jimmy drives home where he feeds Bane and Bruno—yes, Bruno
.
The Chihuahua has moved into the trailer. He was not going to abandon the jumpy little bastard to Coral's tender mercies—and slices some garlic and lemon, breads two chicken cutlets, and cooks dinner for himself. When he glances at the clock over the kitchen sink, he sees it's just past eight. The polls close in a little under an hour. He briefly thinks about voting but decides against it.

Later in the evening, Jimmy turns on the news and sees that Randall Duke has been declared the winner, re-elected by less than five hundred votes. This comes as something of a surprise since he thought Mary Swain was going to win. So, apparently, did Mary Swain and she is demanding a recount. An urge arises to throw a hammer through the television screen but he recognizes the flash of anger—At his brothers? At Mary Swain? He doesn't even know—but he recognizes it for the temporary manifestation that it is and so waits for it to abate. In the meantime, he slips the fish tank DVD into the player, turns off the news and settles in to watch the various mollies, tetras, swordtails, and angelfish swim hypnotically back and forth across his television screen.

In the silent glow of the video fish tank, Jimmy reflects that with this election outcome the self-satisfaction level at which Randall exists will not decrease. Still, he finds himself wanting to muss Randall's spray-hard hair and this gets Jimmy wondering about why he can't seem to go two seconds without considering his brothers, and the way their lives resonate with his. It is as if part of him requires the upset they cause. Is he addicted to feeling angry? This had not previously occurred to him. And it strikes him as a serious insight. Never one to traffic in the language of addiction, Jimmy wonders if he is addicted to his own anger the way a smoker comes to depend on the nicotine buzz or the way runners can become addicted to endorphins. Is it actually something he uses as a motor to drive him in his work and life? It would go some of the way to explaining his marriage having gone south—not that Darleen didn't share the blame, but upon recollection, he did seem to be pissed off a lot when she was around—and it was directly related to the end of his tenure at the Desert Hot Springs Police Department. His violent behavior toward criminals had led to Hard mandating the anger management class, and Jimmy's failure to complete the course led to his raised tension with Hard, so when the business with Bruno occurred there was no reservoir of goodwill to fall back on and it had cost him his job. He concludes that, yes, there probably is some truth to this theory of anger addiction and that he is thinking about it is a hopeful sign since it means he is refining the ability to observe the darker thoughts from a distance and more effectively manage them.

He doesn't want to take Dale down, but this is how it goes. As for Randall, he deserves it. He has a moment where he fantasizes calling Randall and telling him it's over, but realizes the fleeting sense of satisfaction that would provide will only give Randall time to plan a countermove. Jimmy considers calling Cali and telling her what he has found out but thinks perhaps he will take the information directly to the District Attorney. Why tell Cali or Arnaldo, or Glenn Korver, or even Oz Spengler? This one is all his.

He thinks about logging on-line to talk to Bodhi Colletti. He wants to thank her for helping him to clarify his thoughts.

The phone rings. Jimmy debates whether or not to get up and answer it given that he is feeling calm now. But he thinks it might be Cali, so he picks up without checking caller ID. Maxon.

“Where are you, Jimmy?”

“What's it to you where I am?”

“I'd like it if you stopped by the victory party tonight.”

When Jimmy hears this he stops breathing for a moment. Is he ready to go down there and speak to Randall at the celebration? Does he want to risk a scene? Taking note of his moist palms, he notices his mind is not as settled as he had thought. It occurs to Jimmy that there is a perfect place to put his insight about whether he is addicted to his anger to a real world test. He will talk to Maxon, he will see Randall, Dale will probably be there, too. He needs to do this, to challenge himself in this way, to stay calm and collected in the face of adverse stimuli because only when he masters this aspect of life can he turn his existence into something other than a daily trial. And tomorrow he will walk into the District Attorney's office.

 

T
he Cahuilla Casino is a sixteen story neon-trimmed curvilinear monolith that looms over the flat desert floor like a spaceship. It's just after ten o'clock when Jimmy pulls into the crowded parking lot. He's running through how he's going to play Dale. Jimmy won't mention Odin Brick at first. Instead, he'll just concentrate on what Dale has been doing since he's been out, who he's been talking to, what his plans are. Remembers Dale likes whiskey and Coke and plans to buy him a few. Get him loose, talkative, in a sharing mood. Dale likes to jabber and Jimmy knows if he's drunk enough, his tendency to brag is dependable.

A grand piano-sized faux-crystal chandelier illuminates the crowded lobby. Jimmy stands on the black marble floor and peers around. To his right, people drift in and out of the casino in a haze of dreamy avarice. Straight ahead is a curved stairwell that leads to the second floor where Randall's party is being held in the main ballroom. As Jimmy is moving in that direction, he sees Arnaldo and Cali. He's happy to see Cali, gives her a sideways smile, but she does not reciprocate. It makes him glad he didn't call her earlier. Was it going to be awkward between them now?

“Jimmy, can we talk to you outside?” Arnaldo says.

“Sure.” Jimmy trying to process the ramifications of their presence. Then, lowers his voice: “What's up?”

Cali indicates the front door with a tilt of her chin and the three of them move toward it. Jimmy wonders if there's been some kind of break in the case, whether he's been beaten to the punch. If Cali and Arnaldo are here, he reasons, something around the campaign must have taken on a stink.

Outside in the warm evening, standing beneath the porte-cochere in the lurid light of the valet parking station, Jimmy turns to his colleagues.

“You're gonna tell me it's not Hard?”

“This is gonna seem kind of wrong to you,” Arnaldo says.

“We don't like it either.” From Cali.

“You got to be cool, okay?” Arnaldo again.

“Yeah, yeah, what?” Jimmy.

“You promise?” Cali once more. Now she smiles, but Jimmy senses it's forced. Cali and Arnaldo exchange a furtive glance but neither moves.

“I'm going back inside.” Jimmy. Frustrated.

Arnaldo grabs his arm, says, “You can't do that.”

“What are you talking about?” To Cali, “What's he talking about?”

“What he says, Jimmy. You can't go back inside.”

“Because?”

“You're under arrest,” Arnaldo says.

“Funny,” Jimmy says.

He starts walking back into the casino but as soon as he does, Cali and Arnaldo grab him with enough force to let him know immediately this is not a joke and he only resists for the second it takes his conscious mind to control the part of his brain that reflexively prepares to fight. When they see he is not going to lash out, they let go. Jimmy's eyes challenge his former comrades to provide some kind of explanation for this absurd turn of events.

“We've got to take your gun,” Cali says. The wrinkle of her lips suggests an aborted attempt at a sympathetic expression but her eyes are flint.

Arnaldo apologizes as he reaches inside Jimmy's sports coat and removes his police-issue revolver. Checking the load, he takes the bullets out, puts them in his pocket then thrusts the gun into his belt. A crowd of revelers rolls past, not even glancing at the trio playing this surpassingly strange tune. Jimmy is thankful he doesn't know any of them.

“What are you arresting me for?”

“Grand larceny and falsifying a police report,” Cali says.

Jimmy is dumbstruck, pole-axed, no idea what this is about.

Arnaldo informs him: “Someone tipped the Town Supervi­sor about you and the dog. Guy's so spooked about Hard everything has to be detergent clean.”

The sag in Jimmy's shoulders is barely perceptible but it is the sign of defeat. This round is over and he is on the canvas, staring at the lights. Arnaldo and Cali seem almost embarrassed and genuinely regret having to do this. Jimmy nearly feels sorry for them. He nods like he understands, let's get on with it, perform the charade, then all go home. Out of respect, they will not put the bracelets on.

During the car ride Jimmy sits in the backseat cage usually reserved for the perp du jour. Cali riding shotgun while Arnaldo drives. Jimmy considers telling them about Princess and Odin Brick and Dale and the motor at Papi's but decides to let it lie. He wants to deal with it himself.

The sense of being outmaneuvered has begun to shift into something distinctly more recognizable. The techniques that had been showing such promise in controlling his anger are doing absolutely no good. He wants to scream and shout, to bellow until his throat is raw, to kick a hole in the seat. The fury renders him mute because there remains a still, quiet place where a small voice warns him that if he opens his mouth at this juncture what emerges will only reflect the rage-induced chaos in his head.

It's not as if he isn't guilty. Bruno is the property of the town of Desert Hot Springs and was not Jimmy's to take. But the timing of the complaint lets him know that he is being sent an unsubtle message. The job at the District Attorney's office is not going to survive this incident and with his job will go his pension.

“Jimmy, I'm feeling real bad about this,” Cali says.

“Save it,” Jimmy tells her.

Arnaldo says nothing, there being no point.

It is against policy to put a current or former employee of the Desert Hot Springs Police Department in a cell there so Jimmy is being ferried to the county lock-up in Indio. Since it is a Tuesday evening, he will appear in court tomorrow morning to answer the charges. And no one is on duty so he can't post bail until then. It does not please him to be spending his first night as a guest of the Riverside County District Attorney but he has made his peace with the situation and adhering to the proposition that what one cannot speak of one must pass over in silence he remains quiet for the remainder of the ride.

Jimmy is spared the intake paperwork, Arnaldo telling him they already know the information before going to take care of it. After Jimmy surrenders his wallet, watch, and belt, Cali asks for his house keys. When she pockets them, Jimmy looks at her. If this is flirty, he doesn't like the timing.

“Animal control is going out to your trailer first thing tomorrow.”

“And you're gonna let them in?”

“I'm going tonight, dummy. The dog won't be there in the morning.”

It is difficult for Jimmy to express the depth of his gratitude for his gesture, so he offers simple thanks. Cali says forget it and asks that he not mention it to Arnaldo. Then she escorts him through the metal door beyond which lie the three cells that make up the protective custody area. This is where Jimmy will be bunking since a law enforcement official that is under arrest will not be exposed to the general jail population. The cell nearest the door is empty, as is the one next to that, but the far cell is occupied by a large man reclining on his back. It is with a combination of disbelief, apprehension and chagrin that Jimmy realizes the man's identity.

 

T
he elevator door opens and Randall pushes Dale's wheelchair down the carpeted casino hallway toward the ballroom, Maxon trailing behind them talking to a journalist on his cell phone. “I want you to stay with me, Dale,” Randall says. “I'll introduce you around.”

“Whatever you want me to do, I'm here to spread the love for you.”

“You can do all the rhyming you want tonight, baby brother.”

Dale, clean-shaven, has on a red sweater over a white shirt and his hair has been washed and brushed. Maxon arranged for a taxi to pick him up and bring him to the casino and he is flattered to be a part of Randall's stagecraft. Neither of the brothers has mentioned what occurred at the Super #1 Con­venience Store.

Kendra and Brittany are standing outside a doorway and Randall beams when he sees them. Dale notices that Kendra seems nervous, which surprises him since she's a performer. They all greet him perfunctorily. Kendra tells him she's glad he could come and he assumes she's lying. Ordinarily it's the kind of thing that would trouble him, but he's so pleased to be included in this event that he doesn't mind. It doesn't bother Dale that Randall's daughter barely looks in his direction. He isn't the kind who sends birthday cards, so he doesn't think twice about the snub. Maxon tells the assembled Dukes he's going to get up onstage and introduce them, then pushes through the doors leading to the party and disappears.

There is an awkward silence when Maxon leaves. The sounds of music, the volley of voices, the highly pitched din seeping in from the party can't alleviate it. Dale watches Randall spray breath freshener into his mouth. Kendra squeezes her husband's shoulder. Brittany runs her tongue along the inside of her upper pink-glossed lip. She was a kid when he went to prison. Her teenaged sex makes Dale twitchier than he'd like. He catches her staring at him but it's with the eye of a scientist examining a specimen. He's heard this girl is exceedingly bright but he's never had a chance to talk to her. And right now he doesn't have the inclination. He doesn't need some teenager to make him feel stupid.

The victory celebration for his brother the Congressman works on a vestigial aspect of Dale that still flickers inside of him, a memory of pledging allegiance to the flag, and the Founding Fathers and this country that was hewn from the wilderness, because although he is a criminal, that was not his intent in life and he clings to the thought that had things gone differently for him, had he been luckier, he wouldn't be in a wheelchair, wouldn't have
become
a criminal, and he would be here under an entirely more felicitous set of circumstances. The plot he had set in motion and that had veered so disastrously off course sprung from that more innocent place. Dale means well, believes his essential nature is good. If he can only escape from the forces that continually pull him to the ground, he will be able to live the rest of his life in an entirely new way. His atonement will begin tonight. After the party he will apologize to Randall.

A moment later he is being propelled into the packed ballroom, Randall behind him pushing the wheelchair, the crowd applauding and Dale waving like he's Miss America. What would have been a far more subdued event had a few hundred Duke supporters stayed away from the polls is now a raucous party. Bad rock music blares through a PA system flanking a bunting-bedecked stage and the cash bar is thronged. Randall is so pumped up from the win he magnanimously introduces Dale to every donor, campaign apparatchik and well-wisher in sight, Dale beaming like they're running mates, thanking people for giving Randall their vote, shaking hands and telling everyone how excellent it is to meet them. Not since he was speeding down the highway on his motorcycle, the road booming beneath him has Dale felt such a sense of unbridled exhilaration.

Randall has insisted he stay close—Dale doesn't know whether from generosity of spirit or fear that he would drain the entire contents of the cash bar—and he sticks by his brother's side for most of the evening. Upstanding citizens pump his hand all night, their sunny grins in no way redolent of the mild discomfort he knows most of them feel in the presence of a crippled criminal. As the celebration whirls around him he is briefly able to forget what he's done to Randall, to pretend it hasn't happened. When his sister-in-law gets up and sings a karaoke version of
I Will Survive
he joins in when the crowd chants along to the chorus. Then the music cuts out and Randall is on stage. He holds the microphone with two hands, as if in supplication, and gazes out at his supporters. At the beginning of the speech, after he thanks his wife and daughter and Maxon Brae, he thanks “My kid brother, Dale” right there in front of hundreds of people.
My kid brother Dale.
Dale is stunned. In his eyes, it is an entirely unexpected act of public forgiveness. He is so moved by the gesture he almost doesn't mind his failure to procure anything stronger than a ginger ale for the entire evening.

The only sour note occurs when Dale informs Maxon that he will need the ten thousand dollars immediately. It's after midnight and the party is winding down.
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow
blares over the sound system. Several couples are on the dance floor, moving in the spasmodic manner of white people celebrating victory at a political event. Maxon stands next to Dale's chair at the side of the ballroom.

“We're talking the kind of shitbirds that steal a man's wheelchair.”

“It might take a few weeks to sort out the money.”

“Jimmy's already sniffing around.”

“Don't worry about Jimmy.”

“I'm the middleman here, know what I mean? I'll serve you up for breakfast.”

Although Dale is the one in the chair, he believes Maxon can be intimidated by the prison stare. But after a few brief seconds, he has the curious thought that he might be underestimating him. A young couple on their way out stop to congratulate Maxon. He quickly thanks them, not bothering to introduce Dale.

When they depart, Dale says, “I need you to get me a gun.”

“We're not going to talk about this here,” Maxon says. “I got a surprise for you tomorrow morning.”

“I don't want no more surprises.” Dale beckons him closer. When Maxon leans in, Dale grabs the back of his head and yanks. He feels Maxon's neck straining, but he doesn't release him. Whispers: “I want that gun.”

Dale eases his grip and Maxon straightens up, looks around to see if anyone has witnessed this. The clean up crew is working now. A few knots of people are in quiet conversation. No one appears to have noticed.

“This is the kind of surprise you'll like.”

“The money?”

“Better than that.”

“I got a surprise for you, bro. I'm staying at your house until you get it for me and I pay those guys the extra cash.”

Maxon nods. This placates Dale. It's not like he can force Maxon to come across with the payment. At least he agreed to let Dale remain in his guestroom. He knows he'll get no slack from House Cat.

Dale asks where Randall is.

When Maxon says: “Gone for the night,” Dale sinks a little in his chair. He did not have a chance to offer his sincere apology for the trouble he has caused.

 

In his time as a member of the Desert Hot Springs Police Department Jimmy escorted hundreds of criminals to the cells so it is disconcerting to find himself in the position of being led by his elbow to confinement. Compounding this sense of disorientation, his escort was his recent sex partner and winging it to a realm of weirdness so deep it can barely be fathomed is the identity of the other prisoner: Hard Marvin.

Jimmy looks at Cali, gestures toward the Chief
.
Cali shrugs tells Jimmy how sorry she is about this.

“This mean we're not going out tomorrow night?” Jimmy's idea of a joke, but the delivery is devoid of twinkly.

“Lets see if you make bail,” she says, equally twinkle-free. Then she opens the cell nearest to the door and indicates he should step inside. There's a metal bed with no mattress. The Spartan space is lit by a fluorescent tube light on the ceiling encased in steel mesh intended to keep the inmates from fashioning it into a weapon or a means to commit a messy suicide. Cali asks if he wants a sandwich and he declines. She tells him to shout if he needs anything then leaves, the cell door clanging shut. Jimmy does not watch her retreat. He glances at Hard who is still lying on his back staring at the ceiling.

Jimmy wonders if Hard even realizes who just arrived but can't imagine it could have possibly escaped his attention. He lies down on the steel plank, tries to relax. Difficult to get comfortable on the metal. Meditation is a dim hope so he lies there and counts his breaths but he can't get past three before his mind starts to pinwheel. Ten minutes go by before he hears: “I hope this isn't some cocked up plan to get me to spill to you, because I got nothing to spill.”

“It's no plan, Chief. Someone dropped a dime on me.” He goes on to explain the charges that have placed him here leaving out the part about seeing Randall's hand in the evening's events. No point in sharing that with his former boss who does not seem interested in the details.

What he does say is: “You're fucked, Cowboy.” The perfect stillness and recumbent position of Hard's body combine to give Jimmy the sense that the words are emanating from a cadaver.

“I know.”

“But not as fucked as I am.”

It doesn't take Jimmy long to realize Hard is right. Who knows how far Randall's reach extends? While Jimmy will probably be released on his own recognizance, due to the grizzly nature of the crime for which Hard has been arrested, bail will be set prohibitively high. The trial probably won't be for a year, time that will be spent behind bars. And if he's convicted, that year could stretch into the rest of his life.

Another half hour passes in silence before Hard picks up the conversation as if the gap was a couple of seconds.

“For the record, Duke, I had nothing to do with those murders. Maybe I was banging Nadine, but so what? I probably wasn't the only one. And yeah, she killed my dog, and yeah, I threatened her but Christ on the fuckin cross I didn't kill her and that guy.”

“I believe you.”

“Fuck you, Duke. You didn't believe me when it might've helped.”

“I'm just saying.”

“I'm firing my lawyer.”

“Why?”

“Because she's a dimwit.”

“Didn't she help you beat that manslaughter beef?”

“Let me tell you something about that, okay?” Hard's pauses and his voice echoes off the tiled walls. Jimmy waits for him to continue. In all the years they worked together, he's never heard Hard's version. And he's not in the mood now to hear all about Hard killed some poor illegal alien. “The Mexican got killed that day? I never touched his greasy ass. Was one of the troopers, some old boy from Calexico. Whole bunch of us got investigated and anyone who asked I let them think it was me. You know how it is, you want folks scared of you. But was the guy from Calexico that did the killing. I was there and yeah maybe I could of stopped it but I was just an accessory. I'm no goddamn killer.”

It's not easy for Jimmy to fathom how a law enforcement officer could think it was a good thing to be perceived as a killer but it was just another reason he never liked Hard.

“Maybe you can beat it.”

“Look around, you ignorant sonofabitch. Where are we having this conversation?”

“I'd like to say we're at work, but we're on the wrong side of the cell doors.”

“Keep fooling, Duke. Maybe you're here because you're a shit-for-brains wiseass who thought he could steal a dog but I'm here because my lawyer couldn't keep this from happening despite there being not one iota of evidence that isn't a hundred per cent bullshit.”

Jimmy doesn't know if it is the fatigue he's feeling at the end of a perilously long and difficult day, or the utter impotence engendered by his current surroundings, or the cumulative effect of trying to quiet his mind over the last several months, but the hostility, anger and general dyspepsia he was experiencing moments ago begin to subside. Watching another person marinate in their own cosmic heartburn does wonders for your perspective, he reflects, glancing over at Hard. The vibrations of aggression and resentment emanating from the other man have a paradoxically calming effect on Jimmy, who is struck by the ridiculousness of Hard's behavior. That everything Hard said is true misses the larger point. While the former Chief can't change the circumstances in which he finds himself he is bereft of the insight that he can change the way in which he is responding to those circumstances. Jimmy knows that now is not the time to point this out.

“I saw you in a different way when my dog got murdered,” Hard says.

“Saw me in a different way?”

“I was maybe too rough on you with what was his name?”

“Who?

“The dog?”

“Bruno?”

“I should have had a little more sympathy. Too little, too late, right? You said you freed him in the desert. Pack of coyotes probably ate him an hour later.”

“I never freed him in the desert. I lied to you. That dog's in my trailer right now,” Jimmy says with a degree of satisfaction he realizes his listener might not appreciate.

“No shit?”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Jimmy waits for Hard's normal reaction to having his wishes contravened, the usual eruption and cursing rendered poignant by his current surroundings, but all the man says is: “Well, good for you.”

“Nadine Never had a dog.”

“Little fucker bit a hole in my ankle, deserved to die.”

“Yeah, well, he's in my trailer, too.”

“That ratdog escapes death, he's living the high life in your trailer while I'm locked up.” Hard laughs drily. Then, “How's it feel, Duke?”