Multiplex Fandango (23 page)

Metal cranes broached the man-made horizon like the crooked vertebrae of dead giants, poised to topple into the
Port
of
Los Angeles
and swamp the great ships of the line transporting containers filled with the necessities of life.
Here and there, these containers rose on taut lines.
Semi-trucks, the life-blood of the port, hauled them from ship, to yard, their final destination to fuel the lives of the masses somewhere beyond the port sprawl.

Like herd dogs, tugs nudged great cargo ships into position as smaller, sleeker, racing boats dared fate, physics and the tidal swells.
Helicopters hovered above suspect vessels.
Blue green water met the battleship grays of the seemingly desultory landscape.
Lines of smoke curled from a thousand smokestacks.
Jets of flame shot from a hundred others, as oil refineries burned off excess fuel.

Mickey Flaves sat on the bus stop bench, reflecting on how much the
Port
of
Los Angeles
was a great beast that devoured, digested and disgorged.
At times it seemed as if nothing went on in the port; the laconic periods a time of rest, as if the entire beast paused to burp, and perhaps scratch.
Then seconds later, the greater machinations would resume and, Mickey would see the small things he’d missed by attempting to examine the whole.

Like now.
A cruise ship hove into view as it rounded the mass of warehouses on the Western sea wall.
The ship had always been moving, but because he’d been concentrating so totally on the beast itself, he’d missed the detail of two-thousand souls returning from three days of fun, sun and over-indulgence along the coast of Encinada,
Mexico
.

Mickey sighed.
He detested the details of a life, the patterns in movement, even the impulses that carried most people through their day.
He detested them, because he knew them.
Each and every person’s decisions, comments, futures, and desires were broadcast and Mickey Flaves was tuned in.
He liked the beast that was the port because he could watch, and not know.
He embraced the inherent privacy, keen to allow his eyes to feast, while his mind found solace in the silence of machine and momentum.

City Bus 544 stopped in front of him.
Rattling and squeaking, the door
shooshed
open.
Three Hispanic women trudged off toward the Hotel Puerto where they’d spend the day washing linens and dreaming of a better life.

Mickey focused his gaze on the ground near his feet and concentrated on self-editing.
He had enough problems with his own life.
He didn’t need to re-live everyone else's.
Still, he’d been caught off guard by the beast, and now knew of
Consuela
and how her husband had beaten her the night before.
He’d returned drunk from papas and beer.
When she’d cursed him for wasting the family’s money, he’d stolen her breath with three left hooks to her stomach, the bruising hidden beneath an extra layer of clothing.

There’d been a time in Mickey’s life when he’d cared about such things.
Once he would have delivered justice with a two-by-four.
Once he would have become invested in the woman’s life, a flesh and blood guardian angel to watch over and prevent abuse.

But humanity was a different beast.

"Are you coming hon?" asked the driver.

Mickey didn't even answer.
Instead, he backed away and began walking.
The woman shook her head, closed the door and eased the bus forward.
Mickey watched it depart, then refocused his gaze on the sidewalk beneath him.
He didn't see the bus suddenly turn, plow through a Honda sedan and a Ford pickup, finally coming to rest against a metal fence.
He didn't see her heart rupture, but he'd known it would happen.
Seeing was overrated when you already knew the future.

Mickey plodded on.
He glanced once again at the port, and let his gaze be drawn to a blue and white warehouse with Chinese writing, hundreds of nondescript containers piled five-high.
Thirty-nine Chinese were inside of one, their fears transcending their voluminous incomprehensible thoughts.
Mickey didn't have to speak Chinese to understand.
Starvation.
A hell of a way to die.
They'd been there for five days, and each day they'd lost one of their own.
Mickey could probably do something.
He could get involved and save them.
But he didn't want to.
They were none of his business, so he edited them from his thoughts.

Two hours later, he'd walked the thirty blocks to The Spot.
Without looking up, he entered the open front door and sidled up to the bar.
He grabbed a napkin from the neat stack by the martini straws and placed it in front of him.
He heard activity around him, but didn't dare try and see what it was.
He didn't need to.
They were the usual crowd of disabled longshoremen, crack-whore housewives, biker roughnecks, truckers in-between jobs, a pusher, and whatever tourist decided to slide into a bar that was made famous by the late, great, alcoholic beat poet Charles Bukowski.

Bartender Bill slid a martini onto the napkin, knocked twice on the bar to indicate it was a double, then snatched up a pad to mark down the drink.
Mickey would pay his tab at the end of the month by allowing Bill to cash his disability check
—
as did most of the
nooners
.

Mickey hurled the drink down his parched throat, and pushed the empty glass forward.
This one returned with three knocks.
He'd take his time and savor the triple.

The vodka was half-gone when Bill said, "Emmett was looking for you."

Mickey stilled for a moment, then answered, "I don't do that anymore."

"Just the same, he was here," was Bill's reply, before he moved away to drown another nooner's nightmares.

Just the same I don't care
mumbled Mickey to himself.
There'd been a time when he'd tried to use his curse for good.
That's when he'd met Emmett.
He'd once believed in his ability to be beneficial, something to be tendered in exchange for his humanity.
But that was before he'd lived through a malignancy of tears and blood and sorrow.
From gift to curse, his ability tumbled into a twisted stair of broken limbs and the ignorant dead.

Never again.

But a drunk crashed into him, sending his drink shattering across the bar.
He couldn't help but turn, and in the turning heard everyone's thoughts
—

Motherfucker owes me money.

Please let her want me.

Please God let him give me a pass.

He's hiding money in his sock.

They scream better when I ventilate.

Mickey spun back to his isolation at the bar, his self-medicating alcoholic mind conjugating the verb
to ventilate
and wondering how that applied to people.
Against his own wishes, he found himself spinning the stool slowly around, his eyes like a searchlight.

A desperate voice beamed.

Beating down dog.

Beating down dog and leave me alone.

As if in reply from the same mind.

Onetwothreefourfivezixseveneightnine...look at her over there in her pretty pink dress.
Look at her in her fuck-me pumps.
Dog wants to eat.
Dog wants to lick.
Beat down.
Beat down.
Beat down dog!
Skin can melt, you know?
I like it when it melts.
I like the taste.
Like butter.

"Sorry about that, Mick," said the bartender as he placed another drink in front of him.

Mickey spun back around, attended his empty glass, and nodded.
He hated these moments of broadcast dementia when he became privy to the inner workings of the insane.
He could ignore someone's fate, he could ignore what was beyond his control like the fate of several dozen Chinese, but could he ignore a person whose entire reason to exist seemed to be to hunt and destroy another.
The thoughts left him feeling stained and ugly, more accomplice than witness.

Mickey stared into the mirror and caught the monster in full glare.

Skin can drip if hot enough.

Mickey concentrated on his glass
—
eyeball to highball and tried to forget what he'd already witnessed.
Along with the thoughts had come the recollection of the events that had fueled them.

A woman nailed to the wall.

Her gasoline drenched clothes in conflagration.

A metal pail waiting beneath to catch the solid made liquid.

Mickey recoiled at the scene, closed his eyes, and drowned what remained of his cognition with alcohol.

***

Mickey awoke from a nightmare.
He sat upright.
His anger soared.
How dare they make him feel this way!
How dare they dictate a behavior and preach its validity!
What the fuck was responsibility to him?
Why was it that he was on the hook just for knowing that they were going to die?
Did he owe them something?
Just because he knew, was he supposed to stop him?

Three hours later he managed to fall asleep.
Fitful and filled with dark brooding dreams, when he finally awoke again, he was far from rested.

Against his will, he found himself wanting to meet the Dog.
Part of him wanted to tame the beast, while the other wanted to kill it.
Another, more sane part of his mind wanted to run from it.

The next morning Mickey boarded the bus.
He noticed the new bus driver.
In twenty-seven years the man would die surrounded by his loved ones at a family celebration.
His heart would explode
—
a bad diet as deadly as a pistol, albeit a slower, malingering killer.

As they pulled away he glanced at the warehouse.
The container hadn't been moved.
Five more people had died in the night.
Why was he letting himself care?

Mickey hit The Spot at Noon.

As he leaned into the bar, a hunchbacked man with long curly hair grabbed him from behind.
Mickey spun and met the man's wild blue eyes and was immediately assaulted by both the man's stench and his fear.

"Mickey, you gotta save me from the men in black hats.
Where are they?"
Gripping Mickey's collar, "Tell me where they are."

Emmett Morgan had been a successful financial consultant who'd awoken one morning only to discover that he was too afraid of the world to even leave his home.

"Let me go, Emmett," said Mickey, wrenching the man's hands free from his collar.

Back then Mickey had been a Fortune Teller.
Emmett had hired him to help him cure his agoraphobia.
After several months of Mickey's tutelage, Emmett had once again become a functioning part of society, his every movement foretold by Mickey.
There'd been days when Emmett hadn't moved until Mickey had foretold the possibilities.
Always calling.
Always begging for the outcome.
It had been too much.
One too many nights staring into the loser's eyes had convinced Mickey that there were things he'd never be able to change.

And now it seemed as if Emmett called the city's alleys his home.
His disheveled hair contained bits and pieces of trash.
His clothes were a uniform gray, the result of worn-in dirt.
"But they'll have me without your protection.
The men in black hats will kill me."

As soon as Mickey saw the vision, he pushed the man away.
"Just go home.
Stay off the streets."
Emmett liked to watch little boys and girls.
He'd never touched, but he liked to watch.

"But you have to help me," screamed Emmett.

Customers spun in their seats.
Several backed away, making the bartender snatch a bat from behind the bar.

"Enough of that.
Either keep your voice down, or leave, Emmett."

Taking advantage of the moment, Mickey slid through the crowd, gazing down at people's feet.
He found a place at the other end of the bar.
He stared down at a napkin and knocked three times.
His drink arrived and Mickey downed it quickly.

Only when he heard Emmett whine as he was pushed out the door, did Mickey relax and settle into a day of drinking.
At half-past three, a thin man pushed into the bar.
Mickey glanced to check and see if this was the one.