The Dart League King (21 page)

Tristan Mackey
had said the three words, and now, if he could help it, he wouldn’t say much of anything else. He sat in his truck in the parking lot behind the 321, staring out over Sand Creek and the bridge, the mountains on the far side of the lake, the moon in the sky and all the space beyond it.

Right after he had spoken to Kelly Ashton, said
Come with me
, there had been as if in some strange answer to his request bodies tumbling to the floor, shouting, fighting, and a knife that skittered on the hardwood, a knife that Tristan, blocked from getting to the door, had picked up for no other reason than to get it out of the way. When things had settled down he had begun again to walk toward the door, not saying anything to anyone, and Russell Harmon, saying
Wait right here
but not to Tristan, had slipped something into his hand. It was not until he crossed the parking lot that he realized he still held the knife, and now, in the other hand, a carefully folded paper containing Russell Harmon’s cocaine.

Having nothing to do for the moment, he placed the knife securely under his seat next to the whiskey bottle, and he looked around to make sure the coast was clear, and he turned on the dome light and rolled a dollar bill and opened the paper carefully and snorted as much as he could, which was quite a bit, it seemed, as there wasn’t that much left. So he went ahead
and did the rest of it, and he leaned his head back, and for a while all he felt was the luxury of his breathing and the racing of his heart.

He smoked a cigarette and waited. It must have been at least five minutes now. He would wait a little longer. The wonderful thing about this drug, which he was beginning to wish he’d discovered earlier in life, was that it made everything crystal clear. His thoughts came to him with perfect precision. There was no difficulty with words, with speaking, with playing a role if need be. He could talk to Kelly Ashton if he had to, play the part of the fake Tristan she seemed to admire. And if Kelly Ashton did not come out of the bar and get into his truck, there was nothing to be done about that, either. After all, he had tried. It would actually be much nicer just to drive to the lake house, grab the shovel and the lantern and make his way up the hill, uncover Liza Hatter’s face and sit down next to her, staring up into the vast sky.

With that thought, Tristan Mackey let his mind go white, and only when he heard Kelly Ashton’s footsteps did he seem to arrive again there in the parking lot, resituated in time and space, retrieved from some great distance in order to witness a curious scene being played out on the bridge across the water, yet another odd drama in this rather unusual evening, and he realized he’d been watching it all along but not understanding. Now it seemed oddly illuminated—the streetlights had just come on. The raindrops on his hood glistened like tiny diamonds, and the lights from the marina caught the waves of Sand Creek running slow past the boat slips. Kelly Ashton’s footsteps were coming closer, they were almost to the truck door now, and there on the bridge was Russell Harmon,
lumbering along the sidewalk by the guardrail, his long shadow striding in front of him, thrown there by the streetlight on the far side of the creek. And there across the bridge, backing away from the light, moving out of the yellow glow into the safety of darkness, was Vince Thompson, both arms held out in front of him, pointing a large handgun toward Russell on the bridge. How strange it was that in the world outside his own quick breathing, his thrumming heart, in the night breeze beyond his windshield, out there suspended above the water, lit like a Hopper painting and swirling to the musician’s tune he still heard somewhere in his head, there should be this other story going on, and that the characters should be people he knew. In fact he found the prospect of seeing Vince Thompson shoot Russell Harmon mildly interesting, but Kelly Ashton was at the truck door now, and it was time to open it and let her in. But she was standing back from the door, staring off toward the bridge at Russell Harmon. For a moment he thought things might take an unexpected turn, that she would shout to Russell, take out her cell phone and call the police, and he might end up actually involved in the scene in some way, and probably not one that would lead to any good. But her mouth was set in a straight line, her eyes just a bit vacant and sad. She didn’t see Vince Thompson, obviously. Looking at her pretty face, he felt a quavering inside him, a slight hesitation caused by the way he’d felt about Kelly Ashton in the past. But he had gone way too far out now to get back there.

He would not say anything, or he would say as little as possible. While she buckled her seat belt, he would smile at her warmly, to show how glad he was that she’d made this decision. Silently, he would drive out of the parking lot and onto
First Street. He would make the turn onto the highway, and they would cross the long bridge over the lake, the dark water skimmed by moonlight. On the far side of the bridge he would make the turn to the lake house, the headlights shining on the ghostly birch trees. If she tried to talk, ask him what was wrong, why he was being so strange, he could pass it off with a few words, or maybe he would just smile mysteriously.
It’s a secret!
his look would say. He would put a CD in the player if he had to, though he would rather listen to the music in his head. They would glide along the road beneath the evergreens, the tires whispering. At the top of a hill they would see the lake and the mountains and the stars. They would pass the summer cabins along the shore, and the opulent houses of millionaires blazing with lights on the cliff sides. They would reach the gravel road, and they would ascend the hill, and looking out the windshield they would see the lake stretch toward the darkness of the far shore miles away, the silent mountains rising like dark flames.

He would lead her quietly from the truck and down the long driveway to the shed, still smiling mysteriously. In the shed he would grab the shovel and the Coleman lantern. With the lantern still unlit, they would scramble up the cliff side in the cool air. When they came to Liza Hatter’s grave, he would light the lamp, and she would see the dirt mound. He would not say anything. Then he would begin digging. When he had uncovered Liza Hatter—that would be the hardest part, he knew. Because then she would cry and plead, then she would do her best to reach the old Tristan Mackey, the one she thought she’d known all those years. And Tristan’s only fear was that she would succeed, that somehow in her piteous state, her hair like a halo
in the lamplight, the warm curves of her body, the glistening tears in her large eyes, the tremendous fear and sadness in her voice, she would locate somewhere inside of him the Tristan he used to be. But he believed he was safe. He believed that part of him had fully passed away.

He would do what he had to to calm her down. And when she had finished screaming, if in fact she did scream, and when she had finished crying, because she would almost certainly cry, they would kneel there under the wide northern sky looking down on Liza Hatter’s lovely face. And then Liza Hatter could tell her silent story, offer her mute testimony, her dead eyes staring into the lantern light.

Maybe it would work that way and maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe, in order to get her there, he would be forced into a premature explanation, but if so, that was fine. Explanations were just so many words. They didn’t cost you anything. One way or another, Kelly Ashton was going to see Liza Hatter, that much he knew. And somehow he would have to make her be still and listen, so that the three of them, all together, could feel the universe brushing their faces, hear the dying suspiration of the stars.

Vince Thompson’s
hand was still on the gun when Russell Harmon opened the car door and acted like he was ready to get out, and so he asked Russell what the hell he was doing, and Russell Harmon started shaking his head in a goofy way and saying
I can’t do this, man, I’m sorry, I’ve got someone I really need to go meet, I appreciate the offer, seriously, I’m glad we’re friends again, I’m going to get you your money soon, too, I swear, but I really can’t do it this time, I’m serious
and shit. Vince Thompson’s skull started bang-banging and the blood rushed up into his swollen-all-to-fuck eye and he didn’t want to say anything, he didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of Russell Harmon any more than he already had, but this was the
wrong
thing for Russell Harmon to be saying right now, it was just
exactly
the wrong way to get started making amends, people were always misunderstanding Vince Thompson, they were always misconstruing his impulses, and he was getting fucking sick and tired of it if you wanted to know the truth, and so even though he banged his hand hard on the steering wheel once, then held his hand up in the air to signal OK, OK, everything was all right, just a little bit of tension and frustration exhibited there, it had been kind of a rough night but everything was fine, no reason to get all worried and excited, he still couldn’t help the words coming, couldn’t help fucking saying
Not good enough for you, huh, is that it?
because they both
knew that’s what they were talking about here, right? Good old Vince fucking Thompson was fine to have around when you needed to rip him off and snort his blow, but when compared to a hot chick like that Ashton one and his fucking friend Matt and all those other assholes back in the bar, old Vince just couldn’t measure up, could he, he wasn’t Russell’s favorite sort of dog and pony show, isn’t that what they were saying here? And you’d think, you’d seriously fucking
think
that when he, Vince Thompson, was the only one who’d really understood, the only one who’d really had the capacity to
get
what Russell Harmon had done back there in the bar when he’d shot that fucking bull’s-eye, who really fucking
knew
how hard it was to beat the little Bruce dude or whatever his name was and that Russell fucking Harmon had had to be better right at that moment than he’d ever been in his whole goddamn life, and he’d had to do it with that asshole of a father sitting there, and being afraid that he, Vince fucking Thompson, was going to shoot him and shit, which he still regretted by the way, he was sorry that had happened, goddammit, but how all of that just made it even more amazing, and then the whole time the Ashton chick had just sat there like she couldn’t give a flying fuck, like she couldn’t even fucking
see
what was going on, why was
she
the one who deserved Russell Harmon’s loyalty, why not
him
, Vince Thompson, his fucking friend who understood him? All of this was implied, Vince Thompson hoped, by the words
not good enough for you, huh?
—all of that was what Vince Thompson meant, but he could see when he said it that it wasn’t going to make a goddamn bit of difference, Russell Harmon was still leaning toward the car door, and the thing to do was
waste his ass
like he’d planned to earlier, it was like fucking
destiny or they wouldn’t be sitting here now just the way he had imagined it, and Vince Thompson’s hand went back into the pocket but it obviously made no impression on Russell Harmon, who didn’t even cast a glance, the fucker thought he was
safe
now because of all Vince’s goddamn blubbering and shit, well he would let him know otherwise about
that
real quick, wouldn’t he? And yet he still couldn’t seem to pull the gun out, still couldn’t seem to bring it out in front of Russell Harmon’s face, couldn’t stand, he fucking supposed, to see the look there, the fear, the sense of betrayal, whatever, but he had the gun right there in his grip and Russell Harmon said,
No, man, that’s not it I swear, Vince, I like you, you’re my friend, but it’s really important, I’ve got to go back there
, and when he said it he had this sincere fucking look on his face and Vince Thompson could almost believe him. And so he let Russell Harmon get out of the car, and he watched him start walking to the bridge, all blurry and shit there through the windshield because of his, Vince Thompson’s, beat-up face and shit and maybe because he was starting to cry, a forty-two-year-old man sitting there in his piece-of-shit barely operational Ford fucking Escort crying to himself because some goddamn kid wouldn’t snort a fucking line with him, and to top it off it was
his
fucking coke, Russell Harmon was getting the goddamn shit for
free
. This thought stirred Vince Thompson’s anger and outrage sufficiently enough for him to open the car door and get out and reach in his pocket and bring out the Beretta and point it at Russell Harmon’s back as best he could in the fucking dark and with his damp clothes hanging on him like lead and his teeth starting to chatter now in the cool air and especially what with his eyes all messed up, goddammit, and with his left hand
he touched his face gingerly to wipe away the tears and he could see a little better. But still he let Russell Harmon keep on walking, his finger tight on the trigger but not tightening all the way, even though he could almost feel the kick of the goddamn gun in his imagination, and then the fucking streetlights came on all of a sudden, Jesus who’d have figured there would be so much trouble concerning fucking
lighting
in trying to take care of this business, because now he could see Russell Harmon better, sure, but he was also standing right under a goddamn light in the parking area with a fucking gun held out in front of him for the whole fucking town to see, so he retreated back behind his car door and when he got there and was leaning on the window to help him balance and get lined up again Russell Harmon had come to a stop on the bridge and he was staring out toward the other side across the water. Now was the fucking time. But he needed to nudge his anger up just a little bit more, just enough to make the difference in the pressure on that trigger, and to do it he closed his eyes and squeezed them tight and tried to imagine all the money Russell Harmon owed him, but instead what he saw was Russell standing at that line, his red cheeks and his roly-poly gut, letting that last dart go and the dart making its slight arc and sticking right the fuck in the
middle
of the fucking bull’s-eye, it was the coolest fucking thing Vince Thompson had ever seen, and it was making him feel something all right, but not exactly what he had hoped for, no, it was making the blood rush to his fucking severely wounded head and everything was spinning and he felt again like he had in the bathroom in the dark, like he was floating, like he had disappeared, left with no fucking body but just this crazy stream of thoughts coming from somewhere in
the air, and the thoughts going why, why,
why
exactly was he doing this,
why
was he getting ready to shoot the very person who had made him so goddamn happy just a little while before, it was because he was so fucking lonely and lost and depressed, wasn’t it, and because Russell Harmon wouldn’t fucking
help
him, that was why, and because you didn’t fuck with Vince Thompson and because sometimes you had to
take a life to save one
, but those were the goddamn asshole air force colonel father’s words, not
his
, not Vince Thompson’s, and why should he be listening to the goddamn asshole etcetera right now when he’d fought, fought, fought against him his whole fucking life, not like his asshole brother who did everything right with the goddamn squeaky-clean life and the squeaky-clean family, Vince Thompson had gone his own fucking route, for better or worse, he had been his own fucking man, and you couldn’t think, for instance, you couldn’t say that with all the goddamn fighting and all the goddamn anger and all the goddamn time he’d spent making sure that above all else all the people in this town knew he wasn’t the sort of person to fuck with and that if they couldn’t exactly respect him they would at least know enough to be afraid, you couldn’t say that in devoting himself to that cause he had actually brought about just the opposite fucking result of the one he had intended, that he had actually only succeeded in giving the asshole father what he wanted from Vince Thompson all along, someone to look down on and belittle, someone who wasn’t as big a fucking man, the thoughts in the air went could you say
that
, for instance? And the answer came back, yes, you could. Yeah, Vince Thompson thought, he guessed you could. He guessed maybe that was just about the fucking gist of the thing. And he also guessed it
was true that he had never really wanted to be the sort of person you didn’t fuck with, not deep down, not when you got to the very fucking center of all this blackness and found yourself there, in the middle of this floating feeling washing you along, washing you almost all the way to sleep.