Three To Get Deadly (80 page)

Buck shook his head. "Twenty, thirty thousand people probably died today. You really think anyone is going to care what happened to some filthy homeless guy?"

"We're all filthy homeless guys now, Buck," Marty pulled the dust mask on and adjusted it over his nose and mouth. "Don't forget to give him back his blankets. He really wants them back."

And with that, Marty headed off once again. Reeking of sweat, cordite, gasoline, and another man's piss. Feeling the pain of a dozen scrapes, countless bruises, and one passing bullet. Carrying the fresh memories of one dead woman, one terrified boy, and one homeless man wielding a rusty steak knife.

A lifetime of horrible experiences crammed into one morning, and he still wasn't out of this yet. It didn't seem possible. It certainly wasn't fair.

He didn't know how much more of this he could take. The earthquake and the extreme damage it caused still seemed distant, unreal, even though he'd walked through it. But all of this, the smells and pains he carried with him, were far too personal and almost too ugly to face. He didn't do a thing for Molly, leaving her trapped to die in a fireball. At least he made up for that failure with Franklin.

He'd done his big, daring, heroic act. He was sitting out the rest of this catastrophe.

All Marty wanted to do was clear his head, to forget the suffering he had witnessed and the suffering he had caused, to make his mind a blank until he got to his doorstep.

Failing that, he'd settle for just an hour of peace, a chance to regroup, maybe find the strength that was cowering in some dark corner of his soul and coax it to come out.

All of his misfortune, all of the danger he'd been in, could be traced to his inability to abide by his own rules. That was going to change, starting now.

Marty rejoined 1st Street, which became Beverly Boulevard as it rose up hill on the other side of the overpass. To his left, a block-long mural had been painted on the retaining wall that held together the soil of the old Belmont High School's football field, where hundreds of frightened kids were now gathered outside.

He was beginning at the end of a mural charting the life of man. It started in the future, showing a smiling, multi-ethnic group of Los Angelenos walking hand-in-hand into a Jetsons' future of streamlined buildings and flying cars. And as Marty moved west, the mural took him back in time, past Indian camps and buffalo, past cavemen and saber-toothed tigers, right back to single-cell organisms floating blissfully ignorant in puddles of muck and the cosmic explosion that started it all.

Beth straddled him, her hands flat against his chest, her face crinkled with concentration, working steadily towards her climax. He liked watching her like this, her skin flushed and damp, her eyes lids heavy, her mouth slightly parted, her small breasts swaying with the urgent motion.

And when she finally got there, there was a sharp intake of breath, her jaw dropped, and she ground even more hurriedly against him, chasing the moment, not letting it escape until the last possible second, her entire body tensed up, her nipples drawn into hard points.

He grabbed her then, giving up to it, because for him it wasn't a pursuit, but a losing battle, a fight against an ever strengthening force that he always knew would, and he desperately wanted, to overpower him.

Beth collapsed on his chest, breathing heavily, fresh perspiration on her back. Max thumped his tail excitedly on the hardwood floor, almost like an audience stamping their feet with applause. The dog loved it when they made love. He lay there, his head on a pile of scripts, watching them like an approving teacher. Marty hated having the dog in the room, he found it distracting. More than once the damn dog stuck his nose in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"We can't do this forever," she said huskily.

"Why not?" he whispered back, kissing her head.

"Because it's two o'clock in the afternoon on a Thursday. We should be working."

"I am," he said. "The deeper I explore our relationship, the deeper I understand the characters I write."

"That's bullshit," she gave him a playful squeeze.

"Of course it is," he smiled back. "This is better than work. This is what people wish they were doing when they're working."

Beth slid off him and lay on her side, facing him, propping her head up with one hand. Her freckles seemed even darker afterwards, and she had that delicious smell of sex and so did he. He loved this moment best of all.

"It's great, and I love it, too. But we have to be practical. Neither one of us is making any money." She ran a finger around his belly button, traced the line of hair up to his chest. "If it weren't for the residuals from my Captain Crunch commercial, we wouldn't have made the rent this month."

Why did she have to talk about this now? Why did they even have to talk about it at all? The rent was paid, that month was behind them. They'd deal with the next month when it happened.

"Something will come up," Marty said. "You'll get a series or a big movie, I'll sell one of my scripts. We'll make it."

She kissed him, hard and desperate, on the lips then leaned over him thoughtfully. "I love you, and I believe in you, but we have to be honest."

"Okay."

"You haven't finished any of your scripts," she said, almost guiltily.

"I know how to tell a good story," Marty sat up, turning his back to her. "I just have a little trouble writing them. I'll crack it."

She put her arms around him and pressed herself against his back. "I know, but until then, maybe you should think about doing something else."

"I'm a writer."

"But you can make $75 a script, reading for the studios," she said. "Maybe, for a while, you could write less and read more."

For months, he'd supplemented their income reading scripts and writing reports for executives too busy to read the stacks of submissions themselves. Reading that shit only made him more frustrated at his inability to finish a script of his own. He knew he could write better than these jerks. What scared him was that even if he managed to finish a script, some other frustrated writer, another "freelance reader," would be the one passing judgment on him. And he knew from personal experience just how petty and vindictive they could be.

"You're good at it," she said.

"At reading," he said. "I'm good at reading someone else's script. I can't write one, but I do a hell of a good job reading them. Wow. Now that's a remarkable talent."

"But you know how to make the scripts better, I've read your reports," she said. "You could turn a lousy script into a great movie."

"Someone else's script."

"It's a real talent, Marty. Not a lot of people can do that."

"That's all most people in this town do, tell other people how good or bad their scripts are because they can't write themselves."

"All I'm saying is that maybe you ought to try it full time for a while, until you crack whatever it is mentally that you have to crack."

"You don't think I can do it," Marty said, playing with his wedding ring. After nearly a year, he still wasn't used to it. "You don't think I can write."

"I think we need to make some money. I think maybe if we don't have to worry as much about making the rent, it will free you up to be more creative. You won't feel as much pressure."

That made some sense; he couldn't argue with that. He was very aware that she was the bread-winner, that she was supporting his long afternoons staring at an empty computer screen. It did choke him up creatively. The wind choked him up creatively. A book out of alphabetical order on the shelf choked him up creatively. It seemed everything did.

The truth was, there had been an offer. At one of the networks. An entry-level development position, reading scripts and books all day. He never told her about it because he knew she'd want him to take it.

"I love you, Marty. And I want you to be happy, to pursue whatever dreams you have." She turned his head toward her and gave him a kiss. "I'm just saying it's an option, that's all."

He nodded.

Beth kissed him again, got up and padded naked to the kitchen down the hall. God, he loved watching her walk naked, the casualness of it. How did he ever seduce her? How did he ever get her to fall in love with him?

The low rumble seemed to come hurtling towards them from a great distance yet arrived in an instant, unexpected and yet familiar. The whole house seemed to shiver, and then everything stopped, except for Beth's shrieks. She ran into the bedroom, dove onto the bed, and crawled up Marty, clutching him harder than she ever had before.

"What was that?" she cried, her whole body shaking.

"Just an earthquake."

"What do you mean, 'just an earthquake,'" she said. "Holy shit."

"It's nothing." Even the dog seemed undisturbed, yawning and stretching out across Marty's underwear and socks.

"Marty, the whole house shook, the ground was moving. It wasn't nothing."

"It's just an earthquake," he said, "3.4, tops."

"The ground moved, Marty. Shit. The ground moved." She started to cry, deep, terrified sobs, burying her face in his chest like a frightened child. For a moment, he was confused; he couldn't understand why a little shake had frightened her so much.

And then it dawned on him and he was ashamed of himself for not realizing it immediately. What kind of husband was he?

This was her first time. She'd never experienced an earthquake before.

How could he have been so dismissive? So unfeeling? He held her tightly, guiltily, kissing her, stroking her hair, over-doing it. "It's okay. It's going to be fine; it was just a small one. It's perfectly normal."

"The ground moved," she sniffled. "It's not supposed to."

"I know."

Beth was born and raised in Washington State, moving to California for UCLA, for Hollywood. She wasn't born here, growing up with the regular rumblings, under the ever-present threat of the inevitable, mythical, horrible Big One.

That was one concept he certainly wasn't going to share with her now.

"We can't live somewhere where the ground moves," she said. "We have to go, we have to get out of here. Someplace where the ground is . . . is . . . grounded."

"We can't afford to go any where right now," he said softly.

"As soon as we have the money, we'll go," she sniffled, lifted her head, and looked him in the eye. "You promise?"

"I'll get a reader job tomorrow." He kissed her and pulled her back down to him, knowing she'd forget about it in a day or so.

"The ground isn't supposed to move," she said again.

There had been more earthquakes since then, but like most people who lived for a while in LA, she got used to it. Even joked about it, in that blasé way Californians do, as he knew she would. But she wasn't fooling him. She never could completely hide the fear in her eyes. Marty wondered what her eyes looked like now and quickened his pace.

It had been a long time since he told Beth that he loved her. Oh sure, he'd said it, in that rote, "good-morning, how are you?" kind of way. But he didn't say it with feeling, not so she understood he needed her more than air. He knew he'd been withholding it and he didn't know why. And now, more than ever before, it was important to him that she knew that yes, he loved her.

Above him, an enormous flock of birds flew towards the sea, the world for them unshaken, safe. The air would never fail them, would never fall out from under their wings.

The ground isn't supposed to move. Everyone knew that. It was arrogance, and more than a little stupidity, to stay in a place where it did.

But what was Hollywood without arrogance and stupidity? You couldn't manufacture dreams if you weren't willing to live in one yourself.

Now that Buck was gone, that little voice was back; not that they were all that much different. At least this one didn't have a gun.

Beth didn't really want to leave LA any more than he did. Their careers were here. And the more time that passed between quakes, the more abstract the threat became.

It wasn't abstract any more.

Home. He had to get home. But at the rate he was going, it would take him a week. It was already half-past three, and he was only four miles west of downtown. The Cahuenga Pass was about five miles northwest. He had to make better time or he wouldn't get to the valley by dark—and he certainly didn't want to be here when the sun went down.

His shoulder throbbed, his shirt sticking to his gunshot wound, becoming part of the scab. Marty could feel blisters rising on his heels. His entire body was drenched with sweat, making him stink even more, which he didn't think was possible without decomposing. He could only imagine what the smell was like without the protection of a dust mask.

He walked briskly up Beverly Boulevard, which no one would ever confuse for the western end that ran through the center of Beverly Hills. While the other end was paved with upscale boutiques, fancy restaurants, and pricey antique stores, this stretch catered to an entirely different clientele. Emilio's Discount. Pepe Ranchero. Mercado Latino. Catalina Carniceria. Not merchants that usually came to Marty's mind when someone mentioned Beverly Boulevard.

Marty glanced down the residential avenues that branched off the boulevard. The streets were lined with classic Victorian, Craftsman, English Tudor, and Spanish colonial houses with broad front yards, that would fetch upwards of $2 million each if they were in Beverly Hills, Hancock Park, or Pasadena. But these streets were ceded long ago to the tide of immigrants from Mexico, South America, and Asia who didn't have the means to maintain the properties in their original style and grace.