I glance up at Huck. Well?
Digging, he says.
Digging what?
A very deep fucking hole.
It’s a grave, says Jeremy. The man had him digging my grave.
Where?
It’s a sweet little spot, says Huck. Around the east side of the house. Jeremy’s going to be tucked in between a fig tree and a chunk of limestone.
I glance at the house. What the hell is Miller doing in there?
Fuck him, says Jeremy. Let’s take a look at my final resting place.
The three of us drift around to the side of the house and Huck’s hole indeed resembles a shallow grave. Four or five feet deep and the approximate length of a body. I drop down into the hole and lie down. The sky is white framed in black. The tops of trees. Huck and Jeremy peering over the edge.
It’s cold, I say.
Get out of there, says Jeremy. You’re giving me the creeps.
The two of them pull me out and we sit at the graveside, smoking.
Why are you guys doing this? I say.
I want the dough, says Huck. But I’m done. That little rape scene today was the end for me.
What do you mean? says Jeremy.
Huck shrugs. I’m gonna run. When we get to the ballpark, I’m gone. It might help if one of you wants to keep the psycho occupied.
Jeremy, I say. You should run, too.
No, he says. I want to do this.
Why?
Jeremy sighs. I don’t want to go into the whole tear jerking poor little orphan routine, but my life has not exactly been rosy, you know. Miller hooked me up with that doorman job and I feel like I owe him. Before that I was selling meth to college students and freaks on the club scene. Before that I was sucking cocks for twenty bucks a throw in the Castro. And before that…did you know I was born in a halfway house. Did you know that? I was actually born in a fucking halfway house. My mom was sixteen, a junkie runaway. She was living in a shelter for teenage heroin addicts when she popped me out and she was gone before I could sit up. I’ve been in the system ever since. Foster homes, group homes, jail. I just want to be in the movies. I want to have a normal life.
There’s no such thing, says Huck. And nothing resembling it in California.
Jeremy scowls, stubborn. Well, anyway. I aim to find it.
You shouldn’t have done that scene, says Huck. That scene where you put Daphne’s head through the car window. All you did was aggravate him.
But I was good, says Jeremy. I was good wasn’t I?
Yeah, I say. You were good.
I had a funky dream last night, says Jeremy. I dreamed that I killed that monkey. I bashed his head in with a rock. I cut him open and there was a white bird where his guts were supposed to be and it just flew away, easy as you please. I felt its wings brush my face.
Blackbirds, I say. I always dream of blackbirds.
You guys are freaking me out, says Huck.
What do you think it means? says Jeremy.
I don’t know, I say. It seems to me the white bird is lucky.
The sky is changing colors and Huck says we should probably head back to the truck before Miller gets cranky.
That scene today, I say. In Molly’s room. He raped her?
Damn near, says Huck. Near enough.
And neither of you did anything?
Jude told us to back off, says Jeremy.
I wish to god she would just kill him, I say.
Jeremy exhales loudly. You don’t know shit, do you?
What do you mean?
He looks at me with eyes dead as coins. What god has joined, he says, let no man put asunder.
Yeah, I say. That’s right.
Miller is waiting by the truck. He holds an aluminum briefcase in one hand, a black flight bag in the other. He wears a black jacket and a black knit cap pulled tight on his skull. He doesn’t look like he’s going to a ballgame, but my head is full of noise and juice and I’ve got a monster headache on the periphery and so I don’t give his outfit too much thought. Miller tosses the keys at Huck and tells him to drive. Jeremy climbs into the front passenger seat. I get in the back with Miller, who lights a joint and passes me a silver thermos.
Have a martini, he says.
Thanks.
What were you doing in the woods with Heckle and Jeckle? he says.
Gathering flowers, I say.
Uh huh.
What time is the game? I say.
We aren’t going to the game.
I didn’t think so. Where are we going?
To get cigarettes, he says.
I have cigarettes, actually. I offer him my pack.
He shakes his head. I prefer a different brand.
The truck winds down out of the hills and Miller tells Huck to take a left. I am sitting with my back against the door, my feet up on the seat.
The thermos between my legs, unopened. I take the joint from Miller and allow myself one puff, to calm my nerves. I am watching him closely, every movement of his face. Every tick and flicker. The way his eyes go narrow and dark when he’s thinking. The way he licks his lips and the way his nostrils flare. I’m looking for a family resemblance and now I see it, now I don’t. The power of suggestion. I could ask him, I suppose. But I’m starting to hate him and I don’t want to see him smile at me.
After a beat, Miller instructs Huck to pull into the parking lot of a 7-11 that squats on the edge of a ravine. Huck obediently kills the engine and the four of us sit there, eyeballing each other.
Jesus, says Jeremy. Pass me that joint before I scream.
Miller gives it to him and he sucks at it with almost sexual intensity. I look out the window and watch as a guy and a girl get out of a red Toyota and go into the store. There are two other cars parked in front, but I can’t see more than three people inside. The sun has not yet gone down but the fluorescent lights have come up in the parking lot and the result is a bright haze that hovers over the 7-Eleven like a solar cloud. Miller opens the flight bag and removes four rubber masks. The shriveled faces of dead celebrities. John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe, and Alfred Hitchcock. Woody Allen, who is perhaps not actually dead. He gives the John Wayne mask to Huck and tells him to put it on. He gives me the Marilyn Monroe mask, then smiles and apparently changes his mind and gives Marilyn to Jeremy. He takes Hitchcock for himself and gives me the Woody mask. The rubber is cold. I hold it in my lap like a dead fish. In the front seat, Jeremy and Huck are doing startlingly accurate impersonations of John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe.
What are we doing?
We are shooting an action sequence, says Miller.
I shake my head. Tell me we’re not going to rob the store.
Ah, well. I need cigarettes, like I said.
This is unwise, I say.
Nonsense.
It’s a pointless risk.
You are just like my wife, he says. Always worrying.
Oh. Do you want to talk about your wife?
Miller pushes the mask up over his eyes so that it looks like a deflated Alfred Hitchcock is chewing at his hair. He grins at Jeremy. What have you been telling him? he says.
Nothing, says Jeremy. I don’t know anything.
Miller, I say. This is stupid.
Do you know why the boy is sick? he says.
Why.
It’s not the chocolate milk, he says.
I close my eyes and I can see Miller naked and grunting on top of Jude. It was an image I could live with this morning and now it’s all I can do to stay calm because I want to gouge out his eyes with my thumbs and eat them. I can taste them already, warm and salty as sheep testicles. I keep my voice low, my teeth together.
What are you doing to him? I say.
I need cigarettes, he says. Then perhaps we can discuss the boy.
Have you contacted Cody yet, about the ransom? I say.
No, he says. And I’m not going to.
What?
Miller grins.
Don’t smile at me, mother
fucker.
Hear me, says Miller. Jude can do whatever she wants with that kid, but she is kidding herself if she thinks I’m gonna hand her Senator Cody on a plate.
For thirty ticks that stretch and pop like dry wood in a fire, Miller and I are alone in a bubble, and I understand that he has the power. And he is abusing it. He is playing Jude like a kid’s guitar, something I would have thought impossible. I think it’s time for me to do something. I pull the mask over my head and I’m Woody Allen. Miller removes a small digital camera from the flight bag and gives it to Huck, who receives it reluctantly.
Oh and by the way, says Miller. Don’t try to run.
No, says Huck. Why would I do that?
I don’t know, says Miller. I really don’t. But I would be more comfortable if you let me hold onto the car keys.
Huck hands over the keys, which Miller deposits in the breast pocket of his jacket. He now opens the briefcase and takes out three identical handguns. He gives one to Jeremy and one to me, and keeps one for himself, selecting them seemingly at random. Huck does not get one, apparently. I examine my gun, which is a .40 caliber Sig Sauer Pro, matte black, a nice gun. I feel fairly certain mine and Jeremy’s are loaded with blanks, if at all. But I refrain from checking the magazine. Finally, he passes out latex gloves.
Now, he says. Let’s play.
The four of us cross the parking lot slowly under a pale electric haze, walking abreast as if we’re going to a gunfight. Miller is a step or two ahead of me and I point my gun at the back of his head.
Pow, I say.
Miller reaches the door and hesitates, his breath ragged through Hitchcock’s mouth. The plan is simple enough. Jeremy will hold a gun on the clerk. I will control the customers and watch the door. Miller will roam the store, amusing himself. And Huck will get it all on film. He throws the door open and I go in first, thinking that if I’m careful, I can stop him from killing anyone.
This is a hold-up, I say.
The music in the store is loud, Sonic Youth. No one hears me. No one pays me any mind and I reckon people in Woody Allen masks walk in here every day. Hitchcock comes in behind me and fires one shot into the ceiling. There is a spray of falling white plaster and now everyone is paying attention. Marilyn Monroe comes in and goes directly to the counter with his gun held chest high. The clerk is a ratty white kid, mid twenties. He has a long dirty blond ponytail dangling from a black baseball cap. He’s chewing gum, the muscles jumping in his face. He watches Marilyn closely. I count four customers. In the back is a white girl in motorcycle leathers with a stud through her nose and blue hair, maybe twenty. She was stirring cream into her coffee when we came in and now stands very still, staring at me. Near the counter is a crusty old white guy wearing a T-shirt that says Jesus Freak. He holds a quart of beer in one hand, a package of beef jerky in the other. And near the Slurpee machine are the guy and girl who got out of the Toyota. They are attractive in a blue jeans ad, immediately forgettable way, twin models with blond hair and perfect teeth. The girl has a sweet smile but the guy is an arrogant bastard, probably abusive, you can tell by the way he talks to her. It’s not fair but I decide that if anyone in this scene gets shot, it will be him.
It helps to have a ready sacrifice in mind.
This is a hold-up, I say. Everybody be cool.
John Wayne cruises around the store, camera in hand. I stand by the door, one eye watching the parking lot. Hitchcock is amusing himself, as he said he would. He is tearing up the store, knocking displays over and throwing bags of chips and cookies and Hostess goodies into the air. He comes up behind Marilyn and tosses the flight bag at the clerk.
The money from the register, he growls. All of it. And throw in the latest issue of Playboy and a few cartons of cigarettes.
What brand? the clerk says.
Whatever.
This irritates me. I tell the clerk to give us Camels.
He begins to stuff money into the bag and I shake my head in disgust. There will be two hundred dollars in that bag, at most. Hitchcock continues to destroy the store and the candy falls like hail. John Wayne is getting a close-up of the girl in leather. Marilyn is watching the clerk and I notice that his body is vibrating. He’s going to pull the trigger any minute.
And at that moment, Hitchcock yells, hey Marilyn.
Marilyn turns his head, confused. And as he looks away, the ratty clerk drops the flight bag and reaches under the counter. I scream at Jeremy to turn around as the clerk comes up with a shotgun and blows Marilyn backward into a rack of cold medicine. The shot rings and rings in my head and it takes me forever to cross the store. I slide on my knees through blood and candy and come to rest beside my fallen false brother. The hole in his chest is the size of a basketball. I could put my head in there. I pull the Marilyn mask from his face and he is obviously dead, eyes rolled back and a crooked little smile frozen on his mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Jesus Freak running across the parking lot with a quart of beer in one hand, beef jerky in the other and I don’t care. I’m happy for him. But it won’t do to let the customers flee just yet. The blond girl with perfect teeth is screaming and screaming and it seems that she will never stop. I stand up in time to see Hitchcock hit her in the face with the barrel of his gun and she goes down hard, crashing into the Slurpee machine, her jaw no doubt broken. I turn to face the ratty clerk, expecting another blast from the shotgun.
But he has put the gun down and resumed filling the flight bag with cigarettes.
What the fuck? I point my gun at him.
The clerk squints at me as if he doesn’t understand English.
You kill my brother and now you want to cooperate? I say.
He was your brother?
No, I say. He was just a fucked-up kid.
The clerk looks at Hitchcock, who comes over to the counter with an armload of ice cream and potato chips that he apparently wants to take with him.
We had an arrangement, the clerk says.
Indeed, says Hitchcock. And you have fulfilled your end marvelously.
The clerk flashes a mouthful of yellow teeth. Do you want a bag for those groceries?
What kind of arrangement?
The clerk shrugs. I’m bagging groceries, dude.
Hitchcock looks at Jeremy on the floor, then at the clerk.
What kind of arrangement? I say.
Two thousand dollars to kill Marilyn, says Hitchcock.
Jesus…
It was a hell of a bargain, says the clerk. Damn good.
He stands behind the counter, beaming at us. Yellow teeth like a neon sign. I glance around the store and see that no one has moved. The blond guy kneels on the floor, cradling his girlfriend’s ruined face in his lap. John Wayne stands over Jeremy. He has stopped filming. The motorcycle girl is leaning against the far wall, holding her coffee.
Do you like her, Poe?
What?
Hitchcock points his gun at the motorcycle girl and she drops down behind a glass case of hot dogs. Hitchcock shrugs. He swings around and shoots the ratty clerk in the forehead.
Wow, he says. That felt good.
His voice is on fire and through the mask his eyes glow like he’s about to embark on a full-scale killing spree. This is out of control. I figure we have been in the store almost five minutes. Two people are dead and the cops will be here soon. I don’t know what good it will do but I raise my gun and point it at Hitchcock’s head. I shout his name and he turns, grinning. He raises his own gun and does a little dance, like a jig. We are perhaps five feet apart, Alfred Hitchcock and Woody Allen.
Wayne, says Hitchcock. Look alive, pilgrim. This is great stuff.
Fuck you.
Miller, I say. Put the gun down.
Unlikely, he says.
Are you going to shoot me?
Pull the trigger, he says. Pull it, baby.
I shrug and pull the trigger and I see his face twist in surprise. The gun jerks in his right hand but I have already hit the floor and ro
lled sideways. Everything slows down and I expect to see the cotton wadding from my gun bounce harmlessly off his mask. But there is no cotton wadding and Hitchcock goes down on one knee, groping at his mask and yanking it off. Blood spurts from his left eye and he howls like a monkey. I look at my gun in surprise.
What did you load this with?
He groans. Wax bullets, non-lethal.
But very painful if you take one in the eye, I say.
Miller groans. The blood seeping between his fingers. Giving me wax bullets was a mistake I would not have made. I scoop up Miller’s fallen weapon and turn to face the customers.
Everyone get out, I say. Run.
The blond guy drags his now less than perfect girlfriend out first. The motorcycle girl drifts over to the door, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and smiling at me as she passes the counter. Huck yanks off his mask and takes a long look at me, then nods and backs out the door. Once outside, he throws the digital camera high into the air and when it comes down, it splinters into a thousand shiny pieces. I grab a handful of Miller’s hair and jerk his head up so he can see me.
You got your fucking snuff film, I say. Two dead.
Minor characters, he says. Insignificant.
I bring the butt of his gun down on the top of his head and he collapses in a heap. I toss the Woody mask and tell myself I have one minute to find the store surveillance tape. I hop over the counter and unfortunately step on the ratty clerk’s face with my boot. There is a nasty squishing sound. I mutter an apology and look around, frantic. There is nothing resembling a VCR back here. For some reason, I grab the fallen flight bag and Miller’s absurd bag of groceries and toss them in his direction. I head for the back, the door marked Employees Only. The door is locked and I fire two shots, then kick it open. I tell myself to be careful. I am breathing like a maniac and now there are sirens in the distance. The tiny office smells like the bright orange nacho cheese sauce dispensed from those nasty machines. And messy as hell. Desk and chair and file cabinet, time clock and safe and VCR hooked up to the surveillance cameras. I grab the tape and rip it apart as I run back to the front of the store.
Miller is gone.
Fuck, I say.