Three: Crime SuspenStory

OUR STORY SO FAR: Jimmy Vaughn has flown in to San Francisco to find out who in Leo McCarthy’s crew ripped off the Golden Duck. Oscar Rayne, enforcer and bagman for Leo, is serving as Vaughn’s driver and guide. Meanwhile, Detectives Claudia Dela Cruz and Dan March have a young stripper named Judy Collins working as their snitch in the McCarthy crew’s club, The Paradise Lounge. What the two detectives don’t know is that the girl is stringing them along due to her relationship with Leo McCarthy and the fact that she is carrying his baby. For more see parts 1-2.

Based on true events,
Collin “Murph” Murphy stood with Pat in front of Paradise Isle and smoked, lighting his own cigarette before reaching over and giving Pat the flame. They were both hung over, Murph more so with the usual red of his cheeks drained and his chubby face turned a pale yellow.
“This guy called you?” he asked again.
“No. Leo called. At eight in the fucking morning.”
Pat blew out the smoke and spat on the sidewalk.
“And said what again?”
“That the guy wanted everybody down at the club by noon.”
“It’s noon now.”
“I know.”
“Who is this guy?”
“Leo wanted to go outside for this thing, I told you.”
Murph belched, the night’s indiscriminate alcohols, whisky, tequila, various beers, Yager, all mixed and lingering there on the sidewalk. He gagged a moment, forcing a drag of smoke down his throat.
“I just don’t like being told what to do by some guy I don’t know,” he said.
Pat grimaced.
“I told you. Leo is the one who called and told me to round everybody up. Not this guy,” he said.
“But the guy told Leo right? He wanted us down here so he had Leo tell you to come down here.”
“Nobody tells Leo anything,” Pat muttered.
He threw the butt down on the sidewalk. They began to move towards the door to get out of the cold when Murph caught sight of Oscar walking towards them with another man. Pat followed his gaze, watching the man from the day before approuch them, the dark glasses in place.
“You don’t have a hit or a bump or anything?” Pat asked Murph.
“You kidding? I would have done it by now.”
Murph went inside, Pat waited in front of the door for Oscar and Vaughn to reach him.
“Everybody here?” Vaughn asked.
“Everybody I could get a hold of,” Pat replied.
“How many?”
“Most of them.”
“Is the Croat here?”
“He’s one of the guys I couldn’t get a hold of. He went home sick yesterday.”
Vaughn looked over at Oscar and Pat wondered what it meant.
“You got a back room?” Vaughn said.
“It’s an office but there’s plenty of room.”
“Have everybody get back there and we’ll talk.”
Pat began to head in but Vaughn stopped him, beckoning for him to come closer.
“You swept it?” he asked, the dark glasses less than a foot from Pat’s face.
“For bugs and shit?”
“What do you think I mean?”
“I had Cabbage and Dick sweep it yesterday morning before you came by.”
Vaughn nodded and Pat continued into the club. The stale room lights were on, revealing the old thread bare carpet for everything it had become over the years; skuff marks and stains and a dull orange color. All the men were gathered near the bar talking, Dick leading them in discussion of a bar fight he had recently been a part of. Cabbagepatch sat next to Dick in a stool, his wide frame threatening the wooden legs with implosion.
The Flores brothers, Bobby and Fran, were sitting next to each other listening to Dick. They looked like twins, the same hair cut and similar clothes, the same stupid expressions, but Bobby was a few weathered years older and sported a mustache. Vlad, the youngest there that day, sat by himself at one of the tables, punching buttons on his phone, while Murph had made his way behind the bar to help himself to a beer.
“Let’s bring it to the back,” Pat announced.
“I’m in the middle of a fucking story eh!” Dick said, his face reddening.
“Let’s do this so we can get on with our day,” Pat replied flat.
The rest of the men followed him through the door and took positions around the room, Dick bringing up the rear with a red grimace. He flopped down on the couch with his eye on Pat.
Vaughn made his entrance with Oscar coming in behind him. All the eyes followed Vaughn as he walked through the room steady, calculated. He took his position in front of the TV and removed his glasses, the blue eyes scanning over the seven men in front of him.
“I’m not here to make judgments about how you run your thing here,” he said “I’m not here to say it’s the sloppiest shit organization I’ve ever seen and that it would be the laughing stock of the whole country if anybody gave a fuck. I’m just here to find a rat.”
The men glanced around, measuring the reaction. Dick turned an even brighter red.
“Now I respect Leo. Leo has set something up in a city that’s been in a strangle hold from the Triads and the Mexicans and everybody else for a long time. Some how he keeps it going using you bunch, which must mean you’re worth a shit. I respect Leo. Leo and I go back. When I tell you something I don’t want any bullshit. It won’t happen a lot but on the rare occasion I tell you something you do it.”
Vaughn’s eyes made their away around the room as he spoke, taking each man in and exposing them to his will. When he came to the end of his speech his eyes fell on Dick. He let them linger there, cold and blue, until the Irishman gave in with sniff, letting his gaze fall to the floor.
“Who knows where the Croat is?” Vaughn asked.
Pat was as surprised as anybody, not quite getting what the question meant.
“What do you mean,” he asked.
Vaughn looked at him coldly before spreading his gaze back around the room.
“I know a lot of you consider this guy a friend and as a friend it would be best that you get me and him together as soon as possible. You understand?”
“He’s supposed to be sick,” Fran Flores said.
Vaughn looked down at the El Salvadorian, a dismissive look, barely acknowledging his existence.
“You go by his house?” Vlad asked.
Pat put his hand to his forehead, trying to soften the pounding, and said: “Maybe he’s at his mother’s?”
Vaughn looked down at him from the desk.
“Where’s that?” he asked.
Pat opened his eyes, regretting that he had spoken. He glanced at the other guys, wondering what they were thinking.
“She lives in that little shitty town. The one by the coast. Pacifica,” he said.
“Do you know where?”
“Not really.”
“Do you?” Vaughn asked turning his gaze up towards Oscar in the back of the room. Pat turned his head as well and found Oscar staring back at him with disgust.
“Yeah,” Oscar said, still looking at Pat
“Good, you’re going to go over there.” Vaughn said. “The rest of you: if the Croat contacts you or you get word of where he is you let me know with the number Charlie gave you. If you talk to the Croat you don’t mention me, just get his location and let me know.”
The men began to murmur and get up from their seats. Pat was determined to get behind the bar so he could start working on his hangover. He began to walk towards the door before Vaughn got in his way.
“You and me are going over to the place,” Vaughn said.
“What place?”
“Golden Duck.”
“Right now?”
Pat waited for an answer but Vaughn had moved off and left the room. Oscar stepped up, taking Vaughn’s place in front of Pat.
“Why’d you mention Bill’s mother?”
Oscar’s tone was thick with irritation.
“What do you mean why did I mention it?” Pat said. “I’m just trying to get this over with. Get everything back to normal. The guy just wants to talk to him.”
Oscar shook his head.
“You think Bill had shit to do with this? You really think-“
He stopped short when Vaughn came back into the room. Vaughn reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver P32, handing it over to Oscar.
“If the guy turns up, get him back to the paint store by whatever means you gotta use,” he said.
Oscar put the gun into the inside pocket of his jacket and left through the door without saying a word. Vaughn watched him go and then looked back at Pat.
“Let’s get going. We got a lot of movies to watch,” he said.

Schonberg’s office was cramped and tossed and pretty much just a straight up mess. There were files piled up all over the desk and the waist basket was full. The pen holder was jammed with pens and Claudia noticed many of them were chewed at the end from where she sat with Dan in front of the desk.
The door burst open and Schonberg himself walked in, late as usual, scrolling through his Black Berry and adjusting his tie. There were multiple stains on the tie, one barbecue and a few mustard spots as far as Claudia could tell. Schonberg nodded at them both in silent apology, sitting down in his chair. He put the Black Berry on the desk next to the files, entwining his fingers in front of him with his elbows on the desk like he was about to pray before he spoke.
“It looks like a done deal,” he said “They’re going to do raids on Catnip and Hotties, all in one night.”
Both Claudia and Dan were caught by surprise, for a moment only able to look dumbly across the desk at the Lieutenant. Dan found his voice first.
“They can’t do that! We’re building a case here,” he said.
Schonberg nodded and pressed on.
“I know that. You both have been working hard. But they got the election in the news cycle now. Ferris is going in to succeed McDougal and she doesn’t have shit to run on. She needs something solid that shows results. Your work has established that both of these clubs are places of prostitution and she needs something current. Something for the cameras that shows people the police force is being effective I guess.”
Claudia glared down at some old French fries rubbed into the carpet, unable to look at Schonberg’s face without losing her temper.
“She needs something that looks effective?” she muttered. “Jesus Christ, your talking about going in, popping a couple girls and fining the place. We’ve been building something in the last few months that could very well break up Leo McCarthy’s whole operation. A raid won’t do it. He’ll get word, duck down a little bit, and that’ll be that, back to business a week later.”
Schonberg watched her speak then looked over at Dan for a confirmation. It made Claudia’s blood boil
“It’s true,” Dan said. “We’ve got these guys scoped out for meth, stolen goods, extortion. A lot on top of the prostitution. This stuff is being operated from places outside the clubs-“
“Like the paint store?” Schonberg interrupted.
“Well…” Dan sputtered out.
“I’ve been reading your reports and I haven’t seen that paint store mentioned once. Isn’t that what got this whole thing started in the first place?”
“We think that’s because we involved another department in the surveillance,” Claudia said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means every time information of any kind is spread around in the department on this crew there’s a change in pattern and behavior on their end.”
Schonberg finally broke his hands from prayer, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“Detective, I think it is imperative that we hold back from jumping to conclusions, especially when it comes to the character of this department.”
“It’s not a matter of character Lieutenant,” Claudia said. “It’s a matter of getting results.”
“Well, that I can agree with. Where are we with the murders? I haven’t heard that mentioned once. How about the Martinez case? Anything on that?”
“We don’t have anything confirmed as of right now,” Dan answered. “But McCarthy is into it all. There is no doubt this crew threw Martinez and probably a couple other people in the Bay.”
“That’s why I tell my family when they visit: don’t eat the crab,” Schonberg cracked. His face creased into a smile that was half forced, half self deprecating, all ugly.
Dan nodded but didn’t smile, Claudia kept her scowl intact, not giving Schonberg an inch. Schonberg’s face decreased and he sighed, ready to give ground.
“Listen, these raids are going to happen regardless. There’s nothing me or anyone can do. Things are about to go in motion in the next few days.”
He watched them, trying to gauge if he was getting through. He sighed again when neither budged.
“Do you still have the girl inside?” he asked.
“Yes,” Claudia said sharply.
“Just her?”
“As of now, yes.”
Schonberg glanced around the office, looking at the mess, weighing the future in his mind.
“If you had one more inside I might be able to get them to hold off,” he said.
“For how long?” Claudia demanded.
“I’m not sure. But having another person inside would be a clear sign of the case moving forwards. They would probably want to wait on the raids until they could see results.”
“How long do we have?”
Claudia projected a fierce calm toward Schonberg, he tried to break it’s intensity by glancing down at the stains on his tie.
“Ferris wants to meet with me since the supervisor suggested the raids. That’s in two days. That’s all you got. I have to present any new developments at that meeting.”
“We’ll get somebody,” Claudia said.
Dan looked over at her, unconvinced.

Pat had tried to be patient but after thirty minutes he couldn’t take it anymore and he threw a finger up towards Tek.
“Hey! Whisky here.”
Tek nodded as he poured shots for three baby faced frat boys that had obviously stopped by Golden Duck on their way to another destination. Vaughn glanced over at Pat but stayed silent, the slight swivel of his head the only movement he had made since they had sat down at the bar.
Tek finished with the frat boys and brought over a glass with some ice and the bottle of whisky. He poured with the tight drawn face he always had.
“How much longer we gotta wait man? Charlie know we’re up here?” Pat asked him.
“He know. He be up soon,” Tek replied.
“He better,” Vaughn muttered but Tek acted like he didn’t hear and went to check on the dice game the two old Filipinos had going on the other side of the bar.
Besides the frat boys and the Filipinos the only other people inside the bar were two drunks sitting side by side a few stools down from Vaughn and Pat, swaying in the invisible breeze of drunkenness and staring out across the bar with drooping eyes like two aged hound dogs. The place was a tiny dive, just a bar and some stools, with two paintings on the wall: one of a topless female tennis player and the other of a bear swinging a San Francisco Giant’s flag in the woods. The place was unremarkable in every way.
“I don’t drink when I work,” Vaughn said with a flat voice.
Pat slurped his drink and placed the glass on the bar before he answered.
“Leo’s my uncle you know?” he said and looked over at Vaughn with a challenge.
Vaughn nodded.
“Yeah, I heard that. Makes me feel bad for the guy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vaughn looked amused and seemed to be making his way towards another comment when Yellow Charlie finally popped out of the passage door. Pat and Vaughn got up from their stools and Charlie waited until they got to him before leading the way down the hall to the stairs. The three men came down to the passage way and Vaughn passed Pat to walk next to Charlie.
“I saw two cameras in the bar and one outside. Is the whole place wired up?” he asked.
“All wired up,” Charlie replied “Everywhere. Camera in every room.”
“And you got feeds for all of them?”
“All go in computer. They got different fees.”
“Feeds?”
Charlie nodded and Vaughn pointed towards an elevator entrance at the end of the passageway.
“That goes to the rooms upstairs?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“This all got built over a hundred years ago,” Pat said “It used to be a dance hall upstairs and this was opium dens.”
“And you got cameras in all the rooms?” Vaughn asked Charlie.
“Not all. Just rooms we have games.”
“What about the exits?”
“Yes.”
“Not the garage,” Pat threw in.
“That true,” Charlie said “No camera at garage. We put one in tomorrow.”
He stopped and unlocked one of the doors in the passageway, leading them all into a badly lit office. Pat had only been in the room once before a few years back. He marveled at the fact that nothing had changed. The old beat up table still sat in the middle surrounded by a set of equally beat up chairs and a desk, pushed to the side with three different computer monitors lined up on top of it. The rest of the room was packed with various goods still in their boxes: TV’s, microwaves, crock pots, video game systems.
Charlie sat down at the desk and began to maneuver a mouse in front of the computer. Vaughn dragged a chair over from the table, sitting next to him.
“What are you doing?” Vaughn asked.
“Pulling up the file from the day,” Charlie said.
“November 20th?”
Charlie nodded his head firmly, not looking away from the monitor as different files began to appear on the desktop.
“Didn’t Charlie already go through all this shit? I thought he watched the tapes,” Pat said from where he was leaned up against the wall.
“Did you? What did you find?” Vaughn asked Charlie.
“Not me. Charlie, White Charlie. I’m Yellow Charlie.”
“I want to see for myself regardless,” Vaughn pulled out a small notebook from his coat and turned towards Pat. “Tell me everybody that was working that night.”
Pat looked up at the ceiling and thought back. The whisky had helped a little but the hang-over was still very present in his skull.
“Patch was working the small games. They go on in the two rooms connected upstairs,” he said with effort.
“Who’s Patch?” Vaughn asked. He scribbled on the pad.
“Cabbagepatch. The big black guy.”
“Who else?”
“Javey was working the high stakes game with Bill. Dick was there. He was keeping an eye on everything. I think he was bringing the girls in too.”
“Dick. That’s the Mick with the red face?”
“Yeah. I was hosting. Just bringing drinks over and joking around with the players. Keeping it light.”
“So you weren’t doing much of anything.”
Pat glanced dead eyed over at Vaughn. He desperately wanted to make some sort of retort, something that would show the asshole that he wasn’t just one of the other lugs to be pushed around and treated like a dog. Nothing was coming. He decided it was best to let go, let the night get over with so he could get back to the bar.
“Fran was watching the front and his brother Bobby was driving some people in. They don’t work upstairs usually. I guess that’s it. Oscar was moving the cash up and down-“
“Oscar?” Vaughn interrupted. He looked up from the pad.
“Yeah. Oscar.”
“Is that the guy driving me around?”
“Yeah.”
“And he was moving the cash down? From where to where?”
“He would just bring cash down to the safe here and if one of the players wanted to get credit from the house he would bring some cash up to the game.”
Vaughn sat silent, the pad sitting in his lap. Charlie clicked around with the mouse until twelve separate squares of video came up on two of the monitors and he finally muttered: “Vember twenty right here.”

He had just come down the hill on Highway One when it dawned on Oscar that he hadn’t eaten in over a day. He pulled over at the first place he saw in Pacifica, a little café three blocks from the beach, and ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He ate the sandwich mechanically, just to keep his stomach at bay, and then he ordered a second and a third cup of coffee. He knew very well that the drinking of the coffee was simply a way to put off going to Bill’s Mother’s house. He paid his bill and left.
Mrs. Rodasavitch lived right off the highway, in a compact yellow house. As he turned onto the road Oscar thought back to when he, Pat, and Bill had stopped off there after getting back from LA. Mrs. Rodasavitch had served them eggs and sausages and had let Pat and Bill smoke in the house. She had seemed like a sweet woman. He had liked meeting her, becoming slightly jealous Bill had a mother that he knew and could visit and be loved by.
Over the course of that evening the jealousy morphed into resentment. Here was a guy who had a sweet old mother, a place to call home, and yet he lived the life that he did. They had driven down to LA together to get out of the Bay for a few days and have a vacation but they had also gone on business, bringing a girl with them that they dropped off to an Armenian in Hollywood who had then handed them a suitcase to bring back to Leo. Oscar had sat in Mrs. Rodasavtich’s house thinking about if Bill was arrested or hurt and what that would have done to the sweet old woman that was cooking for them and laughing with them and doting over them. He had looked across the table at Bill and felt a smoldering irritation.
All Bill had going for him was that he was tall. He towered over people and had big over sized Yugoslavian features. Oscar had fought him twice when they were drunk and won both times, the last time being a few days after they had got back from LA. He blackened both of Bill’s eyes and the Croat had worn sunglasses around for almost a week. Oscar had felt bad about it the next day both times because he knew Bill was soft. The Croat didn’t have what a lot of the guys around them had, or maybe it was that Bill had something that most of them didn’t, Oscar wasn’t sure which it was.
He parked a few houses down from Mrs. Rodasavitch’s, placing the gun under the seat. He approached from the opposite side of the street and spotted a car covered in a tarp in front of the yellow house. He could tell just from the shape that it was Bill’s car but he went across and looked under the tarp to make sure. The sun was starting to go down when he unlatched the little wooden fence, making his way up the cement walk way.
“Oscar isn’t it? It’s been so long.” Mrs. Rodasavitch said when she opened the door.
“Sorry to bother you Mrs. Rodasavitch. Is Bill around?”
“No. Not now. He was.”
“I saw his car out front.”
“He asked if he could leave it here and take mine. I don’t mind. I won’t need to go to the store for a few days and even when I do I can walk it you know. It’s good to walk.”
“Is he going to be back?”
She looked up at him, the crease of her smile sagging a bit.
“Why don’t you come in? Don’t stand out there on the porch. Come on in.”
Oscar nodded and pulled open the screen. She led him down the hall to the kitchen, sitting him down at the table in the breakfast nook.
“You want some coffee dear?” she asked, and Oscar shook his head.
“When did Bill come by?” he asked.
Mrs. Rodasavitch watched him from where she stood in the kitchen, then she sat down at the table opposite.
“Is everything alright dear?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“You and Bill aren’t in any trouble are you?”
“No ma'am. Everything’s fine. What makes you say that?”
She watched him from across the table, the smile all drained out.
“I don’t know. He just seemed a little, you know, a little tense or jumpy last night.”
“That’s when he came by?”
“I don’t like seeing him like that. It’s not how Billy usually is when he comes to see me. He is such a character and he makes me laugh.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“He didn’t tell me.I wish he had because at some point I’m going to need my car back. I don’t want to drive his car. Can you imagine me driving his car? Down to the market?”
“It’s a nice car. People will think you’re a movie star or something,” Oscar said.
“I don’t know about that. People would talk though. They love to talk. Have you tried calling him?”
“His phone seems to be off.”
Mrs. Rodasavitch swallowed, looking down at the table wide eyed.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Oscar said. “He probably just wants some time to himself. I get like that.”
“Maybe he went off with that girl somewhere,” Mrs. Rodasavitch said.
“What girl?”
“She’s black. He brought her over a week or so ago.”
“A black girl?”
Oscar was shifting through his mind trying to remember ever seeing Bill with a black girl. He came up with nothing.
“I was rude. I mean I was surprised. I don’t know a lot of colored people and Billy didn’t give me any warning. In walks this girl. I could have been a lot nicer. I was used to his girlfriend. What was her name?”
“Susan I think.”
“Suzie, right. And in walks this girl. I was a little, sort of, stand offish, you know? And afterwards I felt bad because I could tell Bill likes her and here I was being, I don’t know, I’m a little ashamed about how I acted.”
Oscar tried to think where Bill could have met the girl. It must have been one of the clubs. And then he brought her here to his mother? Whatever it was it seemed serious, yet Bill had said nothing as far as she was concerned which made Oscar think it must have been a dancer.
“I better get going,” he said.
“And you’re sure you don’t want coffee?”
“No, I’m fine. If Bill calls you or shows up, please have him call me right away.”
He stood up and she stood up with him.
“You promise there’s nothing going on Oscar?” she said softly.
“It’s fine. Nothing to worry about. It’s just a business opportunity I want him to get in with me on and it’s important we do it soon.”
Oscar felt the words forcing themselves out of his mouth. He could tell from the look on her face that Mrs. Rodasavitch was trying to convince herself that what he said was true.
“Okay,” she said.
Oscar went out the front door and unlatched the gate. He walked by the Croat’s car and looked back to find Mrs. Rodasavitch standing on the porch watching him go. He nodded, waving good bye in the dim light. He saw her hesitate before she waved back and went inside.

To be continued................

Two: Crime SuspenStory

Based on true events.
The dark green Cadillac crawled up the hill and parked across the street from Javier Mejia’s house. Oscar hadn’t been sure if he would remember where to go, he had only been there once or twice to pick Javier up. Then they had driven passed the In & Out next to Beckett's Funeral Homes off of the freeway, which brought it back, and he had driven on like he had known the route the whole time.
He turned the car off and they both got out, Oscar leading the way towards the single story house with it’s lights on, Vaughn a few paces behind. The sun had been down for over twenty minutes. Beyond the columns of houses that were built around them the lights twinkled from South City all the way out to the blackness of the Bay.
“I’m your cousin,” Vaughn said.
Oscar turned around and Vaughn removed the dark glasses, revealing the blue eyes that hid behind. He looked normal, finally fully human, but it didn’t put Oscar at ease.
“I’m your cousin,” Vaughn explained “Visiting from out of town. We’re looking to get a drink.”
“Me and Javey aren’t close friends” Oscar said.
“Does he live alone?”.
“He’s got a wife.”
“Make sure the wife isn’t here.”
The unease Oscar felt finally formed into a full on tension in his limbs, he felt stiff as he made his way up to the front door and rang the bell. They both waited, silent, their breath coming out into the cold air in thin clouds. The locks on the door finally popped and turned, the door swung open, revealing Javier’s face staring out. The eyes widened, the mouth with the dark black goatee surrounding it frowned.
“Oscar?” he said.
Javier looked beyond the light at Vaughn, trying to make him out.
“What’s up Javey?”
Javier looked at Oscar closely, waiting for more. The door was only open wide enough to see half of his face.
“This is my cousin,” Oscar said, motioning over his shoulder at Vaughn. “We were just driving around and I thought we’d stop by to see if you want a drink.”
“Yeah?”
“He just flew in. We were down at Joe’s of Westlake eating and then I thought ‘Javey lives right up there, let’s see what he’s up to’.”
Javier nodded grimly before swallowing and stepping back, letting the door swing open.
“That’s cool. It’s been a minute.”
There was football coming out of the living room and the smell of onions was fresh from the kitchen. They walked across the hardwood floor, all three of them. Oscar looked around at the big screen TV and the furniture and wondered what it was Javier actually did except open doors and freshen drinks for shit heals.
“Is Anne home?” he asked.
“Annie,” Javier corrected, he looked back at Vaughn again.
“Sorry. Annie. That’s right.”
“You guys were at Joe’s huh?”
Javier’s voice was tight, forced.
“He was hungry so we headed over there. I was a bus boy over there when I was a kid,” Oscar said.
“Oh yeah?”
“When I was a kid.”
“Is Annie home Javey?” Vaughn asked.
Javier stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and looked back at the stranger.
“What was your name again?” .
“I’m his cousin,” Vaughn replied.
“Yeah, what’s your name?”
Vaughn smiled, the moment stretching on for no reason at all until he said: “Jimmy.”
“Right,” Javier said, like he had already known it.
Vaughn nodded and Javier stood there a moment, a hundred variations on a decision going through his head before leading them into the kitchen. Oscar and Vaughn sat down at the dinner table as Javier opened up the doors to a cabinet and eyed the shelves.
“I got tequila you know. And some whisky,” he said.
Oscar looked over at Vaughn who was looking at Javier, silent.
“Whisky’s good,” Oscar said.
Javier pulled the bottle down and poured into three glasses. Oscar watched the hand that held the bottle, shaking slightly. Javier noticed it as well and tried to distract from it by talking.
“It’s been a minute Oscar. I don’t see you around that much no more,” he said.
“I’m here and there.”
“You doing good though huh?”
Javier placed two glasses on the table, too unsure of himself to hand them directly to his guests.
“Can’t complain,” Oscar said, sipping his drink “You still working most of the games at the Duck?”
Javier held his drink in his hand and looked over at Vaughn who still sat silently, his drink untouched. Oscar followed his gaze and shook his head.
“Don’t worry about my cousin. He’s good people.”
Javier smiled. He nodded over at Vaughn.
“Nothing personal Jimmy. I don’t like talking about work when I don’t know somebody.”
Vaughn let out a sigh, resetting his eyes on Javier.
“Were you working on November twentieth?” he asked.
Javier swallowed his drink, no change in his look.
“What are you talking about?”
“Were you working on November twentieth?”
Javier put his glass down on the counter. He looked at Oscar and then back at Vaughn.
“What the did you say?”
“Real simple. Were you working the big game room at Golden Duck on the night of November twentieth?”
Javier stepped back, then looked over at Oscar.
“Who the fuck is this guy huh? What the fuck is he talking about?”
Oscar kept his eyes steady on Javier.
“Just answer the question. It’s no big deal,” he said.
“Who the fuck are you?!” Javier said, rising up on his toes.
The revolver came out of Vaughn’s suit coat slowly, coolly. It was a good sized gun, dull metal, and he placed it slowly on the table in the center of the three of them.
“It doesn’t matter who I am Javey. What matters is whether you were working on November twentieth.”
Javier put his glass down on the kitchen counter.
“I was working. Upstairs at the high stakes game.”
“How late were you there?” Vaughn asked.
“Till around eight.”
“In the morning?”
“Yeah.”
“How many players were in the game?”
“Four.”
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know. Russians. I think they were with Yuri in the Sunset.”
“Did they throw around a lot of money?”
“Mostly they drank and spoke Russian, which pissed me off.”
Vaughn looked amused.
“Why?” he asked.
“All the drinking and bullshitting slowed the play down.”
“Who was working the game with you?”
“Bill and Tek. Tek works down at the bar but they had him up stairs for the night.”
“Who's Bill?”
“Bill Rodasavitch. The Croat.”
“He's with Leo?”
Javier looked at the table, eyeing the gun.
“We're all with Leo,” he said.
Vaughn didn’t reply. He sat silent, watching Javier with the trace of a grin around the corners of his mouth. Javier looked back at him and the color in his face increased. He scowled, turning away towards the sink.
“This is fucking bullshit. Let’s just get straight to why you’re here,” he said.
“Why am I here?” Vaughn asked.
“Because of the money.”
“What money?”
Vaughn shifted in his seat, lazily picking the gun up from the table. Javier watched him, fear mixing with the scowl on his face.
“What money?” Vaughn repeated and looked up at him
“The money! The money that got taken that night. Jesus Christ! Let's just get to it!”
“Which is?”
“Did I take it.”
Vaughn watched him, the grin dissolving.
“Of course I didn't fucking take it,” Javier said, pacing in front of the sink. “This is bullshit!”
Vaughn stood up abruptly, the barrel of the gun pointed up at the ceiling. He took a step towards Javier and the other man eyed him warily. Oscar stood up too without thinking.
“Stay there!” Vaughn barked at him and threw his gaze back to Javier.
Both men stood looking at each other. Oscar eased back into his seat watching them, waiting. Javier tried to look right into Vaughn’s face, leaning his head back. Vaughn took a step forward, then another. Javier’s eyes shifted towards the gun, watching it come closer, before Vaughn stepped in and smashed his other fist against Javier’s face.
The blow caught Javier by surprise, his attention still on the gun. Before he could react Vaughn had grabbed Javier’s left arm and twisted the man’s body around so Vaughn was behind him with the gun shoved up against Javier’s skull. Javier struggled and the two men slid awkwardly along side the counter top.
Javier’s right arm was free and Oscar watched it desperately flail along the counter top. There was a set of kitchen knives sitting on the counter, sheathed in a wooden holder. Oscar saw Javier trying to locate them but it was too far of a reach. Vaughn noticed as well and surprised Oscar by kicking Javier’s leg so the man fell against the counter, the flailing arm coming in contact with one of the knife handles.
Javier gripped the handle, ripping the knife free. Vaughn twisted the left arm and Javier screamed in pain as he began stabbing out behind him, underhanded, trying to catch a piece of his tormentor. Vaughn moved out of the way, watching the knife stab wildly, and Oscar saw a grin reappear on Vaughn’s face.
The knife stabbed left and right but Javier had no room to maneuver, the stabs all frustration. Vaughn let it go on for a few seconds, then brought the gun back with his left hand and cracked it against the back of Javier’s skull. The knife dropped to the floor. Vaughn let go of Javier, watching him fall to the floor as well in a sweating heap.
Vaughn dragged one of the chairs over and sat down. He placed the gun in his lap.
“You alright?” he asked.
Javier got to his knees, a hand held against the back of his head. He eased his back against the cabinet under the sink and took his hand away to look at the palm. Oscar could see blood from where he sat at the table.
“Ouch,” Vaughn said. He grabbed a dishrag from where it sat on the table and dropped it in front of Javier.
“You think you need stitches?” he asked.
Javier picked the dishrag up and put it to the back of his head.
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
“I doubt it. I didn’t hit you all that hard. But I am sorry I hit you. You believe me?”
Javier gazed up at him, his eyed blood shot.
“I don’t fucking know,” he said.
“Well I am. I know you didn’t rob Leo.”
Javier continued to hold the rag to his head with no reaction. Vaughn continued.
“If you had robbed Leo you would have stood there and took a beating, you would have accepted it. But you were pissed, you fought back. I think that’s a good sign.”
“I didn’t do it,” Javier mumbled.
“I know,” Vaughn handed his drink down to Javier. “Now tell me about Bill.”
Javier sipped the drink, the red eyes shooting back up at Vaughn.
“He’s a good guy. Bill didn’t do nothing.”
Vaughn let out another sigh and glanced over at Oscar.
“Listen, Javey, I can pistol whip you all night until Annie gets home and then tie her up, but what’s the point of that? I know you didn’t rob Leo but somebody did. So tell me about the Croat and quit wasting my fucking time.”

The janitor had come in to empty the waste baskets in the Vice office. He made his way methodically around the room then paused when he noticed Claudia sitting at one of the desks. He nodded kindly. She nodded back and tried to smile. He turned away and made his way back to the hallway, pushing the plastic recycling container in front of him.
Judy had been in the conference room for over an hour, looking at mug shots and surveillance pictures. The man that had appeared that day at Paradise Isle hadn’t shown up in any of them. Claudia and Dan told her to take her time and she nodded numbly, continuing to flip through the books until she was yawning and running on automatic. Dan was still in there, forcing her to look again, and Claudia had started to hear the annoying sound of Judy’s whining turn into a drone before Claudia retreated out to the office for a break.
The Judy angle was starting to run its course. They had worked her for over three months, ever since Claudia had fallen upon Judy’s case file when she started to run the names of the different dancers at Catnip. Nothing the girl had brought them or told them so far had produced anything of weight on Leo McCarthy or a ranking member of his crew. Even if she had given them something of real value, the day would come when they would have to present Judy to a grand jury and Claudia dreaded it. The eyes of the jury would look over at a twenty one year old high school drop out, a stripper and likely prostitute, who had been caught herself transporting a large amount of methamphetamine up the 101 North.
Claudia walked back into the conference room where Judy still sat at the table. Dan stood hovering over her as she continued to flip through a binder. Judy looked up from the pictures when Claudia entered the room and rolled her eyes.
“This is stupid. I told you I don’t see him nowhere,” she said.
Dan stepped away from the table and eased himself into the corner of the room with his arm propping his body up against the wall.
“Is there any reason a new guy would come into the fold?” Claudia said absently.
“What do you mean?” Judy asked.
“Has anything strange happened? Anything odd? Anything out of the ordinary? You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would a new guy show up and pick up a package? Has anyone stopped showing up?”
“Stopped showing up?”
“Maybe disappeared.”
Dan pushed himself off of the wall. He started making his way around the table, frustrated.
“The guy was probably just another fucking dirt bag,” he said. “He was looking for some God damned afternoon delight. Something to take his mind off the recession.”
“There was something that happened at the Duck,” Judy said quietly, almost at a whisper.
Dan stopped in his tracks and Claudia brought her gaze in on Judy, forcing the exhaustion out of her eyes so she could focus.
“The Duck? What is that?”
Judy yawned again, seemingly unaware of the renewed interest in her.
“I don’t know. It’s a casino or something,” she said “I’ve never been there.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Some of the girls at Nip worked there sometimes. Just for a night or so. I guess you can make a lot of money.”
“Where is it?” Dan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s in the City?”
Judy shrugged.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
Dan glanced at Claudia.
“A casino in the city?” he said “That’s bullshit.”
“Are you able to get a gig at this place Judy? Can you dance there?” Claudia asked.
“I don’t know. It’s all the working girls that go over there.”
“You mean they’re prostitutes?”
“I mean they’ll do whatever you know. They’ll do it all. It’s why they go over there.”
“And you won’t?” Dan muttered. Judy didn’t seem to notice but Claudia could have slapped him.
“The only extra gig I got right now is the Christmas party,” Judy said.
“When you say something happened there what do you mean?” Claudia asked.
“I don’t know. Some of the girls said that Leo’s guys were down there asking them all questions and none of them got paid. That’s all. I didn’t seem like no big deal.”
Dan dropped back down in his chair, defeated. Claudia looked down at him with disgust before training her focus back to Judy.
“Find out what you can about this casino place and call my cell phone. Otherwise you’ll hear from us in the next few days.”
“I might be out of town,” Judy replied.
“Where?”

Dan leaned across the table towards her, waiting for an answer.
“Santa Cruz. My Mom lives there and I want to see her.”
Dan and Claudia looked at each other briefly before Claudia said: “You can’t go Judy. You’re going to have stay put. At least till after the Christmas party.”
The girl showed no reaction, she just yawned and got up, sensing the end of the meeting.
“I’m serious Judy. Don’t try to leave town.”
Judy nodded and made her way out of the conference room. Claudia watched her continue through the office and out into the hallway and then looked back at Dan who said: “A casino in the City? Give me a fucking break.”
“Leo McCarthy leaves town and some guy shows up to get a package? Something is definitely going on,” she replied.

They both sat in the car silent, Oscar in the front seat and Vaughn in the back. They had been waiting outside Bill Rodasavitch’s building for over three hours, not a word passing between them. Oscar could barely hear the man in the back seat breathing.
When they had left Javier’s house and pulled away in the Cadillac, another car had pulled into the drive way. Oscar had looked into the rear view and watched Javier’s wife get out of the car, walking towards the house. He had pictured her in his head as he drove, imagining her going into the house to find Javey in a defeated mess on the kitchen floor. She would demand to know what happened and he would be silent. She would panic and yell until she noticed the knife still lying on the floor. If she knew enough about what he did and who he worked for, she wouldn’t ask any more questions.
Vaughn had pulled Oscar out of his thoughts when he asked if he knew where the Croat lived. Oscar had nodded and taken the Potrero exit onto Cesar Chavez. The thought had gone through his mind to say that he didn’t know where Bill lived but what was the point? He would just be putting off the inevitable. He was at work, and when he was at work it was best to only concentrate on the matter at hand. He needed to remember that.
When they got to Bill’s street and pulled up in front of the building Vaughn asked which one it was.
“The blue door. It’s a flat.”
“Anyone else live there?”
“No. He had a girlfriend but I think she left.”
“You think? Or you know?”
“I know.”
“Good. There’s no point in some bitch getting hurt for no reason. Stay here and leave the motor running.”
Vaughn had gotten out and made his way across the street. Oscar had watched through the windshield, then a flash of Alex Martinez had gone through his head. Just a flash. It was the same moment that always went through his head: the look that Alex had given as he looked up at Oscar and Dick, sitting on his knees on the filthy floor of the warehouse. The moment came and went, less frequently as time went on, but it was enough to make Oscar’s spine tighten.
He didn’t notice at first that his phone was in his hand or that he was was scrolling to Bill’s number. The name had appeared on the screen and Oscar had stared at it. He could at least text, give a warning. But why would he? Because Bill was his friend. Because he had known him for over ten years. That meant nothing in this job. He could tell him to keep away. Just keep away. He put the phone back in his pocket.
Vaughn had returned to the car, told him to kill the engine, and there they sat; Vaughn in the back, silent as the grave, and Oscar in the front, trying to hear if the other man was breathing. Oscar still held his phone in his pocket, moving his fingers along the buttons. He watched the door to the Croat’s flat, time making the blue blur and the lights from the building turn into abstract swirls in the corner of his eye. He forced the fear building inside of him lower and lower, into the pit of his stomach. They were just there to talk to Bill, that was it. Maybe Vaughn would rough him up, intimidate him, but that would be it.
Long minutes of nothing passed before Oscar broke the stillness, reaching to the glove compartment and coming up with the whisky bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. He had remembered the bottle during the second hour, telling himself he would wait until they left to have a drink, but the cold and the silence were getting to him. He unscrewed the top, looking into the rear view. All he could see was shadow.
“You want some?” Oscar asked.
“No.”
Oscar took a long pull and placed the bottle back in the glove compartment. He returned his gaze to the blue door, the whisky waking up his blood and allowing his eyes to refocus. He watched and began to almost forget why they were there until a figure walked up to the stoop of the building and stopped. Oscar sat up straighter, waiting for the figure to step into the light, he could hear the leather in the back seat adjust as Vaughn did the same. The person finally moved, walking passed the blue door, and they both watched as the shadow became a teenager who make his way on the opposite side of the street as he came into the light.
Oscar eased back into the seat, refocused on the door. The blue was already beginning to blur again and he thought about reaching back to the glove box.
“Your name really Jimmy?” he asked.
The shadows in the back seat moved slightly.
“Yeah,” the shadows said.
“You been doing this a while?”
“Long enough.”
Oscar could hear the end of the conversation in Vaughn’s tone. He moved his eyes from the rear view and back the Croat’s building. The blue went in and out of focus and Oscar blinked, trying to keep him self awake.

When Judy got into her apartment she sat down on the leather couch and didn’t move for ten minutes. She sat, not thinking or wondering or imagining anything. Her mind and her body were still and she wished the world would become still too, at least slow down so she could get a grip on what was happening around her. There was an intense anxiety pulsing through every frame of her body. In the last few weeks the anxiety had manifested itself in slowing her limbs and thoughts down to the point where she was nearing complete paralysis.
An ambulance drove by on the street outside and its siren pulled Judy back to the day she saw the red and blue lights in the rear view of the Mazda, the CHP cop starting to make his way towards her. He had looked into her face and saw her pupils and then had asked to search the car. She hadn’t protested, she hadn’t even thought to. She had felt like it was a dream and she retreated even more into that feeling when the cop had pulled the package out of the back and then got on the radio.
The dream had continued, she had given out her information at the county jail and had walked into court for her preliminary hearing. She looked into the face of the public defender as the woman talked on and on about things Judy didn’t understand nor care about. She had stared out from her dream at the other women in the cafeteria, the Cholas with their hairless brows and the black women with their weaves removed, all of them trying to hold on to the little dignity they could afford to have in a place like that. She had sat in a cell in her dream and in her dream she had looked up when the guard had beckoned her to an interview room to meet Detective Dela Cruz.
Claudia had talked in length about a man that she claimed was Leo McCarthy but it wasn’t Leo. Judy knew Leo, really knew him, and it was because she knew him the way she did that she denied she knew him by sight or was aware that he was the man that signed her checks. The man Claudia described abused people, took advantage of people, killed them when the time came. That wasn’t the man Judy knew. The man she knew, the man that had introduced himself to her at Catnip with a soft hand on hers, was kind and gentle and made her think of a grandfather, or a favorite uncle, not one that she had but someone else’s favorite uncle.
She wanted to see him, to at least hear him. She pulled her phone from the purse and studied it in her hand. He had given her a number to call before he left, had taken the time to come over to her when she was getting ready at Paradise Isle and he had spoken softly in her ear. He had given her the number, had talked in the same gentle tone he had used when they had laid in the bed at the hotel their first night together.
She had gone to the hotel fully aware of what was happening. This was how things worked in the world and you took advantage of the opportunities you were given. She had been dancing at the club for just over a month when Leo had given her the opportunity, speaking to her in the dressing room when they were alone, giving her a time and place. He had said it so calmly, a soft smile on his face, and for a moment she thought she had imagined it. Then she had gone to the hotel, and when she got onto the elevator she began to doubt herself. When she knocked on the door he was there, and knowing it was real spread an immense relief all through her.
He had been a gentleman. They had dinner brought up to the room along with champagne and when he finally led her to the bed she was more than happy to take her dress off and let him look at her even though he had seen her body many times at the club. He was much older than any man she had been with and part of her had been worried she would be repulsed by him but she went with it and in the end she found herself finding immense satisfaction in pleasing him. Unlike other men he looked in her eyes while he lay on top of her. She liked the idea that she might make him feel young.
She figured he had other girls on the side besides his wife, maybe even some of the other dancers at the clubs, but that didn’t bother her either. Their night became Friday night and that was a special night to her, the night that you spent with the one you cared about. One Friday she was scheduled to work but went to the hotel instead and when she got to the club the next night neither Marvin nor the floor manager said anything. She knew it was because Leo had sent word.
She finally gave in and dialed the number. The phone rang in her ear and the anxiety was overpowered by an excitement.
“Yeah?” a voice said.
She recognized White Charlie’s voice. She felt a sharp jealousy that the disgusting old man was with Leo and she wasn’t.
“Let me talk to Leo,” she said.
“Who is this?”
“Can I talk to Leo?”
She heard muffled chatter for a few moments before Leo took the phone.
“What is it darl’n?” he asked.
She was overjoyed. His voice put her at ease.
“I just wanted to see what you were doing. I miss you.”
Leo didn’t reply right away and her heart took a sudden plunge.
“I miss you too darl’n. I’m busy you know.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She felt stupid and regretted the call.
“Everything alright darl’n? Everybody treating you okay?”
“Sure.”
“You can always go back to the Nip baby. I don’t see why you asked to be moved anyway.”
“I told you. I’m doing school.”
“That’s right. That’s good. I’m glad you’re doing it darl’n. A young woman needs to look out for herself. It gives her class.”
Judy thought of Claudia pushing school. The thought knocked her off of the conversation and she couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Listen baby, me and Charlie are busy right now and we must get going. You understand?” he said.
“Where are you?” she blurted out.
“That’s top secret information darl’n,” he teased. “But I should be back soon and when I am I will take you out for a good time and treat you right, you know that.”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Sweet dreams lovely.”
He hung up. Judy thought about Claudia and Dan listening to her call and panic seized her. She needed a drink and looked toward the kitchen but didn’t get up. She had to stop her drinking no matter what. Nothing really mattered anymore. Claudia and Dan and all the other fucking cops didn’t matter. Leo didn’t matter. Not even she herself mattered. All that mattered was the baby and Judy touched her belly gently and remained sitting on the couch with her feet pulled under her.

Oscar awoke with Vaughn slapping him hard on the shoulder.
“C’mon. He’s not showing him up today,” Vaughn said.
Oscar started the car and began driving blindly through the streets, still not quite awake. He tried to think back and figure out what had happened, realizing he had simply slept and Bill must have never showed up. He was relieved. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with one hand while steering with the other.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
Vaughn rolled the back window down and lit a cigarette.
“I’ve got a room somewhere,” he said.
“Where?”
Vaughn went into his coat and pulled the phone out. He scrolled through it, absently taking drags off the cigarette.
“Holiday Inn,” he said.
Oscar nodded and turned the car towards the freeway exit. The sun was coming up over the City and it was lighting up the glass and metal of the buildings downtown. The traffic hadn’t started yet and Oscar drove the freeway with his mind somewhere between sleep and awake. He took the Fourth Street exit, looking into the rear view at Vaughn who was hidden back behind his sunglasses.
They pulled up to the hotel and Vaughn got out with his bag and the cardboard box. He began to make his way towards the entrance, then swung around.
“Pick me up right here at noon,” he said.
Oscar nodded but Vaughn had already turned back towards the hotel entrance. Oscar pulled away and drove the three blocks to his building. He parked the car and took the elevator up. He went through the door to his apartment, threw his keys and jacket on a chair, but didn’t turn the lights on. He went the kitchen, pulled a bottle of whisky down from the cabinet, and filled a glass by the sink. He thought of Alex Martinez on the warehouse floor, looking up at him. He refilled the glass and threw it back.

To be continued..

Happy Burger

He supposed it was the sauce, and the way that they cooked the patties, on the uncleaned grill with all the residue from the past. But mostly the sauce. It wasn’t just mayonnaise and ketchup or thousand island like other places, it had some sort of spice added to it, something unmistakable that you never forgot. It had been two months and Russell could almost taste it still himself. That taste had tortured him long enough, the time had come for him to experience it again. He felt he deserved it.
The sign flared from across the street; the orange neon bun, the brown patty, the red tomato, the green lettuce that would burn out occasionally leaving the neon hamburger looking somewhat hollow. Every day on the bus Russell had to look at that sign and he would scowl. He would notice he was scowling and he would look at the people sitting around him on the bus to see of they had noticed it too. He cursed Happy Burger under his breath. He thought about it for a few moments and cursed himself. If he just hadn’t said what he said that night in November, if he could have just thought it, without actually saying it to the counter guy’s face-
It had been a Wednesday night, after a particularly long day at school, one where he had missed lunch because of a test that had gone over. Milo had asked if he wanted to study for an hour or so after their last class but Russell said no, he had to get home to feed his cat. The truth was he had to feed himself. Not having any lunch had left him famished, all he could think about those last few hours was going to Happy Burger and ordering the cheeseburger with a side of onion rings, ranch, and a strawberry shake. When Milo asked about studying Russell felt his stomach hiss and bubble but kept it to himself. At two hundred and forty six pounds he was more than aware that the words ‘I’m starving’ were not allowed to leave his lips.
He had rushed to the bus, building a sweat, and had planned to get off at the stop before his house so he could go straight to Happy Burger. Then his mother had called and complained that she couldn’t find the remote. She accused him of misplacing it, telling him he needed to get his fat ass to the house to find it because she was going miss her show. He protested. He told her he was hungry, but said it in a low voice so the guy in the next seat wouldn’t hear.
“What did’ya eat for lunch?” she demanded.
“I didn’t have any. Class went late.”
“Well good! We all know you could miss a few.”
She hung up and he was so angry and hungry he had felt the tears massing in the corners of his eyes. When the bus passed Happy Burger he looked away. He got off at his stop and walked into the house slow and soft, too hungry to storm in. He found the remote in his room, and he dropped it on the couch next to to his mother where she sat smoking a cigarette. He got back out the door before she could say anything.
By the time he had made it the three blocks to Happy Burger he had decided he was going to have two cheeseburgers instead of the one. His hunger had actually dissipated slightly since school but he felt that he had earned it. It wasn’t just missing lunch that entitled him to two. Riding the bus every day to MJC gave him the right, having to endure the looks and comments and the utter obliviousness of all the girls there entitled him to eat two, one after the other. Putting up with his mother for the last twenty years, that in itself gave him the right to both cheese burgers.
He had stood in line behind three people, trying his best to appear patient. When he got to the counter he looked up at the list written in plastic up on the wall and feigned like he hadn’t made his decision hours before.
“What you get?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Let’s get two cheeseburgers with special sauce. A fries. A strawberry shake.”
Russell had expected a quick confirmation of the order. When none came he brought his eyes down from the menu and looked across the counter. The man behind the counter was older, in his thirties maybe, brown skinned, some sort of Mexican, and he looked at Russell with a vague grin, one thin eyebrow cocked up in judgement.
“Why not three?” the man muttered.
Russell wasn’t sure if he had actually heard him right until he saw the shock spring into the man’s face. It was obvious the Mexican had realized he slipped, becoming too free with his thoughts. Russell looked quickly around to see if anybody else had heard, then glanced down at the floor, catching his own gut and puffy chest concealing his feet.
The son of a bitch. Russel had been coming there for five, six years now, ever since they moved into the apartment eight months after his father died. And this old thirty something loser working at a greasy shit whole for minimum wage had the fucking audacity to make a comment like “why not three?”?
He had to say something, he knew that. There was no way he was walking out of there without saying something. His shrinking stomach sloshing with acids and his plummeting blood sugar demanded it.
“What the hell man!” he said.
He had never really yelled at someone he didn’t know, had never reacted while feeling so perfectly justified. He could have stopped there, just walked away with those few words for the man behind the counter to chew on, but then he said the words that he would regret for the next three months. He had turned to go, only three or four steps to the glass door, then turned around, face red with embarrassment and righteous wrath and bellowed: “I’m never coming back here again!”
He had only just stepped on to the sidewalk outside of the Happy Burger when the regret began to shape inside him. Russell realized he now had to live by those words; he truly could never go back. He went home that night and microwaved two boxes of chicken fingers but there was no joy or satisfaction in eating them. He was still hungry when he was done.
December went by and he was able to distract himself from Happy Burger with sweets and egg nog, but then January came and it got rough. He rode by on the bus and the neon sign glared at him, mocking him. His taste buds ached, some nights he actually woke up and thought of it, imagined putting the buttered bun into his mouth and biting into the perfectly grilled patty. He martyred himself, averting his eyes on the bus and trying to trick himself into thinking that Home Time White Onion, the other burger place in their neighborhood, was just as good.
February finally rolled in and he thought he had it beat. He looked at the neon sign from his seat on the bus and told himself he felt nothing, it was just a sign, and he wasn’t salivating, he was just thirsty. It had been 87 days. He truly felt he had earned it, and really, what did it matter? The Mexican that had made the comment, he probably didn’t even work there anymore, he probably quit, or got fired, or got himself deported. And what was really the big deal about going back? The loss of his dignity? That had gone out the window around third or fourth grade, when he got fat.
So there he was, standing across the street from the neon sign, imagining the sauce he hadn’t tasted in three months. He would get only one burger but he would get the fries and the strawberry shake too. He looked both ways and began to cross. He made it to to the opposite curb before he had a clear view through the glass door, and his heart began to beat against his chest and the hairs all along his neck stood up when he saw the Mexican standing behind the counter.
The man’s dark hair was cut shorter but it was definitely the same man who had made the comment about three burgers. There was something inside Russell that almost turned him, that almost spun him around back home. But no, forget that, he wanted a God damned Happy Burger. In a way it wasn’t even really about tasting the burger again, it was about doing what he wanted, about living his life the way he chose to. He was almost glad the Mexican was there.
It was very unlikely that the man would even remember him, or so Russell thought until he saw the look on the Mexican’s face as he approached. The man’s eyes actually expanded when he saw him, Russell was sure of it, and the man’s posture straighted out. Russell paused at the door and the Mexican stared at him through the glass, looking alarmed. Russell pushed through, wishing there was at least one other customer that night. It was just he and the Mexican, and he could feel the tension hang in the room like fumes from the fryer.
“How are you tonight?” Russell asked.
He hadn’t meant to say anything, he hadn’t wanted to give the man the satisfaction, but the Mexican just stared and Russell felt awkward. Russell glanced up at the plastic menu and then back, only to find the two wide eyes still staring. More than anything it was strange, it gave Russell a bit of the creeps, and this angered him.
“Are you giving me shit?” he asked.
He genuinely wanted to know. The man just stared, and Russell couldn’t tell if the man was mocking him or high or what. Russell had the right to be there, he had the right to eat whatever the hell he wanted.
“I just want something alright? That’s why people come in here, to fucking get something to eat. Do you have some sort of problem?”
The man continued to stare. Russell noticed there were beads of sweat gathered along the Mexican’s brow. The man must remember, he must have been waiting for this moment too.
“I don’t want three by the way, one’ll do fine.”
Russell surprised himself by the rage in his voice. He looked into the Mexican’s face and saw them all; school kids over the years, the teachers, his mother. He had waited three months, he was worthy of it like anybody else. He had the right.
“Are you going to take my order or not?”
The Mexican glanced away for a moment. What in the hell was the prick’s problem? There must have been tons of fat people that came in all the time to get food, people just as heavy if not heavier than Russell.
“I’m n-not leaving until you take my order.”
Russell folded his arms in front of him and waited. Three months ago he had said he was never coming back, now he wasn’t leaving. He was never coming back, but not until he got his burger, it was his right. The Mexican took one step backwards and swallowed. He looked frightened which only made Russell angrier.
“I can’t help that I’m the way I am. It’s my metabolism. Maybe if I ate better I would lose weight. But who has time to exercise? Obviously, you have not gone to school. I’m studying economics. You know what that is?”
Russell could feel the tears in his eyes, all anger. The man looked across the counter at him, more frightened then ever. That’s when Russell heard someone come out of the bathroom.
“That’s enough of this shit,” a voice said.
The man with the pantyhose pulled over his head had a small backpack draped over his shoulder, small enough that it might have been for a child. The gun in his right hand was not small, it was large and silver.
“I told you if somebody come you get the motherfucker out of here,” the man said and pointed the gun at the Mexican.
“Please-”
The man behind the counter had his arms raised, his eyes closed. The man with the mask saw his point had been made and turned the muzzle of the gun towards Russell.
“Now you motherfucker. What the fuck you telling this fool all that bullshit huh?”
Russell was shocked by man’s appearance but wasn’t quite scared. He had worked himself up. He looked straight into the nylon, at the man’s distorted features. His irritation swung from the Mexican to the man in the mask.
“I want a burger,” Russell said.
“I don’t give a shit. Give me your God damn wallet.”
Russell pulled the wallet from the back pocket of his pants but didn’t hand it over. He held on to it, turning back towards the counter.
“I want a burger,” he said to the Mexican. The man’s eyes were wide with terror.
“Hand it over,” the man in the mask said.
He reached for it and the wallet fell to the tiled floor. Russell looked down at it, then back up to the panty hose.
“Stupid fat fuck,” the man said and bent down to pick it up, the gun held at an angle.
Russell looked at the man as he was bent over, the skinny arm reaching out for the wallet, the back of the neck exposed under the nylon. Russell saw bumps along the man’s neck, black heads and stray hairs. ‘Stupid fat fuck’.
As the man brought his body back up, the wallet in his free hand, Russell reached out and pushed. Instinct told Russell to go for the gun but the boiling rage forced him forward, right into the man, pushing the skinny figure backwards. The robber was shocked but stayed upright. Russell threw all his weight forward this time and lost his balance, sending them both to the tile. He didn’t hear the gun shot, the glass in the front of the restaurant just seemed to explode and come crashing down. The deafening sound of it brought Russell’s attention back to the gun. He immediately rolled himself on to the left half of the robber’s body, pinning the gun arm to the floor.
The robber threw the wallet away, reaching his empty hand to get the gun, but Russell’s body was too large and the robber couldn’t reach around it. The man screamed in pain and anger before beginning to throw wild blows against Russell’s side and chest. He was immediately winded, and could only push at Russell, pushing with his arm and his whole body, trying desperately to get free.
Russell didn’t do much, he just lay there, then reached over and pried the gun from the robber’s hand. It popped from the man’s grip and slid along the tile towards one of the tables before the Mexican came around the counter and picked it up.
“Hey man, don’t move,” he said.
“How am I supposed to move with this fat motherfucker on me?”

It took almost twenty minutes for the police to show up. They took a statement from both Russel and the Mexican, who wasn’t actually Mexican, he was Guatemalan and his name was Alex. The cops put the robber in back of one of the squad cars and drove him away, and while Russell and Alex watched them leave a couple of teenagers came in to Happy Burger. The kids eyed the blown out window and the glass that lay shattered all over the tile before looking up at the plastic menu and discussing what they wanted.
“We ain't open right now guys. Come back some other time alright,” Alex said.
The teenagers nodded, then slowly made their back out the door.
“Hey man,” Alex said to Russell. “You still want that burger? It’s on me.”
Russell got the burger to go and made his way back to the apartment. His mother was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette, watching a talent show.
“Where the hell you been?” she asked.
“I was getting something to eat.”
“Wha’ja do? Walk all the way to China to get a won ton?”
She cackled at her own joke and Russell continued down the hall to his room. He placed the Happy Burger on his desk, next to the computer, and looked at the grease spots forming along the side and bottom of the white paper with the illustration that matched the neon burger sign. He took the burger out, unwrapping it at one of it’s ends, and bit into it. It was good, just like he had imagined it. The sauce was there, tangy, kind of spicy. He sat on his bed and chewed it and then swallowed it. It was just as he hoped but in the end, it was only food.

Part One: Crime SuspenStory

Based on true events.
He sat up straighter in his chair and focused on the arrival entrance again, clearing his mind of stupid trivial thoughts that were beyond him anyway. Like always, he was at work, and when he was at work it was best not to think beyond the matter at hand. He watched an old couple come out of the baggage exit, looking around dazed, then he watched a young private in military garb stride out in his boots and look at the poster of Mayor Gavin Newsom on the wall that read: Welcome to San Francisco. The private sneered and moved on, preparing himself for civilian life.
A man came out of the baggage exit next and Oscar knew it was the man he was waiting for. It wasn’t just that the man was similar to how Pat had described he would look: tall, dark haired, in a grey suit; it was the way he carried himself. There was a pace to the man’s walk that was different from all the other people in the airport. It was exact, with a lightness and a purpose in the stride.
The man was pulling one carry on bag and wore dark glasses. He didn’t remove the glasses when Oscar stood up to approach him.
“Vaughn?” Oscar asked.
The man nodded. Oscar turned around and led the way to the escalator and down to the exit. The wind pulled at them as they made their way through the parking lot to the dark green Cadillac parked in E Section. The man didn’t walk with Oscar, he walked a few feet behind him, and Oscar didn’t like it.
“You have a good flight?” Oscar asked.
He turned his head and looked at the man who stared back through the glasses, not saying a word. They got to the car and Oscar unlocked it, expecting the man to get into the passenger seat next to him. Instead the man threw his bag into the back seat and sat down alone on the leather. Oscar started the car, maneuvered it through the lanes to the exit, then accelerated on to Highway 101.
They had been silent for almost five minutes on the freeway before he looked up into the rear view, catching a glance of the dark glasses again.
“Where you coming from?” Oscar asked.
The man didn’t answer; the head and the glasses turning slightly into the window, looking out at the barren field beyond the freeway and the dark green bay beyond that.
“I said where you from again?”
Oscar watched as the glasses finally turned from the window, looking directly into the rear view.
“Just drive,” Vaughn said.
Oscar felt his neck and scalp heat up. The first words that had come from the backseat sounded less like a request, more like an order.
“Drive where?” he asked.
“The titty club?”
“Which one?”
“The one Leo owns.”
Oscar moved his glance from the rear view and out at the neighboring cars, trying to hide his irritation.
“Leo owns three,” he said.
Vaughn turned his head back towards the passing bay.
“You know which one,” the man said with decreasing effort. “Where the drop is right now.”
Oscar nodded and concentrated on the road, determined to be silent for the remainder of the ride.

Dana and Bianca were dancing together now. Pat watched them do the dance with little interest and the six or seven men that sat around the stage bathed in red light watched with very little interest as well. Dana and Bianca themselves seemed the least interested, weaving around the pole, grinding their bodies together like they were half asleep. Pat turned around in his stool, away from the stage, catching Shari’s eye as she made her way along the bar.
“Double whisky,” he said to her. She tightened here eyes at him and puckered her thick red lips with displeasure.
“Leo’s on vacation. Don’t give me any shit huh?”
He held his hands in the air in protest and she grudgingly turned around and reached for the bottle on the shelf. Pat took another look at the door but nothing had changed. Bill still stood there yawning, watching Dana and Bianca, thinking about something else. Shari brought Pat the drink, he sipped it, checking his watch again. 4:12, the guy should have been there by now.
Someone came through the door and Pat looked up again only to be disappointed to find Marvin Rollins limping across the carpet towards him.
“Pat, why I gotta come all the way over here to make a drop? The Duck’s four blocks from my place,” Rollins said. He laid an envelope on the bar.
Pat sipped his drink, letting the man wait for an answer. He couldn’t stand Rollins. He hated the man’s ratty hair cut, a leftover from some period before nineteen eighty six, the man’s ugly cheap shitty clothing, the man’s smell, God damn, the smell. Everything about Marvin Rollins bothered Pat. Unfortunately Rollins had worked for Leo for over fifteen years and that meant he had to be tolerated.
“None of your fucking business,” Pat finally said.
He swiped the envelope off the bar, shoving into the inside pocket of his jacket. Rollins stood there, still waiting for an answer. Pat sipped his drink, the smell from Rollin’s skin and clothes wafting over to his bar stool, up into his nose. He turned back towards Rollins, ready to reprimand the shit heal again, but Rollins simply scowled and made his way back towards the door before Pat could open his mouth.
As soon as Rollins was out the door another man came in. Pat only needed a glance to know it wasn’t a customer. The man was wearing a gray suit, an expensive one, and had his hair slicked back cleanly, with dark glasses hiding his eyes. Pat waited for the man to approach him but the man stood at the end of the bar. He seemed to be looking passed Pat, towards the office. Pat threw the rest of his drink back and walked over to the man.
“I’m Patrick,” Pat said, extending his hand out to the man.
“You have a package for me,” the man said.
Pat let his hand drop. He watched the man’s face for a smile or nod or greeting of some kind. Nothing came but a cold silence. Pat turned around and strode to the office, leaving Vaughn at the bar.
He unlocked the door and found Dick still sprawled out on the couch inside, watching a soccer match with the same sneer he always had.
“The guy show up?” Dick asked in his slurred Irish mutter, not looking away from the screen.
“Yeah,” Pat replied. He crouched down in front of the safe in the corner.
“What is he like then eh? Big guy?”
“Not really.”
“He must be a tough bugger no?”
“How should I know? He’s just standing there.”
Dick’s head finally twisted around, a perfectly round head, scarred on the right temple and red all over.
“You gonna mouth off to me then eh?”
Pat didn’t answer. He pulled the taped up cardboard box from the top shelf of the safe and traded it for the envelope Rollins had dropped off. He could feel Dick staring into his back. He refused to take the bait and get in an argument. Working with someone like Dick was a series of ongoing and pointless confrontations. Like Rollins, Dick had worked for Leo for a long time and there was no point in allowing it to get to him. The key to Pat’s job was to go along with the program and not care too much. That’s why the drinking helped.
Dick finally quit waiting for Pat to respond, turning his round head back towards the soccer match.
“Aw fuck it. What do I care then? They want to go out of town with it then what the fuck do I care?” he said and went silent.
Pat walked back into the club, down the bar to Vaughn. The man still had the glasses on even though it was dark in the club. Pat didn’t like not being able to see the man’s eyes.
“There you go,” Pat said and handed the box over.
Vaughn held it for a moment, weighing it in his hands, before turning around and walking passed Bill to the street outside. Pat watched the door swing closed behind him, hoping he would never have to see the silent asshole again. He didn’t like him. The man had rushed off without a thank you or a God damned word. Then again, who could blame him? It was depressing being in a place like that in the middle of the afternoon.
Pat snapped his finger at Shari, gesturing for a refill of his whisky glass.

The green Cadillac sat parked on the side of the street and Oscar watched the traffic go by from the driver’s seat. There were tourists wandering through the wind, trying to find those sights in San Francisco that they had seen on postcards and in movies. Young couples laughed together, hand in hand as they Christmas shopped. Oscar had never Christmas shopped for anyone. He had received a couple of presents from a few of his different foster families but he couldn’t remember what any of them had been. The last Christmas present he could remember was a five thousand dollar bonus Leo had handed over the year before, a present that was meant to say he was appreciated and that he had a place in the crew. The bonus had meant he was moving up.
He looked over at the entrance to Paradise Isle, looking for Vaughn to reappear, but there was still no sign. The doors sat closed with the posters of the girls on either side staring out at the streets, the looks on their faces dull but seductive. Vaughn hadn’t said he should wait, Oscar just knew that he was meant to. He had pointed out the club when they pulled up and Vaughn had simply got out of the backseat, making his way across the street without saying a word.
As Oscar watched the entrance one of the girls came out with her bag swung over her shoulder, making her way down the sidewalk, slowly, dressed in one of the sweat suits that the dancers always wore when they were done grinding on men and having money shoved in there panties. Oscar recognized her, he was pretty sure she had been working at Catnip, at least for the last six months or so. He wondered why she would be dancing at this place, and at that time of day? Paradise Isle was a shit hole, many levels below Catnip. He tried to remember the girl’s name: Jackie, or Janie, or something like that. She was a cute girl, very young.
He shifted in his seat and closed his eyes, thinking he may have reached the perfect opportunity for a nap. He was settled in when the back door opened and Vaughn was in the leather seat again with a package under his arm. The dark glasses looked up into the rear view.
“Get going,” he said.
“Where to?”
“Just drive. Go around the block.”
Oscar pulled the Cadillac out and could hear the ripping of tape and cardboard in the back seat. He looked into the rear view, catching Vaughn flip open a cell phone and concentrating on it through his glasses as he waited for it to turn on. They were around the block now. As they came along side Paradise Isle again Oscar spotted Pat walking out of the front door, lighting a cigarette. He was tempted to hit the horn at his friend but knew better.
“Yeah,” Vaughn said into the phone from the back seat “Uh huh. Where’s that? Okay. Do you know who? I understand that, just give me a couple right now. Yeah. Where does he stay? Does your guy know? Okay. Good. I’ll be in touch.
Oscar heard the phone flip closed. There was silence as they continued to circle the block.
“Do you know where Javier Mejia lives?” Vaughn finally asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Take me there.”
“That’s over in Daly City.”
Oscar waited for a response but Vaughn had gone silent.. He turned on Geary and steered the Cadillac back in the direction of the freeway.

Claudia sat looking at the different photos on the wall, trying to ignore Dan shifting in his seat in irritation. She was also impatient, and annoyed, and relatively pissed off, but she could at least control herself. Meanwhile Dan kept sighing and looking at the time on his phone, glancing back at the bar entrance. What good did it do? All it did was annoy her, drive her crazy.
Sometimes, scratch that, many times she wished she was alone on a case, that there was no need to drag along a partner that just made thing’s more difficult. She usually calmed down and those thoughts burned away. She knew it could be a hell of a lot worse and when it came down to it, Dan was a good cop. Claudia wasn’t completely sure what his reasons or ambitions were but he was competent. She was also aware that without a partner like Dan, a member of the boy’s club, they would probably not have been given the approval or independence to work the case like they were. It almost balanced out.
She sensed Dan stop his shifting and she looked up to see Judy finally making her way through the door to Skippy’s, slowly, wandering around the bar towards their table. The girl was dressed in a sweat suit, it made her look even younger than she actually was. She reached their table and flopped her bag down next to her chair, sitting down once she had made a quick sweep of the people around them.
“What the hell Judy? When we say four o’clock we mean four o’clock. Do you understand? Not four forty five or any of this shit.”
Dan muttered the words at her through his irritation.
“I don’t think I like this place,” Judy said.
“You chose it,” Claudia replied. “We let you choose. You said you would feel safer here then coming to our office again. We felt you had earned that right. Now, let’s get to work.”
The waitress came over before Claudia could continue and asked if any of the three wanted anything.
“No. Nothing here,” Dan told her quickly.
“I’ll have a jack and coke,” Judy said.
The waitress smiled at her and waddled off. Dan leaned in towards Judy.
“I think it’s time we reviewed a few things,” he said “You are here, out and about, having a drink in a bar because of us. You get that? It is not our job to sit around waiting for you. It’s your job to get here on time or things are going to be a lot different.”
“This is my last day of drinking for a while. I’m taking a break after this,” Judy said.
She sat silently, her face a blank. There may have been some sadness or anger in there somewhere but Claudia couldn’t make it out. The girl sitting next to her looked very different from the girl she had first met four months ago in Interview Room C. The girl that night had been scared, confused, ready to do whatever it took. This girl today was numb, a blank slab who didn’t seem to care about much at all. It worried Claudia.
The waitress brought Judy’s drink over and Claudia hit the button on the recording device that sat snug in her hand.
“We’re not paying for that,” Dan said, nodding towards Judy’s drink.
Judy looked back at him, still blank, sucking coke and rum through her straw. Claudia tried again to get things started.
“Alright, we need to talk about the Christmas party. It looks like we’re going to be setting up a surveillance unit for that night so it’s very important that you are in the group of girls that go in because-
Judy let the straw drop from her mouth and interrupted her.
“A new guy came in today,” she said.
Claudia let her interrupt, swallowing her irritation.
“A new guy? Someone you’ve never seen before?”
“Yeah, he came by and picked something up from Leo’s nephew.”
“What?” Dan asked.
“I don’t know. It just looked like a box or something.”
“Was Leo there?” Claudia asked her.
“Leo’s out of town. He went some where suddenly and I don’t know where.”
The blank look finally broke. Claudia saw an odd change go through Judy’s eyes as she absently pulled the straw back into her mouth, sucking at it.
“How long has Leo been gone?” Claudia asked.
“A few days.”
“And this new guy? You sure you have never seen him before?”
“Never.”
There were only a few people in the bar. The waitress came back to their table trying to earn her tip.
“One more of these please,” Judy said.
“We’re going to have you look at the pictures again and see if you can recognize this guy,” Claudia said.
“I’ve seen the pictures like five times,” Judy whined.
“It wasn’t a question,” Dan told her. “We don’t make requests. When Detective Dela Cruz or myself tells you something that you’re going to do it’s not a question. You’re going to do it. And if you don’t want to do it we can very easily haul you down to Santa Rita and you can spend a few nights there where you’re going to end up looking at pictures whether you like it or not. Your choice. In a nice warm office or in a freezing ass cell where you can-“
The waitress had come back. Dan stopped himself short as the woman laid another rum and coke in front of Judy.
“How’s everything else Judy? Anything we should know about,” Claudia asked her.
Judy rolled her eyes.
“I’m pretty much broke. Now that you got me working at this place I can’t make no where near tips I had at Catnip.”
“It was necessary. Paradise Isle is a base of operation for these guys.”
“What do I care if I can’t eat?” Judy asked.
“That takes me back to what I was saying,” Dan growled at her. “I think you’ve taken your eye off the ball a little bit. I think you’ve lost sight of the fact that we have done you a huge fucking favor. Nobody gets caught with that much meth and that much cash, still walking around like a normal person. You get what I’m saying? Me and Detective Dela Cruz are doing you a huge favor by giving you this opportunity. An opportunity. Do you know what that is Judy?”
Judy sucked her straw, staring down into the table. Dan’s face went red and he sat up straighter in his chair.
“You’re coming down to the office tonight and you’re looking at pictures. That’s the end of it. Or we can just throw you in the car right now and drive you over to Santa Rita. Your choice.”
He was laying it on thick. Claudia tried to balance it out, making her tone tender.
“Are you working tonight?” she asked.
“They don’t give me no night shifts. It’s like I’m starting at the bottom again,” Judy replied, glass eyed.
“Did you tell them the school story?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you do it? Why not enroll? You’re quitting drinking; turn over a whole new leaf.”
Claudia could feel Dan tense up. He could go to hell. His bully approach was going no where. “I got to get going,” Judy said.
She sucked up the last of her rum and coke and tossed her hair back.
“You’re not driving right?” Claudia asked.
“I’ll catch a cab.”
She stood up from the table, avoiding both of their eyes as she pulled money from her purse.
“We’ll see you at midnight on the dot. You got it? Our office at midnight,” Dan told her.
She picked up her gym bag and headed towards the door, not looking back at him or acknowledging what he had said.

To be continued.....

Part 5: The Temptation of Marsha Bates

Five
The country really does look like a quilt through a plane window. There are the squares of brown, red, and green, perfectly flat below us. The clouds are under us too and it’s strange to be above them, in heaven.
“Mrs. Bates, were you surprised by the reaction your debate performances have had on the polls?”
It’s the bald one that asks this time. His face is thin, just a skull, with a pink layer of skin pulled taught around it.
“Was I surprised? No. I guess not.”
“What about Senator Ackley’s reaction? From the ads his campaign already has going in California it seems he has zeroed in on you as his main hurtle in getting the nomination.”
The pretty one asks this time. She’s young but very serious looking with her hair pulled back in a pony tail. She should let it down. Instead of seeing how pretty she is the first thing you notice is her seriousness. She is the only woman of the pack of reporters that have joined us on the plane. Clay has been able to hold them at bay for most of the flight but then one of the fat one’s started asking when they would have access to me (besides the pretty one and the bald one there are four fat ones) so now I’m being held hostage in the back of this small plane, all six of them with their note pads out, scrawling away and smashed together among the empty seats.
“I think the Ackley campaign wanted to play nice. They didn’t want him to be perceived to be picking on the only woman in the race. But now I think they have to react in some way. We’re not playing nice so why should they?”
The words are straight off the page of Clay’s talking points and one of the fat one’s is nodding and pushing out his bottom lip like he’s impressed that I can be so candid. He’s throwing out a question now but I’m not listening, I’m thinking of Will. I’m able to keep him from my thoughts for minutes at a time, sometimes almost an hour, and then he comes rushing back. I just want to know why. Did I do something, say something? Was he frightened?
“Mrs. Bates?”
The fat one that asked the question is staring at me from where he’s roosted high on the back of one of the seats. He’s sweating, I can see the moisture spotting through the armpits of his blue shirt.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat the question?”
“I was just asking if you were aware that you’re going to be on the cover of the new Corner Stone magazine?”
“No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Their web-site says they are going to present an in depth profile of you.”
“Really? I don’t see how. The.....man they sent only interviewed me for about five minutes.”
I almost say worm but I catch myself. It seems like so long ago that I sat down with the little bastard but it most have only been a month or so. The fat one with the sweaty armpits shrugs his shoulders.
“Did you see the skit where Tea Leoni did an imitation of you?” one of the other fat one’s asks.
“On television?”
“On the Saturday Skit Show. They have been replaying clips from it.”
“Who has?”
“The networks.”
I catch him grinning slightly but he pulls it away when I give him the dead eyed look. Freaking Hollywood. They can imitate me and laugh about me all they want. Meanwhile children experiment with drugs and homosexuality based on what those sick people feed them. It will all come back to roost. They will realize God isn’t laughing when they try to mock him too, and there aren’t any films or television shows that come out now that aren’t blasphemous in some way. It’s all part of a sick machine and these people in front of me are part of it.
They continue to ask questions and I half listen and half answer until Clay shows some mercy and brushes them back to the front of the plane so I can rest. He sits down next to me and gives me a water. All we have talked about are polls and the debates since he showed up at the airport and I don’t feel like talking now. He starts to tell me about the early numbers in New Hampshire but I don’t listen. I close my eyes and he finally stops talking. I act like I’m asleep and he moves to another seat.

They have the Ronald Reagan museum covered in flags. It’s red white and blue everywhere, and it doesn’t quite go with my turquoise outfit, which makes me feel even more off than I already do. I have never been here before, and I take my time before going backstage so I can look at some of the thousands of framed pictures on the wall. The President with Thatcher, with Sinatra, with the astronauts, with some Arab leaders of some kind, I don’t recognize their names.
Pam is with me in the hall and she follows very slow and gingerly with a bottled water and a bag containing make up. She hasn’t said much since we left Iowa. I think it’s because she can sense something wrong with me, unlike the rest of the staff. She’s been with me a long time, since right after my first congressional race, and she’s a sweet girl despite her weight problem and split ends and the way her eyes are too spread out on her face. I want to talk about Will to someone and if I did she would probably be the one. But I won’t. I can’t. There’s no way.
One of the museum staffers reminds us of the countdown time to the debate and we rush back stage to get ready. We hired a local make up person instead of flying Doris out and the woman talks too much and applies a strange light eyeshadow that doesn’t make my eyes come out enough. I watch Kelly and Birkstand come in together, and then Melvin, and then Hagley who is supposed to be dropping out this week but will be taking up space on the stage anyway. Ackley finally comes in, flanked by four staffers, all smile and orange looking skin. He’s been tanned since the last debate and it’s a TV tan, too much for real life. He searches for me in the room. When our eyes meet he nods and I nod back and I wish I had some sort of fire to bring tonight because I really can’t stand the man.
The audience comes in, the lights are up, and away we go. The moderators ask Ackley about his negative ads towards me and he claims he hasn’t seen them. They turn the question over to me and I repeat the talking point. They dig up a comment I made in passing that he was an elitist and ask him about that. He chuckles and says something folksy. They ask me about it and I repeat a talking point about his time as a CEO and his bonuses. The entire debate goes on like this. There is no life to it, we are all just going through the motions.
Kelly is talking about immigration and I try to look over and pay attention but I am thinking about Will and the fact that he could be watching this on TV. Melvin takes aim at Kelly about his record on immigration and I find myself searching for a way to send Will a message, to show him what he has done to me. I could sit here and fail. I could let the debate go by and not take part. He knows me, he would know what that means.
The moderator turns towards me and asks about Agent Orange and repeats some of the attacks they have made towards me as being homophobic and a hate monger. As she reads from the sheet in front of her I think of the time Will asked me about gays and what I really thought. He had been so wishy washy about it and I’m becoming irritated just remembering. Why question what we have always known? There is right and there is wrong, black and white. The world changes everyday, the status quo is fragile, and when you begin to question what you know is true then the world falls apart around you, does it not? All we know is what God tells us, the world is too confusing already to go against that.
I think about all of this and what I wish I would have told Will something in the motel, something real. The moderator looks up at me from her desk waiting for a response and I look right at the camera and speak to Agent Orange and all progressive bastards directly.
I’m the close minded one? I’m assaulting their rights? My voice rises as I continue and I hunch down over the podium, daring the camera to argue with me. I stand for what God teaches us and will always stand by that. I am a defender of the freedom to believe in what we want and I believe in Jesus Christ who died for the sins of all of us, gay, straight, and all sinners everywhere.
There is loud applause from a certain section of the audience and I look over at Ackley and feel my heart sink. His mouth is twisted, like he’s suppressing a grin, like he’s got me. I don’t care. Freak him, freak these moderators, freak Will, freak the world.

We return to the hotel downtown and I want to go straight up to my room but Clay explains that many of the California team will be here to meet me and I can’t slip away. He is strangely reserved and I know he is unhappy with my performance. He had smiled backstage, said ‘good job’, but there had been none of the usual enthusiasm and I wonder why he doesn’t just come out and say it. We enter the lobby packed with people who applaud as cameras go off and I raise a victory fist and force a smile which almost doesn’t have to be forced.
I’m shaking hands all the way through room and into the hotel bar where the California Team has set up a banner reading Bates 2012. I don’t recognize anyone but I nod and reply, nod and reply, keeping the smile beamed. I’m exhausted by the time I get to the far end of the bar. I desperately search the faces for Clay or Pam and am surprised to come across Frank Wagner, sitting by himself at the corner of the bar, nursing a drink. I almost don’t recognize him without the paintings and stuffed ducks of his living room surrounding us.
“What are you doing here Frank?”
“Fate Marsha. I came out to visit a friend and my star pupil happened to be debating so I stuck around an extra night to watch.”
His voice is soft and tender from alcohol.
“You were in the audience?”
“Yep, watched the whole thing.”
He throws back the rest of his drink, nods at the bartender for another one, then turns towards me.
“What the hell happened?” Frank asks flatly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. What the hell was all that about the gays and God and all that bullshit? Don’t try to tell me you don’t know better. I know you know better!”
I glance around and there doesn’t seem to be anybody watching or waiting for a word and a handshake.
“I said how I feel.”
“You never say how you feel. What the fuck are you trying to do here?”
“Did you not hear the applause?”
He picks up his drink and nods sleepily.
“Yeah, you sit there like a zombie for half an hour and then suddenly wake up with all that fire and brimstone and the Jesus freaks give you a standing ovation. You know that’s not going to get you to the nomination. You know that.”
“It seemed to go fine to me,” I protest.
“Ackley looks like a moderate now, can’t you see that? You win the battle but you lose the fucking war.”
I have nothing to say and sit there perched in the stool as he sucks at his drink. I feel my face getting hot with anger because I know he’s right. Who cares. I don’t even know if this is what I want anymore. All I do want is to be left alone.
“Where’s your intern?” Wagner asks.
I draw in a quick breath.
“Which intern?”
“You know which intern. The boy that drove you to our sessions.”
I get up from the stool and force myself through the crowd without answering. People try to smile and reach out but I barrel on, through all the arms and faces and suits, until I’m at the elevator door, and then I take it up to my room and lock both locks.

I get in the bed and a day and a half passes. The phone rings over and over again until it stops and then the cell beeps and vibrates until the battery dies. Pam comes to the door four times, knocking and calling my name. I don’t answer but I know she knows I’m in here. She shows me mercy when she walks away and I’m grateful for it.
I’m not hungry but I order room service and now a plate of spaghetti and a salad sit by the bed untouched. I lie on the bed and try to sleep but I think of Will and it keeps me awake. I turn on the TV and flip through the channels and I see clips from the debate but keep switching because I don’t want to see it and I don’t want to hear what they have to say. I wonder where Will is and what he is doing. I have a panicked feeling that he may try to call me and this pushes me to plug the cell phone into the wall.
There are several messages; Sandra about the schedule in New Hampshire, one from Don saying he’s already at the hotel there and wondering when I get to Manchester. Clay leaves a quick message saying I have moved up to second place behind Ackley. I can hear that his enthusiasm is back, sparked by my move in the polls, and he explains that he is off to meet with some people to discuss a strategy for South Carolina.
The messages make me more tired and the last thing I want to to do is call any of the people back. I lie there and watch the ceiling as the light moves through the blinds, the Earth rotates. I stay like that until Pam is at the door a fifth time and I know it’s time to leave.

The headquarters in New Hampshire is a thousand times better than our Iowa office. There is a bottom level with new round tables and small booths in the corners for computers. Polished wood stairs lead up to a mezzanine where a conference table sits in wait, long and solid. Sandra is showing us around and I can’t say I missed her while we were in California. Everything is a cheerful boast as she shows off the coffee maker of the all it’s spigots and digital timers. She brings me into my office on the mezzanine and walks in front of the flat screen TV on the wall with hand extended like a plump model on a game show.
I smile and nod but I just don’t care. I want to care but it would take too much effort. I feel like a drug addict must feel when they are cut off from from their drug; the world has lost it’s meaning without Will.
There are three phones on my desk in my office and soon I will be forced to pick them up to beg for more money, faking the enthusiasm that has evaporated from me. I am no longer Marsha Bates, I am her ghost.
I get into the hotel that night and Don is not in the room. I had expected him to be, and the fact that he’s not is a huge relief. I get in the shower and keep the water at cold, the coldest it will go. It cuts into me, I’m shivering. The shock on my body forces me to come out of head.
I get into bed and wait for a sleep that doesn’t come. Anxiety lies on top of the bed with me and I can’t get comfortable. I watch the ceiling and let my mind wander.

The next day the headquarters is packed with people. They swirl about in mini whirlpools of activity through out the first level, printing papers, signing papers, making phone calls, clicking mouses. I retreat to my office and sit in the chair, drained of energy. I have not slept and my mind just seems to buzz until Clay comes in the door with a printed list of donors to call. He is upbeat due to a gaffe Ackley made the night before calling Ebonics a false language. The gaffe is taking up most of the news cycles and I wonder if it is a relief to Clay because it cuts down on the amount of times the networks replay me ranting about God at the debate.
“Are you enjoying your office or what?” he asks and I look around at it like I’ve noticed it for the first time. It is big, probably too big.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says “We’ll probably downgrade after the straw poll and there won’t even be time for a permanent office once we get to Florida. That, I can guarantee you.”
“Everything is temporary,” I mutter and he gives me a puzzled look before leaving the room.
The calls go on for hours; I listen to the gibberish and then I make the plea and they mostly agree to send money. Like usual they are excited, mostly angry, and all men. They have different rumors and theories about the president and about Ackely that they report to me secretly through hushed voices. Mostly they involve the president being a muslim and secret agent of some kind, and Ackley is a closeted homosexual that is well know at various airport bathrooms around the country.
Although the office is big it has no windows and when I come out on the mezzanine I am surprised to see the sun going down. I was on the phone for five hours but I had been in a zombified auto pilot, the time has flown away. Sandra is jogging up the stairs looking alarmed. She explains that the local chapter of Agent Orange is staging a protest outside this headquarters now, it’s not safe for me to go out.
“Stay up there!” Clay cries up to me from the ground level “We’ve already told them you're not here. I don’t want them to get a look at you.”
I go back to the office and sit. There is nothing to do, nothing to think, nowhere to put my mind. Clay comes in and informs me he is headed to South Carolina.
“You stay in here until those crazies dissipate,” he says. “I texted you the number of a car service. Call it once the coast is clear and they’ll get you back to the hotel.”
He gives me a reassuring grin and is gone. I sit in the office for over an hour, my mind a buzzing blank. Sandra brings me a cup of coffee before leaving herself but I don’t touch it. There is small leather couch on the mezzanine and I lie down on it. Will finally pushes his way into my thoughts and I feel as if I will never be free of his presence. I had never needed some one's touch before now. I wish I had never met him, I wish things were as they were before we met but there is no going back. Tears fall down my cheeks hesitantly, awkwardly. They are warm and comforting and it allows me to fall asleep.

When I awake the mezzanine is bright, bathed in the dusty light of morning. The office is empty. I get to the restroom, the reflection in the mirror above the sink hideous. The tears spread the eyeliner down my cheeks which then hardened into a purple mask in the night. I scrape and wash it away and try to fix my hair as best I can. I go upstairs to get a pair of sunglasses. When I make my way back down I find a large black man in a security uniform standing near the front doors. I stop short and look at him through the sunglasses.
“I got hired to come down and keep the rif raf away,” he explains and by his disinterested tone I sense that he doesn’t recognize me or wonder what I’m doing there at six in the morning, forgotten by my own campaign.
The coffee they have in the office is generic and decaffeinated to boot, I make my way on to the street and walk the block and a half to a little coffee shop. There are four or five people inside but they are all absorbed in their newspapers and laptops and no one seems to look over and recognize me. I order a large and as the sleepy girl behind the counter goes to get it my hidden eyes scan over the magazine rack they have posted. I come to a copy of Corner Stone magazine and there I am, my photo taking up the whole cover.
It’s a horrible picture. I am looking down into the camera, my worst angle, and someone seems to have used a computer to accentuate my wrinkles and make it look like I have a neck flap. The blue in my eyeliner has been increased so that I resemble an Italian whore from the 1960's. I yank the magazine out of it’s wooden cubby and hold it close to my chest so no one can see. The picture is truly horrible, the headline even worse: “Marsha Bates: America’s Craziest Politician Exposed.”
I rip through the glossy ads and photos to get to the article. “My Time in the Bates Campaign” the headline reads, by Darren Gregorson. Gregorson? That wasn’t the name of the worm from the interview. I skip the first few pages and come to a picture: It’s me, Clay, Will, and Sandra, at some event, I don’t remember what. I look at the caption of the picture and it reads: “Clay Logan, the writer, Rep. Bates, and campaign staffer.”
The writer? I have to look at the picture twice and then look at the caption again before I can piece it together. Will is the writer, Darren Gregorson.
“Did you want the magazine too?”
The girl behind the counter is looking at me with the cup of coffee sitting in front of her. I wonder why she doesn’t wear he hair differently before the floor begins to move and the room is spinning. Darren Gregorson. Will’s name is Darren Gregorson. He is a writer for Corner Stone magazine. I reach out a hand and prop myself up on the side of the counter.
“Are you alright lady?”
I’m seeing spots in front of my eyes and the room is going dark in the corners. The magazine slips from my hand and falls to the floor. The people in the coffee shop are looking over at me, I don’t notice. I’m out on the street, trying to catch my breath, trying to get back to the head quarters. I slam my fist against the door and the security man lets me in cautiously.
“You okay miss?”
I feel as if I have been kicked in the stomach, I lean over one of the tables, expecting to vomit.
“Miss, are you alright?”
The sweat is turning cold all over me and I force myself to the restroom. I turn on the faucet and throw hand fulls of cold water into my face. The shock of the water fights off the darkness that is gathering around my vision and it slows down the spin of the room. Nothing makes sense. How can none of it be real? I am a fool, the most foolish of fools.
I look into the mirror and make my face calm, no make up, just droplets of water sliding along the skin of my cheeks. The end has come. The end of the campaign, my career, my marriage.
I walk out of the restroom and find Sandra walking into the office.
“Mrs Bates? What are you doing here so early?” she asks.
“Take me to the hotel.”
“Right now? But I thought we were having-”
“Take me to the hotel! Now!”
She looks frightened, backing away towards the door. I put the sunglasses back on and follow her to her car in the parking garage. We begin to drive through downtown Manchester and her cell phone is ringing.
“Don’t answer while you're driving,” I command.
“But it’s Clay, I should answer.”
“No, just keep driving.”
She swallows and places the phone in the drink holder between us. It continues to ring. Part of me wishes I had held on to the magazine but I can barley stand to even think about it. How could he do it? How could he have tricked me? I have to control my breathing or else I’ll be sick. I feel parts of my insides shutting down and dying inside me.
We pull up to the hotel and Sandra parks the car in the turnaround. I realize that the world is not a good place, it is a wicked place that will torment you at every turn. I may have always known this, I’m not sure. And if it is the world that torments us then it must be God as well. I realize Sandra is talking and turn towards her.
“What?” I ask.
“I said did you see the article?”
“What article?”
“The one in Corner Stone magazine?”
She knows. She knows and she didn’t say anything.
“No, what did they write?” I force myself to mutter.
She reaches into the backseat and pulls the magazine from her purse. She holds it up for me to see and I look at the grizzled expression and that neck flap.
“I haven’t read it,” she says. “I figure they just put us down.”
They put us down? This poor girl. This poor misguided well intentioned girl. This will break her and everyone like her. I snatch the magazine from her hand and exit the car, all in one motion. I head into the hotel and over to the elevator, my vision dark and enclosed, like a tunnel. I get to my floor and as I head towards the room I stop short. I see Don’s client Ted exiting the door of our room. I pull back around the corner and flatten myself against the wall, like a fugitive.
I peer around the corner and am relived to see Ted headed towards the door that leads to the stairwell. I notice he is buttoning his shirt which frees me from my panic and allows me to wonder: what is Ted doing in our hotel room at seven thirty in the morning? I already know the answer, I have always known it, the events of that morning are allowing me to admit it to myself. There is no time left; no time for hiding, or lies, or putting your head in the sand.
I enter the room and there is Don, sitting on the bed with a cup of coffee, staring out the window, wearing the robe that the hotel provides. He turns towards me and the look of contentment evaporates, his face stiff with shock and fear.
“I thought you had gone to South Carolina?” he says and blinks stupidly.
“Do you believe in God?” I ask.
He continues to blink before placing the coffee cup on the bed side table and coughing into his fist.
“What? What are you talking about honey?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Of course I do. You know I do.”
I look at him full on and it is like I have caught him in the act, like I walked right in on him and Ted doing what ever it is they do. There is no satisfaction in this. It is fitting that it be this day, fitting that everything comes apart at once.
“I believe in God too,” I say “He’s punishing me.”
“For what?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.
I look down at the magazine in my hand, at my face, manipulated to look ugly. I am not ugly. Not on the outside at least.
“I think you should read this Don.”
I drop the magazine on the bed and leave the room. The carpets and walls are closing in, suffocating me. I take the same door Ted did and climb the stairs down, the breath catching in my throat, making me gag. When I get to the lobby it is more crowded, people checking in and out. I spot Sandra sitting in one of the chairs, reading the Corner Stone magazine with my face on the front. She got another copy, of course she couldn’t help it, not after I snatched it from her. There is a strange look on her face as her eyes scan the pages and I turn away, stepping out into the turnabout.
Even the air outside is thick and hard to breath. I spot what could be reporters getting out of a car fifty feet away and in desperation I try the door on Sandra’s car and get inside. I sit in the backseat and realize here will be no where to run. The campaign will end, maybe that very day, then I will have to go back to Wisconsin and fight for my seat in congress. Or do I fight? Deny all I can? Maybe I let go, except it for what it is and fade away. I would be different if I were a man. Bill Clinton survived but he never recovered. Newt Gingrich married the woman that he cheated on his sick wife with and now walks around with that judgmental expression on his round face. It won’t be the same for me.
The driver side door opens and Sandra is inside with me. She closes the door and sit there, saying nothing. I look at the back of her neck and the way her hair hangs over the top of the seat. I realize I’m not breathing and pull the air in through my nose, the sound deafening in the silent car.
“It doesn’t feel good to be betrayed,” she says.
This is the first of what will be million apologies, maybe more. This is the most awkward because I don’t know what I’m going to say. There is nothing to say. I have no excuse, I did what I wanted to do.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“What are you sorry about?”
She turns around in the seat and looks at me strangely.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” I tell her.
“It’s not your job to screen the interns Mrs. Bates. Clay or someone in the staff should have looked into Will’s background.”
I look into her face and try to make out what I’m seeing. I had expected anger, shock, but all I see is mirrored confusion
“Did you read the whole article?” she asks.
“Bits and pieces,” I lie.
“It’s just stupid. He talks about how he thinks you stretch the truth and that you play people’s fears. It’s just offensive.”
My coat and jacket are sticking to my back against the seat and I notice the people I had tagged as reporters are making their way passed us on the turnaround. They’re are business men, sharing a laugh as they enter the hotel.
“You read the whole thing?” I ask.
“Yeah, for a cover story it’s pretty short.”
“What else does it say?”
Sandra let’s out a frustrated sigh.
“Nothing. Mostly he makes fun of the supporters saying their ignorant and hateful. It’s the same old liberal crap. But it hurts because I actually liked Will, I thought he was a good guy. And then this-”
She stops short and I look passed her, through the windshield. There is a sense of relief inside me that is so vast that I would release it with tears if there were any left to give. It's not that I haven't been exposed, it's knowing I'm not crazy. By leaving it out he's shown it was real.
“What’s on the agenda?” I ask automatically.
“A video feed interview for the web-site and then a luncheon with a Christian Charity," Sandra is scrolling through her phone "It’ll probably take an hour to get out there so we should get going.”
She starts the car and we pull onto the street. There is park on the next block and huge American flag is flapping at the top of a pole posted in the center.
The End