Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) (13 page)

Maxon glances over at Dale in a black tee shirt with the words
My Tongue Still Works
emblazoned across the front. He had been wearing it under the polo shirt the RV dealership owner insists on, which he peeled off the second they left the lot. How does Dale get his hands on something like that so quickly? He is resourceful, no doubt. Maxon will have to make sure no enterprising photographer takes his picture in it before the campaign is over. That kind of sartorial display could cost votes. For all of Billy Carter's watch-me-urinate-by-the-side-of-the-road, regular guy charm, no one could reasonably argue that it helped his brother. Dale's narrative is meant to be redemptive. Advertisements for cunnilingus will have to wait.

As far as bending Dale to his will, Maxon has a fundamental problem: he senses Dale does not respect him. As a householder and a taxpayer, he is the embodiment of everything the former inmate holds in contempt. And he senses Dale views him as Randall's errand boy. Ordinarily, he would not care but right now he needs the ex-con to stay out of trouble.

“What kind of guys do you know up in prison, some pretty rough customers?”

“What the fuck you think?”

Maxon does not pretend to have any insight into the criminal mind but he truly doesn't get Dale. Why the prime-cut attitude? Being a paraplegic is an endless raw deal but all paraplegics aren't pricks. Maxon never knew Dale when he could walk so couldn't do the before and after comparison, although he would have bet his vintage Toronado Dale was no angel before the motorcycle accident that severed his spinal cord. He only knows Dale Duke has a personality that can shave glass. Maxon thinks about it because this is the first time the two have ever been alone. He never thought much about Dale before, Randall's brother always background, the low hum of a future calamity everyone is expecting.

A ringing cell phone intrudes on these thoughts: Randall. Maxon reports that the visit to Nadine did not go as well as he would have liked but in his opinion they should wait and see what she does next. Randall pushes back and tells Maxon waiting does not represent the kind of proactive plan he was looking for. Maxon's voice has lost it's Bauhaus-induced cool and takes on a strained edge as he talks. He does not care that Dale is listening. If anything he wants his passenger to hear him stand up to Randall, to show the cantankerous criminal that while he may have not done time on the prison yard, neither is he made of jelly. Not bothering to hide his irritation, Maxon repeats his thought about not doing anything for the time being in more forceful language. Randall emphasizes his lack of enthusiasm for that idea and hangs up.

“Everything okay?” Dale asks. Is that a smirk on his face?

“No need to trouble yourself.”

Calmly, Maxon reaches into his jacket pocket. Dale's eyes dart with the movement but he relaxes when Maxon produces a tennis ball. He rolls the ball on his palm, pressing his fingertips into the fuzzy yellow surface.

“What's my brother hot about?”

Maxon quickly summarizes the recent events, leaving out the more lurid details of Kendra's predicament. When Dale asks about the woman who is causing the problem, Maxon tells him what he knows, working the tennis ball the whole time. Dale listens, nodding his head. When Maxon has finished Dale asks what they plan to do.

“You have any ideas?' Maxon says. His tone is fake jocular, but he'd like to know.

“Ain't that what you get paid for, to clean up the mess?”

They ride in silence the rest of the way, Maxon continuing to mull the situation. It is a modern truism that the scandalous secrets of people in public life are nearly always exposed and usually in the most embarrassing manner. Perhaps they should just brace themselves and try to ride out the storm. A cheating spouse is hardly a reason for the electorate to turn on a candidate. He worries that they have allowed themselves to get agitated over something that might just blow over.

After the appointment with the dentist, Dale turns down Maxon's offer of a ride back to work, telling him he prefers to take a cab. Dale tells the driver to take him to the Wells Fargo Bank branch in Borrego Springs. There, an overweight female teller in a turquoise pants suit leads him to his safety deposit box where he is reunited with the money he had stashed before going to prison.

 

http://WWW.DESERT-MACHIAVELLI.COM

10.31 – 9:14
P.M.

When it comes to winning no one can argue that certain political types are above practicing dirty tricks. Least of all the Machiavelli. Not to point fingers, but your humble correspondent is going to tell you that in the race here in the desert between Randall and the Stewardess, it is the Stewardess who's having sex with Satan, and I don't mean her husband. No one will say this for attribution but the fearless Machiavelli hears that the Swain campaign is spreading vicious rumors about Duke and his wife Kendra. There have been stories circulating for years that the Honorable Member is not one to keep the banana in its peel. Frankly, the Machiavelli doesn't care what Randall screws, as long as it's not his constituents. But the whispers emanating like swamp gas from the cesspool that is the Stewardess's camp have sunk to a different low—they are about Randall Duke's wife. Why should we, as responsible voters, as people who care deeply about democracy, worry about what his wife has done? I need not remind you that it was the wife of a former President who founded the Betty Ford Center. I don't care if she's drinking a quart of vodka a day. Okay, the Betty Ford Center doesn't treat people for extra-marital affairs . . . oops, did I spill the beans? I am not here to cast aspersions on the Duke marriage, about which I have no opinion other than if those two can get married, why can't any two people who share a deep and abiding bank account? I am only here to report the rumors and innuendoes the traditional media, constrained as is it by antiquated notions of taste, will not tell you about. Is it gossip? Of course. Is in unsubstantiated? Ditto. But don't you Blogheads want to know about it anyway? I do. And so does someone from the Stewardess's campaign, whose name I would love to disclose. Forgive me if I don't. The Machiavelli needs to protect his most unscrupulous sources.

Stay tuned for a revelation about the Stewardess. She's got four beautiful Caucasian children she's always parading around but word is there's a fifth kid, an older one, and he or she is black. Just a rumor, but so was the guy who shot Biggie Smalls until the bullets started flying.

 

 

 

T
he kitchen window is open but no breeze ruffles the worn curtains. It's just after seven in the morning and Vonda Jean can already feel the heat of the day. She is still wiping the sleep from her eyes when she pulls the orange juice container from the refrigerator. It feels light, not even enough for a glass. Dammit, how many times does she have to tell Hard to buy more when it's nearly done? He's still in the bedroom. She'll tell him when he walks in to get his coffee. Sees her reflection in the kitchen window. The loose plaid nightdress hangs on her like a potato sack. Glances down at the furry pink slippers on her feet. If she was trying to look alluring she might be worried but right now she doesn't care if Hard finds her attractive. The slippers are comfortable and that's what matters. Hard likes younger women anyway. Vonda Jean has a sense that there was something going on between him and that woman who showed up at the house the other night. She could tell he was lying about her but didn't have the vigor to press the matter. Or the interest. Vonda Jean has been thinking about fleeing the marriage and doesn't want to waste any more energy fighting.

Bread in the toaster and the coffee on, she heads to the garage looking for a carton of frozen orange juice. The Marvins have a horizontal freezer there that Hard uses to store meat from his hunting trips. Every autumn he drives to the Sierra Nevada range and roams the woods for several days stalking deer and elk. Vonda Jean used to accompany him. They would sit in a tree, rifles at the ready, not saying a word for hours as they waited for game to appear. It was bliss for Hard, being in the woods with an attractive woman with whom he didn't have to make inane conversation while he cradled a high-powered weapon. Vonda Jean didn't particularly like to hunt, but at that time in the marriage she enjoyed being with her husband. She had stopped going with him when her sons grew old enough. Then the boys developed other interests and the last few years Hard has made the trip alone. Usually he'd get a kill and the freezer in the garage would be stuffed with venison steaks the family would eat throughout the winter. This past hunting season had ended a month earlier and it had not been a good one. Despite tracking an eight point buck five miles through the woods, Hard never got a clean shot and drove home empty-handed. There was an unanticipated upside to this, however, since it left room in the freezer for Bane, something Hard had neglected to mention to Vonda Jean.

Hard is in the bedroom pulling on his boxers when he hears Vonda Jean's scream. Figures she must have just opened the freezer. He could have warned her about the dog but imagines it would have led to an argument. He's had enough of those lately. Hard continues getting dressed, taking his time, and when he walks into the kitchen he sees his wife seated at the table sipping her coffee.

“G'morning,” Hard says.

“For you, maybe.”

Hard opens a cabinet, takes out a box of cornflakes and pours them in a bowl. Removing the milk from the refrigerator, he drowns his cereal. Then he takes a spoon from a drawer and joins Vonda Jean at the table.

“Sleep well?” Hard says.

“I nearly had a seizure,” Vonda Jean informs him. “You want to tell me what that animal is doing in the freezer?”

Hard chews his cornflakes, swallows. Looks her in the eye: “I'm gonna have him stuffed.”

“What, and put him in the living room?” Her tone suggests he has a greater chance of doing that with her.

“Something like that.”

“The hell you are.”

“This is why I didn't tell you he was there.”

“I thought I was gonna have a heart attack, Harding. You probably would've enjoyed it.”

“No, I don't want to kill you, Vonda Jean. Not like that, anyway.”

She doesn't laugh at his remarkably tone deaf attempt at humor. Vonda Jean is sick of Hard, hates him right now, wishes he would just get out of her life. But she knows if she plays it wrong, she could get screwed in the settlement. And Hard has nearly twenty years on the force. His pension, a subject that comes up regularly during their frequent fights, won't be small change.

“I want that dog gone.”

“The nearest taxidermist's in Apple Valley. I'll take him up there my next day off.”

“That's not how it's working, Harding. You're gonna get rid of that dog pronto. And I don't want him back here as a living room decoration either.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Pretend you're normal. Bury him.”

“Just stick him in the ground?”

“Cremate him if you want. Bury the ashes. Just get that dog out of my goddamn freezer.” Hard eats his cereal in silence. “I'm not fooling.”

“Or what?”

“I'll toss his carcass on the side of the road.”

Hard desperately wants to wrap himself in the cloak of self-justification that will come with telling Vonda Jean that Bane had been murdered. Of course he can't do that since it will open up a potentially incriminating line of questioning. Why, for instance, would anyone have wanted to harm Bane?

“Fine,” he says. “Next day off, I'll bury him.”

“If that dog isn't out of my freezer in twenty-four hours, this marriage is over.”

“You think I'm worried about that?”

“Just remember I'm entitled to half your pension.”

She stares at him with an expression as nurturing as an oil spill. Hard stares right back at her, the vein Nadine had nearly pierced with the salad fork pulsing like a strobe light.

 

N
orth of the swank Coachella Valley with it's well-tended golf course carpet is the considerably less swank Morongo Valley and northwest of that, between the Tehachapi and the San Gabriel Mountains is the still less grand Antelope Valley where the meth labs outnumber the golfers infinity to none. When Odin Brick told Princess he lived in the Antelope Valley and wanted her to move in with him, she envisioned lush fruit trees in the shadows of cool mountains, not the dried out furnace in which she found herself, with its blistering winds and ruthless sun. Their home is a tiny bungalow on a dusty road half a mile off a highway. In the back of the house is an abandoned camper left there by the previous owner. The surroundings are scrub, the nearest house half a mile away and empty since the meth bust that sent the owners to jail.

Princess is packing her yellow vinyl suitcase, which lies open on the floor of the bedroom. A weak fan blows air in her direction as beads of perspiration form on her soft upper lip. She's a beautiful young woman, a little on the short side, but built to move. Her long, dark hair is parted in the middle and frames a tan face. She's wearing white short-shorts and a red string-bikini top that shows off firm breasts. Princess gave birth three years ago and takes pride in the way her body recovered. Just short of her twenty-third birthday, she knows she might need it if she has to start stripping again.

Folding a tiny blue tee shirt with a spray of rhinestones across the front, she listens for her son Chance King who is napping in the living room. The toddler's ability to sleep in this heat amazes her. When she leans over to place the tee shirt in the suitcase, she hears the front door open. She isn't expecting anyone. She steps to the night table on her side of the bed and removes a .22 caliber handgun. A moment later her husband Odin is standing in door to the bedroom.

“You gonna shoot me?” He says this sweetly, like he's teasing, foreplay for the firearm set. In no mood for repartee, Princess puts the gun down, looks at Odin in work clothes, jeans and a dirty white tee shirt tight on his wiry frame. The tattoo on his right bicep is a red heart bisected by the letters P-R-I-N-C-E-S-S written in cursive. Odin is coiled, ready to spring, even when he's trying to project relaxation. Thick black hair is swept back from his pale face. His green eyes are a little too close together. A cross dangles from an earlobe and there is a streak of grease on his cheek. “Cause if you are, I should tell you, I took the bullets out of that gun last night while you were sleeping.”

“Why are you home in the middle of the day?” Her voice is soft with a slight accent she has worked hard to lose.

“I forgot my meds.” Odin notices the suitcase and looks at Princess. “You going on a trip?”

This is the moment Princess had been hoping to avoid by leaving while he was at work. “I got a phone call from my sister. Our mother is sick. I need to go to her.”

“To the Philippines?”

“I need to leave today.”

“How you gonna pay for your plane ticket? That's like a thousand bucks or something.” Although Odin is still smiling, now there is a hint of suspicion in his voice. He and Princess have not been getting along, and he hit her last night. Only once, and with an open hand, but it was enough and she had told him so.

“I'm sorry about last night, okay?”

“My mother's very sick. Maybe dying.”

“Hey, I know you're still pissed about last night but it won't happen again, I promise.”

He leans against the doorjamb, gives her a repentant smile. It usually works. Odin whistles a few bars from a popular tune he heard her singing around the house the other day.

“You take me to bus station?”

“No, Princess, I will not take you to bus station. I think your mother's fine, okay? And if you go, you're not gonna hear my news.”

“What news?”

“I'm gonna make ten grand this week.”

“You bullshit.”

“I no bullshit, baby. I'll be able to buy you that used truck you wanted. And if the job goes well, that's just the start.”

“What kind of job?”

“Dude needs some help moving an oil rig. One time thing. Ten grand.” Princess considers this intelligence. Odin was always talking about how he's going to make a huge score and they'll be living in a beautiful house on a hill with shade trees and a swimming pool. She wasn't sure how he was going to do this on what he was making at the auto body shop in Fontana, but he told her he had big plans and she should trust him.

The blast of a car horn rends the stifling air. Odin looks over his shoulder, then back at Princess. “You expecting someone?”

As she curses under her breath he turns and heads to the front door where he sees a taxicab parked in the street. He throws the door open and walks toward the cab, a white '94 Plymouth. A middle-aged Latino sits on a beaded seat cover. Sweat stains the armpits of his guayabera shirt.

“My wife don't need a taxi,” Odin says. The Latino glowers at him then drives off without a word. Princess stands at the front door watching her escape plan depart. In the kitchen she pours herself a glass of lime Kool-Aid from a plastic pitcher. On the counter rests a foot high wood carving of Buddha that Odin brought back from his tour in Afghanistan. The light-toned Buddha is rotund and bald and his subtle smile comforts Princess. She wishes Odin would emulate the idol's peaceful aspect.

When she hears the screen door bang shut she says: “I can't take your bullshit no more, Odin.”

He appears at the kitchen door. “I know, I know. I'm gonna start up with the meetings again. Going to one today, okay? Give it up to a higher power and all.” Odin heads for the bathroom, just a few feet away. She hears him opening the medicine chest, reaching for his pills.

“You lie, man,” she says.

From the bathroom, he says, “No, Princess, I'm true like Jesus, okay?” A moment later he is standing in the kitchen doorway. “I understand why you feel that way, so I'll try and do better. Can I have a sip of that Kool-Aid?”

She hands him the drink and watches as he places a pill on his tongue, takes a sip and swallows, before handing the glass back to her.

“Ten grand, little girl,” he says. “That's a lot of
dinero
.”

Could he possibly be telling the truth? Odin didn't actually lie that much, probably no more than most American guys. If it was true, they could pay all their overdue bills and she really could get that little Toyota pickup.

One of the best parts of fighting with Odin was the makeup sex. No matter how bad the altercation had been when the two of them finally reached the point where the conflict was exhausted they would invariably fall into each other hungrily and abuse the bedsprings, or the kitchen counter, or wherever they happened to find themselves at that moment if it provided a modicum of privacy. Today is no exception and after she and Odin tongue kiss, she allows him to pull her white short shorts down, bend her over the sink and thrust himself in from behind. As Odin is humping away, his white ass going up and down like the water pump in her rural village, Princess grips the chipped countertop, looks toward the distant stony brown mountains and reflects on what her idea of America was like when she was growing up in the Philippines. There would be large airy houses with vast green lawns. The people would be tall and blonde and they would have soft, golden skin. And this tall, blonde race of golden skinned gods would be welcoming, generous and kind. So it is with no small sense of disappointment that she finds herself living in the high desert with Odin and Chance King, and working forty hours a week as a sorter at the Fed-Ex Depot.

Odin is good at sex, though. That is a point she is happy to concede as he licks her neck with just the tip of his tongue and promises her that everything will change. He tells her he wants to please her, to make her happy, he'll do anything. She says yeah, oh, yeah, but what she's thinks is if you want to make me happy you could start by shutting up. When Odin climaxes in silence Princess takes this gap in the conversation as an opportunity to arrive at an orgasm herself.