Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) (30 page)

“Yeah?” Dale says, wishing Maxon would just shut up.

“Have to build up my own war chest, can't just be a one-trick pony, but my heart will always be with your brother.”

“Mine, too.” Dale thinks that must be what Maxon wants to hear.

“When he runs for higher office, I'll be there.” This time Dale just nods. Figures if he stops responding, maybe Maxon will just let the conversation die out. The older couples ramble toward their RV. Dale and Maxon sit in silence for a full minute during which time only an eighteen-wheeler owned by a giant supermarket chain rumbles past on the highway.

“Why don't we take a look at Bombay Beach?” Maxon says.

“What for?”

“Heard you didn't like Mecca.”

“It's a shithole.”

“I made a few calls, think we can swing you a place down near the water.”

Dale looks over at Maxon in disbelief. Could this be possible? Whatever he thinks of Randall, he is a man of his word. Now the risk he has taken on his brother's behalf seems once again more understandable. He'll get the money to pay Odin and House Cat and before long be in Bombay Beach with a view of the Salton Sea and his own hand-controlled SUV. A week after being paroled, it is as good a situation as he could reasonably hope for.

They're driving south on Highway 111 again, Maxon telling Dale about the architectural history of the area. “Back in the fifties,” Maxon says, “After the war, a lot of people thought this could be a fancy resort.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dale trying to pretend he cares.

“A man named Albert Frey, an Austrian immigrant, was an important figure in the mid-century modern movement and he was hired to design the North Shore Yacht Club. They let it fall apart but this organization I'm on the board of, the Palm Springs Preservation Society, we had it on our radar and we got the county to step up and do a restoration.”

Dale nods affably. It's hard to feign interest in Maxon's chattering, but they're on the way to Bombay Beach, so he'll indulge him. Maxon continues to wax poetic about the avatars of mid-century modern architecture, how the school emerged in the late forties, flowered in the fifties and was spent by the end of the sixties and how an army of new residents armed with nothing more than reserves of will and their exquisite taste have turned the area into an international magnet for design aficionados. Dale nods and grunts and in a few minutes the Salton Sea comes mercifully into view on the right. Although it's late morning now, the fog on the far shore has not entirely burned off and the sun creates a thin line of dazzling light that stretches across the southern horizon like an illuminated portal to another world. It is radiant and calm and for a moment Dale is able to forget House Cat and Odin and he breathes the sea air and feels the sun on his skin as he pilots his new SUV along the sandy shoreline. Maxon keeps prattling and in a couple of minutes the North Shore Yacht Club comes into view on their right. It's a long low building with a curved upper section lined with four duct-like windows meant to suggest portholes. The whimsically seafaring quality it evokes is all that remains of the fun that occurred there years earlier. The renovation is nearly complete but the restored structure appears deserted today.

“Turn in here,” Maxon says. “I want to take a few pictures.”

In temporary thrall to Maxon's largesse, Dale guides the SUV off the empty highway toward the seaside building. The SUV judders over the rocky parking lot. “Just like it must have looked fifty years ago,” Maxon says, gazing out toward the low-slung building.

They jounce slowly along over the uneven surface and then Dale notices a familiar blurring of his eyesight. His neck begins to stiffen and his molars grind. Frustration and fear rise like bile in his throat. In the excitement of the election and the party and the anxiety in the aftermath of House Cat's visit he neglected to take his medication this morning. His vision begins to narrow. In the brief window during which he can still control his body he brings the SUV to a halt as his eyes roll back in his head and his heart thuds like a fist pounding the wall in his chest. His spine stiffens and flexes backward as he feels his tongue go slack. Then his entire body begins to jerk spasmodically. Dale is unable to look left or right so at first he doesn't know why he can't breathe but just before he slips out of consciousness he feels strange fingers pinching his nose and a warm palm over his mouth. There is pressure on his chest. Dimly he returns to consciousness—a few seconds later? He can't be sure—the fingers and hand still in his face impeding the flow of oxygen and his body jerks wildly struggling for air then his lungs collapse and consciousness cedes to black and oblivion.

 

When Maxon is sure Dale is gone he looks over his shoulder toward the deserted highway. Then he releases the hand brake and gently guides the vehicle toward the water. The SUV rumbles over the hardpack, breaches the retaining wall and rolls nose down into the Salton Sea. The impact causes the airbags deploy, pinning them back and the water pours through the open windows filling the bright new vehicle as it sinks. The temperature of the water is surprisingly cold and Maxon can feel the muscles of his upper body contract as it rises to his chest and his throat and then there is a salty taste in his mouth. He slithers out through an open window and wades to shore, losing his sunglasses in the process. He suppresses the urge to go back and look for them. Over his shoulder he sees the entire front end of the SUV submerged. Maxon had not planned to kill Dale, but how could he not take advantage of the opportunity? It was impossible to know whether Dale could have kept his mouth shut, and now they would never have to worry.

Crouched in the shadow of the Albert Frey building, Maxon waits for several minutes. When only the roof of the SUV is visible on the sparkling blue surface of the water he walks to the highway and waits for a car to appear. He waves at the first three vehicles but no one stops. At last two landscapers in a pickup pull on to the shoulder and ask what's wrong. Maxon points and the men run toward the water.

 

 

A
fist pounding at his door awakens Jimmy. He had lay down to take a nap after being dropped off at his trailer and has no idea how long he's been asleep. He pulls on some boxers and looks out the window. There is an unmarked parked outside.

When he opens the door Cali and Arnaldo are standing there, grim-faced.

“You here to apologize?”

“No,” Arnaldo says.

“So what do you want?” For all of his meditative equanimity he is not ready to let bygones be bygones.

Cali: “Your brother Dale is dead.”

Jimmy waits a moment for the punch line. There is a barely perceptible weakening in his knees when he realizes none is coming. For several moments he forgets to breathe.

“I'm really sorry, man,” Arnaldo says.

Jimmy looks past them up the mountain. It is almost as if the two detectives have ceased to exist. He thinks drugs, or alcohol, or suicide, some fitting endpoint to the futility of Dale's wasted life. “How did it happen?”

“The report says he drowned,” Cali says.

“Drowned?” Jimmy isn't sure he's heard correctly.

“We wanted to come up and tell you ourselves,” Arnaldo says.

“He drowned?”

“In the Salton Sea,” Cali says.

“Was he with anybody?”

“Maxon Brae,” Arnaldo says.

“With that prick? Were they swimming?” Incredulous.

“Your brother Dale just got a new vehicle,” Cali says. “They're out driving it, Dale at the wheel, hand controls and everything. Story Brae's telling is Dale has a seizure, loses control of the vehicle, thing goes into the water and he can't pull your brother out. Claims he tried.”

They all stand there, no one saying anything.

For years Jimmy has been anticipating the moment he would receive the news of his younger brother's untimely end. He didn't know if it would be a car wreck, a gunshot, or an overdose, but he had always known in his bones that Dale would not live to grow old. He will recall the strange sense of relief he experienced upon the realization that he would no longer have to uneasily anticipate the inexorable conclusion.

If Jimmy had been through a similar experience last year this is when he would have gone looking for a bar. And he would have kept drinking until either he crawled into his truck and passed out or called a cab to take him home so he could fight with his wife. He thinks about a drink. He watches the thought rise. He labels it. He waits for it to float away. It doesn't. He still wants a drink, but more out of habit. All pain comes from attachment.

“Tough break, man,” Arnaldo says. Cali asks if he's going to be all right. Jimmy says he'll be fine. She asks him if there's anything they can do for him, and he tells them no, there is nothing for them to do. The condolences continue for few uncomfortable moments. The detectives tell Jimmy they'll be seeing him around and then they get in their car and drive away. Jimmy stands in the doorway and watches them disappear down the hill. He did not remember to ask where the dogs are or how they are doing.

 

 

M
axon rode with the EMS workers who insisted on taking him to the Eisenhower Medical Center in Rancho Mirage. After he phones Randall from a landline to express his condolences, he calls his aide Tyson Griggs who is closing up the Duke storefront campaign headquarters in Palm Springs. He asks Tyson to get some clean clothes for him, then drive to the hospital and give him a ride to the car lot so he can pick up his Toronado.

Maxon changes into slacks and a sports coat. On the ride, Tyson asks about what occurred and Maxon tells him that it is simply a tragedy and he would rather not talk about it right now.

Maxon slides behind the wheel of the Toronado and considers the day. He would like to check the messages on his BlackBerry but the waters of the Salton Sea have rendered it useless. When he sorts that out he knows there will be any number of calls from journalists and politicos wanting to express both their congratulations about the election and their concern for what he has been through this morning. But right now there is something more pressing he must attend to. He opens the glove compartment where an old pair of sunglasses is nestled next to his Smith and Wesson .38.

Maxon slides the key into the front door lock of Dale's apartment and lets himself in. The building is still unoccupied and with Dale gone there is no one in the immediate vicinity. It's important Maxon get here before the Imperial County Sherriff's deputies in the event Dale has left something compromising around. Even though he lived there for only a week, the place is a mess. Maxon removes a tennis ball from his jacket pocket and starts to work it in his left hand.

The garbage can in the kitchen overflows and there are paper plates on the counters with half eaten sandwiches on them. Magazines litter the living room. Maxon is not sure what he's looking for. Perhaps Dale kept a journal. With the idiotic rhyming he was doing, he could have composed a notebook full of incriminating poetry. The kitchen drawers and cabinets reveal nothing but the rudimentary silverware and plates, two sets of each, with which they'd supplied him on his release along with a few pots and pans that appear to have not been used. There are three cans of beer in the otherwise empty refrigerator. A metal tin of breath mints is on the kitchen counter. Opening it, Maxon sees five tightly rolled joints. He'll leave them there.

A cursory examination of the living room is equally fruitless. Maxon lifts the cushions of the couch where the only thing that turns up is the remote control of the flat screen television the campaign had purchased.

The bathroom is located in the short hallway between the living room and bedroom. There are two dirty towels on the floor, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a deodorant stick, shaving gel, a razor and a hairbrush. The medicine chest is empty.

The bedroom. If anything is to be found, that's the place to look. The bureau contains an assortment of boxer shorts, tee shirts, and socks, all supplied by the Duke campaign. Maxon opens the closet. There is a pair of canvas sneakers on the floor and a small pile of dirty clothes. Maxon moves the clothes and looks to see if they're concealing anything. Again he comes up empty.

Dale's unmade bed beckons. Maxon lifts the pillow and exposes a high school notebook with a black and white marbled cover. Opening it, he sees Dale has only scribbled on the first few pages. Maxon can barely make out the scrawl but is able to discern the words
motorcycle
,
Calipatria
and what looks like
Salton Sea.
There is nothing to suggest anything other than casual jottings so he slips the notebook back under the pillow.

“You a friend of Dale's?”

Maxon starts at the sound and the tennis ball rolls out of his fingers, to the carpeted floor where it strikes his foot and caroms under the unmade bed. The voice is gruff, but not threatening. Maxon turns and sees two men standing in the doorway of the bedroom. One, lean with slicked back hair, wearing jeans and a tee shirt looks to be in his twenties. Half of his face is covered with a bandage. The other is dressed in slacks and a checked button-front long sleeved shirt. Muscular and crew cut, he appears at least a decade older than his associate. Maxon notices the rings on nearly every finger.

“No, I'm not his friend,” Maxon says, keeping his voice steady. He consciously relaxes his shoulders. No one says anything for a moment. Maxon makes the wiry one for an ex-con. It does not take him long to realize who they are.

“So what are you doing here?” The young guy with the bandaged face. His tone is not as friendly as the older man's.

“I'm his parole officer,” Maxon says. “Who are you?”

“Bullshit.” Crew Cut says. His tone is less sociable now. Maxon looks from one man to the other. He can tell they don't believe him. The younger guy steps into the room, leaving the one with the rings blocking the doorway.

“What's your name?” the younger one asks, slowly moving toward him.

Maxon reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet. “Officer Brae.”

The gold shield causes the younger man to freeze. Crew Cut tenses up. Maxon knows they're thinking the penalty for killing an officer of the court is not something they want raining down. Officiously, Maxon slaps the wallet shut and crams it back in his pocket.

“When you see, Dale,” the older man says, backing up now, “Tell him his cousin stopped by.”

“Hold on a minute,” Maxon says. “No need for me to be a hard-on. Not going to cite you two for breaking in.”

“That's good,” the young guy. Nervous. Maxon sees him look at his partner, who avoids the bandaged man's eyes.

“Just want to ask you a couple of questions about Dale.” With an upward tilt of his chin, Maxon indicates that the two men should leave the bedroom.

When the three of them are in the living room, he says, “Who did you two say you say you were?”

The two visitors look at each other as if to decide who should do the talking. The older guy opens his mouth but Maxon shoots him before he can say anything. The younger man looks at the bloodstain blooming on his partner's shirtfront and watches him crumple to the floor. Dumb with shock, he faces Maxon in time to take two in the chest. The gunshots resonate in the apartment but there are no neighbors to hear them.

Briefly, Maxon wonders whether his father would have had the balls to do what he has just done. He might have ruminated on what moral wounds were worth suffering in order to achieve one's goals in the wide brutal world. But could he have done what his illegitimate son has done here in the desert? Not a chance.

When Maxon leaves the apartment, there is no one in the street. The only cars in front of the building are Maxon's and a dusty blue Impala. As he eases the Toronado on to the highway that runs north from Mecca he gives silent thanks the dead men did not look closely at the badge and see that it reads
Honorary Sherriff's Deputy.

 

Jimmy knows Dale writes things down and wants to look for anything that might shed some light on his state of mind over the past week. And he wants to have a look before anyone in law enforcement gets there. The Walther .38 he keeps for personal use is snug under a loose-fitting jacket. He pulls the truck in front of the empty complex and lets himself into Dale's condo. The living room is stifling and the air is still. He is not prepared for the dead welcoming committee splayed bloody on the floor. He quickly steps outside and glances around. Sun bakes the silent street. In the distance he can hear an eighteen-wheeler rolling south toward Mexico.

After determining no one is in the immediate vicinity, he walks around the back of the building and peers through the windows of the bathroom and bedroom to make sure no one is lurking in the unit. Satisfied the scene has been abandoned, he re-enters the condo and closes the door behind him.

Jimmy has been to enough crime scenes to know that these men have been dead for several hours. The wounds in their chests and heads have begun to congeal and flies are collecting in their nostrils and open eyes. When he sees one of the victims has a bandaged face, he immediately makes him for the husband of the woman who came to the office. Jimmy will call this in to the Sheriff's Department, but not before looking around. A quick search of the living room and kitchen turns up nothing of interest. He explores the bedroom. Under the pillow he finds the notebook. Several pages are filled with jottings that Jimmy glances through. As he is about to put the notebook down, he flips to the last page. There he sees, in Dale's handwriting, the words:
Randall, Randall, I'm a burning candle, fame and shame will be my game . . .

And that is all. Nothing else. The beginning of a note? An explanation? Jimmy has no idea and he knows the larger mystery of this last rhyme will never be clear.

Disappointed, he drops to his knees to glance under the bed and his eyes go straight to a tennis ball.

Before he leaves, he takes another look at the dead men. Wonders about the bad road that led to where they are now, their torn flesh decaying on a condo floor. The cravings that ruled them, the striving in which they were engaged, are the earthbound qualities he has been trying to transcend. He wishes Dale were here to shed light on the horrific situation. A week ago the two brothers were in this room sharing sandwiches, and now one is dead. Standing in the middle of this gory crime scene, a deep sadness spreads through Jimmy and a sense of utter despair overwhelms him for a moment.

Light glints off metal. Kneeling down, Jimmy eyeballs the gun jammed in the belt of the man with the bandaged face. It occurs to him that this is could be the weapon used in the double murder. Jimmy goes to the kitchen and returns with a steak knife. He slips the blade under the barrel of the gun next to the trigger and lifts it from the dead man's belt. Then he drops it in a pillowcase he takes from the bed. It doesn't matter to him that he is disturbing a crime scene. There is no one he trusts to get this right. He will bring the gun to the District Attorney's office himself and let them know where he found it. Then he'll tell them about the dead men.

http://WWW.DESERT-MACHIAVELLI.COM

11.7 – 3:18
P.M.

Who would have thought that springing a criminal and using him to cynically manipulate an election might be a dangerous business? Not freshly re-elected Congressman Randall Duke, that's for sure. You can bring a hyena into your home, but you can't turn him into a pet and let him play with the kids. The Randall Duke Do Anything to Get Elected Freedom Experiment ended disastrously today. After being hailed from the stage at what I can personally report was a raucous victory celebration at the Cahuilla Casino, Randall's jailbird brother Dale was driving to a waterside community on the shores of the Salton Sea with Duke aide de camp and fixer par excellence Maxon Brae, whose role in this re-election campaign, one that it looked as if Randall would lose, deserves special mention. Truly, he is Randall Duke's brain, as anyone who has been following Randall's career will tell you. Dale, who had a history of drug and alcohol abuse, is said to have had a seizure of some kind and driven the vehicle into the water where he drowned. Brae claims he tried to extricate him from the submerged vehicle diving back into the water several times but was unable to do so. Maxon, if you're reading this, send me an email because I'd like to get your valiant attempts at rescue confirmed by you. Randall Duke won't comment.