Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) (7 page)

Kendra looks down the bar where the bartender is reading a newspaper. The ladies in the dining room are now eating their dinner. “I'm a little confused. Where do I fit into this?”

Nadine looks away impatiently, her manner conveying slight annoyance at having to now impart such an obvious piece of information. Kendra waits for her to continue. Lowering her voice to a whisper, Nadine says, “He's close to Mary Swain's campaign and he's married. She's all family values and come to Jesus, right? So if this gets out about Hard, it's not gonna help her.”

Kendra knows the American version of politics is played with everything from pointed elbows to pointed knives but she has never been confronted with anything this contemptible. The campaign has been rough, charges and counter-charges flying, and the election is now a week away. Any advantage is gold. But erotic emails from Hard Marvin to Nadine? This is not traffic in which Kendra wants to play. Because, really, what could it do? Marvin might have problems with his own job, but how, exactly, is it supposed to damage Mary Swain? The buffed and ruthless candidate would flush him like a crushed bug.

Kendra's sense of decorum restrains her from just getting up and walking out and she dutifully pushes the conversation forward.

“What do you want me to do, Nadine?”

“I'm moving to Seattle. I need money.”

Kendra takes a gulp of her second Mel-tini, wonders how far Nadine is prepared to take this.

“Do you want to ask your husband?”

“I don't think he wants to go there. It's not like it's you and Mary Swain.” Kendra says this half-joking, wanting to relieve the tension she is feeling. It doesn't work. Her shoulders creep toward her ears. Breathing is shallow. Although she manages to remain cool on the surface, Kendra wildly calculates the possible ramifications of Nadine's startling arrival back in her life. The idea of slipping sexually charged emails to some slavering journalist in order to torpedo an opposing candidate is repulsive to her, although in the annals of campaign tactics it is hardly unheard of and even, in certain circles, admired.

“I'm looking for fifteen thousand dollars.”

Nadine is clearly a little more of an untethered trunk on a pitching deck than Kendra had realized and this is a situation she will need to handle with the delicacy of an art forger. Nadine has nearly finished her second drink—at least it's the second one she has seen her consume—and Kendra does not want there to be even the slightest possibility of a scene. She knocks back the Mel-tini, and says “Look, Nadine, I wanted to give you the courtesy of a face to face meeting which is why I'm here, but I can tell you this is not something Randall's going to go for.” Her tone is quiet, calm, and tinged with disingenuous regret. She has wrestled her panic into temporary submission. Political wives are masters of the ersatz, trained to systematically annihilate any genuine emotion or thought. As Randall's wife, Kendra dissembles as naturally as she smears butter substitute on a non-fat corn muffin.

Nadine appears momentarily deflated. Kendra watches her face for signs of storm clouds, hopes the reaction will be subdued and not lead to public histrionics. “Are you sure?”

“I think I know Randall pretty well.”

“You don't even want to ask him?”

An impulse arises in Kendra to reach across the table and slap Nadine hard across the face. She knows a swift physical strike can be emotionally satisfying but that kind of behavior will not only fail to create the desired long-term result, it will surely exacerbate the present state of affairs. “Nadine, this isn't a good idea. It's the kind of thing that can come back to bite you. You're better than that,” Kendra lies.

Nadine tilts her head and smiles crookedly. Kendra thinks she is trying for impish, but it reads more like a tic.

“Its not just Hard.” She waits for Kendra's reaction, but none is forthcoming.

“Nadine, I'm not following you.”

“I could tell them about us which I don't want to do but I could. The matching tattoos we got down in Mexico are pretty neat.”

Pretty neat?
Kendra can think of a few words to describe what Nadine has just said but “pretty” and “neat” are not among them.

“You're blackmailing us?” How can something like this be occurring, she wonders, a turn of events so cheap and tawdry. Is it not enough that she has sacrificed (temporarily, please God) her own career to perform as the smiling mannequin at Randall Duke's side, that she, a professional entertainer, articulate, ambitious, and determined, has been relegated to serving as caretaker to a moody teenager? And why did she allow herself a fling with this tanning technician who is threatening to smash her carefully constructed future like a house of toothpicks.

“That is definitely the wrong word. It's blackmail when you pay me. No one's blackmailing anybody. I would never do that. But I'd like to see you try to explain the matching kitty tattoos we got on our butts.” Nadine smiles, as if this is amusing.

“Don't do this,” Kendra says, in a tone she hopes is equal parts threatening and advisory. Kendra doesn't know Nadine well. They had become acquainted at a tennis clinic where Nadine was one of the coaches and the two of them met for coffee at Nadine's suggestion. She had told Kendra she wanted career advice and Kendra, always looking for an advantage, had assumed Nadine was better positioned in life than she actually was. Still, the vivacious instructor was energetic and fun, and when she volunteered to coach her daughter Kendra couldn't see why not. After their third lesson, when Randall was in Washington, Kendra had asked Nadine if she wanted to come over for a drink. Later she wondered what could possibly have motivated her. Boredom? Curiosity? Or simply the oppor­tunity to explore an aspect of herself she had yet to acknowledge. They had drunk wine, watched TV for a while and waited until Brittany had gone to bed. When Nadine ran the tip of her forefinger down Kendra's neck Kendra shivered but she didn't object.

Since Kendra was concerned that her daughter might see them, their subsequent encounters occurred at Nadine's place. When Nadine suggested they go on a tennis holiday to Mexico, just the two of them, Kendra viewed it as a satisfying way to get back at Randall for his myriad transgressions.

Kendra had never had sex with a woman before but after getting over her initial trepidation, she found it to be not dissimilar to being with a man: the sex became dull and soon ennui spread like the wild orange flowers that bloom in the high desert every April. When Nadine lost her job, finding work was all she talked about. Kendra was sympathetic but this was beginning to feel too much like being in an actual relationship so she ended it as gracefully as possible.

What the two women shared was more a series of trysts and Kendra's view of Nadine is not predicated on a deep well of experience with her. This lack of information suggests that the woman's behavior might now be highly unpredictable. That she is trying to peddle compromising emails is already beyond the pale. Clearly, Kendra has misread her. She had made Nadine for a party girl, not a criminal.

“Are you sure you don't want to at least ask him?” Nadine says.

Kendra looks directly at her and whispers: “This is an extremely bad plan.”

“People really like Mary Swain,” Nadine says. “They think she's sexy. Your husband is gonna need all the help he can get.”

Kendra considers this for a moment. She knows Nadine is correct on both counts. But this scheme reeks of desperate and foolish. Not every journalist would devour a tidbit like this, but what if Nadine tipped off the Machiavelli blogger?

“Bad things happen to people who do what you're doing, Nadine. Really bad things.”

“What do you mean?” Nadine says, like they're just two friends chatting.

“Use your imagination,” Kendra says. Her eyes are pitiless and Nadine seems startled by this response.

Kendra drops some money on the bar and leaves the restaurant. She almost expects Nadine to follow her out and continue their conversation in full view of the parking valet and is surprised to find herself out there alone. Her foot keeps time to the mad beat in her head as she waits for her Chinese lantern-red Mustang and when it arrives she dives in as if she is fleeing a bank robbery.

 

http://WWW.DESERT-MACHIAVELLI.COM

10.30 – 7:32
P.M.

As we hurtle toward the Apocalypse—sorry, I mean the election—lets take a moment and reflect on the Randall Duke career. He's an Army veteran and a graduate of the University of Santa Clara Law School. Randall is running for his fourth term in the United States House of Representatives. He's a member of the House Rules Committee. He's a member of the Homeland Security Committee and the Sub-committee on Border, Maritime, and Global Terrorism. And, finally, he's a member of the Judiciary Committee. But what, exactly, has he done in Congress during his time as your representative? He would tell you he has brought federal dollars and jobs to the district. He would tell you he has fought for veterans' benefits. He would tell you he has sponsored a hate crimes bill. But has his name been attached to any major piece of legislation? No, my friends, it has not.

Now lets look at Mary Swain. She's a former flight attendant on a private jet with a sketchy educational background and the mother of four young kids. We know she likes church and sports and making babies. But do we really know her? She claims to have been born in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, close to Canada, but where are the records? Mary Swain has never produced a birth certificate. I think you Blogheads will agree there is a case to be made that she is a closet Canadian and is not even eligible to run for this office. Whatever you want to say about Randall Duke, the man served in an Army bomb disposal unit under combat conditions. He is an American hero. Mary Swain, on the other hand, has excellent legs.

 

W
hen the sun drops behind the mountains but there is still light in the western sky, Jimmy leashes Bruno and takes him for a walk. Surveying the Yucca Valley spread below, he considers his older brother's latest maneuver. He knows Dale would not have been released without Randall's intercession and he also knows this wouldn't have happened if it weren't going to benefit Randall. Growing up in Palm Desert, the two oldest Duke boys had always been competitive with each other. Both were athletes and because Jimmy was the physical equal of his older brother, they were always scrapping for dominion. It was an ongoing conflict, never settled. Dale had liked Jimmy well enough, but he idolized Randall. Whether because Randall was the oldest, or the better-looking one, or just because he was less ornery than Jimmy—a boy who never backed down from a fight and wasn't above picking them—it was his oldest brother that Dale tried to emulate. Throw in that Randall did well in school, always had fine looking girlfriends, and worked two jobs in the summer so he could afford an orange 1975 Camaro with racing stripes, mag wheels, dual overhead cams, and a V-8 engine, he was the one that was easy for a kid brother to admire.

School was always a struggle for Dale and while his older brothers played varsity football and baseball, he had never made it off the J.V. Their mother was a sickly woman who read the Bible every day and despite tubercular lungs, smoked Camel non-filters. She loved all three of her sons, but she felt particularly protective of her youngest. A southern woman, Jimmy could remember the way she called his younger brother Mama's little possum. The nickname was designed to cause problems for any boy cursed with it. Dale hated the handle, resented that he needed to be looked out for. When he was around thirteen, one of his friends overheard Mrs. Duke calling Dale her little possum and next day at school teased him unmercifully. Dale went after the kid and both boys got suspended for fighting. The suspension was face-saving for Dale because his friend had kicked his ass all over the playground. That night at supper, Mrs. Duke had suggested that either Jimmy or Randall avenge their baby brother but this did not fly with their father, the Reverend Donnie Duke, who pointed out that vengeance is mine alone, saith the Lord.

All three Duke boys wanted to please their father. He and Mrs. Duke had met and married in Huntsville, Alabama and moved to the desert in the late 1960s for her delicate health. With a gift for words that he passed on to Randall, Reverend Donnie's balletic tongue made him a natural in the pulpit of the Desert Redeemer, an Assembly of God church in Borrego Springs. Everyone knew him to be a good man, not some hellfire agent of a punishing God who used the Gospels to put the fear in people, but a gentle soul who tried to teach his sons to do right. He was bereft when his wife died of cancer at forty-nine. Randall was a senior in high school. Jimmy was a sophomore then and Dale in the eighth grade and the Reverend did his best as a single parent for the next five years until a stroke claimed him at sixty-two. Dale had come home and found his father dead on the kitchen floor, two Hungry Man TV dinners burnt in the oven.

Randall was in his third year of law school at Santa Clara when the Reverend Duke went to his reward. Jimmy was at University of Redlands and Dale a high school senior. The new role as family patriarch came naturally to Randall and he got a judge to grant him custody of his youngest brother. He was renting a house with three law school friends and Dale moved in with them. At the time Jimmy was glad Randall had stepped up, but later he wondered if Dale's life might have turned out better if he had been the one to get custody. He knew it wasn't realistic; only nineteen, what judge would have placed his younger sibling with him?

Randall enrolled Dale in a local high school in Santa Clara but the change of venue did not inspire the youngest Duke to care more about his education. Mostly he hung around with Randall and his buddies. With Randall's tacit approval, the guys treated Dale like an errand boy. To pick up spending money he would do their food shopping, clean the house, and perform odd jobs like car washing or yard work. He didn't have his own bed so he slept on the dirty living room couch. He went to school when he felt like it, and his brother was too busy with his studies to supervise him.

It was around this time that Randall developed a fondness for cocaine. The first year of law school is a well-known killing floor and those who can't keep up are ground to dust and discarded. Randall was spending late nights buried in books and the coke kept him marching.

The oldest and youngest Duke brothers and their housemates lived in a quiet residential area of single-family homes and they blended in with the teachers, accountants, and storeowners who were their neighbors. Young mothers pushed baby-laden prams past children riding bikes in the shadows of old growth trees and Girl Scouts sold cookies door- to-door. It was a placid, family neighborhood. So Randall was surprised one spring night when a wild party erupted at the house next door. This was the home of a middle-aged couple, the husband a pilot for a regional airline and the wife a guidance counselor, and he assumed they were away and their college age sons had commandeered the place for a blowout. He was seated on the concrete floor of the garage with Dale while engaged in this speculation. It was after eleven o'clock at night and Randall had a test in tort law the following morning. They were on the floor of the garage because Randall was snorting lines of cocaine off an REO Speedwagon CD and didn't want to do this in the house since his roommates might ask for a line. The stuff was expensive and he couldn't afford to be generous.

It was a hot night and they had left the garage door open. The house had a driveway shaped like the letter J and the garage faced the dark backyard. The bay they were sitting in was usually occupied by a yellow '67 Cadillac but its owner was out on a date.
Sussidio
by Phil Collins was blaring at them from the party next door. Dale later told Jimmy that he liked that song, maybe that's why he was distracted when it happened.

Two headlights washed over them, a car pulling into the curved driveway. Randall was bent over the coke, taking his second hit. He looked up from the powdery tin foil in time to see that it was not his housemate's old Caddy, but a black and white being driven by a Santa Clara police officer. They later learned that another housemate had been studying for the same tort exam and had called the police to complain about the noise coming from their neighbor's place. The officer was stopping to check with the complainant before rousting the party. When Randall realized it was the police, he flew out of the garage like he had springs in his feet and was down the street before the cop figured out what was going on but Dale didn't think to run. Instead, he gathered up the tin foil and crammed it in his pocket ignoring the headlights flaring on him like a camera flash.

When Randall came to visit him in the juvenile lock-up the next day he said Dale, if I go down for this I'll never be a lawyer. My life will be over. I can do way more good for you down the line, and I mean way more, if you just take the bullet. He all but begged and then pointed out that he had never asked his youngest brother to do anything for him before this. And he never would again.

Dale loved Randall, who had taken him in when their father had died, so what could he do but his brother's bidding? There was no money to bail him out and he remained incarcerated until his court appearance.

It was while visiting him in the lock-up that Jimmy learned exactly what had happened. Dale was already skinny but he had lost weight in the four days he'd been inside. He laid it out for Jimmy how their brother had asked him to take one for the family and that he was willing to do it. Jimmy recognized the toughness his little brother was selling for the posture it was, that he was still the kid who had gotten his ass kicked all over the schoolyard. Jimmy had tried to talk him out of it, to tell him that Randall needed to clean up his own problems, but Dale was proud that he was finally in a position to provide something of worth.

The day Dale was sentenced Randall had a final exam in contract law and couldn't be there. But Jimmy was in the courtroom when Dale stood and nodded as the judge told him he hoped he would use the next phase of his life to reflect on his behavior and sentenced him to serve in the N.A. Chaderjian Youth Correctional Facility until his eighteenth birthday. Jimmy remembers watching his brother try not to cry.

Dale had used that time to become acquainted with tough rednecks from Stockton, wannabe rappers from Oakland, junior division criminals from all over northern California in for B and E, robbery, drug dealing, assault and manslaughter. He was released with a working knowledge of how to fashion a weapon out of a bedspring, with his first crude tattoo—the letters T-H-U-G on his stomach—and with a sense that life was not going to work out for him in a traditional way.

This is what Jimmy thinks about as he takes Bruno off the leash and lets him run. It's what he thinks about when he takes a shower and gets ready to go out. And it's what he thinks about when he climbs back in his pickup and heads out to meet his former associate, Cali Pasco. Randall is for Randall. That will never change.