Drawing Dead (5 page)

I groaned. We all laughed. And so the conversation went. No more dangerous asides into Daddy’s suspect psyche. And in the end, thoroughly sated, we staggered out, complaining bitterly about the abysmal quality of the several pounds of food we’d just finished avidly scarfing down.

We flagged a cab back to the house.

The taxi smelled of sweat and shawarma.

It got us home.

I was exhausted. I went straight to bed.

On the way, I passed Melissa.

Ten, twenty times a day I passed her. Long legs curled beneath her. Long black hair. Green eyes. Beautiful. Alone.

I wasn’t hallucinating. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Melissa was still there. I’d get a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye. She’s alive. On the couch. Just like always. I hadn’t moved anything in the living room since she died. It was almost like a religious thing. It was as though if I disturbed anything, it would kill her. Again. Kill her ghost. What-ever. I don’t know. I wouldn’t let anyone go in there. It was like a shrine, maybe. Something like that. So we lived in the kitchen. Me, when I was alone, which was most of the time. Kelley and Peter and me, when they were in town from college, Peter attached to Kelley like a lizard on a rock. A gaudy lizard that never stopped talking.

Those were still the best times. When Kelley was there, I didn’t need anything else.

And then she’d be gone again. Gone too long. Longer, it seemed, each time.

She had to be, of course. She had to go to college. Make a life.

She used to say, when she was young, that she never wanted to grow up.

Now I understood what she’d meant.

I
MET
B
UTCH FOR DRINKS AFTER WORK
. His work. I didn’t have any work. Which was how I liked it.

Butch had brought me a present.

He’d never given me a present before.

Here, he said, I brought you a present.

He handed me a leather box. It was an old leather box. Dark brown, distressed. Brass hinges. There was a crest embossed on it. It looked like a double-headed eagle, with something in its claws. I couldn’t make out what it was, the thing in the claws. The box was old. The crest was worn. It looked to be in the art deco style.

I’m touched, I said. A leather box.

Open it, stupid, he said.

I opened it.

Inside, encased in faded purple velvet, was … a gun.

You’ve got to be kidding me, I said.

Why would I be kidding you?

I’ve never used a gun in my life. I’m anti-gun. Guns kill people. People don’t kill people. Guns kill people. I’ve never even held a gun in my hand.

It’s never too late to start.

I wouldn’t even know which way to point the thing, I said.

Don’t worry about it. You’ll learn. I’ll take you to the range. Show you everything you need to know. Where the trigger is. All that.

Jesus, I said. I don’t know about this.

Rick, you’ve got a client now.

We’ve got a client.

We’ve got a client. So, we start getting serious.

For all I know it’s a peeping case, Butch. Take a few snaps of Daddy Bigbucks porking the housekeeper. Who’m I going to shoot? With a gun.

Daddy points a shotgun at you, Rick. What’re you going to do?

Run like hell, I said. Bob and weave. Call 911.

Yeah, that’s probably the best. But there are other situations.

Name one.

I don’t have to. Use your imagination.

I can’t take this, Butch. I mean, the gun I can’t take. Okay, I’ll take it. But I’ll put it up on the mantle. Admire it.

It’s a nice piece of work.

I wouldn’t know. But it looks pretty.

It’s a Mauser P-38 Eagle. German police issue. Original case. Military blue finish. Prized in certain circles.

Not my circles.

Listen, Rick, this is a very special thing I’m giving you.

I appreciate it, Butch. I really do. It’s a beautiful thing. But … I’m not going to use it.

Yes, you are. You’re going to do it for me.

For you?

Yes, for me. Remember when we went to the FitzGibbon kid’s loft? What did you do?

I stood guard at the door.

You cowered at the door. You pretended to guard it. But what you really did was cower behind the door. While I, and your girlfriend, went in.

Okay, I cowered. But I cowered really well.

It was a fine bit of cowering. But what if next time the kid hasn’t sawed himself up with a ninja sword? He’s standing there with Daddy Bigbucks’ shotgun that he stole the night before? He blows off my kneecap? What happens then?

I run. Bob and weave. Call 911.

The fuck you do.

All right. I don’t. I scramble upstairs after you. I draw my gun. I twirl it around my index finger. Three times for luck. I shoot from the hip. Hit the kid right between the eyes.

Now you got it. Get dressed. We’re going to the range.

I
DIDN’T THINK THERE WERE ANY GUN RANGES IN
M
ANHATTAN
. Turned out I was wrong. There are gun ranges in Manhattan. But Butch didn’t want to be seen in any of them. Cops hung out at gun ranges. And giving civilians shooting lessons wasn’t a part of his job description.

We went to Hoboken. The west end of Hoboken. Out where the condos hadn’t gotten yet. A bleak little street of potholes and bad memories. A couple scrap Dodge Darts, circa 1975, rims on the sidewalk. A stack of rusting fifty-five-gallon drums, sitting in a vacant yard in a pool of something reddish-brown and with that greenish rainbow sheen that tells you it’s probably best not to inhale in the general vicinity.

And a one-story building constructed of slowly dissolving red brick, the windows covered in tar paper. A hand-lettered sign that once may have been yellow.
Gun Range and Tackle Shop
, it said.

Let’s buy some worms, I said. Go fishing.

Get out of the car, said Butch.

I got out of the car. We went up to the front door. Fading green wood and rusting steel.

The front door was locked.

Closed, I said. Let’s go home.

It’s not closed, said Butch. Let’s go around back.

It’s closed, Butch, I said, walking towards the car.

Get the fuck over here, he said.

I got the fuck over there. It was against my better judgement. But I did it.

The building was narrow from the street, but stretched at least fifty yards back. At the rear was a tamped-down dirt lot, a wooden slat fence, gray from the years, fallen down in several places. More steel drums. Three shiny new police cars, parked in a neat row.

You see that, Butch? I said. Now we really got to get out of here.

Shut the fuck up, Rick. They’re Hoboken.

Butch. All this profanity. It’s making me feel … unloved.

Butch ignored me. Opened the screen door.

Yo, Butch, said a voice from deep inside somewhere. Where you been?

I been around, Butch said.

I followed Butch into the dark.

Who’s your friend? asked the voice, the owner of which I couldn’t make out in the gloom.

Him? said Butch. That’s my buddy Rick.

Rick, said the baritone. Please’ ta meetcha.

The pleasure is all mine, I said to a hulking shadow that was gradually materializing in the tar-paper dark.

The shadow laughed.

My eyes adjusted. The shadow appeared to be lounging behind a long glass counter. It put out its paw. It looked about six foot five. Bald on top. Three hundred pounds of green checked flannel shirt and made-in-China blue work pants. Offered me a Marlboro. I declined. I did take the paw, though.

Jones, the former shadow said.

Redman, I replied.

Rick Redman? he asked with a raised eyebrow. The Rick Redman?

What other Rick Redman you think I’d bring you? asked Butch.

Gonna teach ol’ Rick here to shoot people? Jones asked.

That’s the plan, said Butch.

Well come on in, said Jones. Pick your poison.

He nodded to the counter. Beneath the glass was a vast rusting array of ancient weaponry. I recognized a World War II–vintage
German Luger; what I took, from the movies, to be a mammoth Colt .45, though it appeared to be missing the trigger guard and probably some more important parts as well. The rest was just hunks of once-deadly metal, interspersed with some shiny new bits. Some of the new ones were very big, very nasty-looking. One of them I thought I recognized as an Uzi submachine gun. Short. Stubby. Well-worn wooden stock. It spoke violence. I had no idea why I knew what it was. But it attracted me, in a foreshortened stubby well-worn violent sort of way.

I’ll take that one, I said.

Gonna start at the top, eh? said Jones.

No he isn’t, said Butch. He’s kidding. He brought his own.

I’ll decide when I’m kidding, I insisted. I want to try that one. I’ve always wanted to try one of those.

Rick, you are such a fucking liar, said Butch. Two hours ago you didn’t even want to touch a pistol.

I just remembered. Summer camp. We had a little Uzi squad. Loved the smell of them. Gun grease in the morning.

Rick, get out the fucking Mauser.

I got out the fucking Mauser.

I placed the box on the counter. Opened it for Jones’s inspection. He lifted the pistol carefully out of the box. Turned it over. Hefted it.

Nice, he said.

Yeah, said Butch. I got it off Spirodinov.

Yeah, said Jones. Figures. Not too many of these running around.

So, you call the Bulgarians.

As it should be. Rick, said Jones, step back here. We’ll introduce you to your new friend.

The range itself looked just like they do on T V. A row of booths, each with a mammoth set of bright orange ear protectors hanging on the wall. Long alleys running from each booth to a row of hanging targets, clipped onto a slack chain that at the touch of a red button noisily flung them back to the booth for inspection. Black silhouettes on white sheets. Mr. Bad Guy.

Jones put the gun in my hand.

I looked at it closely, as if for the first time. It had a kind of angular, well-worn beauty.

It was love at first heft.

Jones showed me how to hold it. How to point it. Where the trigger
was. Took it himself. Planted his feet. Aimed. Plugged the Bad Guy four times. Got him good.

Your turn, he said.

I took the gun. This time it felt very heavy. I planted my feet in imitation of Jones. He corrected my stance. I aimed just like I’d seen him do. He corrected my aim.

In spite of Jones’s best efforts, my first three shots vanished like gnats in a hurricane. I braced. I squeezed. I felt the backlash. Backfire. Whatever they called it. Recoil. The Bad Guy didn’t stir. No happy gun-holes appeared anywhere on him. Jones pressed the red button, retrieved the target sheet, just to make sure. Not a mark.

I told you, Butch, I said. I’m not cut out for this kind of stuff.

Keep at it, Jones said. You’ll get it right. Did you ride a bicycle perfectly the first time you tried?

I don’t remember.

Butch rolled his eyes.

Jones gave me a few more pointers. Squeeze the trigger, he said. Slowly. Evenly. Like you’re lowering a barbell, feeling the pump.

My fourth shot hit the sheet. Barely. Lower right corner. Missed the Bad Guy completely. But. The mark was there. The magic bullet hole. I’d done it. I’d shot something with a gun. Maybe there was hope for me. Maybe one day I’d be a real man.

It gave me a rush. A big, nasty I-want-to-do-that-again kind of rush.

So I did it again. I did it again and again, Butch and Jones interjecting with advice. And over the course of an hour and a half, the scattered holes in the ghosts at the end of the chain got closer and closer together. Patterns emerged. I began to feel powerful. Sexy. I was alive with the strange joy of blasting apart cardboard people with a high-caliber weapon.

It felt way too good.

Okay, said Jones, when the last Bad Guy had whizzed back to the booth, exhibiting an almost perfect bombing pattern: six clean shots within three inches of the cartoon heart pasted on the Bad Guy’s chest. Let’s get a beer.

Through a swinging door to the left of the booths was a tiny kitchen. We sat at an Arborite table. That fake-marble top, heavily chipped. The tubular aluminum legs. Chairs to match. The ones that had been there forever. Jones got out the beer.

Butch and Jones jawed. I savored the beer. I savored three more. Jones rummaged around, found an old shoulder holster for me. I wanted to pay for it. And for the lesson. He wouldn’t let me.

We were buddies now, it seemed.

Comrades in sidearms.

T
HE PHONE RANG
. At ten. Again. I was pissed. But I hadn’t been able to sleep anyway. I was too pumped from the gun lesson. When I tried to stop thinking about that, all I could conjure were visions of the World Series of Poker. Spades. Diamonds. Gold-embossed chips. Should I have folded those Jacks the other night? I had to read Sklansky again. The chapter on implied odds. Just one more time. I wasn’t sure I’d ever really gotten it. I wasn’t a goddamn math-meister. I was just a failed lawyer with a gambling problem. All right. Okay. A drinking problem, too. So sue me.

I picked up the phone.

Redman, I said.

Good morning, Mr. Redman, said a very particular female voice. I couldn’t quite place what made it so particular. But particular it was. Soft, a touch of elegance. Used to getting its way.

This is Louise Chandler, it said.

Ah, Ms. Chandler, I said, shaking my head in a useless attempt to clear it.

I gather you’ve spoken to Mr. Kennedy?

I have. How can I help you?

Mr. Kennedy has been very kind to me.

He always is.

There was a pause. Perhaps, I thought, she wasn’t used to ambiguity.

I’d like to see you today, she said at last, if you have fifteen minutes to spare.

I do. What time would be good for you?

In about ten minutes. I just happen to be in your neighborhood.

Ah, sure, I said, wondering if it was possible to make myself presentable in that amount of time.

Then I’ll see you shortly.