Start Shooting (42 page)

In the hall, Sister Mary Margaret leads White Flower past the door. Da leaps to the doorway screaming, “Aye, deport the hoor, ya should. Thievin’ hoors got no business in a saint’s school.”

Coleen wets her pants and hides into my shoulder. Our parish priest appears at the door, “Francis Patrick Brennan, that’ll be enough.”

Da pays Father Crosby no mind. “Both you get home. It’s a job and the belt you’re needin’, not a hoor’s school.”

Father Crosby steps between us and Da. “Your girls will be in the church, praying Hail Marys. I’ll see ’em home when it’s time.”

“The hell you say.” Da gives us the glare; we run all the way home
.

Coleen and I never saw White Flower again. After Coleen died, I asked Sister Mary Margaret about White Flower. She shook her head, eyes on her hands, and said, “A sorrowful, sorrowful thing.” Sometimes I thought it was me who was in the argument with White Flower, but I can’t remember. Didn’t want to remember.

Cold metal taps my cheek. My eyes jolt open. White Flower says, “Do you see? How all things end at the beginning? Same week as Moens began to search for me, Dr. Ota appeared on TV for the new Olympic bid. I’ve not see him since Saigon.” White Flower raises the barrel at Sister Mary Margaret. “And while I watch Dr. Ota, now rich and powerful,
forty years later, I knew what to do.” White Flower shoots Sister Mary Margaret in the face. My nun catapults backward. Her knees hit the bottom of the table; she jerks back and slams face-first into the tabletop.

I jolt out of my chair, catch a foot, and splatter on the floor. Ruben mumbles,
“Chingada madre,”
and jumps behind the cases of money. I roll to stand, choking on blood mist and roar.

White Flower motions with her gun. “To the table. Everyone at the table.”

None of me moves.

Lý aims at my chest. “Or I must kill you.”

Nobody speaks. Blood drips off the table. Cordite mixes with copper air and adrenaline rushes. I climb into the chair, scrape it sideways but not closer to the table.

White Flower stares. “The Brennans age well.” She taps the table with her vial.

“No. No.” I shrink from the vial. “Don’t do that.”

Behind me, Ruben says, “Yeah, don’t do that.” His voice is sharp, parental. “Give the vial to our friends and let’s be on our way.”

White Flower looks past me to Ruben. “Do you wish to tell her?”

Silence, then Ruben says, “No kiddin’ now; give the vial to the nice Japanese people and quit jerking around. This isn’t the nail salon. You’re rich. Act like it.”

“I will tell her then.” White Flower points her gun at my face. “Your sister died because of you, because you and she lied about me. Because your father fucked you, you afraid. You lied about me, and my life in America is over before it starts.”

Ruben barks, “That’s enough. Give them the vial.”

Lý uses two fingertips to hold the vial four feet above the floor. “I will give them the vial. I give it to everyone.”

Ruben: “Don’t do that—”

“Then you must tell. Make pretty Arleen Brennan happy like she made me.”

Silence. Ruben says, “Dupree may have raped your sister but he didn’t kill her.”

I turn my head to Ruben’s voice. White Flower says, “Yes, Dupree
raped her, or tried—he and his friend. But he did not kill Coleen. She was alive when we scared them off. We tell her we can help her. She was very scared. Very scared. Like you now.”

I turn back to Lý’s mental-patient voice. She’s still dangling the vial, still aiming the pistol at my face. “You killed Coleen?”

Lý smiles the smeary Baby Jane paste-on smile.

“Did you?”

Ruben’s voice: “If you’re gonna shoot her, shoot her.”

“I helped pretty Coleen into a better purpose. Where she can make apology for her lies. Ruben assist me. Remember? Ruben and I are alibi for each other. We stayed with Coleen until winter freeze and her wounds kill her—she was very, very hurt; very, very scared—then Ruben took credit with the Twenty-Treys. He is initiated. All good for everyone.”

I lunge for the vial. White Flower fires. The bullet twists me sideways and the vial flutters between us. I land on the floor. Ruben fires across me and White Flower jolts off her feet. Ruben steps over me and shoots White Flower again. I palm the vial off my stomach and roll fetal.

Hurts bad to breathe. My ribs burn; blood soaks my dress; pumps on my arms. Ruben straddles my hips and aims at my head.

“Sorry,
niña
. Nothing personal, but … no Shubert after all.”

The Tyvek suit to Ruben’s right yells a muffled, “No!” I roll away from Ruben’s gun; he fires. Concrete explodes by my head. The Tyvek shoots Ruben twice, spins, jams the pistol into the Twenty-Trey behind Ruben and fires twice. Machine guns roar. I crawl over Ruben and past White Flower. Starburst flames light up the dark. The vial is slippery in my hand. At the playground doors, I reach to push one open. The door and glass shatter above me. I push hard, wedge through at the bottom, and crawl out into pounding thunder.

Lightning rips through the black. Alone in the sky, St. Dom’s Gothic spire is backlit in the storm and towers above me. I jolt away. Lightning and thunder pound again. The Chevrolet’s front bumper flashes twenty feet ahead.
The Shubert
. I can still make the Shubert. Hurry.

I stagger to standing, lurch to the Chevrolet’s fender, land hard but don’t break the vial. My blood helps my hip slide fender to the door. I fight the driver’s door open and crawl into the seat. The windows of
St. Dom’s are flash and roar. My key twists in the ignition. The spire’s jagged shadow swallows the car. No! I can get to my audition. Coleen and I will be stars; we’ll be the girls who made it out of the Four Corners.

Machine-gun bullets rip linoleum and plaster. My brother and his banger are sprawled at my feet. Hahn fires at a flame signature on my left; the Japanese woman fires at it from the table. Her man covers the package with his chest. One machine gun is down, another sprays the lunchroom until his clip empties. Hahn arcs left toward the shooter; I arc right, both of us invisible without the muzzle flashes. No other machine guns fire. On the playground side, Hahn stumbles or falls. The machine gun fires at her. I empty my pistol twelve-inches right of the flame. The flame jerks up into the ceiling and quits.

I rip off the Tyvek helmet, still can’t hear, then creep darkness one hand in front, toward where the last flame signature was. Lightning cracks outside and flashes the floor thirty feet in front of me. A shape is prone, not moving. My pistol’s empty. I extend it anyway, wait for a lightning flash, see the machine gun, kick it away, jump on the figure and smash his head with my forearm. He’s short, Hispanic, and dead.

I yell for Hahn. “Shooter’s down.”

My echo answers.

I grab the machine gun, dump the clip, feel bullets, but no idea how many, slam the clip back and creep darkness back toward the trolley. No one fires. Ruben’s gunmen are dead, out of bullets, or gone. I make the trolley and duck behind it.

Lightning flashes—my brother on his back. I drop to both knees.

“Ruben. It’s me.”

Nothing, motionless.

I rip off a Tyvek glove and squeeze his wrist for pulse, then his neck.

“C’mon, Ruben, help me.” I press hard on his chest, then harder and harder. Ruben’s blood covers my hand. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t do anything.

“Ruben!” Tears well through the adrenaline. I hug Ruben to me hard as I can. Lightning flashes his face cradled against my chest, his brown eyes staring up at me. “Ruben!”

My brother Ruben is dead. I killed him.

Voices.

A penlight is lit on the other side of the trolley. Hahn and the Japanese woman face each other, pistol to pistol across the table. The woman’s Tyvek suit has two bullet holes. Hahn’s neck is bloody and gripped by her left hand. Hahn says, “I’m taking the money.”

Japanese woman: “No. One vial is missing. Arleen Brennan must give it.”

I scan for Arleen, wipe at the tears and smooth Ruben’s hair. “It’s okay,
carnal
. The vial didn’t break.”

The Japanese woman glances to my voice. Hahn shoots her twice, jumps left, and jams her pistol into the Japanese man covering the Hokkaido package. Hahn says, “I’m taking the package.”

The man doesn’t move. He has one bullet hole in the back of his helmet and a screen full of blood. Hahn gingerly pulls him back to sitting and he slumps in the chair. The package is intact. Hahn glances at me cradling my brother on the floor and levels her pistol at my chest. Instead of finishing her mission, she says, “Those cases have $18 million. The Koreans believe it’s theirs and they know Arleen’s name. I’ll give you three mil. Take one case, find your girlfriend before the Koreans do, and bury your brother.” Pause. “Or start shooting.”

My finger tightens on the trigger.

So does Hahn’s.

Dizzy. Rain pounds in sheets.

My Chevrolet’s front wheel is on the sidewalk under the Shubert’s marquee. The doors to the theater are locked. I pound the glass and yell: “Hello? Hello?” Cough. Swallow. “Out here. Hello?” The lobby’s dark and no one answers.
But I’m in time
. I’m not too late. I use both hands to peer; the glass smears red. Sarah’s not here. Having trouble
keeping my breath. I wipe at the blood smears on the glass. My knees begin to give. I swivel my shoulders to the doors and slump to a pile. Breathe deep.
Pro-ject
. I try to stand but can’t. But I’m here, under the marquee lights, in time. Swallow. When the director comes and Jude Law and Toddy Pete … I’ll be here ready to go on.

I reach for my phone. No purse. I want to call Bobby, tell him to come watch me win. We’ll go out after. Be great. Pizza and Guinness. I touch my dress. Lotta blood. Blanche will have to wear a sweater.

Where is everyone? They should all be here; this is important.

Lightning crashes through the rain. A car screeches to the curb behind mine and up onto the sidewalk. Sarah! No, it’s Bobby Vargas. Bobby made it. He kneels, eyes glisteny, and touches my shoulders.

“C’mon. The Koreans know your name; they’ll be looking here. We gotta get you to a hospital.”

I wince back. “No. My audition. Right now.”

He blinks, looks up at the marquee, then stares at me, touches my dress, then my arm. His voice is a whisper. “I didn’t know what Ruben did to Coleen. I didn’t. I’m so sorry. I just didn’t.”

Ruben? Ruben’s not in
Streetcar
. I finger at the spacesuit Bobby’s wearing, the blood splattered on it. “Why are you wearing a spacesuit?”

“That was me at St. Dom’s, at the end. C’mon, you’re hurt.”

He lifts at me. “Oughh! Stop; I have to stay. To meet Sarah.”

“No, honey, listen. Sarah’s not coming.”

“Yes, she is! She is. She has to—”

“No, honey. They found Sarah in the backseat of a Corvair. Your number was the last one she called.”

Blink. Swallow. “She’ll be here. Eight o’clock.” Bobby puts both hands on my face. “They postponed the audition for an hour so you can clean up, give it your best shot. Okay? Let’s get you cleaned up so you can win.”

“I can win, Bobby, I can. Coleen and I will win this time. Ruben can’t stop us.”

Sirens wail; lightning flashes like cameras. I made it. I’m under the Shubert’s grand marquee on opening night; finally the right place, the right time. Coleen and I get our chance.

Bobby helps me to my feet. In the rain, the brilliant lights of the Shubert’s
grand marquee are reflected in the glass building across Monroe Street.

RITA BLANCA NATIONAL GRASSLANDS
           
Oklahoma–Texas Border, Two Days Later

I’ve had forty-three hours to justify killing my brother, the brother who taught me everything I know about being the police; the brother who raised me after my father died, who protected my mom and a neighborhood of people the system failed or outright abused. I shot him twice, not once. One, he might have survived. And that wouldn’t be right.

I stopped crying in southern Iowa—for him and for Coleen—then slept in fits at a rest area when my eyes couldn’t take any more headlights. Mostly I’ve driven parched, dusty back roads by day and anonymous, dark interstates by night. Fifteen hundred miles of blurred America while Arleen cried in her sleep or stared blank-eyed at her window. We’ve made four stops for gas, plastic-wrapped food, and maps. I’ve stolen license plates in Iowa, Oklahoma, and Texas, and against all reasonable odds, Arleen and I are still free.

The Chicago Doc-in-a-Box visit cost us ten thousand, but he patched Arleen’s side and gave me a bottle of painkillers to keep her calm. I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted a dope vacation more, but someone had to drive. I wouldn’t say we’ve been the best company. And I wouldn’t say that the pixie dust I hoped for has been anything but dust.