But Nobody Wants To Die Page 3

  “Oh, great analogy,” I said. “Look, I would really love to debate this further, but I’ve had a long day and I would like to get at least a few hours of sleep before I have to talk to a retard like you again.”

  “Alright be cranky, just because you have a few boo-boos,” Jamie said.

  Jamie thought this was funny and had to laugh. I started to laugh with her but my ribs hurt too much.

  Jamie held the door open for me, “So go to bed already, why are you still standing here?”

  “Goodnight bitch,” I said. If everybody had a friend like Jamie the world would be a better place. And Nike would sell tons more shoes. “Thank you for coming to get me,” I said.

  “Goodnight, bitch squared,” she said, “and you’re welcome.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  CARLOS AND THE LAW OF THREES

  C arlos wound up sharing a bedroom with his cousin, his meager belongings taking up less than one drawer in his cousin’s dresser. His cousin didn’t seem to mind too much and Carlos welcomed the opportunity to sleep in the same bed night after night. But old habits die hard and Carlos still slept with his wallet under his pillow and his faith in humanity high on the shelf in the back of the closet, both out of sight and hard to find.

  His cousin went to high school at Bishop Gorman, a private Catholic school. His Uncle could not afford to send them both to Bishop Gorman, so Carlos wound up at the nearest public school. His guidance counselor said his test scores were good enough to put him in the sophomore class and Carlos spent the first few days trying to find his way around the maze that was Las Vegas High School.

  He spent the early mornings before school at his Uncle’s bakery, learning how to make Bolillos, Conchas, fruit filled Empanadas, and seemingly endless trays of Puerquitos, molasses, sugar and milk cookies shaped to look like piglets. Evenings were spent studying around the kitchen table. Carlos ate a lot of Puerquitos, but still did his pushups and sit-ups every night before going to bed, shadow boxing between sets, vanquishing every opponent, just like his hero, Julio Chavez.

  Maybe it was the fact that he was wearing the same shirt, washed in the bathroom sink every night, three days in a row, or the fine particles of flour that dusted his shoes that attracted them. Maybe it was the deer in the headlights look as he tried to navigate his way through the hallways, just one wing of the building bigger than anything in Coalville.

  Whatever it was, there were three of them, the leader, who was the biggest of the three, his lieutenant, a kid with a bad haircut and a Motley Crue t-shirt, and a hanger-on, who was tall and skinny, almost as thin as Carlos. They cornered him one afternoon, after the last class, as Carlos was at his locker putting his books away, trying to decide which ones he needed to take home.

  “Hey man, what is that on your shoes, is that pixie dust?” Big guy, dark hair, outweighed him by maybe seventy pounds.

  “Are you a fairy? Like Tinkerbell, huh?” Big guy said, laughing at this own joke. His buddies following his lead.

  Coalville, West Virginia, Las Vegas, Nevada, Fargo, North Dakota. The rules are the same wherever you go, he thought. It’s usually three guys, sometimes more, but never less than three. Your job is to hit the biggest guy as hard as you can. And you keep hitting him until he looks like a Red Cross blood bag with a bad leak. Then you use his ears as handles to bang the back of his head on the ground until it takes six guys with crowbars to pry you off him.

  “Maybe you’re just a faggot? I bet you’d like to suck my johnson, isn’t that right faggot?” Big guy again, moving closer, pushing him backwards with both hands, banging him against the lockers, hard enough to make Carlos drop his books.

  But Carlos knows that following these rules requires strategy, finesse, if you’re timing is off, you could easily be the one that winds up looking like twelve miles of bad road.

  So you acquiesce. You play along. You’re the poster child for Peace, Love and Whatever. You pretend you’re scared. And this is pretty easy, because you are scared. But you have to pretend you are more scared than you really are. You don’t make eye contact. You flinch when they touch you. You beg.

  “C’mon man, let me go,” he said. Pleading now, looking at the ground. He licked his lips, pretending to be anxious. But mostly you just wait, you wait for the right moment to let them know you are from West by God Virginia and they messed with the wrong guy. The wrong guy who took full advantage of the four years of free boxing lessons at the Coalville YMCA. The guy whose hero, Julio Caesar Chavez, is the best pound for pound boxer in the world.

  “Oh look Joey,” says the Lieutenant, “he’s licking his lips. I think he can’t wait to suck your johnson.”

  And Joey turns his head to nod approvingly at his second in command, smiling.

  A big mistake. Never take your eyes off your opponent, no matter how much you outweigh him by. Which means his opportunity is NOW.

  He hit Joey in the nose as hard as he could, feeling it flatten as he connected. He hit him again and then he grabbed the big guy’s shirt collar with his left hand to hold him upright and kept on hitting him as fast and as hard as he could with his right as Joey goes down. There is a lot of blood. He doesn’t grab his ears, but he does grab his shirt collar with his right hand so now he has both hands full of shirt collar, which makes it easier to bang the back of the guy’s head on the linoleum floor, the hollow sound echoing off the rows of metal lockers stretched along the hallway.

  It doesn’t take six guys to pull him off Joey, just four, but two of them turned out to be football players which should count for something. One of the guys is a teacher, who is also the Las Vegas High School swimming coach. He looks Carlos in the eye and tells him to meet him at the pool tomorrow afternoon after school. He says if you don’t show up I’ll come find you. And I won’t be as nice the next time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DAD

  I didn’t sleep fourteen hours, or twelve, not even eight. I was lucky if I got four. Between my ribs, my arm and my eye it felt like I woke up every time I breathed. I gave up trying to sleep when the morning sun filled my bedroom with light and besides, I knew I needed to call Dad to see if he could somehow connect the dots, because right now they were as few and far apart as Bibles at a Hell’s Angels convention.

  This was a call I didn’t want to make. It was at least a Christmas, a Thanksgiving and a birthday or two, since we last talked. It’s not that we weren’t speaking; it was just that every time we did the recriminations and resultant bad feelings I had about what I thought of as my miserable, screwed up childhood only made the situation worse. What we had was a DMZ, with each side lobbing a shell over every once in a while just to provoke a response. I guess it was time to fire for effect.

  “Dad, hi,” I said, “it’s me, your daughter.”

  There was a long pause. “Hi,” he said, sounding surprised. “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better, Dad I need your help,” I said.

  “I’ve been trying to help you for years, give you the benefit of my sage advice and peerless wisdom but you never took it before. What’s changed? Have you finally seen the light, the great light, the white light?” Dad loved this line about the white light from “The D.I.”, the Jack Webb movie about a Marine Corps Drill Instructor. I think he had the whole movie memorized. I wondered if all ex-marines were as crazy as my Dad.

  “Yeah Dad, I saw it. Problem was it belonged to a freight train.”

  Now he was concerned, “Are you okay, what happened?” he said.

  I’d been a cop’s daughter too long. Always answer a question you don’t want to answer with another question. “In your twenty plus semi-illustrious years as a homicide detective, the majority of which was with the Las Vegas P.D., did anyone ever threaten to kill you, promise to burn down your house, poison your dog?

  “Well not every day,” he said, “but believe me, plenty of scumbags, and crack heads talked long smack about how they were going to do this, that and the other.”

 
“I know it was not sipping Pina Coladas on the beach,” I said, “but anybody you took seriously, anybody you thought had the wherewithal to actually make good on those threats?”

  “Wherewithal?” he said. “And here I thought all that money I spent on your education was wasted.”

  “Dad,” I said, “I actually went to school on a Pell Grant and earned all that money working as a waitress to pay for my education. Nice try though. So, how about it Dad?”

  Long pause. “Just one threat I took seriously,” he said. “Alphonso, ‘Big Ears,’ Vietri. Huge case. We went after both Alphonso and Tony Battaglia. Somehow Alphonso managed to avoid prosecution, but the grand jury finally indicted Tony, “the Mouse,” Battaglia on first degree murder and conspiracy to commit murder, extortion, racketeering, the whole nine yards.”

  “The Mouse?” I said.

  “Yeah, Tony got his nickname back in New York,” Dad said, “seems coming up through the ranks every time somebody stepped on him, he squeaked.”

  “So if Tony is the one doing time,” I said, “why is Alphonso the one that threatened you? And where is he now?” Suddenly I was more worried about him than me.

  “Seems he took us coming after him personally,” Dad said, sensing my concern. “Don’t worry, I still keep tabs on him. Besides, you know Marines always sleep with one eye open.”

  “Sure Dad, whatever,” I said.

  “So,” Dad said, “are you ever going to tell me what happened, or were you planning on saving it for your death bed confession?”

  “It sounds so bizarre,” I said, “I don’t really know how to describe it. The Reader’s Digest condensed version is that a guy in a red power ranger costume tried to kill me.”

  Suddenly everything changed. No more chit chat, now it was all business.

  “This power ranger,” Dad said, “was he a big guy, maybe had a slight limp?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “big guy with a limp, thought he was funny.”

  “You still live in the projects, off Willetta?” he said.

  “It’s not the projects Dad, it’s a historical district,” I said.

  “Yeah, and your neighbors, the Ninth Street Locos are choir boys. Listen, be careful. Don’t go anywhere until I get there, and don’t open the door for anyone. You got it?”

  “Yeah Dad,” I said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good,” he said, “I’m on my way.”

  “Thanks Dad.” I said. But the dial tone was my only response.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE MARINES HAVE LANDED

  T he refrigerator was pretty much empty, unless you count ketchup as a food group, like the government does, so I feasted on stale Ramen noodles and green tea as the day dragged slowly by.

  I called Tommy, my boss, and without going into a lot of detail, explained I fell and hurt my arm and was going to miss a week or so. I spent what was left of the morning calling my clients, apologizing if need be for missing today’s session, and telling them that I’d let them know when I’d be back at the gym. Being a Personal Trainer was a great gig, but since the gym carried us on the books as independent contractors, if you didn’t work you didn’t eat.

  It was mid-afternoon when I finally heard a car pull up and peeked out the window. It was Dad’s white Dodge Challenger.

  I watched as he swaggered up the walkway, a canvas bag over his shoulder. I wondered why Marines couldn’t just walk like everybody else.

  “Hi,” he said, taking in the cast on my arm and my swollen eye, as I opened the door, “are you okay?”

  He hadn’t changed much since the last time I saw him, a little older, a little grayer, but still as solid as a Mack truck. Dad spent more time in the gym than I did, and I worked there.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said. “Come on in. The worst part is my broken rib hurts like hell.”

  He came in and reaching into the canvas bag laid two Glock M-9’s on the table. They looked spotless, like they had just been field stripped, cleaned and lightly oiled. The smell of Hoppe’s cleaning fluid brought back memories of childhood, when Dad used to clean his weapon before leaving for work and sometimes let me help. Granted it wasn’t baking cookies together for the PTA, but it was better than nothing.

  The canvas bag he took off his shoulder was heavy with 9 mm rounds for the Glocks. It made a loud thud as it hit the table.

  “What did you bring, an entire arsenal?” I said.

  “Nah, just a few things I had lying around collecting dust,” he said.

  I was afraid he had Claymores and a couple of AK-47’s out in the trunk. Dad was like the boy scouts, always prepared. Dad looked around. Everything in the house was still original Salvation Army issue. Interior decorating was never my strong suit.

  “I love what you’ve done with the place,” he said. “Couldn’t you have at least moved a few boxes around, or didn’t you want to wake the roaches?”

  With Dad, the best defense was a good offense. I quickly counter-attacked.

  “Is it true you tried to re-enlist after 9/11?” I said.

  Dad walked over to the bookcase, scanning the titles. “Yeah, they were less than thrilled by my magnanimous offer. They said I was hard of hearing.”

  “Oh really?” I said, feigning surprise. Dad wasn’t deaf as a post, but it was close.

  “I told them I didn’t want to listen in on their conversation; I just wanted to kill them.” He picked out a worn volume of Gibbon’s, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and opened it to a random page.

  “Spoken like a true Marine,” I said.

  He walked back towards me carrying the book and looked closely at my eyes. “What did they give you for the pain?” he said.

  “Just a little Demerol,” I said. I thought it best not to mention I’d been taking them like M&M’s.

  “We got to wean you off that stuff,” he said, “you’re no good to me high as a kite.”

  “I don’t think I’m any good to you anyway,” I said.

  “What are you talking about, you’re right handed aren’t you? You can still fire a weapon can’t you?” he said.

  “Dad, I don’t think we’re going to making any full scale frontal assaults in the next day or two. Maybe we should come up with a plan before we charge up Mount Suribachi, what do you say?”

  “Are you trying to tell me you want to be the brains of the operation?” Dad said, as he laid the book on the table next to the Glocks, pulled out the chair and sat down.

  “Well Dad, it seems there’s a huge vacancy at the top, know what I mean?” I pulled out the other chair with my good arm. Sitting meant I got to rest the cast on the table.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Dad said. “Besides, if it turns out that Alphonso is behind this, you’re going to need me. So, how about you start at the beginning and tell me the whole story?”

  “Okay Dad, but Jamie is coming by after work and I promised I’d tell her the whole story. Can you wait until she gets here so I only have to tell it once?” I said.

  “So when is that?” Dad said, reaching for my hand.

  “Well,” I said, “she gets off work at 4:30, so she should be here by 5:00.” I tried to remember the last time Dad had touched me.

  Dad looked at his watch, calculating the wait time. “No problem,” he said, “you know patience is my middle name.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes, but couldn’t quite pull it off. Dad was the kind of guy that if he entered a revolving door behind you, he’d try to pass you before you came out the other side.

  “Sure Dad, whatever you say,” I said, squeezing his hand. Despite our checkered past I found myself surprised that I was glad he was here.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  INVENTORY

  D ad passed the time waiting for Jamie by conducting inventory. “Geez,” he said, “your cupboards look like a ghost town. Some toothpicks, a few napkins and half a box of Cheerios that expired sometime during the Clinton administration. What in the world do yo
u eat? Lucky for you I brought the Vitamix.”

  I could see that Dad’s visit meant I was going to spend so much time rolling my eyes that I’d have to make a return trip to the ER. A Vitamix was the blender on steroids that Dad used to grind up his favorite healthy concoctions. I recalled childhood memories of waiting until Dad left for work so I could pour them down the sink. If Jack LaLanne and Adelle Davis had a love child he would have nothing on Dad.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make a trip to the grocery store to replenish your supplies and we’ll get you healed up in no time,” he said.

  “That’s great Dad,” I said, visions of kale salads and spinach and cucumber smoothies dancing through my head, “except I may need real food to help me regain my strength, know what I mean?”

  Just before Dad could launch into his treatise on, why Chicken McNuggets are not real food and how, in fact, they were indicative of the physical and moral decline of America in the 21st Century, the sound of Jamie’s car pulling into the driveway saved me.

  “Thank God you’re here,” I said, as I opened the door, “You rescued me from 101 reasons why KFC, Taco Bell and McDonald’s are undermining the very fabric of our society.”

  Luckily, Jamie and dad knew each other; in fact, I suspected he even liked her, so she was spared the usual third degree that Dad gave all my friends. Growing up, I tried not to bring anyone home unless he was at work.

  “Hello Mr. Johnson,” Jamie said, “how are you?”

  “Fine Jamie, thanks,” Dad said. “Please, call me C.R.”

  “Sure thing C.R., thanks,” Jamie said.

  The requisite pleasantries concluded all eyes turned to me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE SKINNY