Loser's Town (9 page)

‘Mom tell you it was two years ago today?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He used to love this spot,’ said Dee, speaking of her father. ‘This was our secret spot, you know. I dragged this wood up here myself to build this thing. We worked on it together all one Saturday afternoon.’

Spandau picked at the coarse wood of the bench with his fingernail.

‘Are you nervous about something?’ she asked him. ‘Just the end of vacation,’ he lied. ‘I don’t want to go back to work. You know.’

‘I thought you loved your job.’

‘I never said I loved it. I’m just good at it, is all. I don’t expect much of a future as a cowboy.’

‘Not if you keep trying to snatch off digits.’

‘I’m getting old,’ he said.

‘You always say that. You’ve been saying that as long as I’ve known you. What are you now? Thirty-eight?’

‘Thirty-eight,’ he repeated. ‘Jesus, I feel ninety.’

‘Well, that’s the problem right there. Stop feeling so damned old. I don’t feel old.’

‘You don’t?’

‘Hell no,’ she said. ‘I’m still feeling frisky.’

‘Frisky enough, I guess,’ meaning the other man, though he didn’t mean to say it.

He was jealous, and she could hear it in his voice. She hadn’t wanted to talk about this, at least not now, not here. She’d hoped they could have a quiet ride, perhaps not talk at all, just spend some rare time together.

‘What did Mama say?’

‘Nothing,’ Spandau said. ‘I just sort of figured it out.’

‘I was going to tell you.’

‘You don’t owe me any explanations,’ he said. ‘We’re not married anymore. You can do what you want. There’s nothing wrong with it.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it feels wrong.’

‘It shouldn’t. It makes sense. Or maybe it just feels wrong for some other reason.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘it feels wrong because I still feel married to you.’

She hadn’t wanted to say that, either, though that was how she felt. Spandau didn’t say anything.

‘Shit,’ said Dee. ‘What do you want me to say? You want me to be jealous? Okay, you’re goddamned right I’m jealous. But you knew that, so why make me say it?’

‘We’re not married anymore.’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not arguing with you. You want me to stop coming out here?’

‘Maybe that’s the right thing to do,’ she said, although this was something she didn’t feel, and she said it because she was angry and she wanted him to fight it.

‘Okay,’ he said.

‘It just doesn’t seem right, though,’ she said quickly, backtracking. ‘I mean, I know this place is like—’

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s probably the best thing. We should have made a clean break of it anyway. The way things are, neither one of us can get on with our life.’

‘What about Hoagy?’ she said. ‘What are you going to do about—’

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘I can put him up at my sister’s place in Flagstaff. He’ll be fine.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

Spandau dug harder at the back of the bench. Small

splinters had wedged themselves under his nail and now it was beginning to bleed a little.

‘Is he a good man?’ Spandau asked her, finally. ‘He seems to be. We don’t know each other all that well yet. But he seems like a good man.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Charlie,’ she said. ‘For some reason it always reminds me of a damned parakeet. He’s a guidance counselor.’

‘No more cowboys, then.’

‘No more cowboys.’

There was another long silence. Dee slapped her thighs and stood up. ‘Well, everything changes.’

‘Yeah,’ said Spandau, ‘and I hate it.’

She went over and put her arms around him. He held her and they remained this way for a little too long, outlasting the pretense of being innocent. She pulled away and wiped her eyes. They mounted the horses and began the ride back down.

They combed and curried the horses without speaking. When Dee finished she simply put the brushes away, closed the stall and walked back toward the house. Spandau followed a few minutes later. Mary was in the kitchen.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘We had a talk,’ said Spandau.

‘God damn it,’ said Mary, ‘I told you the secret of any relationship is not talking. That’s your problem. Beau and me worked that out a long time ago. In thirty-five years we
hardly said a word to each other. But when we did, by God, it was choice.’

‘It’s probably better if I stop hanging around here so much. I’ll move Hoagy some time this week.’

‘You’re a fool,’ Mary said to him. ‘The thing with this fella, it won’t last two weeks. It’s not what she wants.’

‘It’s up to her to decide that.’

‘You know,’ she said, ‘I hate it when people go around pretending that human beings actually know what they want. Just what goddamned evidence you ever seen of that?’

‘It’s not my place.’

‘What is your place, then? If it’s not here, if it’s not with her? You got some sort of little goddamned island paradise I don’t know about? Because you look pretty goddamned miserable to me, buster. You both do.’

‘Mary, I can’t argue about this.’

‘Hell no, of course not. You’re all set to let nature take its course. You’re going to sit back and let whatever will be will be. Ain’t that right? You go find a mountaintop, buster, and chant hari krishna while you both screw up your lives. Why don’t you do that.’

‘Well,’ said Spandau, ‘thank you for the grub. I won’t be staying to dinner.’

He kissed Mary on the cheek. She was stiff but she let him.

‘Tell her I said . . .’ But there wasn’t anything he could say. He walked out the screen door without bothering to finish the sentence.

Five

The next morning Spandau picked his way across the
Wildfire
set toward Bobby’s trailer. When he got there a large, heavy-set guy was standing outside the door. He looked like a bouncer, and Spandau supposed Bobby had finally agreed to a bodyguard. This one was big but looked as intelligent as a bowl of wax fruit. People liked to hire the big ones, it made them feel safe, though in Spandau’s experience the big ones were too slow and drew too much attention. They were okay as deterrents for over-aggressive fans, but ninety-five percent of the real job was spotting trouble before it happened and size never managed to impress a bullet. Spandau nodded to him and started to knock but the guy put his hand on Spandau’s chest and pushed him away.

‘You working for Bobby?’ Spandau asked him.

‘He’s busy,’ said the bouncer.

‘You mind if I wait?’

The bouncer shrugged. Whoever he was he wasn’t a pro, since it was drummed into every security worker that you never touched anybody first, since it could be taken as ‘initiating a hostile act’ that could start trouble and would bite you in the ass if things got legal.

There was the sound of a scuffle inside the trailer and Bobby’s voice, shouting: ‘Look, man, I don’t give a fuck! Who the fuck you think you are, you can’t—’

Bobby’s voice was cut off by a sharp grunt. Spandau moved toward the door but the bouncer stepped in his way to push him off again. When the man’s hand touched his chest, Spandau grabbed the hand and bent it backwards and down. When the guy was off balance Spandau rolled him onto the asphalt a few feet away and went in the door.

Bobby was leaning against the table, bent over and holding his stomach, struggling to get his breath. A thin, rat-faced man in a three-piece suit stood in front of him.

‘Step away,’ Spandau said to him. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Step back and put your hands where I can see them.’

‘What is this?
Gunsmoke
? You don’t even have a gun.’ The trailer door opened and the bouncer started to come through. As he was heaving himself up the steps, Spandau shoved him with his foot backwards through the door and locked it. He turned to the rat-faced man and gave him a short but hard jab to the solar plexus. The man doubled over.

‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’ Spandau said to him. ‘You okay?’ he said to Bobby.

‘Yeah . . . I just . . .’

Bobby turned and puked on the floor. Spandau looked around and found a towel. He wet it in the sink and gave it to Bobby, who wiped his mouth with it.

‘Just sit down,’ he said to Bobby. ‘You’ll be okay in a few minutes. And you,’ he said to Rat Face, ‘you stay right there. You move and I’m going to break something valuable.’

Spandau got out his cellphone and started to dial. ‘Who you calling?’ demanded Bobby. ‘I’m calling security.’

‘No.’

‘I need somebody to get over here to—’

‘I said no!’

Spandau stared at him. He was serious. Spandau put away the phone.

‘Who is this guy?’ he asked Bobby.

‘I’m a friend of his, asshole,’ said Rat Face.

‘Some friend.’

Meanwhile the bouncer had been rattling the door.

‘Richie?’ called the bouncer. ‘You okay, Richie? Richie?’

‘I think your girlfriend is worried about you,’ Spandau said to Rat Face.

Rat Face stood up to his full height and pretended his stomach didn’t hurt. ‘I’m fine, you fucking idiot, no thanks to you,’ he called through the door.

‘You want me to break down the door?’ the bouncer asked him.

‘It’s a little fucking late, don’t you think?’ Rat Face replied to him. ‘Just wait there, I’ll be out in a minute.’ He turned to Spandau. ‘You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue your ass for assault.’ To Bobby he said, ‘Who is this guy?’

‘Nobody,’ Bobby said. ‘Just a bodyguard Annie wanted to hire.’

‘You don’t need a bodyguard,’ Rat Face said. ‘You got me.’

‘And what a class act you are,’ Spandau said to him. Rat Face said to Bobby, ‘I’m going to go. You call me, right? About what we talked about?’ As he passed by Spandau he said, ‘You ever fucking touch me again and I’ll make you wish you were dead.’

Rat Face unlocked the trailer door and went out. ‘Jesus, Richie,’ said the bouncer, ‘I’m sorry, he got the drop on me.’

Rat Face slapped him. ‘Don’t you ever embarrass me like that again.’

‘Sure, Richie, Jesus, never again . . .’

‘You okay?’ Spandau asked Bobby. ‘Yeah.’

‘I thought you said you used to box?’

‘I’m out of shape, okay?’ he said angrily. ‘Who was that?’

‘Just somebody I know.’

‘You let all your acquaintances slap you around?’

‘What the fuck do you want? You filling out a form or something?’

‘I came by to tell you I’ll take the job.’

‘Swell. I don’t want you. Thanks for nothing.’

‘From the look of things, I’d say you need me even worse than yesterday.’

‘Well I don’t. I got everything under control.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Just go away,’ Bobby said tiredly. ‘Annie’ll write you a check for your time.’

Spandau sat down in a chair and crossed his legs. He looked at Bobby and sighed and shook his head and thought about walking out. Then he said, ‘What kind of trouble are you in?’

‘I’m fine. Just leave me alone.’

‘Why’d you fake the letter?’

‘Who says the letter is a fake?’

Spandau picked up one of Bobby’s popular magazines and tossed it at Bobby’s feet. ‘Nice glossy letters, cut out of
People
magazine or something. It’s probably still laying around here somewhere. Fingerprints stand out on it like 3D.’

‘Look, I don’t need your goddamn help, okay? You want me to have you thrown out of here on your ass?’

Spandau looked at him for a few moments longer. He stood up, took out a business card and wrote down a number. He held the card out to Bobby, who wouldn’t take it.

‘This is my service. You change your mind about this, you call me. Maybe you are a tough guy, kiddo, but you’re hanging around with the wrong bunch of people.’

Spandau tossed the card onto the table and left. Walking back to the car, he decided not to call Walter. Walter would either try to get him started on another job or coax him into getting the jump on a weekend bender. Walter could wait. It was a nice day, the sun was shining, and though Elvis was dead Spandau was still alive and kicking. He’d go to Santa Monica, have lunch on the beach and wait for the girl of his dreams to come roller-skating into his life. He thought about Sarah Jessica Parker in
L.A. Story
, doing cartwheels in the sand for Steve Martin. There was a lot to be said for a girlfriend who could do cartwheels, and potentially dozens of them waited in Santa Monica to be fulfilled by an older man sporting cowboy boots and a gigantic purple thumb. It was an amusing fantasy and lasted Spandau well onto Highway 405 and most of the way home.

That night Spandau sat in the Gene Autry room drinking Wild Turkey and smoking a pipe. From a bookstore in Flagstaff he’d managed to score a first edition of Mari Sandoz’s
Cheyenne Autumn
and had been waiting all week for some quiet time to read it. He propped his feet up on a hassock made of saddle leather and took a sip of his whiskey, then picked up the book and turned it around in his hands, admiring the simple brown dust jacket still in good shape under the protective cover. He’d started collecting books on the American West just after Dee left him. Until then he’d felt guilty about spending the
money – it was an expensive pastime – but now he was hooked and had accumulated a few dozen valuable copies. He justified it by telling himself they’d accompany him through a lonely and wifeless old age, and it was true the volumes had a way of lifting him out of himself, lifting him out of the quarrelsome world he inhabited. As he sat in this ridiculous room, surrounded by a dead age and smelling of smoke and leather and whiskey, full of anachronisms, readily admitting to being an anachronism himself, he could feel the perpetual knot in his shoulders unwind and his soul begin to seek its balance again. It was absurd, Spandau knew, this business of a grown-up playing at cowboys. Of pretending that time could be reset, however briefly, to a period of innocence, or that America had ever had a period of innocence at all. Wasn’t that in itself the most American of sentiments? If we had a national identity at all, wasn’t that the key to it, the belief that there was ever any sort of purity to be restored? That somehow, once, we had gotten things right, which opened the possibility of setting them right yet again. No matter where you looked there were illusions, and Spandau was tired of squinting and straining to see through the fog of it all. Perhaps in the end everything
was
bullshit, as Walter was the first to tell him. America. Cowboys. Love. All of it crap, all of it myths created to peddle something. Welcome to Hollywood, welcome to LA. He’d once heard a sociologist proclaim that, if you wanted to see into the future, take a look at Los Angeles today. Spandau
tried hard not to believe this, and he could feel his mind resisting it even now. No, some faint but redeeming voice told him, not everything is shit. Remember how it feels to ride a horse. Remember coming out of the chute and the thrill of the rope when it comes taut on the saddle horn and the sharp sudden tug and release. Remember the smell of tall grass and the brush of it against your legs as you ride through it. Remember Dee. The whole of existence might well prove to be no more than an infinite, maggoty, festering dungheap. But as far as Spandau was concerned the memories of holding Dee in his arms made it worthy to continue.