The Walk (6 page)

Buck looked to Marty for congratulations and got incredulity instead.

“What kind of puppy?” Marty asked.

“What fucking difference does it make?”

“Was it a pit bull?”

“It was a pit bull puppy,” Buck snapped. “They are just as fucking adorable as any other fucking puppy.”

“And this intruder, what exactly was he doing?”

“Climbing over the fence into the dog’s territory, that’s what, after disturbing the animal’s peace in a terrifying manner.”

“He terrified a vicious pit bull,” Marty said.

“The kid’s baseball slammed into the dog house, scaring the crap out of the dog, then the idiot kid climbed into the yard to get his ball. Okay? The point is, the dog doesn’t know a fucking baseball from fucking gorilla and did what came naturally, defending himself and his goddamn master. So what I did was a fucking humanitarian act.”

“He was your dog, wasn’t he?” Marty asked. “And he mauled a child.”

“You are missing the fucking point, asshole.” Buck stabbed the air between them with his fat finger. “I got depth of character and thousands of great stories.”

Marty was finally getting it. “You’re pitching me a series, right? About you?”

“Why the hell not? You ever see a guy like me on TV?”

Only on Jerry Springer. “Call my secretary and make an appointment.”

“We’re having our appointment right now, dumbfuck,” Buck said. “You got some other pressing engagement?”

The world had literally fallen down around them and Marty was expected to take a pitch. But he couldn’t say this was the worst circumstances under which he’d been forced to listen to TV series ideas. His male fertility specialist was examining Marty’s scrotum, feeling around his uneven balls, when he offered the observation: “Some incredible characters walk through these doors. You wouldn’t believe the hilarious stories.”

“Really?” Marty said, trying to act as if it was perfectly natural to be standing there, his pants around his ankles, a guy rolling his testicles in his hands, discussing series concepts.

“I got them all on index cards, they are absolute gold, funnier than ‘Seinfeld.’ You want to see them?”

Marty was afraid to say no, considering the guy literally had him by the balls. The situation wasn’t all that much different today, but Marty’s attitude certainly was. A year ago, his wife was sitting in the waiting room, and he could feel her yearning desperation through the walls. He needed the doctor happy. He needed his lopsided balls producing guided-missile sperm.

He didn’t need Buck.

“Look around you,” Marty told Buck. “We just survived the big one. Thousands of people are dead. The city is in ruins. Do you really think this is the best time to pitch a TV series to me?”

“Absolutely. We’re bonding. When this is all over, we’ll have a foundation to do some business together,” Buck replied. “What’s your name?”

“Martin Slack.”

“All the detectives on TV are pussies, Marty. Do-gooders who only care about helping people and don’t give a shit about getting paid. Everybody cares about getting paid, so that’s bullshit. How the fuck they make the payments on their sports cars and buy all those expensive suits if they don’t get paid? Tell me that.”

Marty was about to tell him about the last detective show he worked on, just this morning in fact, when he came down the other side of Bunker Hill, saw the Harbor Freeway, and forgot everything he was going to say. Hundreds of cars were tangled together, charred and aflame, strewn over six lanes of up-ended roadway and fallen overpasses, stretching on for miles. If there was anybody screaming or crying under it all, the forlorn wail of agonized automobiles drowned them out.

Los Angeles was nothing but the intersection of vast freeways, and Marty knew they must all look like this—a line of ants squirted with lighter fluid, set aflame, then smacked a few times with a brick.

The death toll was unthinkable. And help would never come. It was caught dead in traffic.

Marty pulled the dust mask over his nose and mouth and pondered his options. He could climb the embankment and cross the carnage on the freeway, or he could walk underneath it, where the 110 passed over 1st Street. The overpass was still standing, but who knew how stable it was? How fast could he run twenty yards? How lucky did he feel?

Buck made his choice, he was already striding under the overpass, yelling back at Marty to hurry the fuck up. Marty knew Buck didn’t give it any thought at all, he just moved forward with all the intellectual self-reflection of an amoeba.

Marty didn’t think he could wade through the mess on the freeway, but it was suicide to go under an overpass that had already been weakened by two earthquakes in one morning. So that left only one choice. Blunder on like Buck. Only a hell of a lot faster.

“Shit,” Marty muttered, than ran as fast as he could, using the ascent to give him some momentum into the overpass. He was half-way through the overpass when he tripped over a hunk of concrete.

Marty went sliding, as if trying to make first base. Lying flat on his stomach, nose to the asphalt, he heard the rumble and knew what was coming. Aftershock. He scrambled to his feet and started running again, knowing he was too late, knowing he’d be squished by tons of concrete in a second.

He ran screaming out from under the overpass, tripping again, rolling onto his back, turning in time to see a wave of fire sweeping across the top of the freeway, cars exploding like popcorn in its wake. The rumble he felt wasn’t an aftershock, it was a chain-reaction explosion rolling up the 110.

The fire moved like water, washing over the freeway and then dissipating like it never existed at all, a blistering figment of Marty’s over-worked imagination. But he knew it wasn’t. Just one more unbelievable sight in a day already too full of them.

Marty got to his feet and spotted Buck, his back to him, pissing against the cyclone fence of the half-finished, $150 million Belmont High School. If the bounty hunter saw the fire, it hadn’t made much of an impact on him, at least not one strong enough to ignore his bladder. He seemed much more interested in relieving himself on the most expensive high school in the world, its construction halted and abandoned mid-way through because somebody discovered it was built atop toxic waste. But at least the school was earthquake safe.

Buck zipped up his fly and turned to see Marty. “I got a few notes on your running. First, tie your fucking shoes.”

Marty looked down at his feet. Both shoes were untied. His glasses slid off his nose and shattered on the ground.

“Second, you run like a pansy-ass fag,” Buck said. “Are you a pansy-assed fag?”

“No,” Marty said, tying his shoes. “I’m married.”

“To a woman?”

“Yes, to a woman.”

“Was she always a woman?”

Marty glared at him, saw Buck’s gingivitis grin, and stomped on his glasses, grinding them into plastic crumbs.

“That’s where I’m going,” Marty said, “back home to her. Where are you going?”

“I’m going home, too.”

They started walking again, side by side, down the nearly deserted street. Where was everybody? After a moment, Marty asked Buck: “Where’s home?”

“Hollywood.”

“You got anybody waiting for you?”

Buck shook his head no.

“So what’s your hurry?”

Buck gave him a cold look. “Where the hell else would you go?”

Marty turned his gaze ahead, where 1st Street rose again, this time as an arched, concrete overpass that stretched across Glendale Boulevard. It seemed intact, with one car stalled at the crest, but Marty wasn’t going to press his luck. He’d walk around the overpass and rejoin 1st Street on the other side of Glendale Boulevard.

“What’s her name,” Buck asked.

“Beth.”

“What’s she do?”

“She was an actress but she gave it up.”

“Did I ever see her in anything?”

“No.”

“How the fuck would you know?” Buck snapped. “You know every show I’ve ever seen? Give me some titles.”

Marty listed a few by rote. “They Eat Their Own 2, Summer Wine, The Endless Spiral.” Not the most illustrious résumé, Beth would be the first to agree. Her most lucrative gig was an antacid commercial that ran off and on for years.

“The Endless Spiral, was that the thing with Christopher Walken as the ghost assassin guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Was she the girl Christopher Walken finger-fucked in the taxi?”

Yes.

“No,” Marty replied. It was after sitting through that unbearable scene, Christopher Walken sitting right next to them in the screening, that Marty finally agreed to have a child, on the condition she’d give up acting for a while and become a stay-at-home Mom.

“I see a lot of bad fucking liars in my field,” Buck said, “and you are the fucking worst. How could you let some guy finger-fuck your wife?”

“It was Christopher Walken and they were acting.”

“That looked like a finger in her twat to me,” Buck said.

“It was a stunt twat,” Marty said. “Can we just drop it?”

Clearly Buck was enjoying himself too much to let it go, and he probably wouldn’t have, if it weren’t for the panic-stricken, Mexican man who ran up to them, babbling in Spanish. It was easy for Marty to just keep going and ignore him, but Buck stopped and answered the guy in what sounded remarkably like fluent Spanish. That stopped Marty for a moment, a moment he’d soon regret.

He understood a few of the words—Boy, Car, Trapped—and looked again at the overpass.

Marty saw now that the overpass wasn’t intact at all, it was split apart at the crest, a Toyota teetering over the jagged edge, tangled in the splintered rebar. The windshield was shattered, a body splattered on the street directly below the car.

The driver should have worn a seat belt
.

Buck shoved him. “This guy says there’s a kid in that car up there, buckled in the seat, too fucking scared to move.”

“I don’t blame him,” Marty said, starting to walk away. Buck grabbed him.

“The guy needs our help to get the kid out.”

Marty shook his head. “Do I look like Charlton Heston to you?”

“What the fuck?”

“I’m not a hero.” Marty turned away, and again Buck grabbed him.

“Maybe I’m not making myself fucking clear here. There’s a kid alone in that car up there. He’s trapped.”

“So are a thousand other kids in this city. Am I supposed to save each one of them?”

Buck let go of Marty and looked him right in the eye. “You are going to save this one.”

“No,” Marty said. “I’m going home.”

He adjusted his gym bag on his shoulders, turned his back to Buck, and headed west. Molly was enough. More than anyone had a right to ask of him. He’d done his part, he didn’t have to do any more. His only obligation was to get home to his wife.

Marty heard the click. The Dirty Harry click. The sound was almost subliminal. He knew what it was from a lifetime of vicarious experience. Although nobody had ever pointed a gun at him and cocked the trigger before, he’d heard it on TV so many times, he knew the sound instinctively.

“Take one more step asshole and I’ll shoot you,” Buck said behind him.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. Yep, Buck was aiming a gun at him for the second time today. Behind Buck, the Mexican guy was waving his hands, jabbering in a desperate torrent of unintelligible Spanish, clearly afraid he’d been terribly misunderstood.

Marty spoke clearly and slowly.

“I’ve been through this already, Buck. That’s why my backpack was on fire. That’s how close I came to dying. You want to be a hero? Go for it. I hope you survive, but I can’t risk it again. I have to make it home, for my wife. That is my moral obligation. Okay?”

But Marty didn’t get anything back from Buck and he’d be damned if he was going to argue about it. So Marty just started walking.

And Buck shot him.

Marty heard the unbelievably loud gunshot the same instant he felt the scorching punch in his shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him off his feet.

His shoulder was burning. He touched the bloody tear in his jacket and, his ears still ringing, stared back at Buck incredulously. “You shot me?”

“I grazed you,” Buck said. “Don’t be a pussy.”

Marty’s fury overwhelmed his pain. “You don’t have any one, it doesn’t matter if you get killed trying to save everybody. There’s no one waiting for you, no one depending on you.”

“That kid is,” Buck said. “Look around you, asshole. You’re alive. You have two good arms and two good legs. Your fucking obligation is to help everyone you see, whether you want to or not. So, you got a choice. You can die a hero trying to save that kid or you can die a coward right now. You decide.”

Marty glanced up at the car, creaking in the breeze, then at the bloody lump on the pavement. In a few minutes, if he gave in, that could be him. Only with a car and maybe the entire overpass on him. Even the homeless were smart enough to flee from the fractured overpass, leaving behind their flea-ridden mattresses, piles of soiled blankets, and plastic bags of garbage.

The crumbling overpass, the swaying car, they were death traps. Attempting this rescue, without the necessary equipment or any experience, was suicide.

It was like all those stories he’d read in the LA Times, the ones about people who drowned trying to save someone who fell through ice or got sucked under the sea by a riptide. Instead of one unfortunate person dying, three or four would-be rescuers inevitably sacrificed their lives as well.

Those stories, buried in the bottom corner of the back pages, always struck Marty as sad, tragic, and stupid. He liked to think that if he were in one of those situations he’d know to choose survival over unthinking heroism, no matter how wrenching that decision would be.

But he’d never been in one of those situations.

He also never had to make a decision at gunpoint before.

It changed things.

“Put the gun away.” Marty said.

Buck kept it on him.

“Put the fucking gun away,” Marty yelled. “I can’t think with that pointed at me.”

“There’s nothing to think about.”

“Do you know how to get the kid out without knocking the car over the edge? Do you, you fucking psychopath?” Marty stared at him, at the blank look on his face. “I didn’t think so.”