Tussinland (6 page)

“That just doesn’t sound like Paul.”

“Might be something the police should know….”

What the fuck? Now there was silence and he imagined Mavis pulling into the crummy strip mall where the meeting was held at an AA club called The Hole in the Wall. Before the meetings, people hung around outside, smoking, drinking coffee, and eating free donuts.

“Those people are so sad,” Mavis said.

“Tell me about it,” Miranda said. “There’s some great stories though. It’s not that bad.”

“Well, it’s good they have a place to go.”

Paul heard what sounded like a car door opening.

“Did you bring your attendance card?” Mavis said.

“Of course, Grandma.”

“Okay,” Mavis said, “See you in ninety minutes.”

Mavis, as usual, didn’t want to go all the way home and back. Paul was sure she went to the nearby White Hawk bar over by the Walmart to have a couple of drinks. She met a lot of her boyfriends at that place.

He kept listening but there was only the sound of wind and cars.

Wow.

He didn’t know what to make of what Miranda told Mavis. Too weird.

He thought and thought and thought about it and couldn’t think of any instance of being anywhere near that gun shop on Yosemite. Of any time he might’ve been doing something in that parking lot that would’ve looked like what Miranda said she and Logan saw. He’d never been there. Why would
he
go to a gun shop?

Was she mistaken, or lying? If she was mistaken, why would she even say anything about it today? To Mavis? And if she was lying, why the fuck would she lie about something like that? He’d always been convinced Miranda loved him. That he was her favorite uncle. Shit. There were so many times when she felt scared and hurt by her parents that Paul’d let her come over to wherever he was living with whatever wife he had at the time and he’d stay up and talk with her way into the night. No matter what. He knew that was part of why Bethany and Pete hated him so much.

He decided to go to The Hole in the Wall, have a little talk with Miranda.

His back was stiffer than ever. Took him several minutes just to stand straight and loosen himself up enough to walk. Decided to get rid of the Robitussin bottle from the night before on his way to The Hole in the Wall. He gingerly got down on his hands and knees and reached under his bed for the plastic bag.

It really hurt to do this—especially to reach far enough to grab the bag. When he got a hold of it, he was surprised at how weak he felt, at how hard it was to drag the thing out. He kept pulling and when he got it out from under the bed, he saw that it wasn’t the Walgreens bag, and that it contained a thin object, like maybe a baseball bat. He looked inside and saw that it was a shotgun, one with a very short handle and a sawed-off barrel.

TWELVE

Miranda was a couple of minutes early for the meeting. She needed to make a quick call. Didn’t want to use her phone, in case they could trace her somehow. She walked up to a guy she’d seen there before who was always staring at her from across the room. Everyone called him Yamaha Bob.

“Bob, dude, can I use your phone real quick?”

He hesitated, then reached into his pocket.

“You’ll bring it right back?”

“Come on, man, I can ask someone else. What’re you afraid of?”

He gave her the phone.

She went out and walked to the back of the mall to another parking lot. She already knew the Modesto PD number.

“Could I talk with Detective Fagan, please?” she said. “It’s about the murders of Tina Dunn and Mark Pisko. Uh huh … no … are you serious? Fuck! Sorry … sorry. Could I leave a message, like an anonymous tip? I can … great. The message is … the murder weapon is under Paul Dunn’s bed. No, that’s it. I just hope you arrest that sonofabitch.”

THIRTEEN

The AA clubhouse was a shit hole. It was in one of the most decrepit, ugly strip malls in one of the worst neighborhoods in north Modesto. On the far end of this strip was a cheap liquor store, the kind where random characters loiter out front giving out threatening looks and begging for money. The employees were a family of huge tatted Middle Eastern dudes with a steroid/bodybuilding passion who never smiled and who took
no shit
from no one.
Paul once
saw one of the owners (his name tag inexplicably read: Steve) pick up and carry an unruly customer out the front door before throwing him, head first, into the right front headlight of the guy’s own pickup truck. Steve then called his brother out so they could both watch the guy bleed.

Next to the liquor store sat a Fiji-Indian delicatessen and restaurant called Fiji Market. Who would’ve thought that for years there had been a large population of Indians living on Fiji Island and that Modesto had one of the highest populations in the U.S. of Indians who’d emigrated from
there
?

Then there was a neighborhood dive bar called Murphy’s. This tavern’s pool tables, electronic dart games, cheap drinks, big screen TVs showing the Raiders and the Niners and the Giants and the A’s, and the sweet, raspy-voiced bar maids attracted a combination of bikers, working people out for a quick drink after work or a long drunk on the weekend, younger adults out to have fun and maybe cause some trouble, the occasional single woman, and a faithful contingent of middle-aged un- or underemployed drunks. (Murphy’s was convenient for so many denizens of the Hole who’d had enough of being dry without finding any serenity, and the other way around. Places should’ve had a common passageway.)

Next was a mystery business. There was just a glass door with the words “BJ’s Electronics–Consultations, Repairs, Video Production” printed in small letters. The glass was darkened. Paul’d never seen anyone go in or out.

The Hole was between BJ’s and the Living Waters Evangelical Revival Church. The church had no cross or marquee or signs, just a large piece of poster board leaned against the front wall, proclaiming its name and that services were twice on Sundays, once on Wednesday nights, with a prayer meeting every Monday afternoon.

This church was a new addition to Paul. The last time he was there for a meeting, the space held a Hispanic Catholic book and religious supply store. Paul was briefly obsessed with buying the big round candles decorated with images of Mary and Jesus with their hearts dripping blood. He’d lit dozens of them in his room while meditating on the flames of each in turn because some hot, new-age type hippie lady at the bead shop on J Street downtown told him that that was a way to achieve some kind of blissful feeling. It worked, sort of, and sometimes the candle seemed to grow bright and huge and he’d get lost in its light, but most of the time he’d get distracted because he’d think about Jesus and Mary and why their hearts were bleeding. Paul often got off more on thinking than he did feeling.

Living Waters Evangelical Revival Church, he realized while staring at it, was the name of his brother-in-law Pete Fish’s church. So this was their new space. What a dump.

In the corner of the parking lot was a small, stand-alone ugly beige-colored cement building that housed Mr. Tokyo’s, which served both donuts and a variety of rice bowls. The rice bowls tasted rancid, while the donuts were sublime. Even though he was still full from the Sugar Frosted Flakes, Paul figured it wouldn’t hurt to get a glazed and maybe a maple bar before he left. Should be a little hungry again by then.

The Hole was behind a deceptively small, splintered, jerry-rigged brown wood door, the kind of door that had been kicked in and repaired several times. Inside lay about 3,000 square feet of gross stained carpet (there was always a donation can being passed around at meetings “for New Carpets”).

The place was packed for a noon meeting. Paul had to sit in the row of chairs in the back, by the coffee bar, away from the main table. He didn’t see Miranda anywhere. Happy Harry, a man with twenty-seven years of sobriety (Paul knew this because he always said that he was “twenty-seven years clean and sober,” or had since his last birthday) was on a roll.

“One thing I’ve learned from all my years in these rooms,” he said, “is that nothing that happens to me is any of my business. It’s my higher power’s concern, not mine. My job is to just do the next right thing and let all that other shit go, to let my high power, who I choose to call God, take care of the results of my actions. Now, you may be all into the Serenity Prayer and shit, and sure, it’s a good prayer and all, but I prefer the short version, which is this: Fuck it. And that is why I’m Happy Harry, grateful sober alcoholic for twenty-seven years.”

Paul looked around for Miranda as everyone clapped enthusiastically for the popular Harry. He knew that she couldn’t get her card signed until the end of the meeting—AA people took that seriously, so she must’ve been around somewhere.

“I’m Yamaha Bob, and I’m an alcoholic, an addict, and a liar,” said a guy sitting near Paul. He was a little guy, barely over five feet tall and so skinny Paul doubted he weighed 120 pounds. He rode a Yamaha, which made a lot of the Harley/chopper-riding club members hate him. He
was
quite a liar, too. He once told Paul that he was a Secret Service Agent during the Nixon administration. Dude was barely thirty.

“My first sponsor used to tell me that we all had to work our own program, that if we worked someone else’s program, we’d wind up drunk. So I’m not saying that you all are full of shit, just that what you’re saying works for you might not work for me, and if what you’re saying is just some crap your sponsor told you and not your own original shit, then you just might be setting yourself up to fail. That’s all I’m saying.”

Bob kept going, which was the cue for a lot of people to go the toilet or to go outside for a smoke. Paul decided to find his niece, as she wasn’t at the meeting.

He went out the side-door. There were clumps of people all over, mostly grungy men, standing around, smoking and talking. There were some cute young women here and there alone that Paul had found could either be there because they were serious about their sobriety or because they were looking for drugs or tricks. It was in the mid-90s by now and most of the drunks were in shorts and t-shirts, except for the bikers, who always wore jeans, chaps, boots, and heavy leather jackets no matter what. Over against the wall near the door to BJ’s, middle-aged spandex-pants-clad Cleo Closing Time (self-named because when she was drinking she was always available at closing time), was talking intently to her weeping daughter Laura (no nickname, but when she first started coming around her name was Leo) and he could hear Cleo whisper/shouting at her “Just walk through it, just walk through it, just walk through it.”

Alcoholics and addicts were everywhere he turned, but no Miranda.

Paul didn’t feel like going back to the meeting yet. Looked over at Mr. Tokyo’s and decided he was hungry enough for a doughnut or two. As he walked over, he saw some people walking out of Living Waters. Four men, all nicely dressed in slacks and dress shirts. Two of them had ties. They all had neat, short haircuts and carried little black-leather covered bibles. They did
not
fit in at this strip mall.

One of the dudes in a tie was the Reverend Pete Fish. They all stopped to admire a newly painted sign that had just been put up. The poster board was gone. On the new sign was a new name: The Church of God’s True Word.

Paul kept walking to Mr. Tokyo’s. Pete went back into the storefront church and the other three followed Paul. He didn’t think Pete noticed him. Pete didn’t notice much of what was real.

This wasn’t a good time of day for donuts at Mr. Tokyo’s. Shit. They hadn’t made any fresh ones since mid-morning, and most of the good ones were sold out. They wouldn’t start making them again for a couple of hours. Now was rice bowl time.

Oh well. He picked out a pretty good-looking chocolate cake with coconut, and a chocolate bow tie (twisted-bar with thick chocolate frosting and tiny chocolate chips). He took his treasures and a cup of coffee over to a plastic table by the window facing the strip so he could keep his eye out for Miranda.

Pete’s three friends from church all got rice bowls, coffee, and cherry slushes, and sat down under the TV that hung from the ceiling. Paul always noticed that fundamentalists and evangelicals ate a lot of junk food. These guys were all kinds of fat and doughy-looking, even fatter than Paul, and, unlike Reverend Pete, who was lean and still in peak condition from his military days. They all sat down together under the TV that hung from the ceiling. Usually it was tuned to the local NBC affiliate, but today, for some reason, it was set on Fox News. Great. Paul knew those doofuses would enjoy it.

Paul couldn’t stop looking at these guys. Before they ate, the biggest one led the rest in a loud prayer. By the time he was done, they and Paul were the only customers left.

One of the Fox anchors was going on and on about the overturning of California’s Proposition 8 by the local U.S. District Court, a decision that had been approved by the California Supreme Court. Now the backers of the anti-gay marriage proposition were trying to appeal that ruling with the U.S. Supreme Court.

“This is such a good example of the power of Satan on the earth,” the biggest of the Christers said. “If we don’t do something, fags might really be able to get married in California.”

“Amen, Vernon,” the smallest one said. “Much prayer will be required to maintain the sanctity of marriage.”

“Next thing you know, someone will be wanting to marry his dog.” This intelligent statement was from the third guy, who was wearing a purple polo shirt.

“You guys are so full of shit,” Paul said.

Vernon and the purple polo guy looked over at him.

“What?” Vernon said. “Did you say something?”

“I said, you ignorant homophobes are full of shit.”

“What’s a homophobe?” Vernon said to his friends. “I keep hearing that word.”

“It’s supposed to mean we’re afraid of fags or something,” the small guy said. “Like we’re phobic of homos, get it?
Homo
phobic.”

“I’m not afraid of queers,” Vernon said. “That’s stupid.”

“Hold on,” purple polo shirt said. He stared at Paul. “Are you in favor of queers getting married? To each other?”

“Definitely. Why not? If they love each other. I’m all for it. But I wouldn’t call them queers or fags. That’s disrespectful.”

“Wait a minute,” said the smallest one. “Now you’re saying faggots deserve respect? Haven’t you read the bible?”

“Fuck the bible,” Paul said.

Purple shirt got up and came over to Paul’s table.

“What are you,” he said, “some kind of faggot? Is that why you care so much?”

God, Paul hated these people. He had no patience with them. None.

“That’s right. I’m gay, I’m a queer, I’m a faggot, a butt fucker, cocksucker, sodomite.”

Vernon and the small guy got up too. They walked over to Paul’s table carrying their bibles.

Paul wasn’t scared. What were they going to do? They had bibles. Their church was a hundred feet away.

“Brother,” said Vernon. “Why don’t you let us sit down and pray with you?”

“Why don’t you kiss my faggot ass?” Paul said. That felt good. The three looked at each other.

The big guy started to smile. “You know what Reverend Pete said?”

The other two stared at him, then at each other.

“He says he’s a fag, a queer,” Vernon said. “Wants perverts to marry.”

“That’s right,” purple polo shirt said. “We’ve talked about this.”

“It’s our duty as Christian family men,” the big guy said.

Paul was starting to feel frightened now. He wished he hadn’t said anything.

Vernon smiled. He turned to his friends. “Let’s do this.”

The three of them rushed at Paul. Knocked his coffee into his lap. While Paul was dealing with the pain, Vernon and purple polo each grabbed one of his arms. The small guy grabbed his feet. Paul kicked and twisted and tried to get away but they were all too strong. Plus, there were three of them. And they had the power of their religion.

They dragged him outside. Paul couldn’t believe it. He kept kicking and squirming. He looked into their eyes and they seemed so happy and excited. His head knocked into and bounced off of chairs, tables, counters. No one seemed to care about that. Mr. Tokyo had disappeared, probably into the back.

The small guy held the door open. He smiled down at Paul. He motioned for them to follow and walked around to the back. Paul screamed and Vernon hit him in the mouth. Paul couldn’t believe it. Vernon seemed to like it because he did it three more times even though Paul stopped yelling.

Something awful was about to happen. He knew that. Life became very still. Time nearly stopped. He felt the heat and smell coming off the sticky, oily, dirty pavement. He heard his attackers breathing and cars going by on Sylvan Avenue.

“Okay,” Vernon said. “Let’s prop him up against the wall.”

They propped him up. Until then, he hadn’t noticed his back hurting, but now he could feel it seize and spasm.

“So, is that right?” Vernon said. “Are you a fag lover?”