When It All Comes Down to Dust (Phoenix Noir Book 3) (11 page)

O
n Monday morning, David was sitting in his office, reading the A.P. wires online, when his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the caller I.D., and he thought it might be Laura calling to tell him how her first day at the new job was going.

It wasn’t her. It was a Mesa homicide detective who’d been one of David’s sources for a while. The reason the phone number was unfamiliar was that he was calling from a public phone because he didn’t want his association with David appearing on any records, even private cell phone records.

“I though you’d want to know,” he said. “It looks like Mad Marky got what was coming to him. I guess the narcos don’t like the bikers competing with them, so they made an example of him.”

“Is he dead?”

“Sounds like it. I’m on my way to his house. That’s where he is.”

“Thanks. I’ll head over there now.”

“When you get there, you don’t know me any better than you should.”

“Of course. Thanks.”

“You owe me.”

“I know it. See you in a bit.”

David ran out of the building, stopping for ten seconds at his editor’s desk to tell him what he’d heard. He got on the freeway and drove as fast as he could without killing himself or someone else, watching for cops who might pull him over. When he got to Marky’s house, a few cops were in the front yard, and the yellow tape was in place.

“Is he dead?” David asked a uniformed cop.

“Yeah.” The cop’s voice shook. David had heard about what the Mexican drug traffickers – the
narcotrafficantes
– did to those who threatened them, and the sound of the cop’s voice and the look on the cop’s face made him want to walk away.

He stepped over the tape, ignoring the cops who told him not to, and walked up the driveway, where he saw the guy who had called him and who was obviously in charge of the scene.

“Hey, Detective –” David called to him.

He turned around and said, “How’re you doing? Regier, isn’t it?”

The cops who were about to grab David and cuff him backed off.

“What’s going on?” David said quietly.

“We’re just waiting for Crime Scene to get here.”

“Can I go in for a second? I won’t touch anything.”

“You don’t want to go in there.”

“Yeah, I do.”

The detective turned away from him.

“Thanks,” David said. “I’ll be quick.”

The hallway looked just like it had three days ago, but smelled different. The smell was a cross between that of a geriatric ward and that of a meat market. The living room was the same living room he had gotten drunk in while watching movies with Marky. He paused there for a few seconds, then went to the bedroom.

It was so wet he could have waded in it, and the smell was so strong it was more like a taste. At first he didn’t realize that he was looking at Marky Moorhead, because what he was looking at was unrecognizable as a human being. Even as David stood there and just looked, it didn’t become any more recognizable. He looked until he heard people enter the house, and then he walked out of there, down the driveway, without saying anything to any of the cops, and the sunlight and the parched air had never felt like such a relief. There was a bottle of water in his car, and it was now as hot as though it had been on a stove, but he opened it and drank it all and was grateful for the clean feeling in his mouth and throat. Then he got on the freeway and drove at the speed limit all the way back into town.

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I
t was monkey work, Laura thought, but since she had to get the hang of it, it wasn’t immediately boring. It was the kind of place where everyone lives for the office politics; there were petty feuds that had been going on for so long that the original causes were forgotten, and the feuds were now fought for their own sake. Everyone wanted to recruit the newcomer to their cabal, so Laura got plenty of invitations to lunch that morning. She played it safe by declining them all, saying that she already had a lunch date.

As she answered the phone and wrote down messages, she thought about David. It had occurred to her that maybe they’d been spending too much time together, that things were going too fast, that she should get some space, but that was just the theory. The reality was that she could barely wait to see him that evening. She felt ridiculous when she did an internet search for Corpus Christi, and sat staring at pictures of the city, at a picture of the oil refinery, where David had once worked.

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B
ack in his office, David sat at his desk and drank a soda he’d gotten from the machine in the foyer. He tried to get his head around what he’d seen, how, with no warning, everything changes, how you lose everything you had and everything you thought you were – how one day you were a big, vital, healthy man, eating, drinking, fucking, watching movies, riding your motorcycle, and then by the next day you had been turned into the thing David had seen in that bedroom. He wondered how long Marky had lived during it. He hoped it hadn’t been long, but he somehow knew it had. He wondered what had been in Marky’s mind, if he even had a mind left as they did it to him.

He wondered.

His editor was standing beside his desk. “Did you go over there?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see anything?”

“I got inside the house. I saw it all.”

“What did they do to him?”

“Bone-tickled him all over, and then cut off everything you can cut off except for the head.”

“Christ. Well, it happened to the right guy. Did anybody else get in the house?”

“No, just me. The cops weren’t letting reporters in. I knew the dick in charge, and he looked the other way. I got there before any other media, and the cleanup crew arrived as I left.”

“Excellent. Good work. So, when I can I see a draft of the story?”

“You can’t. I’m not writing it.”

“What do you mean, you’re not writing it?”

“I mean I’m not writing it. I’m never writing it.”

The editor looked at David, and David just sat there and looked back at him. Then the editor walked away without saying anything else.

David turned off his computer, stood up and left.

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T
hat evening, David sat in his backyard, drinking green tea and looking at the moon. Through the screen door came the music from his stereo, a Greg Brown compilation. Earlier, he had been listening to Philip Glass, but he didn’t want anything hip or clever right now. He needed Greg Brown’s warm poetry and battered optimism. 

He thought about Marky’s living room, the T.V. and D.V.D. player, the movie collection, the beer in the fridge, all the things that weren’t real anymore. He listened to the sound of cars passing in front of his house, and he heard one of them stop, heard its door slam shut. Then Laura was there in the luminous darkness with him.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

She pulled a chair next to his and sat on it.

“Want some tea?” He already had an extra cup sitting beside the pot on a small plastic table.

“Yeah, please.”

He poured her a cup, handed it to her, and they sat together in silence, sipping tea and feeling each other’s warmth.

“Will you be able to sleep tonight?” she said.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I hoped you would be. I thought you might want to be alone. I always did, after things I saw.”

“I don’t feel like being around anybody else, just you.” He motioned with his hand, indicating the moon, the night, everything and nothing. “When you sit here and drink tea and listen to music, you’d never think about where we actually live. You’d never think...”

“I know.”

He looked at her. “I really want to fuck you.”

She didn’t say anything, just reached out and touched his face, then got up and took off her jeans and panties. Then she stood in front of his chair and took his head in her hands and spread her legs and guided his face to where she wanted it. Soon they were both lying on the rough ground, and she was crawling all over him, taking him. When they finally went inside the house, they were naked and their bodies were streaked with sweat and dirt from the ground. They showered together, toweled each other dry, and went to bed.

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W
ith Laura asleep in his arms, David wondered whether there was anyone who regularly slept in Marky Moorhead’s bed, wondered whether there was someone crying alone because of what had happened. He wondered if the person had a god, and if they would now lose faith. There had been so many times, when he’d interviewed those visited by tragedy, that he’d heard the words, “I don’t believe in anything after this.” He always wondered how they’d managed to keep believing up until that point, how they were able to ignore the tragedy all around them for as long as it didn’t directly affect them.

David didn’t have beliefs, but there were things he had faith in. He had faith in the moon. He had faith in the cactus and the orange blossom. He had faith in green tea. He had faith in Laura’s nakedness against his. He fell asleep with that faith, a faith he was sure he would always hold, no matter what might happen.

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D
avid was still asleep when the alarm clock sounded, and it didn’t wake him. Laura turned it off, got out of bed and dressed in the office clothes she’d brought with her. She drove to a deli, got a bagel and coffee, then headed to work.

It was around ten when David woke. He made some coffee and went back to bed, skimming through a magazine as he drank it. His phone rang twice, and the caller I.D. told him that it was his editor, but he didn’t answer, and his editor didn’t leave a message.

It was noon, and David was in the kitchen cooking breakfast when the phone rang again, and this time there was a message.

“David, it’s Jerry. Just wondering when you’re coming in. We’ll have to talk about yesterday. Call me.”

That was when he knew for certain that he wasn’t going back to the paper. Call me, the editor had said, but he didn’t want to call and he didn’t know what he would say if he did call. Jerry would want reasons, and David didn’t have any. He could say he had to quit because he knew it wasn’t a reporter’s place to refuse to write an exclusive story, but he really didn’t care about that and he knew the paper wouldn’t want to let him go because of it. Journalists want answers, simple answers to obvious questions. David’s problem had always been that he wasn’t even sure of the questions.

I’m not coming back to the paper because. Because a man I hung out with has been turned into a wet thing with no face. Because I don’t want to keep calling up people who don’t want to talk to me. Because if people want to be left alone, I want to leave them alone. Because I’m little. Because I’m scared. Because the moon looks beautiful from my backyard. Because I don’t like who I am when I’m with you. Because my girlfriend was here last night, and I like who I am when I’m with her. Because.

After he’d eaten, he sat at his computer and typed an email.

Jerry,

Sorry, but I quit, effective immediately. Thanks for giving me a chance at the paper. It’s been a trip, but I’ve had enough.

DR

He sent the email, then logged off and didn’t check his email again that afternoon. He vacuumed his floors, washed dishes, dusted, read, listened to music and thought about Laura.

Then he went out and walked
.
He didn’t know why he was doing it. Nobody walks in Phoenix. He walked out of his neighborhood and onto the main streets. As he walked, he passed people who were walking to or from their cars. They avoided him, probably thinking he was homeless and would panhandle from them.

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H
e thought about the city’s stories, stories he had written, the people he had written about, the prey he had hunted. Joe Arpaio, the County Sheriff who was worshipped like a rock star, and who was regarded as a human rights violator by Amnesty International because of the number of jail inmates who were tortured and murdered on his watch. David had discovered that most of the inmates of Arpaio’s jails had been convicted of nothing, and were only locked up because they were too broke to make bail. Fife Symington, the Governor who was convicted of embezzling millions of dollars, and sentenced to prison time before his friend Bill Clinton pardoned him. David had interviewed some of the jurors who’d convicted him, and they said they wished he could hold onto his post as Governor, even though he was a crook. Scott Falater, a wealthy white guy who stabbed his wife to death in front of witnesses, but was spared the death penalty by a judge who said he was an upstanding citizen when he wasn’t committing murder. Jose Jesus Ceja, a poor Mexican who was executed even though the judge who’d sentenced him to death testified at his clemency hearing that he’d made a mistake and that the sentence was unjust. David had witnessed the execution. Bishop Thomas J. O’Brien, who’d admitted covering up for priests who were molesting children, and had transferred them to barrio churches, and when the cover-up was discovered he’d refused to resign until the County Attorney threatened to prosecute if he didn’t. He’d later killed a poor Native American man in a hit-and-run car accident, for which he’d been sentenced to community service. David considered throwing a party, and inviting everyone he’d ever written about who was still alive, all the living ghosts of the city. He wondered how many would show up.

He walked down Seventh Avenue, towards Thomas Road. He realized he wasn’t as fit as he’d thought he was. His muscles ached, and he guessed it was from loss of fluid. He went into a Circle K and got a bottle of water. As he waited in line to pay for it, a guy he didn’t recognize started talking to him. He asked about the newspaper, and David told him he’d quit. The guy said kind things about the articles he’d written. David smiled and thanked him, and didn’t feel anything.

He paid for the water, drank it and went back outside. He kept walking South, and when he reached Thomas Road and saw the branch of K.F.C. on the corner, his stomach seemed to scream with hunger. Although he never ate in chains, common sense told him he was exhausted and needed food right now. As he went inside, he saw a rack with a pile of copies of the weekly paper. He hadn’t read that week’s edition yet, so he picked it up, then went inside and sat at a table and ate white meat and drank soda. When he’d finished eating, he read the paper. He didn’t have an article in it. He looked at his name on the staff list on the contents page. There was a long article about a local musician in a nationally famous band whose wife had just died of a heroin overdose and who looked like he was going to be joining her soon. It took David more than an hour to read the piece. He enjoyed reading it, and he enjoyed the traffic zipping past outside. The restaurant’s security man, concerned by the time he was spending in the place, approached him and asked, “Everything all right, buddy?”