Six Bad Things Part 14

He's still looking at me, tilting his head, squinting but not moving. I grab his legs and pull. He scoots on his b.u.t.t to keep from tipping over. I drop his legs and get in the car. Leslie has followed me and squats down next to Danny.

--Stop being a d.i.c.k to him, can't ya see he's hurt?

I close the door and start the car. I can feel a lump growing between my shoulder blades where the hammer tagged me. I shove the stick into first and pull away. In the mirror Danny is still sitting in the street, pointing after me. Leslie has one hand on his head and is giving me the finger with her other one.

I'm almost at the end of the block when a garage door back in the cul-de-sac swings up and Ponytail Boy comes screeching out in a jacked-up black Toyota pickup with monster tires.

Great. Pursuit.

I'VE BEEN lost in these tracts for about ten minutes now and nothing looks familiar. Or rather, everything looks familiar because it all looks exactly the same. Wait a sec. That's it. That's the liquor store where I got off the trolley. I stop the car, put it in reverse, and back up to the last intersection. There it is, just up the street. From there I can follow the trolley tracks back toward the I-5.

It only takes a few minutes to reach a major intersection, where I see signs for the highway. I'm almost at the on-ramp when I get a look at the gas gauge. Empty. I pull into the last-chance Sh.e.l.l and kill the engine.

I've got about four gallons in the tank when the black Toyota squeals to a stop at the intersection. Danny is in the front, Ponytail Boy behind the wheel, Leslie is squeezed between them, and Fat Guy and Mullet Head are in the back.

A big red Suburban is on the other side of the pumps from me, screening the BMW from the street. I duck down a little so they can't see me. When the light changes they'll go right past, and I can sneak out onto the freeway.

Then I see their turn signal flas.h.i.+ng.

They're going to come in here.

The light changes. I pull the hose out, hang it up, and close the tank. Two cars make the turn before the Toyota. I reach into the car and hit the ignition, but stay standing so I can peer through the windows of the Suburban. The Toyota makes the turn and heads for the driveway behind me. I get in the car and ease it forward around the pumps and the Suburban, trying to keep it between me and Danny's crew as they pull into the station. If I time it right, I'll pop out on the other side of this behemoth, behind them, and be able to scoot away before they know I'm here.

I pull out from the cover of the Suburban. The Toyota is stopped right next to the driveway. Fat Guy has hopped out of the back and is asking what everybody wants from the store inside. They see me.

I hit the gas and squirt past them into the street. As I bounce over the curb, Fat Guy tries to climb back up on the truck, gets one leg in, and is dragged several yards before the truck stops and he is tossed to the pavement. I hit the intersection just as the light goes yellow and make for the on-ramp. I check the rearview, see the Toyota behind me jump the intersection as the light turns red, see it get snarled in a mess of squealing brakes and curses. I'm on the ramp, merging into traffic and on my way north.

I CAN tune in Westwood One on the old AM/FM in this piece of c.r.a.p. They're broadcasting the Oakland vs. Denver game and I'm able to get updates on the Dolphins, which is as good as anything. Or, as it turns out, as bad as anything.

By the time the game ends, Miles Taylor's backup has stumbled to six yards rus.h.i.+ng and three lost fumbles, two of which were taken back for touchdowns. Going into the game, Coach had not been overly concerned about his wounded secondary because Detroit has the worst pa.s.sing attack in the NFL. He decided to load the line to stop Chester Dallas, their ma.s.sive Pro Bowl fullback. Detroit focused completely on the air game, where they had three touchdowns and over three hundred yards at the half, while Coach kept eight in the box to stuff the nonexistent running game. DET 48, MIA 9 FINAL. Meanwhile, the Packers have decided this is the day to lose a December game at home for the first time since the Dark Ages, handing the Jets a one-game division lead over Miami. I turn off the radio and concentrate on not dying in this c.r.a.ppy car.

I manage to get it up and over the Grapevine. I gas up at an Exxon, buy a hot dog, a soda, and some Benson & Hedges in the convenience store, and get back on the road. About four more hours and I should be home.

The I-5 is the highway that the Baja 1 aspires to be: long, straight, impeccably maintained, and running through similarly featureless terrain. Endless rolling hills line the valley, all of them dirt brown year-round, except for a few brief moments in late fall and early spring. Orchards and cattle ranches offer an occasional break from the usual scenery, which consists of dead gra.s.s. There are the anomalous palm trees, the abandoned farm equipment, and the ma.s.sive rest stops, but other than that, it's a long haul with nothing to look at but the other cars and the a.s.sortment of Oakland Raiders paraphernalia they sport.

With one hand I twist the cap off my water bottle and take a swig. I try to fiddle the cap back onto the bottle and it drops between my thighs. I feel around for it and my foot comes off the gas a little. The motor home behind me makes a move to pa.s.s me. I look down at my lap, find the cap, and put it back on the bottle as the motor home leaves the right lane and starts to slowly pa.s.s me on the left. Behind the motor home I see a black car coming on way too fast to stop. The motor home tries to get out of its way by ducking back into my lane. The huge RV veers at me, horn blaring. I push the brake, the motor home creeps farther into my lane. I stick my foot into the brake, the BMW skidding slightly as I try to steer onto the shoulder.

I drop back behind the motor home just as it swerves sharply into my lane and barely misses hacking off my front b.u.mper. And now I see that the speeding black car has driven half onto the left shoulder to pa.s.s the motor home while it was pa.s.sing me. I also see that the black car is not a black car at all, but a black Toyota pickup. Then I'm pulling to a stop on the side of the road, watching Danny and his friends as they speed up the highway. f.u.c.king h.e.l.l. What is this, Deliverance?

I LET Danny get farther up the road before I pull out. Around Coalinga I see a black pickup across the meridian, headed south. Could be them giving up, or driving back to scan the northbound traffic. I don't know.

It's after dark when I see my exit. By now my eyes keep dropping shut and I've lost most of the sense of forward motion; the road just seems to be reeling toward me as I stay in one place. I hit the blinkers and turn off.

G.o.d, I forgot what Christmas is like in the suburbs. It's still a couple weeks away, but lights are dribbling down from the eaves, reindeer are on the rooftops, forests of giant candy canes are growing from the lawns. We used to do that thing; drive around all the different neighborhoods looking at the lights. Christmas. I should have got them something. I park a few blocks away, rather than leaving a strange car in front of their house for the neighbors to see. Then I sit behind the wheel, trying to get my s.h.i.+t together. Maybe I should have called.

AS SOON as I knock on the door, the dogs start barking. The same dogs. I can hear her inside, coming into the hall, telling them to shush, and them not listening at all, just barking like crazy. A lock snaps open. They never used to lock the door, but I guess they've had reason enough the last few years. The door swings open just enough for her to look out and still keep it blocked with her body so that neither of the dogs can squirt out around her.

She looks at me.

Mom is a tiny woman. She likes to claim she's five foot two, but the truth is she's just a shade over five. At least she used to be. It's been several years and she looks a bit smaller now. And older. Much older. I did that to her. She looks at me, the guy on her porch with the deep tan, short beard, and long hair. She looks at the nose, crunched and bent, the extra twenty pounds of weight, the tattoos dribbling out the tugged-up sleeves of my s.h.i.+rt and down my forearms. There is no beat, no pause or halt, just instant recognition and the sudden escape of air from her mouth.

I push the door open, catch her as her knees give out beneath her. I hold her shaking body up and kick the door closed with the heel of my foot. She gasps for air and I give her a little squeeze and a shake and a huge gob of snot and phlegm flies out of her nose and plasters the front of my s.h.i.+rt and she starts to breathe again. I hold her tight and she s.h.i.+vers and sobs and pounds on my back and shoulders with her tiny fists and curses at me and tells me she loves me while the old dogs run around in circles, barking at me.

PART TWO.

DECEMBER 11-14, 2003.

Two Regular Season Games Remaining --Henry.

My name.

--Henry.

Hearing my name from my father's mouth almost starts me crying again.

--Henry!

--Yeah, Dad.

--What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?

What I'm doing is standing on the back patio, lighting a cigarette.

--I was just gonna have a smoke.

--When the h.e.l.l did you start smoking?

--I don't know. Couple years ago.

I light up.

--Look at that, you have a great meal and now you're going to ruin it by killing your taste buds and filling your lungs with that poison.

--OK, Dad.

--Look at the pack, it tells you right there.

--Got it, Dad.

I stub the smoke out in an empty flowerpot.

--They just about tell you that you have to be a suicidal idiot to smoke the things and people keep smoking them.

I've been here for maybe two hours.

--It's out.

--And you, you wait over thirty years and now you start?

And already it's like I never left home at all.

--Dad, it's out. OK?

--Yeah, sorry. I just. I just don't want you to get hurt or anything.

He turns his head as tears start to well up in his eyes again. Well, almost like I never left home.

--I don't want to get hurt, Dad.

Mom opens the back door.

--Come inside, it's cold out.

THERE WERE steaks in the fridge. Dad grilled them for us, standing by the propane barbeque out on the cold patio, watching me through the windows as I helped Mom set the table.

He had been at the shop, working late just like he always did when I was a kid, unless I had a game. When he came home, Mom met him at the door. But she started crying before she could say anything. By the look he had on his face when I walked out of the kitchen, I think he was a.s.suming the worst. One second he thinks his wife is trying to tell him their son is dead, and the next I'm standing in front of him.

After that there wasn't much to do except decide what everyone wanted for dinner.

NOW DAD and me come in and sit down at the kitchen table with Mom. She's sipping a gla.s.s of red wine and Dad is drinking some brandy he got from a bottle that was buried at the back of one of the cupboards over the sink. He pours himself another and looks at me.

--Sure you don't want one?

--No. I had a drinking thing there, Dad. In New York. I was drinking too much, so I had to stop.

--Yeah, we heard something about that.

Mom moves her hand so that it covers mine.

--People said a lot of things, Henry. We didn't know what to believe. Except about the killing. We knew they were wrong about that, we knew you couldn't kill anyone.

My left forearm is lying there on the table, the six hash marks exposed. I open my mouth, close it. Dad sets his gla.s.s down and covers my hand and Mom's with his own. He has big hands, nicked and cut and bruised from the shop, a thin rim of grease permanently tattooed under his fingernails.

--Why are you here, Hank?

Someone threatened to kill you and I came home to make sure it doesn't happen.

--There's just some more trouble, Dad, and I need to take care of it.

--But why, what did you do?

--I.

I helped a friend. I tried to protect people. I did everything I was supposed to and the only thing that worked was killing the people who were trying to kill me.

And then I took their money.

--Dad, I just tried to do the right thing.

He pours himself another drink. His fifth. I've never seen him drink this much before.

--So what now?

--I'm gonna take care of it.

--How?

--I'm gonna give these people what they want.

THEY GO to bed a short while later, and I page Tim. And wait. And then I page him again. And again. And again. And again. I page him ten times and he doesn't call back, and finally I'm just too tired to care.

AFTER MY leg was shattered and I couldn't play baseball anymore I took all my old trophies and plaques down, boxed them up, and stuck them in the attic. Sometime in the last three years Mom or Dad must have gotten those boxes down to look through them, because all the old trophies are in my old bedroom. My bed is still in there too. Other than that, it's a different room. Mom uses it for her sewing and crocheting and the several other crafts she's thrown herself into since she retired last year.

I lie in the too-small bed in the darkness and watch light from a street lamp glinting off of all the fake gold and silver. Outside, it's silent except for the occasional bark of a dog, quieter even than my beach in Mexico, where there is at least the sound of the surf.

On the nightstand is a small, framed picture of me. I'm sixteen, my hair is almost white from years under the California sun, my face is golden brown and unlined, and I'm wearing a cap from my high school team, the Tigers. I remember the day the photo was taken. I had pitched a shutout for the varsity squad, hit a homer, and had five RBI. I was six feet tall, a hundred and sixty pounds and still growing, working out every day and eating anything I could get my hands on, trying to build muscle for the inevitable day when I would be a Major League player. To this day, it is the face I expect to see when I look in the mirror.

NORMALLY DAD would take the truck parked in the driveway to work, but today he fires up the tiny MGB in the garage. He hits the automatic opener, the door flips up, and he pulls into the street.

--Where did you park?

--Over on Traina.

There's been a lot of turnover on Dale Road in three years. A lot of people I used to know moved out during the year of constant attention from media, police, and sightseers that followed my adventures. But even the newcomers know who my parents are, know that they have a ma.s.s murderer for a son. I stay squished down in the footwell until we get a couple blocks away.

--A BMW 1600?.

--Yeah.

--Oh, Hank, not this piece of c.r.a.p?

I scoot up into the seat. Dad has stopped where my car is parked.

--Yeah.

--How much did you pay for that?

--Four.

--And you drove it from San Diego?

--Yeah.