This is a hold-up, I say.
The music in the store is loud, Sonic Youth. No one hears me. No one pays me any mind and I reckon people in Woody Allen masks walk in here every day. Hitchcock comes in behind me and fires one shot into the ceiling. There is a spray of falling white plaster and now everyone is paying attention. Marilyn Monroe comes in and goes directly to the counter with his gun held chest high. The clerk is a ratty white kid, mid twenties. He has a long dirty blond ponytail dangling from a black baseball cap. He’s chewing gum, the muscles jumping in his face. He watches Marilyn closely. I count four customers. In the back is a white girl in motorcycle leathers with a stud through her nose and blue hair, maybe twenty. She was stirring cream into her coffee when we came in and now stands very still, staring at me. Near the counter is a crusty old white guy wearing a T-shirt that says Jesus Freak. He holds a quart of beer in one hand, a package of beef jerky in the other. And near the Slurpee machine are the guy and girl who got out of the Toyota. They are attractive in a blue jeans ad, immediately forgettable way, twin models with blond hair and perfect teeth. The girl has a sweet smile but the guy is an arrogant bastard, probably abusive, you can tell by the way he talks to her. It’s not fair but I decide that if anyone in this scene gets shot, it will be him.
It helps to have a ready sacrifice in mind.
This is a hold-up, I say. Everybody be cool.
John Wayne cruises around the store, camera in hand. I stand by the door, one eye watching the parking lot. Hitchcock is amusing himself, as he said he would. He is tearing up the store, knocking displays over and throwing bags of chips and cookies and Hostess goodies into the
air. He comes up behind Marilyn and tosses the flight bag at the clerk.
The money from the register, he growls. All of it. And throw in the latest issue of Playboy and a few cartons of cigarettes.
What brand? the clerk says.
Whatever.
This irritates me. I tell the clerk to give us Camels.
He begins to stuff money into the bag and I shake my head in disgust. There will be two hundred dollars in that bag, at most. Hitchcock continues to destroy the store and the candy falls like hail. John Wayne is getting a close-up of the girl in leather. Marilyn is watching the clerk and I notice that his body is vibrating. He’s going to pull the trigger any minute.
And at that moment, Hitchcock yells, hey Marilyn.
Marilyn turns his head, confused. And as he looks away, the ratty clerk drops the flight bag and reaches under the counter. I scream at Jeremy to turn around as the clerk comes up with a shotgun and blows Marilyn backward into a rack of cold medicine. The shot rings and rings in my head and it takes me forever to cross the store. I slide on my knees through blood and candy and come to rest beside my fallen false brother. The hole in his chest is the size of a basketball. I could put my head in there. I pull the Marilyn mask from his face and he is obviously dead, eyes rolled back and a crooked little smile frozen on his mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Jesus Freak running across the parking lot with a quart of beer in one hand, beef jerky in the other and I don’t care. I’m happy for him. But it won’t do to let the customers flee just yet. The blond girl with perfect teeth is screaming and screaming and it seems that she will never stop. I stand up in time to see Hitchcock hit her in the face with the barrel of his gun and she goes down hard, crashing into the Slurpee machine, her jaw no doubt broken. I turn to face the ratty clerk, expecting another
blast from the shotgun.
But he has put the gun down and resumed filling the flight bag with cigarettes.
What the fuck? I point my gun at him.
The clerk squints at me as if he doesn’t understand English.
You kill my brother and now you want to cooperate? I say.
He was your brother?
No, I say. He was just a fucked-up kid.
The clerk looks at Hitchcock, who comes over to the counter with an armload of ice cream and potato chips that he apparently wants to take with him.
We had an arrangement, the clerk says.
Indeed, says Hitchcock. And you have fulfilled your end marvelously.
The clerk flashes a mouthful of yellow teeth. Do you want a bag for those groceries?
What kind of arrangement?
The clerk shrugs. I’m bagging groceries, dude.
Hitchcock looks at Jeremy on the floor, then at the clerk.
What kind of arrangement? I say.
Two thousand dollars to kill Marilyn, says Hitchcock.
Jesus…
It was a hell of a bargain, says the clerk. Damn good.
He stands behind the counter, beaming at us. Yellow teeth like a neon sign. I glance around the store and see that no one has moved. The blond guy kneels on the floor, cradling his girlfriend’s ruined face in his lap. John Wayne stands over Jeremy. He has stopped filming. The motorcycle girl is leaning against the far wall, holding her coffee.
Do you like her, Poe?
What?
Hitchcock points his gun at the motorcycle girl and she drops down behind a glass case of hot dogs. Hitchcock shrugs. He swings around and shoots the ratty clerk in the forehead.
Wow, he says. That felt good.
His voice is on fire and through the mask his eyes glow like he’s about to embark on a full-scale killing spree. This is out of control. I figure we have been in the store almost five minutes. Two people are dead and the cops will be here soon. I don’t know what good it will do but I raise my gun and point it at Hitchcock’s head. I shout his name and he turns, grinning. He raises his own gun and does a little dance, like a jig. We are perhaps five feet apart, Alfred Hitchcock and Woody Allen.
Wayne, says Hitchcock. Look alive, pilgrim. This is great stuff.
Fuck you.
Miller, I say. Put the gun down.
Unlikely, he says.
Are you going to shoot me?
Pull the trigger, he says. Pull it, baby.
I shrug and pull the trigger and I see his face twist in surprise. The gun jerks in his right hand but I have already hit the floor and rolled sideways. Everything slows down and I expect to see the cotton wadding from my gun bounce harmlessly off his mask. But there is no cotton wadding and Hitchcock goes down on one knee, groping at his mask and yanking it off. Blood spurts from his left eye and he howls like a monkey. I look at my gun in surprise.
What did you load this with?
He groans. Wax bullets, non-lethal.
But very painful if you take one in the eye, I say.
Miller groans. The blood seeping between his fingers. Giving me wax bullets was a mistake I would not have made. I scoop up Miller’s
fallen weapon and turn to face the customers.
Everyone get out, I say. Run.
The blond guy drags his now less than perfect girlfriend out first. The motorcycle girl drifts over to the door, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and smiling at me as she passes the counter. Huck yanks off his mask and takes a long look at me, then nods and backs out the door. Once outside, he throws the digital camera high into the air and when it comes down, it splinters into a thousand shiny pieces. I grab a handful of Miller’s hair and jerk his head up so he can see me.
You got your fucking snuff film, I say. Two dead.
Minor characters, he says. Insignificant.
I bring the butt of his gun down on the top of his head and he collapses in a heap. I toss the Woody mask and tell myself I have one minute to find the store surveillance tape. I hop over the counter and unfortunately step on the ratty clerk’s face with my boot. There is a nasty squishing sound. I mutter an apology and look around, frantic. There is nothing resembling a VCR back here. For some reason, I grab the fallen flight bag and Miller’s absurd bag of groceries and toss them in his direction. I head for the back, the door marked Employees Only. The door is locked and I fire two shots, then kick it open. I tell myself to be careful. I am breathing like a maniac and now there are sirens in the distance. The tiny office smells like the bright orange nacho cheese sauce dispensed from those nasty machines. And messy as hell. Desk and chair and file cabinet, time clock and safe and VCR hooked up to the surveillance cameras. I grab the tape and rip it apart as I run back to the front of the store.
Miller is gone.
Fuck, I say.
The flight bag is gone, also the groceries. I push open the doors
and the Range Rover is gone. I forgot to take the keys from him. The sun has fallen, now. The sky is dark and getting darker and the sirens are so close they might as well be up my ass. I wish I could take Jeremy’s body with me and bury him properly somewhere but I can’t. He won’t be decomposing in a shallow grave next to Miller’s house, anyway. Goodbye kid, I say. Good luck in the next world. Then turn to run back through the store. I crash through the emergency exit doors and an alarm begins to whoop. Without hesitating I drop over the edge of the ravine.
I
T TAKES ME OVER AN HOUR TO LIMP BACK TO THE HOUSE
. I am torn to pieces. There is blood on my hands and my left ankle is fucked up. The cops are cruising, slow and watchful, the sky splashed with search lights. I skulk through back yards, avoiding dogs. I breathe through my nose and maybe I’ve cooked my noodle with poison and drink over the past week, but I’ve never felt better.
The house of Miller is dark.
The Range Rover is parked crazily, on top of a bush. I smile, thinking of Hitchcock with one ruined eye. He must have been cursing at the sky like a mad sailor. I rest on my haunches, out of sight, watching the house. There is no sign of life and suddenly I have this horrible idea that Miller came home and slaughtered everyone.
I limp through the living room, the kitchen. No one is about. I look in on Molly and she’s sleeping peacefully. I pick up a bottle of whiskey and head for the library. Jude is downstairs with a magazine, watching over the boy. She wears cowboy boots and a thin, sleeveless white dress. Her hair is loose and she’s not wearing the hockey mask. The
bite mark has begun to fade.
What do you think? she says. I borrowed some of Molly’s clothes.
You look like a nice college girl.
Don’t be nasty.
I’m sorry. Your face looks much better.
The mask seemed pointless, at this point. And it frightened him.
How is he? I say.
She frowns. He’s not good.
I go to the bed and touch his face. Sam is feverish, breathing too fast.
His lips, I say. They feel like sandpaper.
He’s dehydrated, she says. I gave him some Gatorade earlier but he couldn’t keep it down. I gave him milk and crackers, more Benadryl. I gave him children’s Tylenol. But his fever won’t break.
Miller is doing something to him, I say.
What?
I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.
Jude looks at her watch, worried. I don’t know what he needs.
He needs a doctor.
Yes, she says. He won’t get one tonight.
Where is Miller?
I’m not sure. He’s somewhere in the house, watching.
Jeremy is dead, I say.
I know. He told me.
How is the bastard’s eye?
Jude smiles. It’s fucked. I’m afraid John doesn’t like you anymore.
That’s too bad, I say.
What happened out there? she says.
I am seething. Nothing. We jacked a convenience store.
How many dead, besides Jeremy?
The clerk. Miller shot him in the head.
Jude sighs. He’s cracking. This will be over soon.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
What? she says.
Are we on camera now, I say.
What do you take me for?
He’s playing you, Jude. He’s never gonna serve up Cody, okay. This whole thing is just a game of chicken designed to make you his bitch.
Jude stares past me, blank. I can see she’s already arrived at this conclusion.
I’m nobody’s bitch, she says.
You have to deal with him, Jude. Deal with him, or I will.
I will, she says softly. I will.
I want to ask her again if it’s true, if she is truly married to the man. But her face is so ashen, her hands so unsure of themselves. It must be true and it must not be and either way I feel like it would be rude to ask her. Miller is her nightmare and Jude will talk about it if she wants to.
Jude, I say. I’m going to take Molly and the boy and get out of here.
No, she says. You don’t know where John is. And he’s got a lot of firepower.
What do you suggest?
Tomorrow, she says. I will take care of it tomorrow.
Jude wants her voice to be cold, detached. She sighs and glances at her watch as if we are discussing the time and place for a lunch date tomorrow. But her voice is tinged with rust and her hand trembles.
Are you sure?
The art of hunger. Jude kisses me, a long penetrating kiss that pushes me to the edge of hunger and leaves me dizzy.
I’m going to kill him, she says.
Are you sure? I say.
I will find a way to get him alone, she says. To distract him. And when I give you a look, you’ll know it’s time to get Molly and the boy and run.
What kind of look? I say.
I don’t know, she says. A look that passes between us that only you can recognize.
The boy sleeps, barely. He is breathing so fast that he seems to rest on a fragile plane between unconsciousness and death. He sleeps in the velvet. My headache is soaring like a high-pitched sonic whistle that only dogs can hear. Blackbirds crash at the edge of my vision. Jude says that she wants to stay with him for the night and I agree.
I resolve not to sleep this night. I want to watch the house and I would sorely hate to be surprised by Miller. I am bitterly tired, though. I need something to keep me awake and I slip into Molly’s room, remembering that she has a stash of pot and coke in her underwear drawer. I touch her lightly on the shoulder and she moans, dreaming. I open the underwear drawer and search it silently, stopping once to press something fine and silky to my face. The smell of rain, of a storm coming. I find a short plastic straw and a little yellow envelope of coke, a gram or so. I glide through the silver wings and merrily chop out four fat lines on the back of the toilet. I am in a dangerously good mood, for some reason. It was that kiss, maybe. Jude can tear my head off with a kiss, sometimes. I pause, considering. Four lines is too many, perhaps. Perhaps perhaps. I hoover two of them, then wash my face with cold water. I bend over the toilet with the straw and snort the third line.