When It All Comes Down to Dust (Phoenix Noir Book 3) (9 page)

David moved a few steps away, trying not to invade the guy’s privacy, but to remain near enough to still be in line for the phone. After a while the guy said, “Well, I better go. It’s real hot out here, and there’s a boy waiting for the phone...”

After he’d hung up, he smiled at David. “Sorry I took so long. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” David said, but it wasn’t true. He didn’t know how it was. He felt sad for the guy that he was so far away from someone he loved, but he also envied him, because he had someone to be far away from. David wasn’t far away from anyone, and he wasn’t close to anyone. He was just where he was. It didn’t really matter that he didn’t have a phone, because there was no one he had to call, except for restaurants looking for kitchen labor.

He called the restaurant and they told him to come over, and they hired him on the spot. As he washed dishes that evening, he imagined how it would feel, having someone to call, even if she was far away, someone to call and tell her how he was doing and ask how she was doing and tell her how much he missed her. He realized that he actually did miss her. He missed what he had never had.

Now, as he sat in his car and felt the heat bake him dry, he thought that the person he’d been missing might be Laura. The thought made no sense, so he pushed it away and decided it was time to do something. 

He got out of the car and stretched. Then he began walking slowly up the driveway. The only other reporter still around was Ortega, who was now following David at a distance. When David reached the front door of the house, Ortega stood about ten feet behind him and waited.

David knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, harder. No answer. “Hey! Mr. Moorhead! The T.V. guys have all left. I’m from a newspaper. I don’t have a camera. I just want to ask you a couple questions that nobody else has asked you.”

No answer, but the sound of movement from inside the house. Ortega heard it too, and started to move closer.

“Mr. Moorhead,” David called again. “What I wanted to ask you is, are all the Hell’s Angels fags, or are you the only one?”

Ortega fled.

“I mean, I hear you gave up fucking your mother because you like to suck cock so much. I was just hoping you’d come out here and confirm or deny that. Or are you gonna hide in your house all day like a frightened little bitch?”

When Mad Marky Moorhead threw open his door and stepped outside, he found David sitting on the hot ground with his back to him.

David looked over his shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t hit me. Please.”

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W
hen Laura’s phone rang, she grabbed it. “Hello?”

“Hey,” David said, his voice strange. “I need some help.”

“Shit. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but I’m too drunk to drive, so I need a ride. Got things to do.”

“Drunk? Where are you?”

“At Marky’s house. We’ve been hanging out and watching movies and talking."

“What the fuck, David...”

“I know. Will you come pick me up?”

“I guess. Where is it?”

He gave her the address and she wrote it down. “So, should I just meet you outside or something?”

“No, just knock on the door.”

“Let me get this straight – you and Mad Marky are buddies now?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“I guess he’s just misunderstood, huh? Just needs a hug.”

“Come and get me and I’ll tell you.”

Mesa is a sprawl of identical suburban streets and houses, and it took Laura a while to find Marky’s place. It didn’t help that it was getting dark. She saw David’s car, parked nearby, got out and knocked on the door of the house.

Marky looked like he’d been provided by Central Casting. Bald-headed and hairy-faced, wearing jeans and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, his gut hanging over his Arizona state flag belt buckle, a bottle of Budweiser in his hand.

“God damn,” he said. “Davey never told me you looked so fine.”

“Thanks. Where is he?”

“Davey! Get your drunk little ass out here!” Marky called, and David appeared behind him.

“Sorry, I was in the bathroom,” David said. Marky clapped him on the shoulder. “I figured that one out for myself. You want something to drink?” he asked Laura.

She looked at David. “Do we have time?”

“Actually, no,” he said. “We need to get rolling.”

“Hell, I see how it is,” Marky said. “You come over here, you cast aspersions on my masculinity, you drink my beer, you watch my movies, and as soon as a fine lady shows up you run off with her. Damn, boy.” He held out his hand for David to shake. “For real, though, Davey – come back any time. We’ll watch us some of that Godard.”

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“G
odard?” Laura said as she drove.

“Yeah, we were watching Truffaut movies, and I asked him if he liked Godard, and he does. He’s really into the French New Wave.”

“Okay, I think you owe me some explanation here.”

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“I
’ll do more than fucking hit you,” Marky said, as David sat on the ground and looked up at him.

“Why would you do that?” David said, so quietly that Marky could barely hear him.

“What? What did you say?”

“I asked why you would want to do that. You’re bigger than me and I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid to even stand up.”

“Shut your fucking mouth. You weren’t scared to come to my house and knock on my door and call me a fucking fag.”

“Please don’t hit me. Listen for just a minute, okay? I’m not trying to be a smartass. I came to your door because my boss told me to and it would cost me my job if I didn’t. I yelled all that shit because the little weasel you chased away earlier was following me to your door and I wanted him to bolt...”

“Did he run away again?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if he pissed in his pants this time. I heard he did before.”

“You gonna piss in your pants?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared. I am. And I’m hoping you’ll just tell me to fuck off and let me leave. Then I can tell my boss I did what he told me and you wouldn’t talk to me.”

“You from the
Weekly?
”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“David Regier.”

“You can stand up if you want to.”

“You won’t hit me if I do?”

“No, I won’t hit you.”

“Thanks.” David got to his feet. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“What?”

“I’ve been sitting out here without any water for hours. Could I have some?”

Marky looked at him. “I’m not sure you’re not fucking with me, and, if you are...”

“I’m not, I swear. Look, I’ll just leave now. I’m sorry I asked.” David turned to walk away.

“Hold up. Hell, come on in and I’ll get you some water.”

The living room had a couch, chairs, coffee table, T.V., D.V.D. player and dozens of D.V.D.s lying around. A movie was playing.

“Hey,” David said as Marky came out of the kitchen and handed him a glass of water. “Is that
Jules et Jim
?”

“Yeah. You seen it?”

“A few times. I love that movie.”

“Fucking right,” Marky said. “Fucking Truffaut, man. It’s a goddamn crime that nobody around here watches these movies just ’cause they’re in French. Illiterate motherfuckers. It ain’t so hard to read the fucking subtitles.”

“No shit. You like any other French stuff?”

“Fuck, yeah. I love all those New Wave guys. Truffaut, Chabrol...”

“I like both of them, but Godard is my guy...”

“Jean-Luc is the fucking tits, man.
Breathless
... I fucking cried.”

“Yeah, that’s probably my favorite.” David gulped down the water.

“Listen,” Marky said. “Want a beer?”

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“S
o we hung out, drank, watched a couple movies. He asked me what it was I wanted to write about him, and I told him I didn’t have anything I wanted to write about him, I just wanted to tell the story. So he said we could do an interview, just so long as I promised to quote him fully and accurately. That was how he said it –
fully and accurately
.”

“Why were you in such a hurry to leave?”

“Because I want to get the story out there fast. I can’t get it in the paper until next week, obviously, but my friend Bill has his radio show every week night. I called him and he’s gonna have me as his guest tonight. I can post a link to the show on the paper’s website. So I need to eat something and sober up...”

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S
he dropped him off at the radio station. She asked if he wanted her to pick him up after the show, but he said the host would give him a ride to his car. As she drove home, she turned on the radio and found the Bill Goldberg Show.

“My guest tonight is
Phoenix Weekly
reporter David Regier, who today gained an exclusive interview with accused murderer Mark Moorhead. He’s here to tell us all about it...”

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W
hen she got home, she ran to her apartment as quickly as she could so she wouldn’t miss too much of the interview. She listened to it as she lay in bed, but not for long. She hadn’t realized how exhausted the stress of the day had left her, and she fell asleep with David’s voice in her ear. She woke a couple hours later to the jabbering of a sports commentator.

She got up, turned off the radio and got back in bed. Then the phone rang.

“Hey,” David said. “What are you doing?”

“Laying in bed, thinking about you.”

“That’s good to hear. Did you listen to the show?”

“Not all of it. I fell asleep. Sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

“Mmm... I wish you were here right now.”

“Me too.”

“Tell me what you’d do if you were here with me.”

“How about if I just come over there and show you?”

“You don’t mind driving? It’s late.”

“No, I’m not sleepy. I’m still amped up on adrenaline.”

“Sounds good to me.”

He arrived about fifteen minutes later, and joined her in bed. Afterwards, as they lay together, she said, “Will you be able to sleep?”

“I hope so. I’m tired, but I still feel kind of hyper.”

“That makes sense. You kicked ass today. You’ve got every right to feel stoked.”

“I don’t feel stoked. I feel wired, but kind of depressed under the skin.”

She touched his face. “Why?”

“When I told Marky I was afraid of him, did you think I was just working him?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I wasn’t. I was telling him the truth, and he knew it. He could feel how scared I was. If I’d lied, he’d have known it, and the medics would be stitching my face back together right now.”

“That’s what’s depressing you?”

“Kind of. I’ve just been in fight-or-flight mode all day, and it gets old. I don’t enjoy being afraid for my life, and I do it all the damn time.”

“You don’t act like you’re scared.”

“I’m the biggest coward on the planet – I’m just good at not showing it. The only difference between me and Ricky Ortega is that he turns and runs and I don’t. But I’m just as frightened as he is. If being a chickenshit ever becomes an Olympic event, I’ll bring home the gold medal.”

She didn’t say anything, just reached for him and held him tight.

“Truth is, I’m just fucking sick of journalism. Sick of that whole world.”

“Why? I thought you liked it.”

“It can be a rush, sure. But that’s one of the things I don’t like about it, even though I do.”

“Huh?”

“What I mean is, I do like the rush of getting a story and beating other people to it, but I don’t want to like it. It’s just an ego trip. I don’t want to be that guy. It’s pathetic. Journalists are pathetic little ego-trippers too busy competing with each other to live their lives. I’m just sick of spending my time looking for the most fucked-up shit I can find. I mean, guess what I’m supposed to write for the second week of next month.”

“Tell me.”

“An article about cartoon porn.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Cartoon porn.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“No reason why you should know. Who needs to know that? Who really needs to see pictures of Smurfette getting gang-banged by fifty smurfs?”

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I wish I was. You wouldn’t believe what’s out there. Bugs Bunny, for Christ’s sake. To me, that kind of shit’s even grosser than real bestiality.”

“How so?”

“Well, if somebody’s sexually attracted to animals, that’s gross, but, okay, whatever. But how the hell can you want to fuck Bugs Bunny? Look, I’ve interviewed some seriously scary motherfuckers. I did today. But I do not want to interview anyone who wants to fuck Bugs Bunny. I just don’t need that in my life.”

There was a second or two of silence, then David felt a tremor within Laura. Then it got stronger, and she could no longer hold it in, and she was laughing so hard it shook the bed.

“Sorry,” she managed to say.

“I hate you, Ponto.” Then David was laughing just as hard.

When they finally got a grip on themselves, David said, “I wasn’t kidding, though. I mean, okay, it’s funny, I admit it. But that’s not normal life, you know? And I just don’t want to be the guy who looks for the worst people and the worst places and then goes there.”

“That makes sense, but what brought it on?”

“You had something to do with it. I’ve felt that way for a while, but getting with you just brought it home to me. Hanging out with you – that’s what I want to be doing, not chasing down Hell’s Angels or watching cartoon characters take it up the ass.”

“So, if you weren’t a reporter, what would you do?”

“See, that’s the problem. I’m damned if I know.”

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D
avid fell asleep before Laura. She lay there and looked at him, thinking about his strange innocence. She didn’t know how to name what she felt at that moment, because to name it would have been to make it less than it was.

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W
hen they woke it was light outside, but not for long. The morning turned dark, and the air suddenly felt wet. Then the rain came down like bullets from an automatic weapon, drilling the building with such force that it felt as though the windows might break. The smell of the wet city filled the apartment.