Even Flow Page 16

  Patrick shook his head. Robert stood ten feet away, scratching behind his ear, a nervous tic. Patrick turned back to the rapper and said, “No. No, I’m afraid that’s bullshit. ‘Keeping it real.’ How fucking lazy. You’re gonna have to come up with something better than that.”

  There was silence again, ten, 15 seconds of nothing, carrying from the studio mikes to the transmission tower to hundreds of thousands of TV sets. Patrick started tapping his index finger on the desk. He said, “Tick, tick, tick.” No response. Then he slammed the desk with the side of his gun, hard: “I said tick, tick, tick!”

  Eye Dog spat back, “Okay! You’re right. Happy now? Feel all good about yourself? Yeah, I rap about bitches and faggots. All that. And you know why? ’Cause that’s what the people want. Or can’t you see that behind your mask, you self-righteous bastard? They don’t want your pussy-ass, hold-hands, let’s-all-be-friends shit. They want what I give ’em. They want the violence and sex and glamour I provide.”

  “Ha! Glamor? I’m sorry, am I confusing you with someone else?”

  “Yeah, glamor. The life I lead, most guys’d kill for a sniff of that. Limos and money and bitches crawlin’ all over you? Sure, they’d kill for that. A pussy like you might not, but that ain’t my problem.”

  Patrick flipped the gun around in his hand, catching it by the barrel, and cracked Eye Dog on the top of the head with the butt. He grimaced and yelped, “Motherfucker! I’m bleedin’ here! …Do that again and I will cut you open.”

  “I already warned you about your intemperate language, Eye Dog. So cool it with the swearing, there’s a good fellow.”

  Eye Dog shook his head, disbelieving, seething, and a little scared, as a trickle of blood made its dark way down his face. Patrick stood in silence for a moment, his hand to his face.

  He spoke without looking at the other man: “Do you ever consider the consequences of what you do? Not just the ethical rights and wrongs of it, but the actual, concrete effects it has on people. On the whole of society. Do you think about that, or is it all just something you do? You go through life and do what you do and fuck the consequences.” He faced Eye Dog again. “What I want to know is: is that all there is to it?”

  Danny could feel the escalation in tension outside, incremental and almost tangible. The troops were getting restless, but nothing had been decided yet. Everyone remained in position, limbs starting to get stiff, the initial adrenaline rush subsiding, replaced with a bored sort of anxiety. He did not have a good feeling about any of it as he and Cathy stood just outside the cordon around the building.

  He said, “Come on. What’s taking them so long? Fuck it. This is all going bad. Cathy, is there another way in? A service entrance or something.”

  She nodded, worry etched on her face. “Yeah. We can get in by the underground parking lot. Half a block away. There’s an old gate they don’t use any more. It’s padlocked.”

  Danny patted his gun in its holster and smiled: “I’ve got a key.” He wasn’t sure if he really found that funny or not.

  “From there it’s a pretty straight run up to Studio 2. That’s most likely where Patrick is at. It’d make sense to bring him there.”

  Danny took her hand and said, “If only the rest of this made as much. C’mon.”

  “What really slays me about guys like you, Eye Dog, is how fucking indulged you are by society. You know, the way people laugh and raise their eyebrows at yet more tales of antisocial behavior from you and your ilk. The latest controversial lyric or outrageous comment. The latest story—never proven, of course—of naïve young girls at parties, getting passed around like a fucking joint between the lot of you.”

  Patrick was walking back and forth in front of Eye Dog, intermittently addressing him and the camera. He continued, “Like it’s okay, it’s acceptable, because hey!—they’re superstars. Rap stars, rock stars, cock stars, it’s all a big joke. Am I right?”

  Eye Dog stayed silent and looked at the desk.

  Patrick said, “Yeah, you know I’m right, you miserable fucking weasel. You know that if a busman or doctor or a fucking sheepherder got up to the same shit as you do, it’s a goddamn court case they’d be looking at.” He stopped and laughed to himself for a moment. “‘The sexually sadistic sheepherder. He loves his sheepdog but hates all bitches.’ Ha! What a concept. But for you, Eye Dog, it’s wine and candy all the way. Increased record sales, a sprinkling of outlaw glamor, and of course, enough naïve young girls attending enough wild parties. Ah—ain’t life grand?”

  Eye Dog felt tired now. His eyes were dry and sore from the studio lights, his mouth felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper, and this vigilante was starting to freak him out. He needed a shower and a drink. He needed to get out of this chair. He could hardly hear what the guy was saying any more, just words flowing from the mouth to his ears to his brain and back out again. What did this motherfucker want from him?

  Eye Dog squinted up at Patrick and said wearily, “I don’t… I never did nothing like that, man. Girls at parties. Swear to God…”

  Finally, it was all starting to kick off outside. The SWAT team leader had received his orders, direct to his earpiece from the Big Cheese himself; had repeated them back, slowly, distinctly, and received confirmation. He prided himself on his ability to reduce fuck-ups and confusion to the bare minimum.

  He stepped into the semi-circle formed by his men and, holding his submachine-gun high, delivered a final briefing: “Alright, my little treasures. We go in in 30 seconds. Gonzalez, take that goddamn chewing gum out of your stupid mouth. Now: although we’re not sure how well armed they might be, there’s only three of these assholes, so it shouldn’t be a problem. And the rapper must be unharmed, guys. Got that? Not a fucking scratch. This fella’s got important friends. Okay. On my signal.”

  It was obvious to Robert, as he shuffled from foot to foot, balancing his weight on one heel, then the next, trying to ignore the acid discomfort beginning to settle in his legs, that Patrick was losing his patience. It was like the Coronado thing all over again; the man strapped to the chair was being unresponsive, staring up at Patrick sullenly, the silence interspersed by the odd, aggressive declamation. What the courts might term a “hostile witness.”

  Patrick covered his microphone with his free hand and leaned in close, his breath tickling Eye Dog’s ear. He whispered, “I know about Ladice Jones. I know. What you and your two friends did to her in that beach-house. How your lawyers covered it up because you’re too much of a ‘valuable asset.’ That girl wasn’t worth shit to you or them. Well, understand something: you’re not worth shit to me. Understand? I will tear you apart. I don’t care anymore.”

  Eye Dog flinched, there in the eyes, struggling to control his emotions, to look away or not look away, to appear appalled and wounded and innocent, and then Patrick did know.

  He stood tall again, clutching the gun tightly, and declared loudly, “We tolerate this crap all the time because it’s someone famous involved. We make jokes about the sort of thing sick fucks like you get up to. ‘That’s rock ‘n’ roll.’ Well, the laughter stops here, godammit. You hear me, Eye Dog!?”

  No reply. Patrick slapped Eye Dog with the back of his left hand, drawing blood. He shouted, “Look at me, damn you! I want to hear you say it, Eye Dog. I want you to confess what a nasty fucking piece of work you really are. In front of everyone watching. I want them to know what I know, you scumbag. Now confess. Everything.”

  Still no reply, and by now Eye Dog looked almost too scared to talk. Patrick leaped onto the desk, springing up there in one swift, fluid movement, squatting like a meditative monk and waving the gun in the air. “Tell the people, you son of a bitch. Now.”

  Eye Dog started spluttering, words falling over themselves in their anxiety to leave his mouth. All his brash courage, that learned bravado he’d assimilated growing up on tough streets, had dissolved. All he knew was this: he was tied to a chair and there was a crazy man pointing a gun in his face.<
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  Patrick said, “Alright, fuck this”, and jammed the gun into Eye Dog’s mouth. The nauseating scrape of the barrel on his teeth was audible. The rapper grimaced, a dirty metal taste in his mouth, and tried to pull his head away. He could feel greasy streaks of sweat along his temples, down his neck and back. His eyes opened wide in fright and he began shaking his head “no”, these tiny, furious movements. He heard himself moan and thought he was about to wet himself.

  Patrick yelled, “Tell them! Or I swear to God…”

  Robert took a step forward, alarmed. He shouted, “No!”

  “Stay back, Rob,” Patrick said, an eerie calm in his voice. “Tell them, Eye Dog. Tell everyone what a slimy little shit you are.”

  Robert remained there, paralyzed. By now even Sandro looked alarmed, standing up in the control room and removing his earphones, peering down. Patrick knocked off the safety, a thick, muted click, and Robert gasped. And then Cathy appeared at the small frosted window in the studio door, Danny immediately behind her. Patrick saw her, out of the corner of his eye, just a flash on his peripheral vision. He looked away and realized what he’d seen and looked again and there she was, looking at him quizzically. He pulled the gun from Eye Dog’s mouth.

  Cathy tilted her head and frowned. Through the glass they could see her mouth the word: “Patrick…?”

  Patrick lowered the gun to his side. He rose to a standing position and said, “Cathy—go back…”, and was whipped backward by the force of a bullet passing through his shoulder. The movie buff in him would have appreciated what happened next: like a scene from a John Woo flick. The slam-bang of hot metal tearing through his flesh, its momentum jerking him up and around. Then zoom back along the trajectory of the bullet, where smoke rose from the barrel of a SWAT team member’s gun and glass fell slowly to the ground. Then cut to the slo-mo shot of Cathy and Danny, who had been roughly shoved aside, falling to the ground together. Then back to the first person point-of-view: Patrick turning slowly for a moment, a drunken ballerina, flailing and incapable, and crashing off the desk to the ground. And then, finally, the fade out, to blissful black…

  Patrick lay on the floor, stunned and wounded. He knew his shoulder was in pain, but he couldn’t feel it quite yet. The mind protecting the body for as long as it can. Time seemed to slow down, to a measured, lazy throb. He was acutely aware of his own labored breathing, and could distantly hear sounds, as though coming to him through walls of glass: Danny yelling at the SWAT team to stop as they battered at the door; Robert calling to Sandro to come down from the control room; Eye Dog screaming, all pretence at being a tough guy utterly vanished.

  Then, for an instant, the flashback: the movie resumed in Patrick’s mind as he saw himself, sitting on a beach in summertime, reading in the warm breeze. The wind made the long grass dance and flicked the pages of his book. He was young, 14 or 15, brightly blond and handsome, poring over the words and then smiling up at someone standing above him, casting a strong shadow in the burnished-yellow sunshine…

  And now, the soundtrack: the sweet, elegiac strains of Percy Faith’s Theme from a Summer Place started to play in his head, the jaunty strings leading in, the gorgeous sweep of the main melody, and it didn’t seem at all ridiculous to Patrick. It sounded appropriate, as he returned to the present: clearing his mind, leaping to a standing position, holding his gun. He tested his shoulder with a finger. It hurt like hell, but the bullet had passed clean through; he was still alive, and he still had use of his arm.

  Belatedly he realized the extent of the turmoil around him. The main door was about to give, shuddering with each blow struck by the police battering ram. Patrick looked to Robert but he was already moving, pulling two tear gas canisters from the bag. Sandro had left the control box and was rushing forward, screaming in fury. Patrick moved toward him, waving his hand.

  He said, “Sandro, no. I’m okay, I’m not hurt…”

  It was too late: Sandro’s friend was shot and he was angry now. He fired a low burst from a machine pistol as the SWAT team finally forced the door, charging into the room, yelling orders and wild exhortations, forcing the gang of three to retreat. Robert hurled the tear gas at the door and smoke billowed out in thick, bright-white clouds. The three of them made for the fire exit, Patrick shouting above the din, “Aim for their legs!”

  They snapped the lock and stumbled out into a corridor as the cacophony of guns and voices and heavy boots rose. And Patrick had a moment of exquisite clarity then, everything around him reduced to its essence. This must be what war is like, he thought: chaotic, terrifying, thrilling, insane. And unreal. The whole thing felt surreal, like another movie scene, but a different one this time, something otherworldly and unnerving and beautiful. Time slowed down to dreaminess, then speeded up to a frightening velocity, as pieces of masonry chipped off under gunfire, ricochets resounded, and urgent commands were issued by the SWAT team leader.

  The gang broke through a door and into another corridor. Robert and Sandro sprinted ahead and Patrick followed, and halfway down a middle-age cleaning woman, who’d somehow been left behind, emerged from a door. He almost bumped into her; he stopped; she looked at him, curious but oddly unafraid. Then he took her in his arms and waltzed her to the music playing in his head, spinning twice, three times, smiling at her from beneath his mask, before hurling her back into the room and running off. She peeked out from behind the door as gun-smoke and noise, paint and concrete sparking off the walls, heralded the arrival of the SWAT team moments later.

  Up ahead they ran along another corridor, all looking horribly alike in the current straits. Patrick stopped at an emergency door. He called to them, pointing at it. “Hey! Hey, you guys!”

  Robert and Sandro stopped and turned, and Patrick said, “It’s used by maintenance and cleaning staff. Come on—over here.”

  He pushed the bar and the door opened into a circular stairwell. Sandro stood to shoot a few covering rounds but came under fire. He dived to the floor, covering his head. The police were gathering behind a corner now, firing off quick bursts in two-man relays, then ducking behind the concrete again. Robert and Patrick rushed back, Patrick shooting, not really aiming. Just keep firing. Distract them. Scare them. Buy some time.

  Robert crouched beside him, rummaging in his bag for another canister of tear gas. As he stood to throw, a bullet clipped the top of his forehead. Just skimmed the skull, it seemed, sizzling through the bone. Robert didn’t even cry out—he spun elegantly and dropped down dead. Patrick froze, letting his gun clatter to the floor then screaming in grief: “Jesus! No! Robert…”

  Sandro grabbed Patrick and shoved him toward the door, shouting, “He’s gone, Paddy! Just keep moving. Robert’s gone. Don’t think about it, just keep fucking moving…”

  He pushed both of them through the door and Patrick down the stairs, and jammed the door behind them with a rifle. And then they were running, hurtling down the clanging metal steps, as the sounds of battle faded into the distance, and the Percy Faith waltz playing in Patrick’s head faded out, too, whirling, whirling, like seabirds turning in the wind, tiny black specks spinning across an azure summer sky…

  Chapter 11

  The value of a proper ending

  AN EDDY of cream in a cup of coffee. Patrick looked at its off-white tail as it slowly revolved, turning his coffee a lighter brown. He and Sandro sat at a low table, on the couch, in the sitting room of a crummy apartment in Brooklyn Heights. The place belonged to Sandro’s second cousin; he was on the road a lot, touring, doing the lighting for a blues-rock band.

  Light sneaked in through the half-drawn curtains and Patrick continued to stir his coffee. Sandro glanced over at him: Patrick looked wiped-out, in every conceivable way. A dull stain had appeared at the shoulder of his t-shirt, that brown-red, old-rust color of dried blood. Sandro watched him for a moment more, then gently took the spoon.

  He said, “Hey…I think you’ve stirred it enough. Drink.”

  “I don’t…feel m
uch like drinking, Sandro.”

  “Alright. That’s cool.”

  They sat without speaking for a long while, the hum of the refrigerator a low, insistent back-note. Sandro stood, peeked cautiously out the window and sat down again. Nothing happening outside. No squad cars squealing to a stop on the street below, no panicked officers with firearms drawn, furtively glancing upward, swallowing their fear, and committing themselves to doing what needed to be done. They were safe for now, Sandro reasoned. About 16 hours had passed since they escaped the television studio, discarding their masks, hurriedly changing into street clothes in a rank public toilet, dumping the bags and weapons, strolling to this apartment as casually as they could manage while their heads pounded and their hearts broke apart.

  They hadn’t had the will to check the news reports on television since then. Neither of them wanted to see it made real in the cold, bright, all-encompassing gaze of the camera. But at least they were safe here, for now.

  Eventually Patrick stood up with a forced smile and said, “I’ll put some music on. Might help to…you know, distract us or…”

  “Okay, Paddy.”

  Patrick flicked on an old, battered stereo sitting on a shelf and scanned through the different stations. Snatches of music and voices, talk shows and jingles, chart countdowns and thumping beats. He eventually stopped as a gentle, piano-led tune began. Patrick knew this song: Soon After Christmas by Stina Nordenstam, a fragile, haunting, achingly beautiful piece. His shoulders began to shake and he gripped the shelf tightly.

  Sandro stood up and spoke after a long pause: “Paddy…”

  Patrick waved a hand at him to stay back. He steadied himself, then spoke in a quavering voice. “I’m…alright, Sandro. I’m alright. I’m just…you know.”

  “Yeah, man. I know.”

  The two of them sat side-by-side on the little couch. Patrick ran his hands through his hair and smiled at Sandro. He said, “So what now, amigo?”