Shot Girl Page 17

  “No way in hell I’m working on a case like that.”

  “She was one of the more extreme ones. Other victims aren’t as bad. Like one guy, Plastic turned his ears backwards. Another guy, he skin-grafted his pubic patch to his chin. I actually laughed at that one. Doesn’t look too bad, either. I may do it myself.”

  “You’re disgusting,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “I know. One woman, he moved her breasts to her back. Another, he removed her knees, so she can’t bend her legs. But the majority are just basic disfigurement stuff. Like cutting off a nose. Or an unnecessary colostomy. Or doing lip injections until they’re the size of pop cans. That one is strangely erotic, by the way.”

  “No.”

  “Let me tell you about the money. It’s crazy.”

  Harry told me about the money.

  It was crazy.

  “McGlade, I’m hiding in Florida because I don’t want psychos after me. I’m not going after some whackjob who is going to track me down and sew my labia to my forehead.”

  “Interesting imagery. But you wouldn’t have to worry. The world thinks you’re dead, so even if Plastic finds out someone is working with me—and he won’t—he still won’t know it’s you. We catch him, he goes to jail for the rest of his life, and you go on living in anonymity with a metric shit ton of cash. It’s no lose.”

  There’s no such thing as no lose. There is always losing, and it’s always me doing the losing.

  “I’ll think about it,” I lied, to get him off the subject. “What else is going on with you?”

  “Have you been following my webcast?”

  “Of course.”

  I was not following his webcast.

  “Since Heckle and Jeckle hooked up with the Cowboy, I’ve gotten a whole new crew. We do it once a week, in a studio. Getting crazy mad traffic. Movie and TV offers. Got a book deal. It’s all good. Even cleared up my little problem with the IRS.”

  “So why are you going after Plastic?”

  “Because that’s what we heroes do, Jackie. We go after bad guys. It’s who we are.”

  On Dr. Agmont’s Jungian archetype scale, Harry leaned more toward jester than hero. And I was a wounded healer. My hero days were forever behind me.

  “Dating anyone?” I asked, not really wanting to know.

  “I’m a pansexual in Hollywood. I’m dating everyone. Did I tell you I was pansexual?”

  Last I spoke with Harry, he’d come out as gender-blind, and decided his sole dating criteria was consent. As long as the person was willing and over the age of eighteen, Harry would bang them. Or get banged by them. Or both. Sometimes at the same time.

  It was gross to think about, but also progressive in a nice kind of way.

  “Yeah, you told me.”

  “Pansexual means I’ll have sex with anything. Including pans.”

  He laughed at his own joke. McGlade does that a lot.

  Not wanting to hear about his sexual escapades any more than I wanted to hear about my mother’s, I changed the subject.

  “How’s your penguin?”

  “Doing great. Got a great big pile of rocks in the living room. Still sleeps in the fridge. I had to give the Russian mastiff, Rosalina, back to Tequila, so I got Waddlebutt another pet friend to play with. You’ll never in a million years guess what kind of animal I bought.”

  Harry told me, and he was correct. I never would have guessed it in a million years.

  “Is that legal?” I asked.

  “I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m rich and famous so I get away with shit. What’s going on with you? You sucking at rehab?”

  “I’m doing fine,” I lied.

  “How’s Sammy? Harry Junior misses her.”

  “She’s good.”

  “Mom?”

  “Fine. Partying too much.”

  “No such thing. That insane cat kick off yet?”

  “Not yet. He’ll outlive us all.”

  “Phin cheating on you?”

  With McGlade I never knew if he was joking or ignorant. Probably a lot of both.

  “Everything’s fine, Harry.”

  “That bad, huh?” He clucked his tongue. “Maybe it’s your mental attitude. I’ve only been on the phone with you for five minutes, and you’re already bringing me down. It’s like my will to have fun is being sucked out of me.”

  You and me both, pal.

  I changed the subject. “Had an interesting talk about gun control yesterday.”

  “With who? Some entitled social justice snowflake who gets offended by people protecting themselves? Or some wingnut extremist bigot who thinks you should give every cis white baby a 9mm the moment it pops out of the Christian womb?”

  “All Americans aren’t that polarized, McGlade.”

  “Really? Look at the news. Or social media. Or outside your window.”

  “It was a calm, rational dialogue.”

  “With a fellow American? You’re kidding.”

  “That’s the problem. It isn’t us vs. them. It’s all us. We just need to understand each other better.”

  “Save that crap for the commune, hippie. Wait a sec… have you gone full Brady Act just because you took a tiny little bullet in the back? Christ, Jackie, I’ve been shot plenty of times, and I still love guns. Hell, I lost my hand.”

  “Your ex-wife cut off your hand,” I reminded him.

  “She cut off my fingers with tin snips. But do I support a tin snips ban, leaving maybe dozens of professional tin workers unemployed? I do not. I would proudly march in any parade supporting tin workers. Especially if it was a naked parade.”

  The last few stragglers left, leaving me alone in the cafeteria.

  “I’m not against guns. You know it’s impossible to have a conversation with you that isn’t defensive?”

  “Stop being stupid.”

  “Case and point.”

  “You’re the one that called me, Jackie.”

  “I called you back.”

  “It’s still on you.”

  Actually, it’s on Dr. Agmont. “I called just to have a conversation. Not to argue and take sides.”

  “Isn’t that what a conversation is?”

  “A conversation is give and take.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you my opinion, and you can take it. I love guns. Love them like a mama lion loves her cubs, but with sexual overtones. I love guns so much I make up my own gun quotes and have them printed on t-shirts. Want to hear some?”

  “No.” Damn you, Agmont.

  “People aren’t dangerous because of guns. Guns are dangerous because people are dicks.”

  “Not very good.”

  “Do guns kill? Of course guns kill. That’s the point.”

  “Can you stop?”

  “If we want to keep guns out of the hands of criminals, we need to keep criminals out of the hands of guns.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “A gun in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

  “Now you’re not even trying.”

  “A gun in time saves nine.”

  That one sort of made sense, but at this point I wasn’t giving McGlade any encouragement for anything.

  “I gotta go.”

  “You’ll think about LA? How are you doing on money? I know your health insurance was shit-canned, and Phin’s bank robbery stash has to be running low.”

  “He told you about that?”

  “Sure. Phin and I talk all the time.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “We have an ongoing bromance.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right.”

  “It’s true. We have nothing but brospect for each other.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You can’t deny our bro love, Jackie. You’d probably say we’re bromosexual.”

  “That’s not something I’d say. Ever. And neither would Phin.”

  “I’m his Pillsbury Broboy.”

  And we’re done. “I gotta go. There’s someone o
n fire.”

  “Cool. Gonna have some brotato chips. Want me to send you a Gun In Time Saves Nine t-shirt?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll FedEx it. Cya.”

  He hung up.

  Did I feel better?

  I dunno. A little. Maybe.

  Sort of coincidental that both Harry and Tom lived in Los Angeles, and both wanted my help.

  Maybe too coincidental.

  Herb also mentioned it.

  Could my mother and Dr. Agmont have conspired with my squad to try and motivate me?

  I wouldn’t put it past Mom. And Agmont was too sexy to trust.

  If that were the case, should I feel good that my fam cared enough about me to try this?

  Or should I feel even sorrier for myself because I was so pitiful I needed charity?

  Thunder cracked.

  I flinched.

  I tried to think of a happy ending to my story.

  But all I could think of was guns and psychos and pain and losing my husband and never walking again.

  “I have a love interest in every one of my films: a gun.”

  ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER

  “I have a very strict gun control policy: if there’s a gun around, I want to be in control of it.”

  CLINT EASTWOOD

  GAFF

  When I opened the door, Moms didn’t rush to hug me. There was no weeping. No speech about how worried she was. Moms didn’t act like any of the mothers I saw in countless TV shows and movies.

  She never did.

  “Can I come in?”

  She threatened to call the cops about her car, and the last thing I needed was the cops coming around after I offed my landlord, so I nodded and stepped to the side.

  Moms took a quick look around the apartment. I couldn’t read the expression on her face, but I knew she was judging.

  #Disapproval.

  I regretted not bashing her face in with the cast iron pan she made me carry for years.

  “Have you been taking your medicine?”

  “How’d you find me?” I asked.

  “Your bank.”

  “My bank doesn’t know where I am.”

  “You opened your account when you were a minor, Guthrie. I was required to be a joint account holder. I logged on to your account, saw one of your purchases was for the electric company, and called them to get your address.”

  “I’m not going back with you.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “So why you here?”

  “Two reasons. First, I want to tell you something.”

  Moms never told me she loved me. If she said it now, wouldn’t have mattered.

  But she didn’t say it.

  “You were a challenging child to raise. Maybe I did some things wrong. Maybe we both did. But I want you to know that I tried. I tried my best.”

  “You took me to doctors that put me on meds that messed me up.”

  “Guthrie… I hope you keep taking your medication. When you’re off it, you get…”

  “I get what?”

  “Do you remember when you were six and we went to a farm? We saw a steer getting dehorned. You asked why they were cutting off the tips of his horns. Do you remember what I told you?”

  One more bad memory. “You said it was being dehorned so it didn’t cause danger to itself or others.”

  “Your medication is important. So is your psychotherapy. Dr. Halforth is worried about you.”

  “But you’re not,” I said.

  “I had you when I was very young. Your father… he was in a gang. I was doing a lot of things I shouldn’t have, during the pregnancy. When your father was killed, I tried to straighten out. Get clean.”

  “Hold up. Pops was killed?”

  “He was shot. Right in front of our apartment. I saw him die.”

  I didn’t know none of that.

  Dope.

  “I didn’t want that life for you. I tried to shield you from a lot of things. Maybe I was wrong, but I did my best.”

  She started to get weepy. For me, or for herself, I couldn’t tell.

  “That’s why you came? To say that?”

  “And to give you this.”

  She reached into her purse and handed me a folded piece of paper.

  “It’s the car title. I signed it over to you. You’ll need to go to a currency exchange and get the title transferred, and new license plates.”

  “Am I supposed to say thank you or something?”

  “You’re eighteen. An adult. What I think doesn’t matter anymore.”

  I looked Moms dead in the eye and said, “It never mattered.”

  She nodded, wiped some tears off her face. “Long drive to get here. Can I use the bathroom?”

  I actually considered it. Letting her go in there. Seeing my buffed Merican on the sink. Seeing her face as I picked it up and put forty-seven bullets into her.

  Bye, Felicia.

  That would feel good. But it would also be stupid. I could get away with killing Marko. Killing Moms would take a lot more finesse.

  I couldn’t deal.

  “Naw. Toilet’s clogged. Been waiting for the dude to come fix it.”

  “A clogged toilet is easy to fix,” she said, trying to walk around me.

  I got in front of her and stopped her.

  “I said naw.”

  “Do you have a plunger?” Moms did a quick look around my empty apartment. “Do you have anything at all?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Fine. I’ll go. Good luck, Guthrie.”

  “My name is Gaff. You think I don’t remember, bcuz I was a shawty. That’s what Pops called me. Gaff. Like the hook used to snag big fish.”

  Moms made a snorting sound. Coulda been a laugh. “Not like the hook. He called you Gaffe. G-A-F-F-E. And I think he was right.”

  She left without either of us saying goodbye.

  I got on the computer and looked up Gaffe.

  A blunder, error, or mistake that causes embarrassment.

  Eff her. I shoulda shot the bitch.

  I thought about grabbing my nine, running out after her, spraying lead.

  But I didn’t.

  Maybe, someday, I’d pay Moms a visit.

  But I had shit to do first.

  I went to the superstore, bought new boots, a different brand. Also picked up a broom and dustpan, and a full-sized mirror that looked big enough to cover the hole.

  My old boots went into the trash, and I changed into the new ones.

  When I got back to my crib, I circled the block three times, looking for cops. Weren’t none.

  Inside, I swept up all the glass, and all of Marko’s nasty-ass tissues. The mirror came with some mounting screws. I didn’t have no screwdriver, but I remembered my Swiss Army Knife had one. When I was finished, looked good as new.

  #PerfectCrime.

  I took a long walk, threw away the bag of glass in a garbage can in front of a Burger Barn, and began to think about tomorrow.

  Today I popped my murder cherry.

  Tomorrow I’m going to crush an all-out killing orgy.

  “Violence is an evil thing, but when the guns are all in the hands of the men without respect for human rights, then men are really in trouble.”

  LOUIS L’AMOUR

  “I believe the Second Amendment will always be important.”

  JOHN F. KENNEDY

  JACK

  Mom didn’t attend my rehab.

  So much for her supporting my journey to wellness.

  I sweated through it alone, unconvinced I was improving, unable to ask my nurse because her full attention was focused on the window and watching the deck chairs—stacked and tied down with a metal wire—flop around like kites on a string in the 100mph+ winds.

  Rather than the parallel bars, the torture du jour was a four step staircase with handrails. Over the months spent laboring through physical therapy, I’d never managed even a single step. I could get
my foot up there, but the rest of my body wouldn’t follow, no matter how much I strained and pushed and pulled and grunted and stretched and swore.

  So the session consisted of doing the hokey-pokey. Put one foot up, put one foot down, put one foot up, and shake like a spastic clown.

  After languishing in futility for an hour, my earlier prophecy proved correct; I couldn’t go outside on my own without blowing over, and Phin had to come in and get me. He’s a strong guy, and still had to struggle to push me into the van.

  Sam greeting me with a big hug, jumping into my lap. “Daddy says we’re getting a GameMaster 2 tomorrow!”

  I glanced at Phin in the driver’s seat, but he made no effort at eye contact.

  “Aren’t you happy, Mommy? It launches with City Warriors 2! It has six new characters. Maybe you’ll even be good at one of them.”

  I looked at my daughter, still faint traces of marker on her face. “Don’t you miss running around the house with mommy playing tag?”

  “I miss mommy being happy,” she said.

  Join the club.

  When we got home, Phin asked if I wanted to help make dinner. He was doing shrimp fried rice.

  “You can peel some shrimp. Scramble some eggs.”

  I declined. Sam eagerly filled my shoes. I sat and watched some TV talk show where lowbrow people threw chairs at each other, while Sam and Phin were in the kitchen, talking and laughing.

  I switched to CNN and learned Hurricane Harry was now a Cat IV, and expected to reach the coast of Florida tonight.

  “Did you clean the gutters?” I called to Phin.

  “Yeah. Earlier today.”

  “Before or after you fucked some other woman?” I asked.

  I didn’t really ask that.

  I didn’t have the guts.

  I didn’t want to know.

  What I needed to do was turn off the TV, roll into the kitchen, and help my family make dinner.

  Instead I cried. Quietly, so they wouldn’t hear me.

  This was officially it. The lowest point of my whole life.

  I’d been in danger too many times to count.

  I’d been hurt, physically and emotionally.