XVII

Back Down the Road

A man may wake up knowing the end is nigh, or he might ease into the clubhouse turn on a casual lope one sunny afternoon, leaning to the inside, rounding to the stretch. He may finish in the lead or back by a nose or back in the pack, and it won’t matter. So why worry in the meantime? He’ll give what he’s got and be done, tired and relieved. Or maybe just done.

Mulroney can’t pinpoint the beginning of old age, but some days are better than others, and better days aren’t as frequent as they used to be. At least a bicycle ride is a great excuse for feeling tired. It’s a better workout than showing the house, where all a guy gets is a great excuse for feeling miserable, no extra charge for the tedium and niggling bullshit. But a day beginning with a thirty-five miler and ending on tragi-comedy at sundown and still no sale could be a toxic combo. Who knew? Mulroney didn’t know.

But he learns, shuffling down a dim hallway to the sunroom as shadows lengthen, and the fabulous view of the biggest ocean in the world fades to black. Mulroney suspects he’s in better condition than ninety-five percent of his peers, but distinction feels pitiful, like a turd who knows he doesn’t stink so bad. He plops down for a TV and beer soak, sinking in with a vengeance before circumstance and considerations thereof can sink into him.

By chance and timing, as if he’s due, he tunes in to two hail-fellows sincerely beating snot out of each other on whatever-the-night fights. Boxers and punchers, bangers and bleeders; they seem a right compensation for the head-butting, nose-banging, jaw-clubbing, bloodletting carnage at Casa Mulroney on that woeful afternoon. The knockout punch comes somewhere in the later rounds, as Mulroney drifts from ringside into the ether and out. His corner man throws in the towel, and they drift …

Until the bell rings to end the round—and rings and rings. Wait! That’s the phone! Groveling in response to human operant conditioning, Mulroney struggles up from the depths and the sofa to reach the phone. Why? Might this be the Voice of Redemption, calling with good news and money? No, it won’t be that, because it never has, never will. Yet he lunges, because hope springs eternal no matter what we know is true, because humanity fears that something might be missed. Well, humanity except for Michael Mulroney, who is apart from that song and dance most of the time. So maybe this lunge is another wasted effort. But he’s there, so he picks up with a groan.

A man on the line speaks with a Vuh-ginia-affectation that Mulroney takes for a prank—it’s probably one of his goofy friends. But scanning the file in mere seconds, he can’t put a name on the caller … because he has no friends, not real friends, not old, trusted, adventure-sharing friends. Whatever, the affected fellow goes on about Big M Mulroney’s reputation up and down the coast and to the far side of Nevada too. Maybe the guy is from LA and couldn’t quite get traction on the English accent. But he knows the score: that Big M is the OK car specialist who won’t bullshit you with pre-owned, or worse yet, certified pre-owned, as if a guy in a white robe with a clipboard and a stethoscope can look up a car’s tailpipe and call it something other than a used car.

“Ha! Am I right?” It’s a used car no matter how many miles or who sat behind the wheel or the make—“Am I right?” The guy asks and pauses, like he expects the Big M, himself, to say yes, you are correct. But Mulroney says nothing and comfortably so, awakened as he was from the deep sleep of the deeply depressed. “I take it this is the Big M, Mr. Michael Mulroney?”

“Himself.” Mulroney waits for the pitch, ready to set the phone back in the cradle.

“Right on, man. Precisely. Good. Yes. Now …” And so in the vein of the severely-over-compensating-for-failure-to-be-hip, tediously-superior class, the caller from Vuh-ginia via LA proceeds, “A few of us were talking, you know, and we all share acquaintance with our particular friend Mister Lombard Cienega. Perhaps you’ve heard of Mr. Cienega. It just so happens that our great good friend Lombard will be celebrating his eightieth birthday next week, and we do so want to pitch in on a little something. We thought it might be fun to surprise him with a toy—that is, a real toy with maximum wow, if you get my drift. We want to make a big impression. What do you think?”

The fuck? Mulroney doesn’t think in the middle of the night, well, at nearly midnight anyway, and he wouldn’t share if he did. Yes, he’s heard of Lombard Cienega, just like he’d heard of Betty Burnham; peas in a pod—that’s what the society page called them, profiling them as forces of nature, which doesn’t sound like peas but has a certain satisfactory ring, since few things are more forceful than nature. Peas may lead to carrots and onward, to rhubarb, rhubarb, mumbo jumbo. The guy prattles over greatness and reverence, as if Betty B and Lombard Cienega are any different than the Big fricken’ M. Some people have more moolah than most, and some are a tad short. That’s all. Mulroney gives it a moment because he doesn’t know his top-drawer inventory or availability by heart. He’ll need to check the inventory files, and that won’t happen till tomorrow morning, not tonight, up and out of a deep sleep. The man on the line waits for a reasonable answer, after all, as if midnight is just after brunch. Maybe he derives further superiority by staying mum, waiting a direct response. Mulroney enjoys the silence, wondering how long the whole wide world could stay so mum. But then a little buzz drifts between his ears, as he recalls an amusing item that made an impression in recent weeks, and he demonstrates a move—a cool move made to look easy but a move nonetheless reserved for the seasoned pro of global caliber. “I … have a … Let’s see here. It’s a 1937 Duesenberg Model J cabriolet in canary yellow in a condition we call Concours d’Elegance. Perhaps you’ve heard of Concours d’Elegance.”

The ’37 Doozy came on a month ago and was likely still on the blocks at three point eight, factoring about a third over as premium for actual mileage of a hundred ten—that would be one hundred ten miles. Priced a tad high, the car would be more desirable for being more expensive. The higher the price, the smaller the market and the greater the exclusivity, desirability and envy factor, all of which strove for perfection. As an ultimate car it could be seen as a toy and perfectly so by the rare owner who would not store it hermetically as “an investment.” Ugh. How utterly bourgeois. The rare owner would in fact call it a driver, as the car was designed and built to be, albeit eons ago. The rare driver would treat it like his father’s Oldsmobile, even though his father would be a hundred forty and long dead, like Oldsmobile, or Duesenberg. The profile seemed ideal for local tastes and values and right in the crosshairs for the likes of Lombard Cienega. And to have it known as a gift, as appreciation for the wise application of the elder gentleman’s money and power would make the transaction flow with magnanimity, generosity, love, and reverence. Now there was service after the sale and another force of nature.

“Yes, I believe I have heard of that rating as it relates to the condition of a car. My understanding is that Concours d’Elegance is showroom perfect, or maybe a bit better.”

“I can’t vouch for that. I can vouch for its condition, which is Concours d’Elegance. And I can vouch for actual mileage of a hundred ten.”

“Thousand.”

“Miles.”

“A hundred ten miles?”

“Vouchsafed.”

“And the price?”

“What is the budget?” Touché; no man of a superior nature wants to freely express his limitation.

“Precisely. Can you please tell me the number of dollars that should appear on the bank draft?”

“I have to see. The market does change and can change quickly on these vintage classics of extreme rarity and extreme excellence, and this car will not likely come along again in our lifetime. It will be somewhere in the mid-four range.”

So ensues another silence, as if to see which stature might rise to stratospheric indifference on the price of a thing. Straining the line is the question the fellow wants to ask but can’t: does the mid-fours refer to hundreds of thousands, or millions? Well, it really should make no difference, considering the magnitude of respect, regard, and spiritual debt owing to Mister Cienega, a social, cultural debt that could never be repaid in a simple …

“That would be four point three to four point seven.”

“Yes. Of course …”

“Let me see what I can do. Can I call you back in a few?”

“Of course. I’ll stand by.”

Only Mulroney is often sung to the tune of Only the Lonely, and Mulroney sings it, noting improved pitch on a sleep-deepened voice with less effort than, say, in the shower or rolling down the road. Still drowsy, he carries on like a crooner. He can’t actually carry a tune, but he scores again, dialing direct to the Doozy dealer’s home phone to learn that the car is still available, and yes, three point eight can take it. “What? Whaddaya got? Talk to me.”

A call back to the original inquiry opens on unctuous cordiality, including the weather and prospects for more. They agree wholeheartedly on the blessed relief of the weekend approaching and review a few activities we’re all so fond of, like, for example, walking along under sunny, blue skies. Or viewing fabulous views. And the great blessings of lasting friendship and decent family values. But somewhere this doily shuffle must find a point. Each party is determined to postpone the meat until the hors d’oeuvres are thoroughly picked over, with a few flies buzzing around. Another ring in Mulroney’s head reverberates like a familiar bell, going into Round Ten. These are the championship rounds. He feels intact, all systems stable, and he knows how to wait for the opening on the knockout punch, because it will come, surely as pride cometh before the fall. With ring wisdom Michael Mulroney can be a Heavyweight Champion in the World and cure life’s niggling shortfall on one fell stroke of a used car on an incoming call. He could call this a laydown or a bend over, but in these times of life and death as they relate to reputation for service and product knowledge, he can only call it providential. A half-million dollar margin is sitting on the table. It not only glows, it flashes like a lightening bolt, if only a closer of stellar caliber can harness the power—can raise Thor’s hammer and strike! And bring this motherfucker home.

Of course, the devil is in the doubt, and questions buzz like stray static in the clouds: who in the world keeps a half-million dollar margin a secret on a deal that feels damn near public? Will this gouge come back to haunt? Could a very sweet deal make all parties happy parties on, say, four point oh, or even three point nine? Minus federal, state, local, and out-the-ass taxes, rendering a net of chickenshit point one. Why bother? Why pussyfoot around with a Band-Aid on a compound fracture, when a splint and a transfusion are indicated? A half mil could loosen the screws like no tomorrow, could turn this slow descent on a Judas cradle into a waterslide to Paradise. But then …

Even chickenshit point one could warrant a price drop on the house to get that lump o’ coal off dead center and get the Brady Bunch or the harpies or anyfuckingbody in here to get the show out of hock and on the road. The obvious truth of the numbers on the table flashing in effervescent reality is that a man must make a living, be it honest or otherwise, and these are corporates on the buying end—or else they’re family fortunes or otherwise capital conglomerates feeding much as a lamprey or other bloodsucker on the body collective, doing what comes naturally to balance the system. So what? What will it be? A hun? Three hun? Or half a unit? This is action, on the fly.

Mulroney describes the Duesenberg as the most delectable entrée a person could possibly imagine, as beyond fantasy and perhaps the perfect iota for the man who has everything and then some—buying time, he carries that tune, as he was trained to do and could do blindfolded, formulating the perfect pitch on a soft drop all the while, until a stray arc jolts him into saying, “… it came on last month at four point three, and I’m told a few offers are in process as we speak. It’s rare, and it’s new. A hundred ten miles. I offered three point eight. Do you want it?”

Into the silence that can only be called preggers, the two men measure each other in terms of magnitude, fortitude, verisimilitude. In Mulroney’s corner, unspoken terms are harsh: What, this bonehead thinks I’m bluffing? But a man of extreme skill will often overlook his extreme efficacy in the clutch. The affected fellow on the far end sizes up the Big M, the situation, and the numbers, and he finally speaks. He does not say yes, we’ll take it.

He says, “I beg your pardon. It’s so late, and I do get excited, you know, until I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Runnymeade Runyan.”

Perhaps you’ve heard of me? At least he has the good taste and forbearance to avoid verbalizing the question. Moreover, he demonstrates non-specifically that the vintage classic automobile suggested may indeed have extreme wow and will be acceptable under the terms offered. His warmth and carefully chosen language also indicate acceptance, such as it is or can be in such a rarified class of person, of whom Michael Mulroney may be blended into the fold, as it were.

The half-million dollar price drop becomes a donation fit for the gossip wire by sunrise. As casually cavalier as a caviar canapé on toast, hold the crust, Big M becomes ensconced with the values we believe in—while he sleeps. As a new player on the block with brilliant potential, Mulroney gets another phone call early the next morning, at an hour Mulroney would find distasteful, which distaste he would demonstrate by answering the phone, The fuck you know what time it is? But luck holds, even up from the depths at hazardous speed, as he fumbles the phone to the point of moaning, “Hullo.”

“Oh, hello. Runny Runyan here.” And that’s how it is in the top drawer, neat and orderly but snug and snuggly too. Runnymeade “call me Runny” Runyan describes Mulroney’s loyalty as most effective at a level rarely seen in America since the halcyon days of our President, Ronald Reagan. “And I must say …” He must say that the home crowd is tickled fucking pink with prospects for such a wonderful toy for our great friend Lombard Cienega—that a couple of the fellows actually heard about this car, they thought, but couldn’t believe it to be real, yet alas, it is! Mister Runyan did not say fucking, but Mulroney could hear it, given the masterful nuance and silky inflection and perfectly ambient ooze, like soft-boiled eggs at room temp. “We can’t wait to see the look on his face! But the reason I’m calling is, well, yes, I know it’s early for some of us, but actually a tad late for others, if you get my meaning. But at any rate some of us were chatting, you know, and your name, Mulroney, is bouncing off the walls at State Party Headquarters. I mean, not actually at HQ per se but off the walls figuratively speaking, of course, of those of us in a position of, shall we say, interest.” So ensued the next silence in a series of silent interludes, these silences sparing any iota of one-up. Rather—oh, brave new world—they sizzle in searing excellence.

For starters, Mulroney is speechless. Runny Runyan thrusts the baton further out front, proclaiming as if to a crowded auditorium, “We need men of your caliber in the legislature. I’m talking Federal, of course. That would be the U.S. Senate. We see you, and you’re up, which should not be to suggest an automatic in, but then again, you know. That is, your name is in the hopper. We’ll be in touch.”

Yet again, Mulroney hasn’t a syllable to say. He has distinct thoughts: that it isn’t his place to say that he doesn’t feel like a Democrat, what with the lefty whining and spending, but he can’t be a Republican either, given the slime. And he can’t see running for the U.S. Senate from California if he’s moving to Hawaii. But then a U.S. senator mostly lives in Washington, which could be worse than California in many ways and is certainly not tropical. Then again, he could be Senator M from the great state of California and hang out on the beach on Maui and work shit out from there and just skip the voting on the Senate floor. One vote; how big a difference could it make? And surely nobody would wonder why he’d rather be in the tropics instead of Lodi or Sacramento or D.C. So, maybe he’d give it a go.

On the serious side, he wonders why he left a half million dollars on the table when he could have solved his problem posthaste, at least for a few more months. Fending off regret, he knows why: because of the far greater return with this bunch, maybe. This talk of the U.S. Senate is smoke up the wazoo—Runnymeade Runyan knows it but may not yet realize that Michael Mulroney knows it too.

As if amused at the dazed comprehension of a man thrust into greatness by the select steering committee, Runnymeade Runyan breaks this silence with a warm chuckle and comfortable phrasing, “Yes, well. We’ll be in touch.”

As if Runny Runyan will be delivering the vintage classic to Mulroney. Ah, well. It’s all pie in the sky till the moolah clears. And the beauty of making no money on the deal is that the ultimate closer doesn’t give a flat flying fuck if it closes or not. Gee, how did Mulroney get so Big?

Repressing the big question of dollars left on the table and why, Mulroney rises to another question with a far better range of answers. Why does he feel so good? Or good at all? California is miraculous and so is the healing process.

He stands up, hardly taking the full count.

He flexes his legs and hands, toes and fingers, and feels that pain has taken a holiday on a morning of azure clarity, on which potential seems fabulous all over again. He literally assures the ref, “I’m okay. I’m good.” Rarely have sunbeams converged so poignantly on a man so recently grappling with life, self and the circumstance therein. He wakens in a balm of color and light, as if God is his cut man. He dreamt vividly, something about boxing, but can’t remember what, except for snot and spit flinging over the top rope on a roundhouse right.

He shuffles to the bathroom robotically to take a whiz and wonder: What, the California Republican Party is thinking of running the ultimate used car salesperson for the U.S. Senate? That sounds like an eleven to one shot in Vegas. Then again, it is a ’37 Doozy ragtop with a hundred ten miles. You could eat off those heads. You could slide in behind the wheel and feel like 1937 all over again, which may be the year Ms. Betty Burnham and Lombard Shenanigan and Runny Nose Onion have in mind right now, harking back to a time BEW, Before Extreme Wealth. Shaking the dew, he laughs: rich, old fuckers. Laughter is a symptom of something new, but he doesn’t test it.

The morning miracle continues through a brief span of minutes, in which the man grinds the beans and fills the hopper and tamps it down and twists it into place and pushes the buttons to make the espresso and steams the milk to make it a latte. It’s a quiet time, delicately delineated by morning sounds: birds chirping, a car passing, Allison up and about. She’s happiest in the morning, fresh and energetic and most of all optimistic. She’d rather be happy and usually is. Mulroney maneuvers the parts into the process for the little cup o’ joy that will bring him up to his own potential for happiness. The body is too stiff and sore for another ride, no matter how clear the blue, blue sky or how great the potential for personal improvement. Allison never gets exercise, but then she never rests either. Lithe and limber as a pussy willow, she’ll come around soon, so they can share the same happiness again, perhaps, once things get moving out of the rut they’ve come to—out of the rut he’s driven them into. It’s temporary, or should be. Big M Mulroney is not a fool or foolhardy. He knows his safety nets, and though he’s fallen through one or two or three, he has a few left to break the fall, including the big one. That would be liquidation. Even at pennies on the dollar for goodwill and auction prices on inventory, he could still keep his shirt on—and maybe her shirt too—with enough left over for a couple tickets to Hawaii, first month, last month and damage deposit. He pours the slightly foamy milk over the magic elixir for the taste of renewal. Maybe it’s psychological, but the eyes open wider on that first sip, as if to see more. Are you kidding? Mulroney without resources? Do you happen to know of a used car lot, say, in a hundred mile radius? Aloha, I’m Mikale, and I’d like to show you the sweetest ride this side of the Pacific High. How often over the years has a true blue double threat representing the front end and the close wished for one more play on the sales field, to show these kids how to open the hearts, minds, and wallets of a lovely couple in need of basic transportation?

Setbacks happen, and then they’re done. Or not. What can a man do, stress out?

The Chambers Brothers said it best on action relative to indecision: Time Has Come Today. Mulroney has a hunch that Betty B is on elbow-rubbing terms with the Cienega/Runnymeade bunch and may have an inkling of potential magnitude on peripheral return—or any return greater than zero. Damn! What was he thinking? So close, and now it’s done. Then again, with a niggling questionable move shrinking in his wake on each step, Mulroney trods onward. Ahead lies resolution with emphasis on clarity.

Walking up the road overlooking the ocean, he thinks the view from the top too casual and convenient for a man to stroll, as if this path at this height in this rarified neighborhood is not in the world but is removed, isolated, detached, immaterial. No, scratch immaterial. It’s way material. Just so: any man or woman could walk this stretch without four-wheel drive or Sherpa guides, but they don’t. What, they’ll park at the corner, get out and walk up the road and then walk back? No. A man in his own neighborhood—this neighborhood—is financially secure, or he has the paper stacked just so, to reflect security till the end of the month. He lives in a bubble. What do bubbles do? Theoretically, a man at the top needs to meet no challenge, except by choice, to soothe a challenged ego. In reality he could walk up this road and back forever, viewing the fabulous panorama with endless sighing. But this isn’t reality; it’s the unreality of the exclusively affluent, and as clear blue as the sunny skies might be, the bubble has popped.

Mulroney wants to shuffle down to the flats, where the world turns by manual control, where winning and losing are uncertain instead of prearranged or calculated for optimal control of dollars as they may influence the future and its beneficiaries. Is it any accident that the rich get richer? No, it’s not. Does that source of irritation make Mulroney a lefty? Perhaps, but he feels confident that the grovelers and whiners down in the flats will irritate the bejesus out of him as well, likely by the third beer. Now there’s a challenge, and the outing shapes up. He wants to descend back into the real nitty gritty, where the burgeoning Big M cut his teeth and dug in on initial ascent. Who was it? Yes, the rabbit, Br’er Rabbit, who said it best: Why, I was born and raised in the briar patch! And so he was, and Mulroney was too, and together they’ll walk down to the flats whistling Zippity Do Da. That walk will require a climb back up unless a ride comes along. The downhill mile won’t be too bad, but the mile back up will be a grunt. And he might miss the Brady Bunch or the harpies cruising by for another look. Or, he could be unavailable when a correct offer comes in. That’s okay and would perhaps be the cornerstone of a takeaway, that maneuver close to the heart of the global-sales-elite who best understand desire and how to work it for fair advantage. Beyond that, prospective buyers might see Mulroney out for a stroll without a care and imagine themselves in that role—they’ll see him on brief respite from the Life of Riley at the top of ridge overlooking the bay on the central coast. Who wouldn’t think it fabulous, to possess the eagle’s roost at the tippy top? Envy, as well, might precipitate an offer as yet unseen. Mulroney can’t help a self-satisfied smile, imagining an observer with a thought bubble that reads: Gee, I’d like to be that guy. Then he frowns to better fend off the vanities. Then he waves to an SUV full of people who may well be house hunting, and he calls, “Hello!”

Yes, down to the flats, which descent will begin just up and around, once past Betty B’s place, where a milestone will mark a momentous journey on what should be a memorable day.

A great benefit of cycling is the efficient decoction of life down to fundamentals. Exercise is a known antidote for anxiety. A rider is inured to negativity and distraction when he’s gasping, looking up at another half mile of the steeps. What can he do but relax and maintain, muscle and bone, push and pull, ebb and flow, down to oxygen, blood, flex, release and guidance through the aerobic target heart range? Nada is the short answer.

And here it is, hardly by coincidence in this most recent inventory of riding and life fundamentals: Betty Burnham’s house. Is that fresh brewed coffee on the breeze? That will be delightful and a certain boost on this special morning, on which Mulroney will ask for a loan.

Feeling so chipper is nice but disconcerting to a man who understands averages. Then again, luck and good cheer favor the receptive mind. On the bright side, a financially challenged man depending on his friendship with a uniquely wealthy woman has hope, which is all a salesperson ever has, really.

With logic secure, kind of, Mulroney ambles through the storybook gate at Pooh’s cottage and follows the adorable stone walkway to the gingerbread entrance of the sprightly Ms. B’s place. She’s just inside awaiting a friend in need, maybe. Mulroney tap, tap, taps on the door. God, she would have been fun thirty years ago. Not that she’s not fun now, and you never know; she could have been stiff-necked and dull back then, by design.

Mulroney listens for the pitter-patter of flat feet.

Give an old gal a chance. They move slower at that age. She could be primping or having a bowel movement—a certain bonus for an elderly person that could assuredly ease her into the spirit of giving. He feels good about Betty Burnham and their blossoming friendship, which is what it comes down to; so honest and open. He can even imagine bodily function in a person of her maturity.

He knocks again. Still nothing. Mulroney steps back before sidling around to the narrow path between the hedge and wall that runs to the back, where she must be tinkering in the herbs, probably stringing beans or filling her hummingbird feeders or fooling around frivolously. Maybe she dropped dead in the chrysanthemums—he’d hate to be the guy who finds her, but croaking in the garden would be better than indoors, and she’s probably trussed up in a bikini and Ma Kettle’s sun bonnet, so she checked out happily …

Then again, he should not be the person who discovers the body. Dots could connect unfortunately on that scenario, what with incidents and observations of the recent past. The Tweedle brothers could gnaw on that bone for a mile or two.

She’s not here. Seems like old Betty must be out at the grocery or the Lawn ’n Garden, getting a jump on early tomatoes or late shade plants. Older people enjoy that sort of thing, and they do tend to rise early because they can’t sleep anymore. Maybe they’re scared. Maybe they think they’ll beat the reaper if they get up early and keep moving. Maybe they’re amazed at waking up at all. Mulroney can only imagine, but it won’t be long. She’s a great gal, but he doesn’t want to see her at the grocery or the garden place, resolution notwithstanding. She’d glom on with the feelies, pressing her bosom and big hips into him so everyone could see how chummy neighbors can be. Why would she do that? Maybe she wouldn’t, and even if she did, Mulroney can handle the bubbly bullshit in small doses, like by-ee, but public displays are foolish. It’s embarrassing and, he assumes, intentional. Is she not Breaking News already?

She’s not here. Let’s see. Hey … What’s this?

Better judgment would send Mulroney back around the way he came and back up the road or farther down and into the real world because a door ajar sends two possible messages. One possibility is that the door was left open carelessly. The second is more foreboding. Will a tiptoe inside find Betty Burnham in flagrante delicto, flailing away with the mailman, the meter man or, what the hell, the meter woman, after all? Or murdered, her elegantly humble bungalow a scene of mayhem? Maybe the little minks rebelled and ganged up and chewed her to pieces. Get a grip.

The police and media will storm the ramparts on this one, polluting the stain samples, walking all over the clues, smearing the blood and/or odd fluids. Betty B’s dough should get the Feds in too—this woman is a ripple on the national economy …

Mulroney steps in to see what there is to see. Initial shock hits like a Louisville slugger on a line shot to the jaw.

Correctamundo on theory three: it’s a Murder One that looks written for a low budget. The gore and gristle are beyond the scope of a wizened closer. Bleach blonde Betty Burnham with platinum highlights is belly up on the sofa, blotches purpling across her face. Faint twitches in her thoracic region can’t hide the fact that she’s racing down the white highway to Deadville. What can he do? Cardiopulmonary resuscitation? Mouth to mouth? He knew the drill years ago but forgot it. But how tough could it be? He’s seen it on TV. You blow down the throat twice and then pump the chest double time. He could do it wrong, but how wrong could he be? That’s what they taught—that you can’t very well fuck up CPR on somebody going dead anyway. It must be coming back!

Okay, one step at a time. You take it easy to get it right. Okay, she’s sprawled on the sofa, but it’s not right. She’s too twisted and curved, so he pulls her ankles to stretch and align her legs. He straightens her head and sticks a throw pillow under her neck to give it a small arch. He finds a suitable position to climb Hazel Dell one more time because this could take a while. With palms overlapping on her sternum, he presses, but the harness clasp is up front these days, so he unbuttons the blouse and removes it. The chest looks different, bluing, veining, slagging—never mind. He rises to near vertical and pumps. What was it? Sixty pumps to the minute? That’s too slow. One twenty sounds too fast but feels right. Fuck it. He hangs around ninety cadence and counts a minute.

Then comes mouth-to-mouth in the clutch, which will be their first kiss, kind of, and an act of love. He pries the jaw downward, clasping the tongue with a handkerchief and clearing the airway—what the?

Oh, fuck. Somebody dropped a load in here, unless she was snacking on a dollop o’ Smetna when she keeled over. It’s translucent, maybe like spinal fluid—he checks the neck for breaks, knowing they’ll call it Mulroney fluid at the inquest, which will be a drag, but he can beat the rap easy on a DNA, and that may be what it’ll come to because spinal fluid doesn’t leak internally from a broken neck, and this stuff smells like jizz …

Mulroney speaks internal: You gotta get outta here …

Okay, wait a minute. This is Betty Burnham, never mind the billions; she’s a game gal who kills furry little creatures, but only because she doesn’t understand. What can he do? Let her die? Give her mouth-to-mouth on a load? Wait a minute …

No! A minute may well be a luxury even Betty Burnham can’t afford!

Wait, if he cups his fingers over her lips and holds her nose with the other hand, he can … Fuck. It’s leaking …

Air.

Man, mayo …

Wait …

Okay, that’s better, but not enough. We’re not getting enough in there. The chest has to rise, but not too far, but more than that. Oh! He remembers! Get a plastic bag and make an air hole!

So Mulroney races to the kitchen where everyone saves their plastic bags and finds billionaire Betty Burnham’s plastic bags under the sink. He snatches a handful and pokes a finger through one on his way back to the living room sofa and lines up the bag hole with the mouth hole and covers that with his own mouth and blows—that’s it! The chest rises.

It falls in exhalation, which reeks of pecker nectar, telling the emergency medical stand-in that he has yet to clear the airway, that resuscitation requires free flow. He sets the plastic bag aside and grabs the tongue again and pokes around with the hanky, trying to soak up the throat yogurt, but it’s not happening. Fuck it. You can’t stop CPR like this. So he pumps the chest another minute and feels a twitch, unless that was himself. But he gives her the benefit of the doubt and dives onto another blow—oh, fuck.

He forgot the bag. Worse yet, Betty B convulses and hurls the load—oh, fuuuck—Mulroney moves aside but not far enough, not quite clear, and while most of the blown flecks graze his cheek, several find their way into the air passage—his air passage—as the most perseverant spermatozoa will do to be first across the line—any line—in their eternal race to fertilize.

Nothing will be fertilized here but Mulroney’s past, present, and future. Not a minute will pass again, ever, without recalling the first hot moist contact of pecker juice on the soft membrane of Mulroney’s mouth.

The scene lurches back to normality, or in that general direction, as he spits, hocks and spits while pumping the chest again. Fervor is fueled by Betty B’s struggle to rejoin the living. Purple recedes to blue, navy to sky and then gray, like first light, easing to pink, like sunrise.

She’s coming to, and her eyes open on shock and solitude—and on curiosity; who could possibly be in the kitchen gargling and hocking? And why?

It’s only Mulroney, not singing but gargling disinfectant, because the perpetrator who overpowered this elderly woman and dropped a load down her blowhole could be an extreme risk for sexual contact. He could have been a former inmate of a federal penitentiary where anal and oral penetration with no prophylactic or discretion whatever go hand in glove. It would be a fifty-to-one shot 24/7 in Vegas that the perp is a carrier of diseases known to deform cells and shorten life, and that he’s disgusting to boot.

Back in the living room, wincing from 409 aftertaste, Mulroney welcomes his hostess back to the world of the living. Wait a minute—409 disinfects, doesn’t it? Or does it just clean? Fuck it; it’s got to kill something. It feels like it’s killing Mulroney. Man oh man, to think what some people would do to a nice lady who isn’t hurting anybody but only trying to make a life for herself in the upper-middle-class suburbs.

Dazed and confused, she takes a moment to sort the scene and the players, and soon she squints into thin air, seeing again the events of the hour just past. Soon she says yes, that man was here, that muscular, handsome man who looks so rough and hostile but seems familiar—“You know, that man at your house. That Juan Valdez … I walked in the back door, which I never do, really. I don’t know why I did—oh, it was because I stepped in some, you know, dog doodoo and needed to wipe my shoes. Anyway, I can’t remember coming in, except that he was in the gallery. You haven’t seen the gallery. It’s where I keep the … Oh, dear! You have spunk on your chin!”

Mulroney thrusts both paws chinward as if to grasp the bloodthirsty beast attacking him and remove it forcefully, two-handed by the neck. “God, that’s disgusting!”

“Really, Michael. I could say the same thing. But it’s not, once you relax. It’s full of amino acids, you know.”

“Yeah. I heard that before. You don’t mind if I think it’s disgusting, do you?”

“You’re such a kid … You know, I’m not feeling so well myself.”

“I think I should call the police.”

“Yes. Why don’t you.”