I didn’t go to Rick’s that night. In fact, I took a long way home so I wouldn’t go anywhere near the place.
Be a better man, Walter’s ghost told me as I trudged the poor streets of Lynwood. Don’t let me lie down in vain. Make a change. Be a better man.
High on drugs, low in a hangover, Walter’s ghost had seemed real to me, but now, passing the twenty-four-hour Laundromat, where a skinny woman in torn shorts, broken sandals, and a Nirvana T-shirt watched one of the spinning drums, it seemed as though I was listening to my conscience. A better self that might steer me to higher ground.
I’d paid Toni almost everything I owed her and had enough money stashed in my couch to start a college fund, maybe even hire a halfway decent lawyer to get me off the charges I was facing for trashing the sheriff’s car. I couldn’t risk ruining the opportunity for a fresh start by spending the money on booze.
I turned off the main drag, down Carlin Avenue, where decent folk lived behind barred windows. Even though it was only a few blocks away, this wasn’t like my neighborhood. The locals hadn’t woken to the American nightmare, and I could sense striving all around me. They believed “it” was possible, that if they worked hard and kept their heads down, they could achieve the object of their desires, their “it.” The billboard life.
I wanted to be like them. I wanted a full jasmine bush in my yard giving off sweetness like the one I was passing now. As I headed south, the dwindling traffic died a little more. The city had entered that evening calm when sounds other than the growl of engines and rumble of millions could be heard, and scents rose above the bed of exhaust fumes to remind a body what this place must have been like before the city took over. There were birds singing and somewhere in the distance a dog barking and children playing.
They sound like my kids, Walter’s ghost said.
Had he mentioned kids? Family, yes. But kids? Would I have killed a man with children? Even now, a day later, everything was a blur of happenings. Attica’s pills had done me a favor. I could conjure up only flashes of events, and maybe soon the whole episode would be wiped from my mind. A clean slate to go with my new start. Maybe a couple more pills would jettison the last memories completely, and if I didn’t know I’d killed Walter Glaze, who would?
The person who hired you, Walter’s ghost said.
I didn’t like this specter.
He was right, though. My patron would always know what I’d done. Someone would always see my shame, and I had no idea who it was. That made me kind of uneasy, and looking back, it should have bothered me more. I should have made it my business then and there to find the person behind the killing. The one who was really responsible.
I made it home and was very good. Acting out a scene from a movie I’d watched, I poured every drop of alcohol down the drain. It was tempting to take a few swigs from some of my favorites, but I resisted the lure even though I knew it would ease my pounding headache.
When I finished, I showered, packed away my old uniform, trying hard not to think about the oath of protection I’d made to earn it, and lay on my bed with the back window open. I could see the massive concrete pillars of the highway looming out of sight and heard the light traffic rumbling overhead.
The gentle bed of sound lulled me to sleep, and I dreamed of Walter Glaze. His ghost took me through my life and told me about each wrong I’d ever committed, as though he was recounting a fairy tale. He didn’t judge me, not as far as I could tell, but he was conveying a moral. At least that’s what I thought he was doing.
I woke more rested than I had in years. My headache had gone, and apart from a grainy feeling behind my eyes and a dry mouth, I had none of the usual hangover symptoms that had greeted me each morning since my release from prison.
I’d made it through a sober day and genuinely saw this as the beginning of my recovery in every sense of the word. Walter’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
The first thing I did was roll out of bed and check the money was still stashed in my couch. I found it next to Walter’s watch and wallet, relics I forced myself to look at. I stood in my trashy living room and held them.
I’m going to make this worth something, I thought. I’m going to do right by a dead man.
His ghost had no reply, so I assumed it was okay with my vow. I put the relics back with the money I’d had from my patron and made sure the cushion was tightly over the treasure.
People who say money can’t buy happiness have probably never lived a day with an empty belly. Food goes a long way to putting a smile on a face. Heat, too, when it’s cold, and cool air when it’s hot. Medicine for a child, a comfy chair for the old, these simple things can make a difference to folk, and only those who haven’t known want take them for granted. I knew there was happiness in that money, but I hadn’t found it yet and was troubled by heavy pangs if I thought about Walter’s face in his moment of death.
You took so many moments from me, his ghost said. You took them from my kids, my wife.
There. See. It doesn’t pay to dwell. I had to focus on the good things to stop the ghost coming back.
There was a clean room company that hired ex-cons as part of a second-chance program. It was based in Montecito, a good hour or two from my place, depending on the traffic. The work was dangerous, all hazmat suits and chemicals, but the pay was good—five hundred per day. The kind of green that could kick-start a new life. I’d need a new car to get up there and interview, and I knew exactly which one I wanted.
There’s an auto dealer on Alondra Boulevard that specializes in cars with character. They had a gunmetal-gray ’06 Range Rover Vogue front and center in their lot, and I’d eyed it every time I’d driven past the place. It was on at $8,999, but I got it for a clean eight after knocking the slick salesman down. The thick leather seats were weathered and cracked, but no less comfortable than the day it had rolled off the production line. There were 117,373 miles on the clock, but the BMW-built engine purred like new. These things could run for three hundred thou easy. And the stereo system sounded like my own private nightclub. Who needed Ultima?
I did, Walter’s ghost chimed in, but I wasn’t going to let him spoil this moment.
I took the car out to Montecito, and it handled the mountain roads like a dream. I passed the Hi-Finish, the clean room business, and took a picture of the number on the Now Hiring sign.
By the time I headed back to the city, I had a huge smile on my face. Maybe it was euphoria? Or perhaps it was pride? Whatever the reason, I thought it would be a good idea to go to Rick’s. Not to have a drink. I was too smart for that. I just wanted to show Jim the Range Rover. I knew how much he loved cars, and he’d appreciate such a finely crafted machine.
You’ll drink, Walter’s ghost told me. You’ll drink and I’ll have died for nothing, because you’ll drink it all away.
I won’t, I told the cynical spirit.
I would show the ghost of the evil dead man just how much self-control I really had. I would show Jim the car and then go home.
I wouldn’t have a drink.
Not even one.