KEITH’S WIFE IS CALLING JOE BECAUSE CALLS WERE MADE TO his number from Keith’s phone in the days before he died, and she wonders if Joe knows anything about what happened to him. He doesn’t tell her about Keith asking him to score for him or the call from the hospital. He says all they ever talked about was work. He waits for her to mention the truck. She never does, so he doesn’t either. His life will be a lot easier if he can hold on to it for a few more days, until he gets a vehicle of his own.
“I’m sorry,” he says at the end of the call, remembering the story Keith told him about his son, the Little League player.
“Me too,” Keith’s wife says.
Joe shuts down after this. He feels like there’s a veil between him and the world around him, like his eyes are windows he’s looking out of instead of part of his body. It’s something that happens when too much comes at him at once. The shrink the Corps made him talk to after Nasiriyah called it dissociation. He’d be okay if he could crawl back into bed for the rest of the day and give his brain time to catch up, but here’s fucking Mollin wanting to go to breakfast, wanting to lift weights, saying, “Play this game with me, dude, show me how a real killer does it,” so he grabs his keys and phone and flees.
An hour later he finds himself in front of the Town Center Mall. He parks the truck, goes inside, and wanders through Sears, Macy’s, a shoe store. On the ground floor is a little train ride for kids that goes round and round on a miniature track. This holds his attention for a while. A big stuffed bear is slumped in the locomotive. He’s supposed to be driving but looks like he’s drunk.
Joe asks the girl in the theater ticket booth which movie starts next. It’s a superhero thing, but not a superhero he’s heard of. He buys a ticket anyway. There are only three other people in the theater, and Joe’s asleep before the commercials have finished. He wakes once to see the hero fighting the villain in New York, tossing taxis and buses and crashing through skyscrapers, and again at the end, during the final throwdown on the moon.
He orders three fish tacos and a Pacifico from a Mexican place in the mall’s food court. The beer’s gone in no time, so he orders another. He’d like to keep drinking but has too much to do. He looks up McRed’s on his phone and discovers it’s now called the Scoreboard. He figures he’ll swing by later, after he shaves and changes clothes. Next, he texts Grady and some other car guys, asking if they know anybody selling something cheap.
His lighter dies on him when he steps outside to smoke and call Shannon. It takes five tries before he finds someone with a match. He tells Shannon he’s sorry about disappearing last night but had a personal emergency. Why didn’t he let her know at the time? she asks. He thinks about how she fucked him over on the VW and how he had to kiss her ass afterward in order to be rehired. “Are you pissed because me leaving meant you actually had to work?” he asks her. She sputters a reply, but he cuts her off, telling her that he won’t be back, it’s none of her business why, and they can hold his last check until he has a new address. “Whatever, dude,” she says.
Grady calls as he’s walking back to the truck through the parking structure. His neighbor has a 2002 Civic he’ll let go for $1,200. Joe doesn’t have that much but heads over anyway, thinking he can talk the guy down or work out payments. Before he even makes it to the freeway, though, Emily calls. He almost lets it go to voice mail but remembers he promised to touch base with her today. He can tell she’s crying before she even says, “You have to come and get me.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his mind flashing to Danny, that he’s somehow tracked her down.
“My sister’s kicking me out,” she says. “I know you’re dealing with your own shit, but I don’t have anyone else to call. I need your help.”
It seems like every time he comes up with a plan to get back on track lately, a bomb goes off. “Not now,” he wants to say, but instead tells her he’s on his way. The sun’s shining right into his eyes. He reaches for his sunglasses and realizes, godfuckingdammit, he left them on the table at the taco place.
He expects Emily to be in front of her sister’s house when he arrives, but she’s nowhere to be seen and doesn’t answer her phone. He gets out of the truck and walks down the side of the house toward the backyard, wondering if he ought to be sneaking. The warm breeze gusts. Leaves rattle, doors slam, and a wind chime jangles with the urgency of a burglar alarm, but the angry shouts of Emily and her sister arguing on the patio drown it all out.
“Give me the keys.”
“I let you use the car on the condition that you follow my rules. You’re not following them, so no more car.”
“You call that helping me? You call that supporting me?”
“That’s insulting. I’ve been nothing but supportive.”
“You treat me like a child. That’s insulting.”
The sister notices Joe standing there. “What are you doing on my property?” she says.
“I asked him to come get me,” Emily says.
“You’re the guy who was working here last week,” the sister says.
“I fixed the fence in back,” Joe says.
“Don’t talk to her,” Emily says. She grabs the handle of a red rolling suitcase. “Let’s go.”
“Did she tell you she’s severely bipolar?” the sister says. “Did she tell you she just got out of a hospital?”
“He knows,” Emily says.
“Did she tell you she stopped taking her meds? Against the advice of her doctor?”
“The doctor who’s being paid by her,” Emily says. “The doctor who’ll say anything to keep getting paid by her.”
“You’re not helping her by taking her away from here,” the sister says. “You’re getting in way over your head.”
“Maybe a break would do you both some good,” Joe says.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Another blast of wind flips a chair into the pool and rips a dreamcatcher off the wall.
“Come on,” Emily says. “Let’s go.”
“If you leave, you can’t come back,” the sister says.
“Ooooh, tough love,” Emily says and sets off down the side of the house. One of her suitcase wheels hits a bump, and the case topples over. Instead of pausing to right it, she drags it on its side until Joe catches up, lifts it by its handle, and carries it the rest of the way. He puts it in the back seat when they reach the truck.
“She said she was going to have me locked up again,” Emily says. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“It’s fine,” Joe says. “Let’s go somewhere and figure things out.”
“I need a drink.”
Joe drives to Ye Rustic Inn in Los Feliz, a bar that serves food in case Emily wants to eat too. It’s dark inside, cool, quiet, made for day drinking. They slide into a big curved booth with room to spread out. Emily orders a tall gin and tonic, Joe has a beer. He talks her into a basket of fried zucchini.
Her eyes look tired, but she’s abuzz with nervous energy, some part of her—fingers, knees, lips—always in motion.
“What set her off?” Joe asks, meaning the sister.
“I don’t want to talk about her,” Emily says. “She already takes up too much space in my brain. Let’s talk about you. Have things gotten any better?”
“They haven’t gotten worse.”
“Did I fuck up your day?”
“I was going out to look at a car.”
“What kind?”
“A hooptie,” Joe says. “Know what that is?”
“Dude,” Emily says, pretending to be insulted he asked.
“It’s all I can afford right now,” he says. “I’m gonna be changing jobs too, looks like.”
The waitress delivers the zucchini. Emily dips a spear in ranch dressing and bites into it, then grimaces and spits the bite into a napkin. “Hot!” she says.
“Slow down.”
They order another round of drinks. The booze and food settle Emily some, and Joe’s feeling better too. He starts to enjoy being here with Emily and listening to her story about some guy who tried to roofie her at a club but was so obvious that she switched glasses so he got the dose instead. Joe likes watching her face while she talks. There’s always something new to see. And her laugh, how it gets away from her sometimes. He’d act the fool with no shame to hear her laugh.
“Now you,” she says. “You tell a story.”
“Okay,” he says. He’s sipping his third beer and thinking about getting a shot to go with it. “It’s a club story too. A buddy of mine got ahold of a police badge, and we took it to this dance place in North Hollywood where it was Eighties Night or some shit. The bartender pointed out a dude that dealt coke there, and me and Nolan, my buddy, cornered the guy in the bathroom, stuck the badge in his face, and took his drugs.”
“That’s insane,” Emily says.
“Yeah, but of course karma kicked in. Nolan got so fucked up he crashed his car into a bus bench later that night, and we ended up booking, leaving the car and the coke behind.”
“Is that the kind of trouble you’re in now?” Emily says.
Joe doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want her to know he’s as dumb now as he was then. “Nah,” he says. “That was a long time ago.”
Emily orders wings and more drinks, a shot for him. He tells her he’s not sure he has enough cash to cover it.
“I got it, I got it,” she says, pulling a Visa card out of her wallet. “We’re a team now.”
They smoke a joint on the patio, and time gets loosey-goosey. Emily talks about making movies, how she always shoots more stuff than she needs because sometimes a shot she’s goofing around on turns out to be the key that unlocks the whole film. Nobody’s ever talked to Joe like this before. “I feel like I’m getting smarter just from hanging around you,” he tells her.
The happy hour crowd drifts in, the TVs go on, a baseball game, and the first song of the day, “Santeria” by Sublime, thumps out of the jukebox. Joe bobs his head to it while talking to a couple of DWP guys splitting a pitcher after work.
“That’s a good job, isn’t it?” he says. “Union and shit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the one guy says.
“Will they hire someone with a felony on his record?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“How do I apply?” Joe says.
“It’s all online,” the guy says. “Google it.”
This makes the other guy laugh.
“And you’ll give me a recommendation?” Joe says. “Let me use you as a reference?”
“Yeah, sure,” the first guy says. “Tell them Jose sent you.”
The other guy laughs again. Joe laughs too. They think they’re fucking with him, but he’s fucking with them. He doesn’t want to work for the DWP.
Emily’s getting deep about UFOs and vortexes in Joshua Tree with a jewelry designer and her boyfriend, both of whom are drunk. Joe feels like he’s behind a bar, eavesdropping on customers, and this makes him think about the Shorty, something he doesn’t want to think about right now, so he ducks outside for a cigarette, bumping into someone on the way, then someone else. Excuse me, excuse me. The sun’s going down—he and Emily have been here that long. A girl he met last time he was here or the time before keeps looking over even though she’s with another guy.
“I remember you,” Joe calls to her.
“What?” she says.
“Carol. Carly, Carol.”
“Wrong person.”
“Really?” Joe says.
He’s sure it’s the same girl. Seventy-five percent. But even if he’s mistaken, she could be nice about it.
“You’re pissed I never called you, aren’t you?” he says.
“Stop,” the guy she’s with warns.
Joe flicks his cigarette butt at them and goes back inside.
It’s gotten louder. Six people are crammed into booths meant for four, and two rows of standers are waiting to order at the bar. Joe has to turn sideways to get back to where Emily is. The jewelry designer and her date have been replaced by four new people. They scoot closer together so Joe can squeeze in. He’s sweating but doesn’t have anything to wipe his face with.
“This is Joe,” Emily announces. “My Lord and Savior.”
“Have a shot,” a guy with a bushy red beard says. He hands Joe a glass from a tray in the center of the table. “It’s called a Tootsie Roll.”
Kahlúa and orange juice. Drinking for Dummies. Joe downs it and turns to Emily, hoping she’ll turn to him and say, “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” but she’s talking about TV with some girl, so Joe pretends to watch the game.
A song comes on, “Bitch Better Have My Money,” and Emily grabs her new friend’s hand and shouts, “Dance party!” Joe stands so they can slide out, and they cut loose in the narrow space between the bar and the booths, weaving like dueling cobras.
“No dancing!” the tattooed blond bartender shouts.
“Come on,” Emily whines.
“No fucking dancing!”
Emily’s partner raises her hands in surrender, but Emily blows a kiss and keeps moving.
“I’ll throw your ass out,” the bartender warns. Emily flips her off with both middle fingers. She hurries to the flap. Joe wraps his arm around Emily, but she stiffens and pulls away.
“Fuck her,” Joe says. “Let’s split.”
“I’m not afraid of her,” Emily says.
“Come on, get your stuff. We’ll go somewhere else.”
She retrieves her purse, and Joe rushes her past the bartender, who’s waiting near the door.
“Buh-bye,” the bartender says. “And don’t come back.”
Emily plants her feet and twists to reply, but Joe keeps pushing. Her anger cools once they reach the parking lot. “Oh, my god, it’s nighttime,” she says, pointing at the bright, just-risen moon.
“We put in a full shift,” Joe says.
“Kiss me,” she says.
Joe puts his lips to hers. She thrusts her tongue into his mouth and squeezes his cock. When they come up for air, he says, “What’s your plan?”
“Take me to the motel,” Emily says. “I’ll stay there tonight.”
“Don’t waste your money,” Joe says. “Come to my place.”
“Don’t lecture me,” Emily says. She’s putting on lipstick. It’s not going well.
“I’m not lecturing you,” Joe says. “Just for tonight, crash with me.”
Emily draws back and looks him up and down. “You said you were in trouble,” she says.
“I’m in the Valley,” Joe says. “The Valley’s safe.”
Emily laughs like this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard.
Joe’s drunker than he thought. He has to squint to see straight a few times during the drive to Mollin’s house. Mollin is sitting in his recliner watching MMA when they come in. He’s still wearing his Subway shirt and Subway hat. He gives Joe a look that makes Joe think he should have warned him Emily was coming but stands to greet her and offers her a beer.
“I’ve been drinking gin,” she says. “Do you have any gin?”
“No gin,” Mollin says. “Tequila?”
“No! No tequila. A beer’ll be fine.”
“IPA or pilsner?”
“You choose.”
Joe sits on the couch beside Emily. She puts her head on his shoulder.
“Me and this dude have known each other since we were five,” Mollin says from the kitchen.
“Was he a Star Wars kid?” Emily says.
“Ha!” Mollin says. “Not exactly.”
“How’s he changed?”
“He didn’t have tattoos back then.”
Mollin brings Emily the beer, poured into a glass.
“Where did you guys meet?” he asks her.
“In church,” Emily says.
“Ha!” Mollin says again. “Are there other women as cute as you at this church? Just kidding.”
Emily asks about the house. Mollin relates the history of it as proudly as an earl or a duke discussing his family’s ancestral manor. He rhapsodizes about how great the neighborhood was to grow up in, everyone going all out to decorate for holidays, baseball games in the street, kids mobbing the ice cream truck on summer afternoons.
“It was the best time of my life,” he says.
Joe was there for all of that, but it means nothing to him, less than nothing.
When Emily goes into the bathroom, Mollin whispers, “Is she sleeping over?”
“Just tonight,” Joe says. “She got kicked out of where she was staying.”
“I’m cool with you being here,” Mollin says, “but I don’t want a bunch of strangers hanging around.”
“It was an emergency.”
“Getting laid is an emergency?”
“I’m serious, man.”
“Okay. Shit happens. Tonight’s fine, but now you know the rules, right?”
The guy talking to him like he’s lecturing one of his kids makes Joe want to slap the smirk off his face, but all he does is say “Thanks, buddy.”
Emily looks askance at the bunk beds.
“I’ve been sleeping on the bottom,” Joe says. “But you can have whichever you like.”
“I’ll squeeze in with you,” Emily says.
The only way that works is for her to turn her back to Joe and him to hug her, both of them lying on their side.
“A coffin built for two,” she says. “How romantic.”
Joe slips his dick inside her for a quick, quiet fuck. Immediately afterward he’s asleep, his batteries exhausted. The bed’s shaking when he wakes two hours later, still half drunk. Earthquake, he thinks, but, no, it’s Emily crying.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I want to see my daughter,” she says.
“So go see her,” Joe says. His arm underneath Emily is asleep, completely numb. He has a hard time rolling her over to face him.
“Will you drive me?” she says.
“To Austin?”
“I’ll pay for gas, for hotels. Will you take me to see Phoebe?”
It’s three thirty in the morning. Joe’s ready to say whatever it takes to settle her mind and let him get back to sleep and stave off his hangover for a few more hours.
“Sure,” he assures her. “No problem.”
“Thank you,” she says, “thank you,” kissing him on the cheeks, the nose, the lips while he makes a fist and tries to force blood into his tingling fingers.