Chapter 33
"I couldn't say it, Shank. Couldn't get the words out. I couldn't say
'I'm an alcoholic.'"
"People go the racetrack as much to see the horses as to gamble," he said.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning maybe you came to the meeting only to watch."
They were back in the comfortable leather and burl wood confines of the limo, making poor progress down Ventura Boulevard due to a spattering, determined rainstorm in progress, replete with overflowing curbs and gutters. The water from the surrounding mountains flooded downhill unabated, searching for a wetland slough in which to abate their torrents and nourish life. The floodwaters found instead the wasteful man-made folly of the concrete bowl of the city. The late afternoon sky was a dirty grayish yellow, imparting to the uneven mix of high-rises and strip malls an eerie, fluorescent cast. Shank put the jazz station on, Metheany's Are You Going With Me? The soulful synth provided the psychic pathway for their emotional walk.
"I've changed my mind," Shank said.
"About what?"
"About your husband. I'm going to help you."
"You're not serious."
"It's deadly serious. I know what I said earlier, but I can't let your husband's goons steal my true love away from me. Mafia goons actually kill people real dead."
"Maybe I killed myself. I never should have pulled the trigger on Hershey. Shank, I can't let you do it. Now that I understand AA better, I could never ask you to forsake your hard won sobriety. I'd rather die instead."
Shank's face shrunk. "Maybe my sobriety doesn't have to go down the tubes. I hoped I'd never have to do this, but I do have a few favors owed me from certain people from back in the day. I'm not willing to do your husband myself, but I think I might be able to get his contract on you nullified."
"Shank, you don't have to do that. Don't resurrect your past on my account."
"I'm going to see the Godfather. His name is Ernie "The Foot" Catalano. I did him a small favor once and made us both a lot of money in the bargain. He might be willing to help."
"Shank, it's not safe. I have heard of that man. I read in the Enquirer the reason he's called Ernie The Foot is because of the rumor he stomps his enemies to death with his bare feet."
"Rickie, that's no rumor. That's exactly what he does with them. He has a wine cellar in his basement where he does the deed. Although he doesn't do it himself anymore. He has a couple of younger guys who do it for him."
"Shank. Look at me. I want you to stay away from him."
"Rickie, I want you to be safe. Your husband has put out a contract on you. Whether to simply harass you or kill you, we don't know. We do know he's upped the stakes. We're no longer playing for pennies here. I think you should stay at my place tonight."
"No, Shank."
"Rickie, you shouldn't be out in public alone. You're exposed. Please stay with me."
"Shank, I have to make a new life for myself. I'm not sure my new life can include sharing your sofa yet. In fact, I must tell you no. I can't stay at your place tonight, because tonight I'm going to get drunk. By myself. No matter who's after me."
"Wine is a mocker, and strong drink is riotous."
"Quoting the bible? You?"
"When I was doing time, I started going to AA meetings in the joint. When it came time for me to work on the Higher Power thing, I started reading the Good Book. I read the entire thing, cover to cover, three times."
"The entire thing?"
"Yep. Even all that stuff about the mildew in Leviticus."
"Dear God. Please don't tell me you're a Born Again. Thus far, you've certainly hid it well."
"Get real," he said. "I was raised Catholic."
"Me too. Do you go to Mass?"
"I said raised, not scrupulous. I haven't been to Mass since the child died at my hands. I'm not anti-Catholic. My best friend is a Catholic priest. Father Larry and I play golf every other Thursday on his day off."
"I don't go to Mass, either. I haven't been for thirty years. Not since Bobby Q. drove off in his Firebird, leaving me alone in the world with Jesse Edwin."
"Are you angry at God?"
Rickie made a fist and thumped her chest. From her mouth no words came, the lips tightening in a frown. "You've ruined everything," she finally said.
"Rickie, look at me."
"I can't. I can't look at you. I can't keep going through all these emotions. I want you, and then I don't want you. If you must know, I do want to spend the night on your couch, but I want to get drunk, too. This is going to sound really nasty and horrible, but I want to get drunk with you! I can't stand all this sobriety and self-inspection!"
"Rickie!"
"I hate it that my husband is out there somewhere talking to hit men, and I have to wonder when's the next time they'll look me up. I hate it that Bobby Q. left me all those years ago! I hate it that all I've known these past five years is pain and isolation. I hate it that I lost my baby! I hate it that I didn't drown in the ocean--that I was sent back here for more punishment!"
"Rickie, I love you!"
"I told you not to say that to me! Not unless I say it to you first! It's too late!"
"Rickie!"
"Don't you get it, Shank? I hate my life! I hate it my dead cat is thawing out in the trunk of my car! I hate it that my husband's going to kill me! I hate it that I saw myself in the people at your AA meeting. I hate it that I'm probably an alcoholic! I want to be free of this world! I want to get out of this car and dance in the rain! I want to get drunk and crazy and forget everything for awhile!"
She gave him credit. He didn't flinch, or try to hold her hands or comfort her in any way. The limo pulled up to a red light. Rickie jumped out, wading through a knee-deep rushing torrent to the sidewalk and began to dance in the rain in front of Gelson's market. She threw her head back, dancing freely, arms waving over her head, the way she used to dance in the '80's in Golden Gate Park, when love, not rain was in the air, and she only had eyes for Bobby Q. The traffic light changed but the limo stubbornly remained, triggering a cacophony of horns from angry drivers of the type who were unable to appreciate a dance in the rain. Somebody grabbed her. Shank. He took her in his arms and began to waltz her down the sidewalk in slow, sweeping arcs, moving her under the canopy in front of the store, whereupon he drew her close, stroking her damp hair, neither one speaking, their descriptive powers inadequate to categorize the raw gush of emotions presently flooding their souls.
Somewhat later, after raiding a couple of large hot coffees and a bag of hazelnut cookies dipped in chocolate from Gelson's gourmet pastry counter, dipping and sipping in silence while the limo smoothly worked its way up the impossibly steep Calneva Drive to Mulholland Drive and into the driveway of his huge, empty house on the knoll overlooking the Valley, he finally said what he had to say.
"Two things, Rickie. I don't pity you. You don't have to drink over this."
"Yes. I do have to. I'm going to R.J.'s. It's where I go when I need to get drunk. Don't follow me. Good-bye, Shank."
She got out of the limo. The rain stopped, leaving the air sharp and smelling of wet sage. The night hills crackled with the croaking ricochets of happy frogs. Dark clouds shrouded the Basin, pressing down on a zillion human souls. It was not a night for the normal workings of the sunny, laid-back L.A. life. It was a night for deep imaginings and fearful turnings, a night for tears. A night for troubled hearts to stand naked before the universe and wonder why. A night for two people in love to spend together on the couch by the fireplace big enough to roast a bear in, sorting out carefully the trash and the treasures of their lives.
That was for other people. For the normies. For Rickie, it was a night to get drunk awaiting almost certain execution.
She got in her car, which she had left in his driveway earlier, and started the motor and powered down the window. He stood by her door, his le
an frame beautifully silhouetted against the breathtaking carpet of Valley lights. "I wish you weren't so handsome in an ugly sort of way," she said.
"Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh."
"Shank? When I told you I saw Our Lady, you said nothing. Didn't you believe me? Don't you want to know what she looked like?"
"Sure I believe you. What's she look like?"
"Very young, but not too young. She lives in a purple cloud and rearranges entire galaxies with a wave of her hand. She told me the secret of life, but I forgot it when the paramedics brought me back."
"You never did answer my question,” Shank responded. "Are you angry at God?"
"I don't feel anything for God. When Bobby Q. left me alone in the world, I buried God. I Buried Him deep."
Shank smiled. "Maybe He's trying to rise again."
"Stop trying to be funny. And laying a guilt trip on me. I'm too old and too tired for that."
"I stand admonished. God is hereby declared buried and will stay buried forever. Although not feeling anything is a form of anger, you know."
"You are such a smart-aleck."
"I have to be. If I took serious stock of myself, I'd self-destruct on the spot. Look, Rickie, for the past eleven years, I've told myself I will never feel pleasure again, only pain. Then one dark night, I saw a woman lying unconscious in a hospital bed and for some crazy reason, the door to my guts swung open and I found out I'm still alive and I can still feel, and I don't want to stop."
"It'd be far better for you to forget me, Shank."
"Far better. But impossible."
"I'm sorry my life is such a mess. You really don't need a Baggage Queen like me. You need one of those emotionally honest AA ladies. You deserve a clean and sober woman in your life."
"You're a red-haired terror, I'll give you that."
She rolled down the driveway and along the sharply curving road leading up to Mulholland, her face immobile against the confusing jumble of emotions which still churned. From her vantage point high above the San Diego Freeway, she could see it was jammed with commuter traffic. She elected to continue east on Mulholland.
I'll make my way down Benedict Canyon and approach Beverly Hills from its stinking backside. In a half hour, I'll be drinking myself blind drunk in peace and numbing the painful feelings inside me without having to answer to anybody. Once this is accomplished, a cab ride to a decent hotel, perhaps the Westwood Marquis, will complete my quest for oblivion while I wait for my executioners. I'm sorry, Shank, but it's better you don't try and save me. It's better me dead than you. I love you. I'm going to die for you. Forgive me for being drunk when I face my Maker. Forgive me.
There is a relief which comes with making a decision. She was already feeling better by the time she found herself a seat at the end of the bar.