Chapter 36
Following the appropriate introduction of Bobby to Dr. Black, and upon the doctor's approval at the way he carried himself, all parties dispersed. Bobby and Rickie found themselves awkwardly together in the intimate space of her Mercedes, having dismissed Jesse Edwin for his own safety before heading west on Sunset. The renewed fury of the storm suddenly ceased in favor of a slight persistent drizzle so as to render the surrounding cityscape visible and gleaming in the city lights.
With the rapidity born of urgency, Rickie sketched in the details of her troubles with Hirschfeld, and the fact that Shank, the new man in her life, had gone in pursuit.
"We'll go to the hospital where Hirschfeld is," Rickie said. "That's where Shank is likely to be soon."
"Maybe I can talk Shank out of it," he answered.
"I have to ask you this,” Rickie said. "Why did you abandon me?"
"Because I had too many demons," he said, almost whispering. "After I got back from Vietnam, I saw demons. They tormented me, saying my killing days in the jungle were too personal, that I took too much pleasure in it, and because of that I had to answer for the murder of many souls. The demons were in the form of angry monkeys, and they drove me without mercy, tearing and biting at my flesh. They would never have allowed me to be a husband and father."
"You hid all that from me. I would have helped you."
"I should have seen that," he said. "But I didn't, and I've paid for my mistake ever since. For thirty years the monkeys have followed me, forcing me to live out on the reservation and on the street."
"What about now?"
"Things are better now. One night about six months ago I stumbled into a Catholic Church in Alhambra. I noticed the monkeys wouldn't come in. I found a priest and made my confession. The demons left me. Things got better after that. I even have an address for the first time in years. When Jesse Edwin's private investigator contacted me yesterday, I took it as a sign it was time to put the past behind me and go see my son. I walked in on him while the band was rehearsing. Jesse Edwin was really rocking the place. Ellard Purl was singing. I thought I was back in the '80's at Golden Gate Park."
"You had your demons, Bobby," Rickie said. "Now I have one of my own. My husband. “She regarded the man beside her. He was dressed in faded black trousers and a sweatshirt, his long gray hair braided down to his shoulders, his body thinner than she remembered. He wore a long face weighted down from a lifetime of nightmares. On his belt was something old, and familiar. A heavy leather scabbard from which protruded the hilt of a large hunting knife.
"You still wear the knife,” she said.
"Yes. And the braids."
"You'll always be my warrior, Bobby. The weather reminds me of the day we first met. It was raining that day, too. Do you remember?"
"I remember. I saw you at the concert in Golden Gate Park. You were the only one not dancing. A beautiful girl with long red hair in a yellow granny dress. I offered you a shot of cheap port wine from my boda bag."
"A crazy beginning to a love affair." Rickie could not contain herself and began to cry softly, the tears making driving difficult. She pulled over. "Bobby, I'm scared. It's bad enough my husband intends to have me killed, but he touched my friend Judy with his evil."
"He should never have placed his hands on the mother of my son," he said. "He'll have to pay for that."
"I'm sorry to drag you into this. I wish things could be different. I wish we could take some time and go back and see where we went wrong."
"Don't be scared, Little One. I'm here. What you need now is faith. I'm going to work my magic one more time for you."
Little One. His pet name for her, falling afresh on her ears after thirty years, calling forward her innocence, and the love that once was the light of her life.
"The moment you said my name," she responded, "I could feel my love for you. I never lost it. If things were different, we'd be rocking on a porch somewhere, sipping cheap wine and listening to old Ellard Purl records."
"We're too late," he said. "We can forget about going back. And I'm glad you have a new man. Even though we're going to stop him, at least he's doing the right thing."
She dried her tears and pulled into traffic. "Are you sure you don't want to spend some time together, catch up on old times?"
"Like I said, it's too late. In more ways than one. I'm dying."
"No!"
"It's some kind of rare blood disorder that only kills Indians. My grandfather died from it. I've got two, maybe three months. Not much time, but I plan to die sober."
"You're putting your affairs in order. That's why you worked up the courage to visit our son."
"When you know you're dying, it pushes past the bitterness and forces you to act. You realize you can't go back and fix everything, but you can at least say you're sorry. Rickie, I cannot tell you how sorry I am I left you the way I did. I hope it's not too late to say it. We should have had a life together. I can't make that up."
"Bobby? You are forgiven, totally and forever. We will take what's left of our life together and make the most of it."
"Rickie. We can't go back and we can't go forward. There is one favor I'd like to ask. You can say no if you like. When I die, I want Jesse Edwin to hold my right hand and you to hold my left. I think somehow God won't refuse to take me if he sees you there with me when He comes for me."
"We'll be with you when that day comes."
"Then I can die happy."
She swung the car through the winding streets bordering UCLA's southern campus, making the descent through the low foothills into a nearly deserted Westwood Village before working her way to the main entrance of UCLA Medical Center. "I'll go inside and find out what I can. Hopefully Shank isn't here yet. If he is, all bets are off."
"Do you love him?"
Rickie searched his face. "Before I answer that I want to say I never stopped loving you. A part of me will always be yours. I waited for twenty five years for you to come back. When I married Hershey, it wasn't out of love. It was because I stopped believing I'd ever see you again." She leaned across and gently kissed his weathered cheek.
"Do you love Shank?"
Rickie nodded. She got out of the car, opened the trunk, and took out a Gelson's shopping bag and walked towards the main entrance. Bobby eased himself into the driver's seat and drove off.
Something slammed her neck from behind. There was an outburst in her brain of bright white light and she toppled from the curb.
They'd come out of nowhere. As she barely hung on to consciousness, a movie began to play, a bad one. Above her, Mr. J. and Mr. G. with gloved hands hauled her to her feet, propping her upright between them, and walking her away from the Medical Center entryway and around the corner into the alley off Tiverton, where shadows aided their secrecy. They stopped beside a dumpster, which Mr. G. opened. Together, they propped her against the cold, wet metal siding.
"Out of the frying pan, Mrs. H.," Mr. J. said, "and into the fire. Or should I say into the dumpster? You should know I kept my bladder full for this event. As promised, I'm going to piss on your beating heart. Mr. G.? Will you do us the honors?"
Mr. G. held something in his hand. A box cutter.
"You're making a huge mistake," she said. Her words came out thick and swirling, the end of her sentence drowned by Mr. J.'s snickers. From behind them came a high pitched sound. Rickie would always remember it as a hooting noise, the kind of whoo-whoo an owl might make upon sighting an exposed rat. At the entrance to the alley was a man. A man with long braids down to his shoulders, a man walking towards them, moving with the grace of a panther, not in a straight line, but here and there, a man accustomed to concrete and shadows.
"No big deal," Mr. J. said. "It’s some old drunk. An Indian with braids. Look at how he's weaving. He probably lives in this dumpster. Mr. G., give the old guy five bucks and tell him to g
et drunk someplace else. Will you look at that? Here it is, raining, and the old fool has no shirt."