Hell's Half Acre

thirty.

BACK THROUGH THE RABBIT HOLE and down the stairs. I tuck the boy into bed and arrange his pillows around him. Sam is breathing well now. But his body is too warm and the hair at the back of his neck is damp. I settle onto the floor with the remote control and flick on the television. I watch cartoons for a while but they depress me for some reason. I surf away and come upon a rerun of Starsky & Hutch squatting on some channel ominously called TV Land. The implications of such a channel are too brutal to wrap my noodle around and anyway Huggy Bear is giving a wildly animated, hopelessly rhetorical, and truly surreal speech about human rights. He’s wearing a maroon suit and a pink tie and a big straw hat and his eyes are bugging out of his tiny head. I’m good for about five minutes of this before I freak out and am forced to flee TV Land. I cruise the TV universe until I find a ball game, the Red Sox and Yankees.

This has potential tragedy written all over it and I promptly mute the sound.

I am tempted to skulk upstairs and get a beer and a sandwich but I’m in no mood to run into any of the others. I don’t want to know what they’re up to and besides, beer would only make me want a cigarette and I would rather not smoke around the boy. I fetch a juice box from the little fridge and settle in to watch the Yankees massacre the Sox.

Baseball slows the vital functions and in no time I am dreamy, contemplative.

I contemplate the boy. He is approximately forty-nine pounds of flesh and bone. Blond hair and big brown eyes nearly black. He has eyes that could swallow you. His nose is the size of a button, the size of my thumbnail. His unflawed skin is somewhere between pink and pale yellow, the flesh of a peach. His hands are devastating. His hands could make a monster weep. He smells like the sun, like the fine sparkle of dust swimming in a burst of sunlight. He smells like a color you can’t name.

He breathes, in and out. Five years of life, barely a ripple.

But there is some serious voodoo packed into his small body and it’s not just him, but all children. There is nothing on the planet quite like a sick or injured child, a frightened child. Jude is a cool hand and usually nothing touches her, nothing moves her. But I could see the boy tugging freely at her cold, broken heart.

This is something that fills my head, sometimes. The idea that I broke her heart somehow.

I fall asleep next to the boy and dream that we are lost in the woods together. Sam is unchanged. He is five years old, with long blond hair. I am nine, his brother. The trees are dense and twisted, with thin black branches that hang just above our heads and tangle together like terrible hair, blotting out the sky. Unseen wolves howling in the dark, their voices ghostly.

Sam is brave, though.

He pushes ahead and I follow him and when we come to a house of gingerbread and licorice, I know that the house is not safe. It’s not safe but I have no control over my limbs and I stroll directly up to the door and hammer on it while Sam helps himself to a tasty chunk of cinnamon rain gutter. The woman who comes to the door is no crusty hag, however. She is maybe thirty, with hair black as tar. She wears raw leather pants stained with what looks like blood and a vest made of fine silver chain. The woman smiles when she sees us and her teeth glitter white as needles. I don’t trust her but Sam shouts hooray when she asks if we like sugar cookies. He trots inside and I follow him, helpless. The woman strokes my face and her fingers are cold and bony, with long black nails. She purrs that it’s a shame but I am too old for her table, that my skin will be tough and gamey. But my brother is still soft and plump and if killed properly and marinated in butter and blackberry wine he will make a delicious stew. The woman asks me to gather wood for her fire and I comply.

I am not stupid, however.

I am only vaguely aware that this is a dream and I can’t seem to wake myself up but I know this woman. I would know her anywhere. I shiver myself awake and Sam is sitting on his haunches like a little stone frog beside me, staring at my face with profound curiosity.

My head hurts, he says.

I know, I say. Mine does, too.

You were talking, he says.

What was I saying?

You said you weren’t hungry. Then you said the boy is my brother.

Jesus.

Am I the boy?

Yes.

You were having a dream, he says. A bad dream, huh.

Very bad, I say.

What was it about?

His face is pale and fine, his lips still rosy with fever. He is so close to me that I can smell his breath when he exhales. The air coming from him is sour. The smell of sick.

How do you feel? I say.

He thinks for a minute. Okay, he says. But not my arm. My arms hurts.

What’s wrong with your arm?

I don’t know, he says.

Show me where it hurts.

He pulls his sleeve up over the elbow and I see it right away. On the pale underside of his biceps, there is small white mark surrounded by red flesh. It could be a puncture. It could be an insect bite. I take a deep breath and remind myself that kids get nervous when adults freak out.

That doesn’t look bad, I say. Do you remember feeling sick today?

Yeah, he says.

When did you feel sick?

Today, he says. A little while ago.

He bobs his head up and down and sideways and shrugs one shoulder and I remember that he’s five and therefore has no real sense of time.

Uh-huh. What were you doing?

I was sitting on the floor, he says. I was playing with the guys you got me. Wolverine and the guy with fire on his head. They were fighting.

Ghost Rider, I say.

Huh?

The guy with fire on his head is Ghost Rider.

Oh, yeah.

Who was winning?

Wolverine, mostly.

That makes sense. What else were you doing?

Nothing, he says. I was only watching TV… I was watching Sailor Moon and I was having some chocolate milk. That’s all.

Chocolate milk, huh.

He nods, vigorously. I like chocolate milk. I love it.

The trees are dense and twisted, with thin black branches that hang just above our heads and tangle together like terrible hair, blotting out the sky. Unseen wolves howling in the dark, their voices ghostly.

The boy is brave.

I don’t even have to think about it. The chocolate milk is bad, poisoned. I haul it out of the fridge and look at it carefully. The boy is watching me and it occurs to me that children, like animals, generally have a keen nose for madness. I don’t want to scare him, so I whistle softly as I examine the chocolate milk.

Paranoid people don’t whistle, surely.

What I’m looking at is an ordinary plastic milk jug with a white, screw-on top. Brown and white paper label with a bar code and the words chocolate milk two percent and Sunny Fields Dairy in bright, cheerful script followed by your average nutritional bullshit in small print. The jug is half empty. Or half full, if you’re a positive thinker like me. I unscrew the top and sniff it, then the contents of the jug. It smells like chocolate milk. But that’s too easy.

Do you want some? says the boy. He’s looking at me.

No, I say. I’m not thirsty.

Oh, he says.

He doesn’t say anything else but I can see the little-kid wheels turning in his head. Why are you sniffing it, then?

I think this chocolate milk is bad, I say.

It’s good, he says. I think it’s good.

Yeah. But sometimes milk just goes bad, when you least expect it.

Can I smell it? he says.

Of course.

He hops up and comes over to me. I crouch down so he can reach it and he inhales deeply, frowning as he does so.

Trust me, I say.

The boy nods, gravely. As if he knows the world to be a mysterious, often nonsensical place and is therefore willing to accept the notion that chocolate milk, while it may smell good and taste good, may in fact be bad.

What have you had to eat today?

He tells me that the lady brought him some chicken nuggets earlier.

Which lady?

I don’t know, he says. The lady who wears a mask and doesn’t talk to me.

The lady who wears a mask and doesn’t talk to me. That sounds familiar, doesn’t it. I head upstairs, taking the chocolate milk with me. I cruise through the kitchen, the living room and dining room. I peek into the Lizard Room and no one is about. The house is endless and silent. They could be anywhere, and I begin to go from room to room.

I find them in Molly’s room. I open the door and everybody is packed in there under white, hot lights. The air feels thick, almost humid.

Molly sits in a wooden chair, crying. She wears white underpants and bra. Jude is behind her with scissors in hand, bright steel blades that look very sharp. She is apparently cutting Molly’s hair. There are yellow tufts of it like a ring of feathers at their feet. There is a nasty bruise on Jude’s face, puckered and bloody. It looks like a bite mark. Her shirt is torn at the throat. Miller lies naked on the bed behind them, staring at the ceiling. Huck stands in one corner with a camera, Daphne in the other. They don’t look too comfortable. Jeremy sits in the green chair, out of the shot. By the expression on his face, I would say he has an erection.

Why are you crying? I say.

I’m okay, says Molly. I’m okay.

Jude, your face. What happened to your face?

She doesn’t answer. She snips at Molly’s hair and Molly winces at the sound.

Miller looks at me. What do you want, Poe?

Where should I start? I want to know why you’re naked. I want to know why Molly’s crying and I want to know what happened to Jude’s face. I want to know what’s in this fucking chocolate milk.

Jeremy giggles.

You. You’re in my chair, I say.

Jeremy stands up, shifting his gear to hide that inconvenient wood. He looks around but there’s nowhere else to sit. I brandish the jug of chocolate milk like it’s a weapon. I approach him, menacing but feeling ultimately goofy.

Have a drink, I say.

No, thanks. He scratches his head, confused.

Jesus. Just sit down, I say.

Meanwhile, tufts of yellow hair fall slowly to the floor. I find myself staring at them. The hair falls so slowly. It floats.

Dreamy, isn’t it? says Miller.

I look at him on the bed and he is lying on his side, playing idly with his flaccid penis.

What? I say.

Haven’t you ever noticed that our eyes, our very brains have been programmed to register certain images in slow motion?

I shrug. I have noticed that, yeah.

Television and film have been around for what, a hundred years? he says.

That sounds about right.

In less than a hundred years, our brains have mutated. We don’t process visual information the way our great-grandparents did.

What’s your point, Miller?

You walk into a room and you see the following things. Two attractive women in their underwear. One is crying. The other has a bruised face. You see a naked man on a bed. You see two minor characters in the shadows, holding cameras. You see a young, handsome boy who will soon be dead, sitting in a green chair.

What is your fucking point? I shout.

What do you see?

In the green chair, Jeremy croaks like a frog. I’ll be dead soon?

Jude, I say. What happened to your face?

Molly bit me.

Okay. That makes sense.

She stares at me like she has a thousand times before. Her eyes open in such a way that I know she actually sees me. The scissors gleam in her hand and her face is temporarily ruined. Her hair is braided into pigtails so that her face is fully exposed, as if she had planned for this.

What’s in the milk, Jude?

Chocolate, she says. It’s chocolate milk.

Where did it come from?

Who knows. A brown cow, I suppose.

Are you poisoning that boy?

What? she says.

There’s a mark on his arm, like the mark of a needle.

Miller scoffs. It’s probably a spider bite.

Taste it, says Jude. Taste the fucking milk.

Molly wipes her face and stands up. Everyone, she says. Everyone get the fuck out of my room. Everyone, please.

Her voice is silent and roaring at once. Her voice is mildly terrifying, like driving into an ice storm. The silence ripples and after a brief pause, everyone begins to come alive. I stand in the doorway, wondering if she wants me to go. Or just the others. Jude puts down the scissors and walks toward me. I step aside to let her pass, which she does without quite looking at me. Miller flops off of the bed and comes toward me, naked and hairless. He scratches his chest, grinning. He doesn’t say a word. Jeremy, Huck, and Daphne troop past me, their heads lowered. Molly stands in the center of the room, arms folded across her chest. I tell her it’s okay, we’re off camera. She stares down at the yellow hair at her feet and mutters a response I don’t understand and, with two fingers, gently pushes the wooden chair over backward so that it falls with a dull crash. She turns to the bed and violently strips the sheets from the bed, throwing them to the floor.

What did you say?

Molly turns her doll’s head around slowly to look at me, her blue eyes unblinking.

What did you say just now?

Dead flowers, she says. My hair looks like dead flowers on the floor.

Molly crawls onto the bare mattress and crawls slowly across it and for a moment it’s like she’s crawling across an endless table, blue and white. There’s a bowl of porridge at the far end and she just wants to taste it. She huddles in the corner against the wall, arms wrapped around her legs. She looks like a kid on a boat and she’s afraid the waves will take her away. Her hair is short and wispy but it doesn’t look bad. Jude could have butchered her, if she had wanted to. She could have cut her ear off or something. I expected her to, really. Molly looks cold and I crawl across the mattress to give her a sweater. I sit next to her, not touching her. The air in the room has a silver, post-apocalyptic glimmer, a strange fairy dust quality that I associate with dinner parties and domestic violence.

You’re still here.

Yeah.

She lowers her head to rest on my lap, and I stroke her new hair.

What do you think? she says.

You look like a boy. But not bad.

Molly sighs.

What happened? I say.

The scene, she says. We were shooting the scene. Jude and I were lying on the bed, talking about you and John. We were sharing a cigarette. We were talking about sex and drinking vodka and Jude was touching my arm, just lightly touching it, you know. It felt nice and I kissed her, I kissed her cheek and then she kissed me on the mouth and we started sort of making out and it was weird because everyone was in the room but I think it was a nice scene. The lights were soft and there were good shadows and it felt natural, it felt pretty. Jude was touching me, touching me and I was spinning or falling like I was going to come. And then suddenly John was on the bed, he was naked and he stank and he started kissing Jude, grunting and groping at her and she pushed him away and I started to sort of panic. I wanted John to go away. I wanted everyone to go away but John was trying to get Jude’s clothes off and she was telling him to stop, just stop but he jerked her pants down and he was trying to get inside her and she was crying and the three of us were tangled together and suddenly it was hot, I couldn’t breathe and it was like I had these extra arms and legs and too much skin and Jude was kissing me, her mouth was all over me, her mouth on me and John’s eyes were so black and the light started to turn green around the edges and I was slipping, disappearing. I had a seizure and I was gone for a minute and when I came out of it Jude was holding her face and there was blood in my mouth.

Jesus.

By now she has climbed on top of me. Molly is as small as she can make herself, crouching like a bug on my chest. I wrap my arms around her, carefully. I don’t want her to feel trapped but maybe it’s what she wants. Molly is no longer shaking but her arms and legs are so cold. Her skin feels like she’s been outside in winter. I have an erection but I ignore it.

And then what?

Then John told Jude to cut my hair, to punish me. He told her to make me ugly.

What did Jude say?

Molly shivers. She didn’t want to do it but I think she’s afraid of John.

I think so, too. It worries the hell out of me but I don’t say so and then I forget about it because Molly is aware of my erection. Her hand drifts down into my crotch to give me a squeeze. It seems like the wrong time for this but I groan and she unbuckles my belt and slips her hand into my pants. Molly kisses my ears and throat and chest but she avoids my face and mouth, as if she is reluctant to let me see her. She unbuttons my shirt without looking at me.

A ring of yellow hair on the floor.

Lost feathers, dead flowers.

I make love to Molly on her bare mattress and the sex between us is grim, tender, wordless.

thirty-one.

MOLLY SLEEPS BESIDE ME, snoring softly. I’m wide awake and staring at nothing in muddy underwater light. The gloaming, baby. Panic attack, delirium tremens. Headache and shrinking vision. Blackbirds on the wing. I can’t tell the difference between panic and sickness but my body is begging for a drink. My arms and legs are numb, naked and tangled with Molly’s. The separation between us is vague. I slip out from under her and she mumbles nonsense at me but does not wake. I gather my clothes and creep into the hall to get dressed. The clock chimes four times and for a moment I have no idea whether it’s afternoon or morning.

Jude is in the kitchen, drinking coffee. She holds the cup with both hands and sits with her back very straight. She stares through me and says nothing. The mark on her face is purple and swollen. I take a bottle of vodka from the freezer, then fetch a glass and pour myself a generous shot over ice.

Happy hour? she says.

I grunt and light a cigarette.

Your hands are shaking, she says.

It’s a new feature. I don’t want to talk about it.

Jude sighs. You are dying before my eyes.

How’s your face?

It hurts. But it’s no one’s fault.

What about Miller?

What about him?

Molly said he forced himself on you.

Jude flinches, slightly. That’s not true.

What is the truth?

He wanted to make love to me, she says. I wasn’t interested.

I don’t understand.

What, she says. What don’t you understand?

I don’t understand why you don’t cut his wee willie off and feed it to him.

Jude takes a cigarette from my pack, fumbles with the matches.

Are you afraid of him?

Jude strikes a match and lets it burn down to her fingers without lighting her cigarette. She strikes another and watches it burn. I push the glass of vodka across the table but she shakes her head. I reach for her hand but she pulls it away and now Miller crashes into the room. He wears black jeans and a black military-style sweater with patches on the shoulders. He tosses my jacket at me.

On your horse, Poe. We’re out of here.

Where are we going?

Baseball game, he says. The Giants are playing the Reds.

Oh, yeah. Who’s going?

Miller winks at Jude. The boys, he says. Just the boys.

I finish my drink but make no move to get up.

Don’t tell me you’re not interested, says Miller. These are dream seats, behind third base.

I look at Jude, who nods and lights another match.

Yeah. I’m interested.

Excellent choice, he says. I’ll meet you out by the truck.

Outside and the sun is fierce in a white sky. Jeremy and Huck wait beside the Range Rover and I have a sudden, surreal vision of the four of us at the ballpark. The crowd like an ocean around us, roaring. The smell of peanuts and big plastic cups of warm beer. Miller waving a big puffy hand. Huck grimly shoving fistfuls of cotton candy into his mouth. Jeremy flirting with a red-haired girl behind us. I can see it like it already happened but there’s a tracking problem and the back of my neck has gone cold. Huck sits on the hood of the truck, smoking one of Miller’s cigars. His hands are filthy and he looks tired. Jeremy crouches in the driveway, tossing pebbles at an empty wine bottle. His eyes are narrow and red and he regards me warily as I approach.

I crouch next to him and pick up a rock. I whip it at the bottle but miss.

What’s up, I say. You look like shit.

Jeremy shrugs. Nervous. I’m nervous.

Why?

You heard what the man said. I’m gonna be dead soon.

He’s fucking with you.

Oh, yeah? Why don’t you ask brother Huck what he’s been doing this afternoon.

I glance up at Huck. Well?

Digging, he says.

Digging what?

A very deep fucking hole.

It’s a grave, says Jeremy. The man had him digging my grave.

Where?

It’s a sweet little spot, says Huck. Around the east side of the house. Jeremy’s going to be tucked in between a fig tree and a chunk of limestone.

I glance at the house. What the hell is Miller doing in there?

Fuck him, says Jeremy. Let’s take a look at my final resting place.

The three of us drift around to the side of the house and Huck’s hole indeed resembles a shallow grave. Four or five feet deep and the approximate length of a body. I drop down into the hole and lie down. The sky is white framed in black. The tops of trees. Huck and Jeremy peering over the edge.

It’s cold, I say.

Get out of there, says Jeremy. You’re giving me the creeps.

The two of them pull me out and we sit at the graveside, smoking.

Why are you guys doing this? I say.

I want the dough, says Huck. But I’m done. That little rape scene today was the end for me.

What do you mean? says Jeremy.

Huck shrugs. I’m gonna run. When we get to the ballpark, I’m gone. It might help if one of you wants to keep the psycho occupied.

Jeremy, I say. You should run, too.

No, he says. I want to do this.

Why?

Jeremy sighs. I don’t want to go into the whole tear jerking poor little orphan routine, but my life has not exactly been rosy, you know. Miller hooked me up with that doorman job and I feel like I owe him. Before that I was selling meth to college students and freaks on the club scene. Before that I was sucking cocks for twenty bucks a throw in the Castro. And before that…did you know I was born in a halfway house. Did you know that? I was actually born in a fucking halfway house. My mom was sixteen, a junkie runaway. She was living in a shelter for teenage heroin addicts when she popped me out and she was gone before I could sit up. I’ve been in the system ever since. Foster homes, group homes, jail. I just want to be in the movies. I want to have a normal life.

There’s no such thing, says Huck. And nothing resembling it in California.

Jeremy scowls, stubborn. Well, anyway. I aim to find it.

You shouldn’t have done that scene, says Huck. That scene where you put Daphne’s head through the car window. All you did was aggravate him.

But I was good, says Jeremy. I was good wasn’t I?

Yeah, I say. You were good.

I had a funky dream last night, says Jeremy. I dreamed that I killed that monkey. I bashed his head in with a rock. I cut him open and there was a white bird where his guts were supposed to be and it just flew away, easy as you please. I felt its wings brush my face.

Blackbirds, I say. I always dream of blackbirds.

You guys are freaking me out, says Huck.

What do you think it means? says Jeremy.

I don’t know, I say. It seems to me the white bird is lucky.

The sky is changing colors and Huck says we should probably head back to the truck before Miller gets cranky.

That scene today, I say. In Molly’s room. He raped her?

Damn near, says Huck. Near enough.

And neither of you did anything?

Jude told us to back off, says Jeremy.

I wish to god she would just kill him, I say.

Jeremy exhales loudly. You don’t know shit, do you?

What do you mean?

He looks at me with eyes dead as coins. What god has joined, he says, let no man put asunder.

Yeah, I say. That’s right.

Miller is waiting by the truck. He holds an aluminum briefcase in one hand, a black flight bag in the other. He wears a black jacket and a black knit cap pulled tight on his skull. He doesn’t look like he’s going to a ballgame, but my head is full of noise and juice and I’ve got a monster headache on the periphery and so I don’t give his outfit too much thought. Miller tosses the keys at Huck and tells him to drive. Jeremy climbs into the front passenger seat. I get in the back with Miller, who lights a joint and passes me a silver thermos.

Have a martini, he says.

Thanks.

What were you doing in the woods with Heckle and Jeckle? he says.

Gathering flowers, I say.

Uh huh.

What time is the game? I say.

We aren’t going to the game.

I didn’t think so. Where are we going?

To get cigarettes, he says.

I have cigarettes, actually. I offer him my pack.

He shakes his head. I prefer a different brand.

The truck winds down out of the hills and Miller tells Huck to take a left. I am sitting with my back against the door, my feet up on the seat.

The thermos between my legs, unopened. I take the joint from Miller and allow myself one puff, to calm my nerves. I am watching him closely, every movement of his face. Every tick and flicker. The way his eyes go narrow and dark when he’s thinking. The way he licks his lips and the way his nostrils flare. I’m looking for a family resemblance and now I see it, now I don’t. The power of suggestion. I could ask him, I suppose. But I’m starting to hate him and I don’t want to see him smile at me.

After a beat, Miller instructs Huck to pull into the parking lot of a 7-11 that squats on the edge of a ravine. Huck obediently kills the engine and the four of us sit there, eyeballing each other.

Jesus, says Jeremy. Pass me that joint before I scream.

Miller gives it to him and he sucks at it with almost sexual intensity. I look out the window and watch as a guy and a girl get out of a red Toyota and go into the store. There are two other cars parked in front, but I can’t see more than three people inside. The sun has not yet gone down but the fluorescent lights have come up in the parking lot and the result is a bright haze that hovers over the 7-Eleven like a solar cloud. Miller opens the flight bag and removes four rubber masks. The shriveled faces of dead celebrities. John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe, and Alfred Hitchcock. Woody Allen, who is perhaps not actually dead. He gives the John Wayne mask to Huck and tells him to put it on. He gives me the Marilyn Monroe mask, then smiles and apparently changes his mind and gives Marilyn to Jeremy. He takes Hitchcock for himself and gives me the Woody mask. The rubber is cold. I hold it in my lap like a dead fish. In the front seat, Jeremy and Huck are doing startlingly accurate impersonations of John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe.

What are we doing?

We are shooting an action sequence, says Miller.

I shake my head. Tell me we’re not going to rob the store.

Ah, well. I need cigarettes, like I said.

This is unwise, I say.

Nonsense.

It’s a pointless risk.

You are just like my wife, he says. Always worrying.

Oh. Do you want to talk about your wife?

Miller pushes the mask up over his eyes so that it looks like a deflated Alfred Hitchcock is chewing at his hair. He grins at Jeremy. What have you been telling him? he says.

Nothing, says Jeremy. I don’t know anything.

Miller, I say. This is stupid.

Do you know why the boy is sick? he says.

Why.

It’s not the chocolate milk, he says.

I close my eyes and I can see Miller naked and grunting on top of Jude. It was an image I could live with this morning and now it’s all I can do to stay calm because I want to gouge out his eyes with my thumbs and eat them. I can taste them already, warm and salty as sheep testicles. I keep my voice low, my teeth together.

What are you doing to him? I say.

I need cigarettes, he says. Then perhaps we can discuss the boy.

Have you contacted Cody yet, about the ransom? I say.

No, he says. And I’m not going to.

What?

Miller grins.

Don’t smile at me, motherfucker.

Hear me, says Miller. Jude can do whatever she wants with that kid, but she is kidding herself if she thinks I’m gonna hand her Senator Cody on a plate.

For thirty ticks that stretch and pop like dry wood in a fire, Miller and I are alone in a bubble, and I understand that he has the power. And he is abusing it. He is playing Jude like a kid’s guitar, something I would have thought impossible. I think it’s time for me to do something. I pull the mask over my head and I’m Woody Allen. Miller removes a small digital camera from the flight bag and gives it to Huck, who receives it reluctantly.

Oh and by the way, says Miller. Don’t try to run.

No, says Huck. Why would I do that?

I don’t know, says Miller. I really don’t. But I would be more comfortable if you let me hold onto the car keys.

Huck hands over the keys, which Miller deposits in the breast pocket of his jacket. He now opens the briefcase and takes out three identical handguns. He gives one to Jeremy and one to me, and keeps one for himself, selecting them seemingly at random. Huck does not get one, apparently. I examine my gun, which is a.40 caliber Sig Sauer Pro, matte black, a nice gun. I feel fairly certain mine and Jeremy’s are loaded with blanks, if at all. But I refrain from checking the magazine. Finally, he passes out latex gloves.

Now, he says. Let’s play.

The four of us cross the parking lot slowly under a pale electric haze, walking abreast as if we’re going to a gunfight. Miller is a step or two ahead of me and I point my gun at the back of his head.

Pow, I say.

Miller reaches the door and hesitates, his breath ragged through Hitchcock’s mouth. The plan is simple enough. Jeremy will hold a gun on the clerk. I will control the customers and watch the door. Miller will roam the store, amusing himself. And Huck will get it all on film. He throws the door open and I go in first, thinking that if I’m careful, I can stop him from killing anyone.

This is a hold-up, I say.

The music in the store is loud, Sonic Youth. No one hears me. No one pays me any mind and I reckon people in Woody Allen masks walk in here every day. Hitchcock comes in behind me and fires one shot into the ceiling. There is a spray of falling white plaster and now everyone is paying attention. Marilyn Monroe comes in and goes directly to the counter with his gun held chest high. The clerk is a ratty white kid, mid twenties. He has a long dirty blond ponytail dangling from a black baseball cap. He’s chewing gum, the muscles jumping in his face. He watches Marilyn closely. I count four customers. In the back is a white girl in motorcycle leathers with a stud through her nose and blue hair, maybe twenty. She was stirring cream into her coffee when we came in and now stands very still, staring at me. Near the counter is a crusty old white guy wearing a T-shirt that says Jesus Freak. He holds a quart of beer in one hand, a package of beef jerky in the other. And near the Slurpee machine are the guy and girl who got out of the Toyota. They are attractive in a blue jeans ad, immediately forgettable way, twin models with blond hair and perfect teeth. The girl has a sweet smile but the guy is an arrogant bastard, probably abusive, you can tell by the way he talks to her. It’s not fair but I decide that if anyone in this scene gets shot, it will be him.

It helps to have a ready sacrifice in mind.

This is a hold-up, I say. Everybody be cool.

John Wayne cruises around the store, camera in hand. I stand by the door, one eye watching the parking lot. Hitchcock is amusing himself, as he said he would. He is tearing up the store, knocking displays over and throwing bags of chips and cookies and Hostess goodies into the air. He comes up behind Marilyn and tosses the flight bag at the clerk.

The money from the register, he growls. All of it. And throw in the latest issue of Playboy and a few cartons of cigarettes.

What brand? the clerk says.

Whatever.

This irritates me. I tell the clerk to give us Camels.

He begins to stuff money into the bag and I shake my head in disgust. There will be two hundred dollars in that bag, at most. Hitchcock continues to destroy the store and the candy falls like hail. John Wayne is getting a close-up of the girl in leather. Marilyn is watching the clerk and I notice that his body is vibrating. He’s going to pull the trigger any minute.

And at that moment, Hitchcock yells, hey Marilyn.

Marilyn turns his head, confused. And as he looks away, the ratty clerk drops the flight bag and reaches under the counter. I scream at Jeremy to turn around as the clerk comes up with a shotgun and blows Marilyn backward into a rack of cold medicine. The shot rings and rings in my head and it takes me forever to cross the store. I slide on my knees through blood and candy and come to rest beside my fallen false brother. The hole in his chest is the size of a basketball. I could put my head in there. I pull the Marilyn mask from his face and he is obviously dead, eyes rolled back and a crooked little smile frozen on his mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Jesus Freak running across the parking lot with a quart of beer in one hand, beef jerky in the other and I don’t care. I’m happy for him. But it won’t do to let the customers flee just yet. The blond girl with perfect teeth is screaming and screaming and it seems that she will never stop. I stand up in time to see Hitchcock hit her in the face with the barrel of his gun and she goes down hard, crashing into the Slurpee machine, her jaw no doubt broken. I turn to face the ratty clerk, expecting another blast from the shotgun.

But he has put the gun down and resumed filling the flight bag with cigarettes.

What the fuck? I point my gun at him.

The clerk squints at me as if he doesn’t understand English.

You kill my brother and now you want to cooperate? I say.

He was your brother?

No, I say. He was just a fucked-up kid.

The clerk looks at Hitchcock, who comes over to the counter with an armload of ice cream and potato chips that he apparently wants to take with him.

We had an arrangement, the clerk says.

Indeed, says Hitchcock. And you have fulfilled your end marvelously.

The clerk flashes a mouthful of yellow teeth. Do you want a bag for those groceries?

What kind of arrangement?

The clerk shrugs. I’m bagging groceries, dude.

Hitchcock looks at Jeremy on the floor, then at the clerk.

What kind of arrangement? I say.

Two thousand dollars to kill Marilyn, says Hitchcock.

Jesus…

It was a hell of a bargain, says the clerk. Damn good.

He stands behind the counter, beaming at us. Yellow teeth like a neon sign. I glance around the store and see that no one has moved. The blond guy kneels on the floor, cradling his girlfriend’s ruined face in his lap. John Wayne stands over Jeremy. He has stopped filming. The motorcycle girl is leaning against the far wall, holding her coffee.

Do you like her, Poe?

What?

Hitchcock points his gun at the motorcycle girl and she drops down behind a glass case of hot dogs. Hitchcock shrugs. He swings around and shoots the ratty clerk in the forehead.

Wow, he says. That felt good.

His voice is on fire and through the mask his eyes glow like he’s about to embark on a full-scale killing spree. This is out of control. I figure we have been in the store almost five minutes. Two people are dead and the cops will be here soon. I don’t know what good it will do but I raise my gun and point it at Hitchcock’s head. I shout his name and he turns, grinning. He raises his own gun and does a little dance, like a jig. We are perhaps five feet apart, Alfred Hitchcock and Woody Allen.

Wayne, says Hitchcock. Look alive, pilgrim. This is great stuff.

Fuck you.

Miller, I say. Put the gun down.

Unlikely, he says.

Are you going to shoot me?

Pull the trigger, he says. Pull it, baby.

I shrug and pull the trigger and I see his face twist in surprise. The gun jerks in his right hand but I have already hit the floor and rolled sideways. Everything slows down and I expect to see the cotton wadding from my gun bounce harmlessly off his mask. But there is no cotton wadding and Hitchcock goes down on one knee, groping at his mask and yanking it off. Blood spurts from his left eye and he howls like a monkey. I look at my gun in surprise.

What did you load this with?

He groans. Wax bullets, non-lethal.

But very painful if you take one in the eye, I say.

Miller groans. The blood seeping between his fingers. Giving me wax bullets was a mistake I would not have made. I scoop up Miller’s fallen weapon and turn to face the customers.

Everyone get out, I say. Run.

The blond guy drags his now less than perfect girlfriend out first. The motorcycle girl drifts over to the door, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and smiling at me as she passes the counter. Huck yanks off his mask and takes a long look at me, then nods and backs out the door. Once outside, he throws the digital camera high into the air and when it comes down, it splinters into a thousand shiny pieces. I grab a handful of Miller’s hair and jerk his head up so he can see me.

You got your fucking snuff film, I say. Two dead.

Minor characters, he says. Insignificant.

I bring the butt of his gun down on the top of his head and he collapses in a heap. I toss the Woody mask and tell myself I have one minute to find the store surveillance tape. I hop over the counter and unfortunately step on the ratty clerk’s face with my boot. There is a nasty squishing sound. I mutter an apology and look around, frantic. There is nothing resembling a VCR back here. For some reason, I grab the fallen flight bag and Miller’s absurd bag of groceries and toss them in his direction. I head for the back, the door marked Employees Only. The door is locked and I fire two shots, then kick it open. I tell myself to be careful. I am breathing like a maniac and now there are sirens in the distance. The tiny office smells like the bright orange nacho cheese sauce dispensed from those nasty machines. And messy as hell. Desk and chair and file cabinet, time clock and safe and VCR hooked up to the surveillance cameras. I grab the tape and rip it apart as I run back to the front of the store.

Miller is gone.

Fuck, I say.

The flight bag is gone, also the groceries. I push open the doors and the Range Rover is gone. I forgot to take the keys from him. The sun has fallen, now. The sky is dark and getting darker and the sirens are so close they might as well be up my ass. I wish I could take Jeremy’s body with me and bury him properly somewhere but I can’t. He won’t be decomposing in a shallow grave next to Miller’s house, anyway. Goodbye kid, I say. Good luck in the next world. Then turn to run back through the store. I crash through the emergency exit doors and an alarm begins to whoop. Without hesitating I drop over the edge of the ravine.