Coin-Operated Machines (4 page)

BLUE HILLS, VIRGINIA

9 Days Ago, an Hour After Piedmont Cemetery Melted.

Something didn't feel right, and Martha Bonnard's instincts were keen when it came to bad feelings.  Something just didn't feel right.  For starters, her back was sore.  The ache was a nag between her shoulder blades.  The muscles were tender, as if she'd just undergone surgery.  She didn't feel like this last night.  Whatever had happened, it occurred overnight.  It occurred without her knowledge.  Martha wanted to check her back in the bathroom mirror when she heard the crack of Bernie's rifle ring out. 

"Stay the hell
out," Bernie shouted, poised in front of the open bay window in the living room.  "There's nothing here for you.  What's ours is ours!"

"Bernie what's happening?  Why are you firing your gun
out there?"

Three shots fired in succession, then Bernie re-loaded.  "I told Ray to stay out of my yard. I warned him.  I stood my ground.  I warned the dumb bastard.  Told him I was a damn good shot.  He'll take that to his grave.  I'll have to check his
pockets when the coast is clear.  Hey, he's dead.  It's not stealing. Why let it go to waste?"

Her husband was muttering
nonsense to himself.  Bernie was in his bath robe.  The cloth at his back was soaked in traces of blood in the shape of a square.  

"Honey, put the gun down.  Why are you shooting out the window?
  You're making me nervous."

"You stay back
, Martha.  I can't trust anyone.  You'd kill me too.  People like you would do anything for money.  I'm not being taken in my own home."

"Bernie, listen, you have to calm down
—"

"You take another step, I'll cut you down
!  You're like the rest of them.  They're all thieves.  I was about to take my morning walk, and I saw it happen.  Everybody's out of their minds.  We'll all be slitting each other's throats soon enough.  I'm not dying for anyone.  Not them, and not you, Martha, so if you don't mind, take that wedding ring off of your finger.  Place it on the coffee table.  Then I want you to give me the key to the lock box, and that's if you haven't already taken everything from it already.  It's my money.  I worked for it.  You were a fucking housewife all your life.  You should be the first to die.  It most certainly won't be me."

The intensity in Bernie's words was
downgraded when she looked at her hand.  Her wedding ring was gone.  It stayed on her finger at all times.  In the past, it took soap and a good yank to remove it, the band was so tight.  But it was gone.  She didn't take it off.  So where was her wedding ring?

Martha
suddenly smelled the reek of death cross her nose.  The foul odor traveled inside through the front bay window.  It was a cloud of ugly yellowish air.  She heard voices on the wind.  Subtle voices, but each owned individual character.  Martha's Grandmother, then her best friend who died two years ago from cancer, and her high school sweetheart who lived in town (who she always harbored a fancy for long after their break-up) who passed away because of a drunk driving accident, each of their voices said what she needed to hear in that moment.  The pain in her back was explained, as was the blood on Bernie's robe, as was Bernie's need for her wedding ring.

Not that he'd be getting it
!

Someone else crossed their yard, and Bernie unloaded three rounds into their
body.  Martha didn't give him a chance to re-load.  She jammed the steak knife she stole from the kitchen through the back of his neck and out his trachea.  Then she stole Bernie's rifle and pushed him out of the bay window. 

She had to protect herself. 

Nobody was going to take what was hers. 

PLANNING  A TRIP

Brock checked the Internet for Angel's location in Virginia.  She was staying at a bed and breakfast called the Piedmont Inn
hidden near a series of foothills connected to the Appalachian Mountains.  The website bragged of its isolated locale.  "Twenty miles of seclusion in each cardinal direction, this tourist spot is known for its crisp, clean air and renewing scenery." 

Maybe the high alti
tude has cleared her head
, he thought. 
Or maybe the air's thin enough, she's gone crazy enough to contact her brother again.

He checked the Internet for directions, trying to choose the best
route to get there from lower Beverly Hills.  He could fly out, but he decided the next two months were going to drag themselves out without Hannah to kick around or any work to do on the TV show.  He had also heard of a writer named Wynona Wild who only wrote while traveling on the road.  She would stop at hotels, bed and breakfasts, rest stops, or any place that would let her park her vehicle, and write.  She had written an article about how the open road gave her the best ideas.  Wynona's mind was as open as a stretch of country back road.  He liked the idea enough to adopt it as his own.  His memoir had to be written, and this was the way he'd do it. 

Brock
rented a Land Rover from U-Rent-It-Automobile service since he didn't have a vehicle of his own.  He couldn't afford the payments with the tax debt he owed the government.  He required goodies for the trip, what consisted of a pound of licorice, four Snickers bars, a bag of cheese curls, and a family size bag of M&M's.  Afterwards, he hit an ATM machine for cash.  He could pick up the rental vehicle tomorrow morning.  He would've drove out to Angel today, but he had a few loose ends to tie, namely visiting his support group and asking advice from a knowledgeable friend about confronting his sister. 

He was still at a loss on how to
first approach Angel. 
What do you say, Sis? Are you keeping your nose clean?

Afraid he'd get to a bad start with Angel, he
decided to take the bus out to Sun View Rehab Clinic and ask Dr. Schmitz, the woman who practically saved his life by dishing out tough love and understanding.  The doctor would have solid advice about Angel. 

Brock
walked a block to the bus stop.  The bus was just coming down the street.  Getting on for a ride, it wasn't long before he caught sight of Gene Richards' old mansion.  The iron bars around the property and the extended lawn made the three-story lavish house appear so far out-of-reach to the average citizen.  The mansion was the reason why he had such an enormous debt.  He had to take out a bank loan just to make the repairs on the mansion so the realtors could sell the property.  Angel had literally flown the coup and vanished off the face of the earth, so that left him with the responsibilities, the paperwork, and the financial burden of their father's estate.  Up to now, that’s why Brock kept such a cheap living situation despite descent paying work.  The bus made his stop, and Brock got out and walked two blocks to the Sun View Rehab Clinic.  He didn't have an appointment.  That was one thing he didn't think about on the way there. He'd have to wait to speak to Dr. Schmidt. 

Inside the resort
-like building with swimming pools, elaborate sun decks, an outdoor workout center, and a nature trail around the perimeter, Brock didn't have to wait very long for help.  The receptionist said Dr. Schmitz would be ten minutes, so he sat in the waiting area with his legs crossed staring out at the swimming pool.  Ten people were sun-bathing, nervously lighting up cigarettes, or clutching their heads in their hands as if working off a massive hangover.  He could see the beginning of the living quarters down the hall.  He had stayed in room 14 during his tenure at Sun View.  Not wanting to face up to the memories he created here, Brock prayed the doctor would arrive soon and convince him that he didn’t ever have to face this kind of reality again.

Before Dr. Schmitz
arrived, a familiar woman walked up to him.  Her name was Liza.  He couldn't remember her last name.  She had a cruel heroin habit.  Liza had acted alongside some of the greats in Hollywood as a co-star, then she went through a stint of unemployment, and when her agent dropped her, that's when she plunged herself completely into drug use.  She had checked herself in recently, he thought, noting her chalky white skin, bluish lips, and deep set eyes, and how she clutched her track marks on her forearm as if shielding them from rogue needles.  She was wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans with holes at the knees, the back of her black hair suffering from bed head. She froze on Brock and snarled.  Before he could defend himself, she was sitting in front of him, her hands on his knees to anchor him in place. 

She interrogated
Brock. "So did you fall off the wagon, Brock?"  She didn't let him respond.  "I've seen you on that show.  It's lame, even for you.  You're like a bottom feeder.  Who else did you drag down with you this time?  I haven't seen Angel in a very long time."  Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, a deathly show, but it was only her combing her mind for the right words.  "'Pale as snow, pale as snow, she sucked him off to get some blow,' isn't that what they used to say about Angel?  Don't talk, it's my turn to say something.  You'll get another job because Daddy will always save you.  Dead or alive, he'll look out for you.  I've heard all about you from Dr. Schmitz.  You're a success story.  Put you on a poster, or some shit.  You'll go to elementary schools and tell the kiddos 'Say no to drugs, kiddies, or else you'll end up washed up like me.'  Don't forget what you did to your sister.  I might be a heroine junkie, but I never dragged anyone down with me.  Fate lets the bad people prosper and the good ones suffer.  You don't deserve to be sober.  You don't deserve to bop in and out of here as if rehab was an option.

"Remember what you used to be, Brock
?  The first time I saw you, you had your face stuck in a toilet puking your guts out, and then you shit your guts out.  God, it makes me laugh picturing you change positions on the shitter.  You were one powder-puff looking sorry excuse for a human being, like Casper the shitting ghost, and looking at you now, I see right through you.  You're trying to find Angel, aren't you?  You're going to reclaim your life.  Start over.  Fuck you, Brock, for even trying.  Angel hates you.  She told me she hates you.  She always will."

Brock kept opening and closing his mouth to speak, but
Liza forced his words back down.  Now Liza was growing manic, reaching her tipping point, her words nonsensical gibberish of hatred as she dug her nails into his knees, slapping his face, crying and shrieking out, and he tried to calm her, but she was inconsolable.  She ripped the clinic walls with her words, "
No—don't talk—don't you talk to me!
" 

Before
Brock could be thrown against the ground by Liza's force,  two white-clothed orderlies grabbed a hold of her and dragged her to her room.  Her shrieks faded as the two orderlies carried her away. 

Brock touched his cheek.  She
clawed him once, though the marks didn't bleed.  He hung his head down, blowing out a deep breath of air and feeling his heart settle in his chest.  "I guess I deserved that."

"No
you didn’t, Brock."

A gray
haired woman in her late forties dressed in a lab coat, jeans, and an aqua green midriff approached him.  Dr. Schmitz had suffered more wear and tear on her face from the last time he'd seen her.  The doctor's everyday routine involved a mix of movie stars, rock stars, and average people with enough money to afford Sun View who fought withdraw with varying success rates.  She was happy to see Brock because he wasn’t one of the troubled.  She hooked her arm though his and kindly ushered him to her corner office.

Edging the door closed, she
then sat behind her desk and offered Brock a seat.  "So what brings you by, besides being mauled by Liza Stanfield?"

"Sta
nfield, that's her last name.  I'm so sorry me being here caused that."

"She's on suicide watch, but I don't believe locking up a person in that deplorable condition is healthy.  They need sunshine, human interaction, and who knows, maybe taking the jabs at you will make her feel better."

"That woman blew her top.  She wanted me dead."

Dr. Schmitz pointed at his neck
.  "Are you sure you’re okay?"

He waved her concerns
aside.  "I'm fine.  I needed a wake-up call.  I came here without an appointment.  It's Karma catching up with me."

"I never believed in
Karma.  Or luck.  Things happen, or they don't, and whether you get what you want in life or not, its earned.  Only the timing is luck, and still, it's up to the person to react and deal with their situation, good or bad."  She picked up a snow globe on her desk of Sun View Rehab Clinic inside it and shook it up.  "Take Liza, for instance.  She was doing great four months ago.  She was determined to quit drugs.  She was going to New York for work in the Broadway musical
Cats
.  Sure, it's a smaller role, but it's work, and she gets caught up in how she used to be an A-lister, and how she deserves better, and then the drugs creep back in, and back here to rehab she goes.  Liza's got a long road ahead of her to recovery."

She plac
ed the snow globe back onto the desk.  "I'm proud of you, Brock.  I watch "America's Got Flair" every Tuesday when the new ones are on.  You're always good at pointing out the obvious in a deadpan kind of way to the contestants."  The way she asked the question, the doctor seemed to be afraid he was here to check himself back into rehab.  "So what brings you back to us, Brock?"

He was proud to reassure her he wasn't returning for a stay at California's
best rehab clinic.  "I received a letter from my sister.  I guess she's holed up," he laughed, "at a bed and breakfast in Virginia.  Can you believe it?"

"What is Angel doing these days?"

It was terrible her own brother didn't know these things, he thought.  "I don't know.  But she wrote me saying she wanted to see me. It's been two years since I've had any contact. I'm driving out tomorrow on a little road trip to visit her."

"Oh fun. 
So you're probably wondering how you should handle the visit."

He nodded, overhearing another raucous cry from down the hall.  When it tapered off, he continued,
though he wondered if it was poor Liza again.  "Yes.  I don't want to say the wrong thing, or scare her off again.  I don't know if she's sober, happy, needing money, or just wanting to kick my ass."

Dr. Schmitz thought for a second. 
"Then don't go into the visit thinking she needs anything except a friendly conversation.  Talk to her.  If she needs something more, whether it be money, or," she softly bit her lip, "kicking your ass, she'll let you know.  Women are good at that, I promise."

"So be cool, is what you're saying."

Dr. Schmitz smiled.  "Be cool."

Liza makes me remember rehab.  I guess everything does at some point.  I was Casper the shitting ghost, haunting the pot, flushing down vomit, shit, bile, and cocaine, and God knows what else down into the sewers.  I feel sorry for the janitors at any rehab clinic. People do anything to get the drugs off of their mind. They tear up the walls, break furniture, rip the paint off the walls with their fingernails, and one dude named Norman would scuff the floors with his shoes until there wasn't an inch of blank space left. 

Forget Liza
's problems, Angel was worse off.  She'd shove safety pins between the skin of her thumb and forefinger to abate the cravings.  Angel was caught doing that in rehab, and her room was cleaned out.  I think that was when she decided rehab wasn't for her.  She wasn't ready to quit.  She just couldn't do it.

I think both of us had the same reaction
after our father’s inheritance that the average Joe Blow does who makes thirty, forty grand a year and then suddenly they win the lottery.  They don't know what to do with the fortune that's fallen into their laps.  They quit their jobs.  Pay their debts.  And then what?  They have no plan.  Nothing to waste the hours away, so they start drinking, getting depressed, sinking into that deepening hole, and they end up worse off than they were without the money, and that's where Sis and I ended up, worse off than before Dad died and we had nothing else left to do but blow our fortune on self-destruction.

There was a
TV special about how we dismantled the Richards estate, and I even remember the TV spot.  Some Australian home interior guru and tabloid personality saying, "Room by room, we'll recreate the destruction, and play-by-play, we'll have real witnesses give their true accounts to the rise and fall of the Gene Richards estate."

Brock's wrist ached,
so he concluded the writing session.  He wasn’t used to committing anything to paper except signatures on checks.  Brock left his apartment and walked down the block and ate a hot dog from a street vendor.  After eating, he sat under a tree overlooking the Beverly Hills Open Air Park, feeling guilty for eating a piece of greasy meat, but also frustrated he was still afraid to completely open himself up on the page. 
Oh well, I guess I have an entire road trip to figure it all out.