MDA PressRed Lines, Part 2
By Chris McCarthy
They met randomly at a movie theater. They had both gone alone to a Thursday midday screening of Michael Keaton’s comeback film and critical darling, Birdman. Celia was not at all fazed by going to the theater alone. She had the afternoon off and decided to go see the movie. No overthinking. No worrying about what it would be like going to the movie alone. She did it all the time. For him, it was different. He agonized over the decision. What did going to the movie in the middle of the day mean about him? Did it mean he was lazy? Unproductive? Did it make him a loser? Could he afford it? He really should be tidying up the resume and getting himself out there, but also he really deserved to relax. Once he decided that, yes, he would be seeing the movie today, or at least at this point it was a distinct possibility, he then wondered what it would feel like going alone. Would the cashier look at him strangely? Would he see anyone he knows and what would they think of him. None of this was in his control, but he thought it was in some way, which years later, he would realize was a problem and the reason for a lot of the things that went wrong in his life.
Celia had sat three seats down from Leo and, in the middle of a preview for Billy Elliot: The Musical, she leaned over and said with a half smile and a glint in her brown eyes, “I don’t think I’ll be seeing that one. I don’t do musicals in theaters. Maybe live, but not in theaters.” Leo laughed politely and said, “Same. Not my cup to tea.” They both leaned back in their seats, Celia, a hair of a moment later, after realizing the sudden lull would be a long one, as Leo repeated the phrase “Not my cup of tea” in his head a few more times, reliving each time how stupid it had felt coming out of his mouth—then Celia leaned forward and to the right, around the armrest, and asked Leo if he wanted half of her popcorn.
She’d purchased the largest size and had the wherewithal to get a brown cardboard tray from the concessions person, as if she’d been planning from the start to share it with someone. Leo noticed the effortless way she did things for people. There was no overthinking involved. She just did it. Generosity was a part of who she was, but he also immediately knew that she never told herself she was generous or basked in it. Leo remembered thinking at the time that everything he did seemed to be done in the hope of some result. As if he was acting for an audience that would either clap for him or yell at him in approbation. Every detail and outcome considered.
Celia moved to the seat next to him to divvy up the popcorn, then sat back, threw a handful of popcorn in her mouth and stayed there for the full movie. Walking out during the credits, Leo was amazed to hear his lips mouth the words, “Well, I owe you for the popcorn. How about dinner sometime?” He hadn’t even thought the words, hadn’t played with them in his mind a few times to get them right—they just came out. What was this amazing woman pulling out of him? The strength and confidence and comfort she gave him. He noticed her slim waist and the way her coat fit her shoulders perfectly as she turned toward him and held her hand out for his phone.
Three days later, Leo and Celia went to dinner at one of Leo’s favorite restaurants, an Italian place called Dina’s, where the pair took over an overstuffed red booth for almost two and a half hours. Leo knew the waitstaff wasn’t rushing them to turn the table because of her—she had something about her that made people blur the rules. She was either unaware of it or at least never traded on it, which in a full circle way is why she had that way about her in the first place.
That night at dinner the time disappeared even as Leo clung to every slippery minute. The highlight of the night was Leo’s hospital visit. When dessert came out, the waiter dropped one of the two forks on the floor and promised to bring another one right away. After three minutes of watching the desert instead of eating it, Leo went to the kitchen to ask for a fork. He ran into a busboy, who set his tub of dishes down, and quickly ran behind the steel pickup window to pull a fork out of a plastic tray.
Three bites into the dessert, Leo started to feel a tightness in his chest. Then a tingling in his tongue and lips. His breathing became labored as red started to cloud the edges of his vision and the wooziness set in. Celia called 911 instantly. Instead of the warm August evening stroll with a possible stop at his Venice Boulevard apartment that Leo hoped for—his roommate Todd had been given instructions to shut the fuck up and stay in his room playing Call of Duty if he heard Leo come home with a companion—the date ended with Leo being rolled out on a gurney at high speed by two EMTs. He was administered epinephrine immediately and his anaphylactic shock almost immediately subsided. His breathing went back to normal and he felt the swelling around his eyes and mouth start to release. Still, his symptoms were so bad that the EMTs insisted on taking him to the ER for further observation.
Turns out the busboy had handled a plate with oysters moments before getting the fork for Leo and some shellfish oil was on his black rubber gloves. The ER doctor said it was not unusual for shellfish allergies to suddenly appear in adults in their thirties.
From that night on, Celia kept an epipen in her purse just in case. And from that night on, Leo was in love. Celia hadn’t balked once in the way she looked at him in his utter emasculation, hadn’t betrayed a moment of embarrassment or desire to be anywhere but there, him lying on the floor barely breathing in front of their booth in his former favorite Italian restaurant, half a tiramisu spread on his chin and black button-up shirt.
Loyalty was a big thing with Leo.
Leo sits back in his seat in the back of the cruiser, his hands covering his face, not even crying but tears streaming. He takes a quick glance out the window before covering his eyes, mouth and nose again with his hands, then takes them away. He processes the reality of the situation.
The cop catches Leo’s state in the rear view mirror. He’s been talking for a few minutes, but Leo’s only caught words and phrases. He can’t hear anything or isn’t ready to.
“What you did is help that woman and all the other people that man would have hurt should he have continued breathing.” The cop continues.
Leo takes this in and hears the voice in his head tell him this is all real. Too real. He says, “So, listen… You can just drop me off here. Anywhere. I’ll Uber home. I promise I will never say a word about any of this.”
“I can’t do that,” the cops says, nodding his head left to right. “We need to make sure you’re one hundred percent clear of the incident. An associate of mine has already cleared the scene for any video footage, including Tesla or Ring cameras. He’s even checking the local neighborhood north of the shopping center for any lookie-loos. It’s for your benefit. Once we decide you’re clear and have planted a plausible story with our middle man who will convey it to LAPD—who will be very receptive by the way, no one’s gonna miss that fuck, death by brick is an occupational hazard for his kind—then and only then can we talk about your options.”
Leo’s head spins.
“Options? When you said we were going to get the rest of them, what did you—?” Leo asks.
“I have nowhere to stash you where you’ll be safe so I need to keep you close. And we need to get to the next place as soon as possible.” The cop says nothing more as he speeds the car up and changes lanes.
Once off the freeway, they drive for another twenty minutes, winding through suburban neighborhoods and small commercial spaces in the city of Santa Ana.
The house is at the end of Lyon street. Between the house and the backside of the power substation beyond it, sits an empty dirt lot strewn about with old clothes, a dilapidated Wolkswagen Bug, and countless trash bags.
On one side of the street is a small Cuban restaurant that looks to be shuttered for good, a liquor store, and a low-slung flat-roofed two story apartment building with a parking lot on the street side of the building like a cheap motel. Every visible apartment window is barred. The cop pulls up to an open spot at the curb, just outside the spray of light from the lone streetlight on the dark street. It seems brazen to park just across the street Leo thinks.
“We’re waiting on one other guy,” the cop says, emptying the final two pills from a prescription bottle into his mouth. He checks his watch and looks in the passenger side mirror.
Seconds later, the passenger side door pops open and a short man with a paunch slides into the seat. The cop looks over then turns his chin toward the back seat.
“You just sit in the car and wait. But you see anything weird, text me. I’ll see it right here on my watch,” the cop says pointing at his wrist.
“Weird, like what? What do you mean?” Leo asks.
“I wish I had more time to explain, but we gotta go. You’ll be fine here. Cam, you ready?” The cop asks, pulling his gun out from under the seat.
“How long… how long are you going to be?” Leo asks.
The man next to the cop nods and checks something in his waistband that Leo imagines is a gun. The cop opens the door and slips around to the front of the car in what seems like one fluid motion. Seconds later, the cop is creeping along the left side of the house, having stayed completely out of any splashes of light coming from the house. Leo barely saw him get there. The guy with the paunch is on the right side of the house, peeking into a window. He didn’t even hear the second man exit the vehicle.
Then suddenly both men are gone, slipped into shadows.
Leo stares at the house, fully alert, desperate for a noise, anything that will help him understand more about the situation and his safety. Behind the bars on the windows, Leo can see thin lace curtains—whoever is inside hasn’t been there long enough to think about covering the windows better. They’re on the move, not here for long, he understands.
It’s seconds later that Leo sees the gunshots light up the windows—Bang Bang. Two shots. Two light flashes. He freezes, white-knuckling the armrest with one hand. What should he do? Any inkling that this is part of the plan dies when something happens on the right side of the home—Leo hadn’t noticed a door there, but his mind quickly establishes that there is an entrance from the side yard into the house, possibly into the kitchen. And it must be where Cam entered the house. Now the light from inside spills out through the open door and, through missing slats in the wooden fence, Leo sees Cam hurtling out the door and landing against several plastic trash cans, sending them flying like bowling pins. One opens up, dumping trash onto the lawn. Leo looks around the quiet street. It’s still. No one is around.
An alarm in Leo’s head sounds: Get out of here! It’s time! He pulls on the door handle. It pulls easily but there’s no tension. It doesn’t engage. He can’t get out of the car.
Looking out the window as he pulls on the door handle, Leo watches Cam pull himself against the side of the house. Then he sticks his head through the slats and looks directly at the car, nodding violently, trying to communicate something. What is he trying to say?
By now, Leo has moved onto the other door, the one that faces the fenced-in industrial lot to the left of the car. This door is locked too. Leo remembers something about the back doors of police cars only being opened from outside the car. Cam is nodding even more violently now and sticks an arm past his head through one of the open slats of the fence, looking like missing teeth, and gestures toward the house. Then Leo sees his body move violently, unnaturally in its prone position. He’s being dragged into the house.
Bang bang. The windows light up twice again.
Leo’s heart pounds in his ears. Without thinking, he squeezes himself through the opening in the plastic divide between the front and back seats and lands uncomfortably with his head in the footwell of the passenger seat, his back hitting hard against the front console and the empty shotgun holder. In the footwell under the passenger seat, lodged into a plastic holder, he sees a pistol. He’s never been this close to a gun. He rights himself and slides over to the driver’s seat. From there he reaches back over and slides the gun out. He opens the driver’s side door and steps out. Halfway through closing the door, he looks through the windows and sees a man step out the front door, look left and right, then duck back inside leaving the door open. Thoughts fly through his mind as he pushes the door closed and makes himself small on the far side of the car. His breathing intensifies as he looks down at the gun and slides the safety off. A kid could do this, he thinks.
Leo peaks an eye up through the car and sees the man has again walked back out the door and is now a few steps into the yard, looking in the direction of the car. He can’t tell if he sees the car, tucked away as it is in the darkness, then the man walks quickly over to the side yard before again surveying the dark street.
Leo jogs away from the car, staying low behind the other cars parked along the curb of the street. He’d turn and run the opposite direction of the house, but he can’t climb a fence with the man on the lawn looking in the general direction of the car. The noise would certainly make his presence known. Leo follows the pathway of the de facto cul-de-sac toward the back of the power substation, then slips into the trash-strewn lot abutting the house. Stopping a few feet into the lot, he tucks the gun in the back of his waistband, naturally, since it seems like the only place that makes sense. All the while, sure to keep out of sight of the man on the lawn. He thinks he can climb the fence at the back of the lot and go… somewhere other than here.
He runs through the lot, dodging trash bags and old car parts, then trips over an old tree stump, landing hard on his knees. The pain shoots through the midpoint of his shin where he made contact. He instinctively slides back to his butt and reaches both hands around the shin to assess the damage. Other than a cascade of blood and sharp pain, it’s not that bad. He steels himself to get back up and keep running, then turns to his head and looks right through an open space in the overgrown ivy on the chainlink fence separating the lot and the house next to it.
There, less than ten feet away from him, sitting against the side of the house is the cop, the top of his black shirt soaked in red blood. At first Leo thinks he’s been shot, then he sees the blood on the cop’s chin and remembers the coughing fits. The cop tries to use the side of the house to prop himself up and stand up but slides down again. Leo realizes he’s sicker than he thought. Then Leo hears a tapping noise. His eyes dart around then land on a small window a few feet above and to the left of the cop. He sees a small hand pulling a black sheet back from the window, then he sees the top of a head and an eye. There’s a fear in the eye as the person quickly pushes the black sheet back to cover the window. It’s then that he notices the cop is looking directly at him. The cop holds Leo’s gaze for two long seconds then stands up and hobbles around the front of the house and enters the front door.
Leo stands frozen before he makes a decision. He runs back the way he came toward the opening of the lot and, hugging the last steel fence post, swings onto the small lawn of the house and runs toward the side. He hears something faint inside of the house—two men yelling maybe. Then it’s quiet. Now crouching against the front of the house, Leo takes a step toward the front door. He notes that it’s a few inches open.
Once inside the house, Leo pads across a small entryway of linoleum before he steps onto the too-thick carpet. It’s dark inside. He turns left and sees a cheap wooden door with a padlock on it. He quickly connects that door with the blacked out window and the fearful eye. Leo’s attention is pulled down the hall to the right when he senses a body cross into a room on the far side of the hall which he knows is the kitchen, the way you always know where the kitchen in a house is. He tucks himself up against a small alcove. He forces himself to check his breathing then peaks around the wall. All clear now, he steps out into the hallway and takes a few cautious steps down the hall. The gun is in his hand.
When Leo gets to the dark kitchen, he trips over something and smashes into the countertop, knocking pans off the stovetop and making way too much noise. He rights himself. One of the pans is still warm to the touch. He freezes and listens—he made too much noise for nothing to happen.
Then he looks down and realized he hadn’t tripped over a duffel bag. It’s the cop laid out face down, limp and heavy like a sack of rice near the entrance to the kitchen. On the far side of the kitchen by a door that indeed goes outside into the side yard, he sees Cam’s body, his chest bullet-ridden. He’s dead.
It’s then that the man walks out from the shadows of the opposite corner of the kitchen, just in front of what looks to be a pantry door. It takes Leo a moment to see the shotgun pointed at him.
The man walks toward Leo speaking in a language that sounds like Russian. Leo doesn’t need an interpreter to know that the man is spewing hateful violence. Leo holds his own gun up and points it at the man.
Then suddenly, his hands feel thick around the joints and his arms feel heavy. Leo looks at his arm and is surprised to see he’s barely holding the gun above his hip, its barrel facing a spot on the floor well away from Russian. Then Leo falls back against the counter and slides down to the floor. He drops the gun and clutches his chest, gasping for breath. What is happening? Has he been stabbed or shot? Did it happen so fast that he didn’t hear the gun discharge?
But he searches his chest with his hands and doesn’t feel any injuries or blood.
The man with the shotgun is surprised then smiles and scoops up the gun. He grunts something in Russian and holds the gun on Leo. Leo’s eyes start to cloud up. He sees two hazy outlines of the man as he approaches him. He holds his hands up in a weak form of defense. The man slaps his arms down and Leo can’t lift them back up even though he wants to. His heart beats in his head louder now. From the corner of his eye, he sees one of the pans he knocked off the counter earlier. Half a dozen shrimp tails dot the floor around it. Fuck.
He hadn’t carried an epipen with him for six years. It has always been in the bottom of Celia’s purse. He thinks back on that first date then his eyes darken as the following six years with her play back in his head in three seconds.
Copyright Chris McCarthy and MDA Press, 2024, Graphics by Chris McCarthy with Imagen3.