Is there honor among thieves?
Or will vultures dine on this feast of friends?
Or will vultures dine on this feast of friends?
A Valley Called Death by Daniel Mkiwa
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The sweat on the
side of his face rubbed slick on the hot leather of the car's seat. But it was
the pounding in his head like a hundred hangovers that Gordon
"Sticks" DeLuca noticed first.
He grimaced and
massaged his temples as he sat up.
Disoriented in the
backseat of his car, he had no recollection of how he’d gotten there.
The brightness of
the day forced his eyes half-closed. The heat was persistent and oppressive.
It had to be over a
hundred degrees. He opened his eyes to see the sand and chaparral outside the
open windows of his car. The desert. He was sitting in the backseat of his own
car in the middle of the desert.
Thirsty and
confused, he turned to look out the other side of the car. That's where he made
out a figure seated not twenty-five feet away.
"Ray?" He
squinted.
It was indeed Ray
Machiodi. His trusted number two, and his closest friend for over forty years,
sitting on a beach chair wearing a white guayabera shirt, sunglasses, and
yellow straw Panama Hat.
Ray sat still and
watched him as he opened the car door and slowly stepped out on to the sand.
"Good morning,
Gordon." Ray said, plaintively. He had used his full first name, 'Gordon',
rather than 'Gordy' or 'Boss' or even his nickname, 'Sticks'. That meant he was
serious. Whatever this was, it was a serious situation.
"Professor."
Gordon looked down at the rectangular, four-foot-deep hole that had been
recently dug, just in front of Ray's feet.
A hole in the
desert.
He saw Ray's hand
wrapped around his .45 semi-automatic pistol. But he wasn’t pointing it, he was
just holding it as it rested in his lap.
"Sorry I had
to slip you a mickey there, boss." Ray said, "Your head must be
hurting. There's some aspirin and a few bottles of water there in the
cooler." He nodded toward the opposite side of the hole at a white
Styrofoam cooler next to another beach chair.
"Have a seat,
Boss, we need to talk." Ray said.
Gordon sniffed.
“Looks like you're the boss now."
"It's not like
that."
"Oh
yeah?" Gordon said, getting angry. "What's it like then? Is it like
my best friend drugged me and brought me out to a hole in the desert in my own
car? Is that what it's like?"
"Just sit.
Have a drink of water." He pointed the muzzle of the gun at the empty
chair.
Gordon huffed and
sat down in the chair. He tore the lid off the cooler, revealing several clear
plastic bottles of water, a bottle of aspirin, and three Snickers bars floating in cold water.
He opened a wet
bottle of water and drank deeply as rivulets rolled down the sides of his
cheeks.
Gordon and Ray sat
facing each other, a four-foot-deep valley between them.
"Sorry if the
ice melted. You were out for two and a half hours longer than I expected,"
Ray said. "I was starting to worry."
Gordon glared at
him and said nothing. He could feel his heart pounding as the adrenaline began
to surge.
"You hungry? I
got you a few candy bars." Ray said.
Snickers was Gordon's favorite. A last
meal perhaps? The 'Professor' had thought of everything, as usual.
"Fuck you and
your candy bars, Ray."
Ray looked away.
"I can't
believe you agreed to this," Gordon said, disgusted. "Who gave the
order, Ray? Who did you make a deal with? Just tell me who gave you the
order."
Ray looked at him
as he took off his sunglasses. His face was red and his eyes were sad.
"Nobody gave me an order, Gordon. I brought you here on my own."
Gordon was stunned.
It was inconceivable that his friend would do this to him. He sat silently as
the realization of the situation set in.
Ray looked away and
took a big sigh. "Can you believe they named this place 'Death
Valley'?" He forced a chuckle. "I mean how melodramatic can you
get?"
Gordon tried to
calm himself as he began thinking through his options, courses of action.
"Only in
Southern California would they be this ...this … theatrical," Ray
said. "Ever think about that? In L.A. there's a mountain called 'Olympus',
an island called 'Avalon' and a valley called 'Death'."
Gordon quickly
realized that he had few, if any, options, and no immediate courses of action.
"I mean, what
Hollywood priss is naming these things?" Ray said. "It's not like
back home, where you have a park in the center of the city, so you call it
'Central Park'."
Gordon knew his
friend was stalling. He could see that Ray did not really want to do this and
he was dragging his feet. Ray would always put things off if he really did not
want to do them. He was incredibly intelligent and thoughtful, which was how he
got the nickname 'Professor'. He made a great number two. But he would
hesitate, when he needed to act and that's why he would never make a good boss.
If Ray had done this right, Gordon would already be in the ground instead of
sitting here having this conversation.
That was the
opening: his only hope would be to talk Ray out of it.
"Yeah,"
Gordon said, "or, you got a bridge that goes to Brooklyn? You name it the
fucking 'Brooklyn Bridge'."
Ray laughed.
"Exactly."
"Me and
you," Gordon said, "We been in L.A. longer than we lived back in New
York. But we never really fit in out here, did we?"
"Yeah,"
Ray said, "you and I have always been a couple of East Coast guys."
"But we always
had each other," Gordon said.
The desert buzzed
with the sound of thousands of insects.
"We always had
each other," Gordon repeated. "Hey remember when we first came out
here and we met those girls in Silverlake?"
Ray smiled and
nodded. "Sandra and Julie. They wanted to be actresses."
"Yep."
"And we went
to El Cholo for margaritas. Remember that?" Ray said, smiling.
"Yeah, El
Cholo." Gordon sighed. "Boy, I could really go for one of those
margaritas right now."
Ray looked away.
There was a long
silent pause as the dry heat beat down upon them.
"Look, you
don't have to do this, Ray," Gordon said. "We been friends a long
time, you are like a brother to me. I love you like a brother, especially since
Marty died, may he rest in peace."
Ray looked at him.
"We can work
this out," Gordon said. Whatever your beef is, I know we can work it
out."
"This is about
Marty.”
"What do you
mean?"
"Marty was set
up," Ray said, "You know it. I know it."
"So?"
"So he was
your brother and he was set up," Ray said, "He was set up by one of
us."
"What do you mean,
Ray?"
"You know what
I mean," Ray shouted. "Somebody in our crew had to set him up. It had
to be one of us."
"So what are
you saying, Ray?" Gordon yelled "You think it was me? You think I had
my own brother wiped out? Why the fuck would I do that? He was my
brother!"
"No." Ray
closed his eyes and shook his head. "No I don't think it was you."
“Then what the fuck
are we doing out here?"
"It's because
you think it was me."
"What?"
"You think I
set Marty up to get hit."
"What the fuck
are you talking about?"
"You suspect
me," Ray said, "I know you do."
"Oh, that’s
bullshit, Ray. I never suspected you."
"I know you
suspect me because I know it had to be one of us, and you haven't talked to me
about it. So I know you're thinking it must be me."
"I haven't
talked to anyone about it, Ray! He was my brother! Did you ever think that I
would need time to grieve? Did that thought ever occur to
you?"
"I know you
better than that," Ray said.
Gordon stood up
"So you just thought you would take matters into your own hands and hit me
before I hit you? That's just complete bullshit. Complete bullshit! After
everything we've been through together?"
"I know you
either think it was me, or at least you haven’t ruled me out.
"Ray, if I
told you that I didn't think it was you—"
"I wouldn't
believe you," Ray interrupted. "It would just be a matter of time and
opportunity and you would either have one of the guys do me, or you would do it
yourself."
"Yeah?"
Gordon shouted. "Well fuck you, Ray. Fuck. You. You want to do this? Then
fucking do it. I'm sick of listening to your bullshit."
"I didn't come
out here to kill you, Boss."
"What?"
"I came to
figure out who set Marty up. I know it wasn’t me and I know it wasn’t
you."
Gordon squinted at
him.
"So it had to
be Al, Carl, Ralphie Green, or the kid, Carlos. It had to be one of those
four."
"Okay."
Gordon said "So why are we in the fucking desert?"
"Because you
haven't ruled me out. From your perspective it was one of the five of us."
"Ray, I don’t
think it was you."
"That's
exactly what you would say if you thought it was me."
"Oh for fuck's
sake."
"But it is
also what you would say if you didn't
think it was me."
Gordon shook his
head.
"And that’s
the dilemma. I can't live like that, always wondering what you really thought, and if and when my time
was up. I just can't live like that.
"So ... what?"
"And you are
like a brother to me, too. You are the only family I got, and there is just no
way I can kill you."
Gordon looked down
at the freshly dug grave.
"So now is
where we find out if you think I might have done it or you don't.”
Ray stood up took a
step to the edge of the open grave. He squatted down, and lowered himself into
the hole.
Gordon was shocked
silent.
Ray stood in the
four-foot hole and looked up at his friend. He reached into his pocket and
placed the car keys on the edge of the grave.
"If you think
I did it, then now's your chance." Ray grasped the pistol by the barrel
and extended it up to Gordon.
Gordon bent to take
the gun.
Ray, standing in
the hole, turned around and took off his hat.
Gordon was
speechless as he stood there with his pistol in his hand and stared hard at the
back of Ray's balding head.
He stood, confused
and speechless.
The faded blue and
orange stripes of the beach chair caught his eye. Gordon recognized Ray’s beach
chairs. They were the same chairs that he, Marty and Ray would sit on at the
lake when they went fishing.
Sometimes they would
take the boat out, other times they would just sit on the dock with those cheap
blue and orange striped chairs.
Whenever they
fished, the three of them would spend hours together without saying a word. It
was a comforting silence; unlike the silence he faced now, amid the desperate
heat and relentless buzzing insects of Death Valley.
Because despite the
years, and memories, and everything that went with them, the truth was that he
really hadn’t ruled Ray out.
Gordon always acted
when he needed to act, but he didn’t want to think about the possibility that
his closest friend had been responsible for his brother’s death.
But the Professor
was absolutely correct: it had to be one of the five of them. And if Ray didn’t
have the motive, he certainly had the opportunity.
The pistol weighed
heavy in his hand. He could tell it was loaded, and he knew a round was
chambered. He knew Ray wouldn’t go through all of this trouble to hand him an
unloaded gun like some kind of test.
No, this was
definitely real.
He felt the steel
of the trigger with the tip of his index finger. It was metallic and cool,
despite the desert heat.
He closed his eyes
and tried hard to imagine Ray being the one who set Marty up.
Sweat covered his
exposed forehead and ran in droplets down the side of his face.
If it was Ray, he
decided, he might as well put the gun to his own head.
"Ray..."
Ray didn't turn
around to face him.
Gordon reached
forward and put a hand on Ray's shoulder. He thought about his brother Marty
and felt a lump in his throat as if he wanted to cry.
"Ray... c'mon
get out of there. Let's go get some margaritas."
