Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [65]
Blond Viking God told her she was lazy; anything less than Total World Domination wasn’t worth her time.
Blond Viking God was in a position to say something like that. Even then, three years ago, he was the Blond Viking God.
So she received her new car and quickly showered and dressed and ate a croissant—the first breadlike food she’d had in five weeks—and poured some orange juice down her throat and went off to Blond Viking God’s place in Santa Monica. He was hung-over but immediately suggested a drink.
She pouted a little—she’ll admit that much. She wanted to go driving around L.A. Something she used to do all the time.
Wait until I show you Decker Canyon Road, she said.
Fuck that, he said. Mulholland or nothing, baby!
He had a few drinks, and then she was coerced into having a beer—again, the first booze she’d had in five weeks, since the start of the shoot. The first sip was a cold, fuzzy blast. Wow. Reluctantly, she accepted another beer, nursing it as he tossed back bourbon. He’d been on a big bourbon kick lately, having come back from shooting a gothic/science-fiction thing down in New Orleans. Bought it by the case. She hoped it was a phase; she didn’t like kissing him after a bourbon jag.
She saw the light in his eyes go dimmer and dimmer, and she hated when that happened. He got to a certain point where it was impossible to reach him. So she said, shoes on, we’re going for a ride.
He put his shoes on; they went for a ride.
They didn’t go as far as Decker Canyon Road—honestly, she was afraid all the twists and turns would make him puke. And sorry, she was not cleaning Blond Viking God vomit out of her factory-new sports car. He egged her on—Mulholland, baby! Mulholland! Until finally she agreed, taking the PCH up to Sunset, then up Beverly Glen.
Finally to Mulholland.
He gleefully told her the story behind the name. Mulholland was a government official who was responsible for the deaths of at least 450 people—including forty-some kids—when a dam burst.
Only in L.A., he said, would they name a road after someone like that.
They stopped at a lookout, at which point Blond Viking God grabbed the keys.
No.
C’mon.
Fuck, no. Don’t be an idiot.
I’m fine. I just want to give it a test spin.
And I’m saying no.
He jingled the keys in front of her.
Just a mile or so.
How much bourbon did you drink?
See you at the bottom.
She screamed his name—
But ultimately he won, because he always won, because he was the Blond Viking God and he raced her factory-new sports car down Mulholland Drive, yelling, NOW, THIS IS HOW YOU DO IT.
They didn’t die.
They didn’t hit anyone.
Frankly, he was actually okay behind the wheel.
And Lane had to admit, maybe she was being silly, because it was a pretty amazing ride, the cool January air making all of L.A. look crystal-clear sharp down to the molecule. And there they were, on top of everything.
They decided to get a bite down in the valley. Somewhere quiet, out of the way. He said he knew the perfect place. They went down Beverly Glen to Ventura. Blond Viking God was confused; he knew it was here somewhere, but maybe he’d passed it. So he hooked a left onto a side street, then another left, onto another side street. I’m hungry, he said, then gunned it. He saw the kid two seconds before—chasing a Wiffle ball into the street. He slammed the brakes. The tires screamed. She screamed. None of it did any good.
The world ended.
Lane saw the white ball spinning, slowly making its way to the opposite curb.
He cursed.
He looked around.
He cursed again.
He put the car in reverse.
Lane screaming, WHAT ARE YOU DOING
He raced around the kid and rocketed the rest of the way up the street, even though doors were opening all around them.
WE CAN’T WE CAN’T
She looked back and saw his little body and she screamed again, but they were cut off by a hairpin turn to the right, and then everything receded into the distance.
Hardie’s fingers touched his Manhattan, but he didn’t lift