Heavy Rain, Ex-Detectives, and the Mojave Desert

One, for a cruel God.

The spirit burned as it snaked down my throat, conjuring memories of flames and charred corpses; a mother and father, torn from a son destined to pain.

Two, for a wasted opportunity.

The orphan, a prodigy; gifted, they said, and they wondered what would become of him- a mathematician, a poet, a lawyer, surely. 

Three, for false promises.

Alone, the men in blue comforted him, as the firemen dueled the blaze; he would be just like them, one day.

Four, for the loss of innocence.

Lost footage, lost evidence, lost contraband; lost lives, lost justice, lost drugs.

Five, for a broken heart.

Under the eyes of God; until Death, or alcohol, do us part.

Six, for the hell of it.

Cheap, neat scotch; it wasn’t about the journey, but the destination.

* * *

The alcoholic’s cradle is a foxy thing; it tempts you with the cold comfort of an eternal nonexistence, only to tear it away, winking, when things just start getting good. For a moment, my eyes remained shut, listening to the thud and patter of heavy rain against the motel window- an early suspect in the Case of My Sudden Awakening, but one unlikely to be the ultimate villain. Even in the clearest of days, my mind was averse to unconsciousness.

With a sigh of disappointment, I forced my eyes open, seeing a carpet covered in glass- the shot glass, shattered, the pieces reflecting the meager light cast through the moth-tailored holes in the cheap curtains. Placing my hands beneath me, I attempted to rise, hungover arms struggling to support my weight- only for my head to crash against the corner of the table above, collapsing my body to the floor yet again. 

Fuck.

I rolled on my back, seeing the dark underside of the offending furniture, a crushed spider pressed against the wood; my head, cause of death.

You and me both, buddy.

Grabbing the cushion of the tacky couch to my left, I pulled myself up, sitting in the gap between the furniture. It would have been impossible to collapse beneath the table- I would have hit the couch, first. No, I crawled onto the stained carpet; I must have decided I was somehow unworthy of sleeping on a motel couch. The fetishistic self-hatred of a guilty alcoholic is something truly special.

God, I’m sore.

If self-punishment was the goal, I knocked the ball straight out of the park. My body felt like it had been thrown into a cement mixer, contorted and whipped in every which way, and my brain was pounding, a sick combination of a poisonous amount of scotch and a science-defying lack of sleep. I hadn’t slept longer than an hour or two every day for years now- insomnia, or something. 

Groaning, I rose, using the couch as support. The movement was by no means quick, but my head responded with a sharp pain all the same, and I collapsed back into the couch. I expected to sink back into the cushions some, but my body bounced right off- I don’t think I’d ever sat in a more uncouchlike couch. The bottle of scotch posed seductively upon the cheap table, my darling cruise ship to the edge of the world. The shattered shot glass was strewn in formation around the nearly empty drink, a circle of worship around a deity of nirvana; the palms of my hands were coated in fresh cuts, the holy marks of the pious man. 

There was a flash of light through the curtains behind me, and for a split second, it passed through the bottle, dancing across the curves and edges of the shattered glass ritual circle surrounding it. I’m certain that, for a moment, it was a stunning lightshow; but I saw the world in black and white, the rainbow in shades of gray. Clarity is a virtue, and so I should say I don’t mean that in the metaphorical sense- I quite literally have lost my perception of color. I figure a doctor would blame the insomnia, but I haven’t bothered seeing a shrink. I don’t need to be told what’s wrong with me, and I don’t need to end up in some quack psychiatrists’ revolutionary book; a bottle of alcohol is cheaper than a therapist, anyway.

That lightning was indicative of a greater storm. I wasn’t a Las Vegas resident, but from what I could tell, when it rained, it rained, and when it rained, it stormed. True to theory, the rain began to pound heavier against the glass behind me; seeing the state of the rest of the motel, I didn’t hold out hope that the window would survive.

Preparing to stand, I looked down at my hands, leaning forward, elbows on knees. They were shaking, weak, debilitated, yet tense- the only thing they would be good for right now is holding a bottle. I reached forward, wrapping my hands gingerly around the neck of the scotch, slowly sliding down, tenderly, lovingly, curving my hand against the bottle to grasp it between my thumb and index. My grip tightened, and I pulled it back to me, holding it against my heart for a moment. Before I could raise the bottle to my waiting lips, the intimate moment was ruined by a familiar squeaking voice across the room.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Sitting atop the ancient box television was a white catlike creature, sitting like a dog, with webbed flipper-esque feet and a large, squirrel sized tail perked up behind it. Its eyes seemed too large for its face, like a Beanie Baby; baby blue irises matched splotches on its fur, as though it were splashed with paint, spots and lines randomly scattered along its body. The blue was the first color I had seen in a week or two- hallucinations always appeared in high definition color, contrasting against the black and white of reality. 

“What are you, my conscience?”

A pair of big droopy ears perked up, and the creature’s tail whipped behind it.

“No. But if you die, I die. So stop drinking, please.”

I squinted my eyes at the thing, and downed the rest of the scotch.

“Fuck you, Jiminy Cricket.”

Cricket pouted.

“Mean.”

I pointed the opening of the bottle at it, leaning forward.

“I do not care.”

The cat-thing shook its head quickly, and covered its nose with its tail.

“Your breath smells like alcohol and vomit. You know you can’t work like this.”

I stood, stretching, ignoring the pounding in my brain. 

“I always work like this.”

There was a flash of lightning, and the rain picked up against the window. Cricket tilted its head, looking past me.

“Not in weather like this, you don’t.”

Cricket watched me, unblinking, as I hunted for my phone. How I had managed to make such a mess in so short a stay was beyond even my investigative abilities; I had been here only a few days, but the ground was littered with bottles, dirty clothes, cigarettes, you name it. Sifting through it all was a monumental task, especially for my battered bag of bones.

“I really should’ve slept on that bed,” I complained, walking to the couch, pressing my hand against my lower back. I began checking between the cushions.

“You were very averse to the idea, actually. I think your exact words were: ‘I am the Deacon of Drink, and I do not sleep, but black out!’ only to then crawl beneath the table like an inchworm.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Oh, believe me, it absolutely does.”

Pulling a cushion, I tossed it behind me- I heard a shriek, and turned to see Cricket jumping off the TV, narrowly dodging the thrown projectile. I would have smiled, if I was capable. Cricket hissed at me, baring a few rows of razor-sharp teeth; if it wasn’t so cute, it might have scared me. The creature jumped onto the table, looking up at me, speaking angrily. 

“You know, as an illusory manifestation of the deepest parts of your subconscious, you can’t hurt me.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, turning to lift the other cushion, “it sure does feel good to try.”

Finally, I struck gold. Pulling the cushion off the couch, I grabbed my phone, my right hand still occupied by the empty bottle. I had learned a long time ago to use my left hand for anything less important than alcohol; which is to say, everything. I quickly checked the charge and the time- it was afternoon, around 6. 

“You’re really gonna drive, drunk, through that storm?”

I slipped my phone into my pocket, and began to walk to the door.

“Duty calls.”

“It’s Uber-”

Reaching the door, I turned, pointing the empty bottle aggressively at the cat-thing.

“Shut it. I have the talking bottle.”

Cricket sighed, accepting defeat, and vanished. I rose my hand, pushing the pressure point between my eyes, hoping to alleviate this hangover before the next one; I knew I wouldn’t be able to, but it was all part of the hungover morning routine- the daily routine, at this point. 

Looking down at myself, I patted my pockets. I wore an old gray surplus paratrooper coat; beneath, a wrinkled and faded collared shirt, black tie, black pants, boots. Probably clean enough; I’d hit a point where the smell of alcohol wouldn’t ever come out, anyway, and money spent at the laundromat is money that should’ve been spent on scotch. 

Ah, there we go.

I felt the outline of my keys in a coat pocket. Pulling them out, I went to plug them into the doorknob- only to notice the scratches surrounding the keyhole. In a rare moment of self-realization, a wave of guilt and disgust washed over me, and I felt like I was going to cry; the rain began to slam against the window, the roof, the inside of my skull, and I forced the key into the hole, refusing to miss, and slammed the door behind me. 

* * *

The storm had discouraged most against driving, tonight, even as it lightened up. It had been an hour since the last flash of lightning, and the rain wasn’t quite as angry- just disappointed, falling in heavy, but less frequent, droplets. The sound of water splashing against the car roof was soothing, a relentless shelling of deep reverberating thuds against steel; a weaker insomniac might have drifted to the meteorological lullaby, but I was a practiced professional- not even smooth jazz and warm milk could tempt me asleep. Over the aquatic barrage, I heard a ping, and in response I turned my car into the closest alley; I might drive under the influence, but only a monster would check their phone on the road.

Putting the car in park, I grabbed my phone from the cupholder. Most Uber drivers set up a little phone stand, so they can accept rides as they drive- but I refused to be an Uber driver, rather simply a man who drove for Uber, sometimes. This was further emphasized in my choice of vehicle: a Ford Victoria Crown, an absolute, unapologetic gas guzzler. It was also quite familiar- there are a lot of things I’d rather forget concerning my time in the force, but the cars were never one of them.

The Vegas streets surrounding the Strip weren’t as busy as one might expect- turns out, terrible weather could keep even the melodramatic chronic dice rollers away. Not like it’s a physical addiction; I’d like to see a gambling “addict” deal with an alcohol problem. 

There it is. The casino my client was waiting at- The Mirage. A big old Y shaped structure, lit by spotlights; impressive on its own, maybe, but hardly the most eye-catching building on the Strip. 

I drove through the valet lane, seeing my client at the casino entrance; when in doubt, its always the lone man, so drunk he can hardly stand. I stopped in front of him, rolling down my window.

“Pete?”

“Ohhh, hey!”

The drive was interesting, to say the least. He was a talker, much to my immediate chagrin- talkers always ask personal questions, and I only ever had heartbreaking answers. Luckily, this man was something of a narcissist; he spoke incessantly about himself, his prospects, his dreams. He even spoke about things a stranger had no right to know- drug problems, gambling problems, girlfriend problems. Maybe he thought Uber drivers followed doctor-patient protections, or maybe he was just desperate to speak to someone, anyone; while I prefer consulting a bottle of booze or the odd imaginary cat creature, I did understand the feeling. We were close to his destination when he said something that really caught my attention.

“See, one day, I’m gonna own all of this- I just gotta win it big, you know? There’s only so much bad luck a man can have before it all turns around, right?”

Ah, so naive.

Before I could respond, he continued.

“The way I see it, you can work your entire life to get rich, or wait for some investment to take off- but then, what’s the point? What are you supposed to do with all that money? Buy a lifetime supply of prune juice and golf clubs?”

He cut his own laugh short.

“Nah, nah. You either get it lucky in the casino, or you get into crime- that’s the way to get rich. Now, seeing as I am an honest man, I choose to get robbed instead of robbing others.”

The rain lightened a bit, and I could hear the Crown’s wheels crunching gravel. I didn’t respond to the man- it made no difference to him.

“Listen to this, listen to this. My buddies- well, just some guys I know- they’re gonna be selling some golden lion thing they stole from some casino- it’s covered in diamonds, or something, I don’t know. The important thing is that it’s being sold for ten thousand dollars- can you believe that? Ten thousand? Think of everything you could do with that kinda money.”

Wouldn’t have to Uber for a while, that’s for sure. 

For the first time, I was genuinely interested in what a rider had to say.

“Ten thousand? Who are they selling this to?”

“I don’t know, man. They were pretty drunk, but they still didn’t wanna say much, and believe me, I tried. Some black market types, for sure. I know the deal is supposed to go down in Searchlight, at dusk. Tomorrow. Some real movie shit.”

* * *

“No, no, no. You aren’t seriously considering this.” 

Cricket appeared atop a relatively large stone, up the road to the mountain.

“Nope. I’ve already made up my mind.”

I passed it, and it vanished, appearing directly in the road ahead of me.

“You don’t even know if this is where its going to happen.”

“Then why are you so worried?”

I walked right through it, and it reappeared beside me, jogging.

“There are better ways to make money. Have you tried working at a brewery? Seems right up your alley.”

“Beer isn’t a job, it’s a hobby.”

We were hiking to up where the Searchlight radio tower sat, broadcasting over the small desert town. This was where the deal was going down- if I had time to explain my reasoning, I would, but I don’t. Be content with the poetry of it all- the top of the mountain, the tip of the spear, the climax of the story.

“You are absolutely going to die.”

I laughed, picking up my pace.

“Oh, no! The horror!”

“This isn’t funny.”

I was almost to the top, now. The path was crawling with dog-lizards, dragon-birds, and every other manner of imaginary creature, all begging me to stop- incarnations of my terrified subconscious, the ego struggling to contain the id. Reaching into my coat, I grabbed a flask, and closed my eyes, taking a long drink. This was the point of no return- when my eyes opened, the hallucinations had ceased. I gripped the revolver in my pocket.

* * *

I waited atop the small radio building. The sun was setting, the fading light just visible through the rainclouds- it was showering.

True as predicted, the men showed- 4 arrived first, in a black sedan, wearing suits. They drove their vehicle to the far side of the small dirt parking lot.

They didn’t have to wait long for their seller. Two men, arriving in what I believed to be a gray coupe joined them, parking at the top of the road- they didn’t even bother stopping in the parking lot.

The deal went down as they all do- cash was shown, then the object of interest. When the money was unveiled, I snuck out of the back of the building, weapon drawn. As all eyes were on the lion, I walked to meet them, at the center of the lot- I held my hand over the hammer of the revolver. I had made it naught further than three meters from them when they took notice of me- at once, they drew their weapons, with exception to the man holding the lion.

One, for a cruel God.

There was a bang, and the first man’s head turned to a fine mist.

Two, for a wasted opportunity.

Faster than sound, the second man joined the first.

Three, for false promises.

The third was almost able to fire; his eyes were slanted in determination as the bullet entered his skull.

Four, for the loss of innocence.

The fourth struggled with his weapon, trying desperately to flick off the safety with his thumb- not fast enough, a bullet exploding his right eyeball.

Five, for a broken heart.

The fifth was still paralyzed from the death of the first. His brain was easy to hit.

Six, for the hell of it.

The final man dropped the lion- it didn’t matter to me, and my final shot removed his jaw.