Hardcore

Years ago, a man named Lenny Murdock could taste the sweet falling rain in the jungles of Panama. His muscles burned, his bones ached, but for that one moment, standing there in a mess of tangled vines with sheets of water washing over him, Lenny was a champion, and all he could feel was raw, unbridled power.

There was a time, when Lenny was young, that he would run ten miles every morning. Every soldier he passed would salute him. Everyone knew his name.

Today, Lenny Murdock is sitting in the new Ikea retail outlet. This is in Appleton. That's Appleton, Minnesota. Around him are a million other consumers. They are talking on cell phones, scribbling notes on Ikea order forms with Ikea pencils. The smell of a cafeteria wafts over him. Somewhere, a little kid is crying.

The way this place is laid out, it's one big long path twisting through the entire store like a complicated rat maze. All along the walls are decorated cross sections of living rooms, kitchens, libraries. Each is furnished and meticulously decorated, with computers and books already in place. Walking through these rooms, it feels like you're on the set of a sitcom. Up close, it's all fake. The computers are just empty plastic shells. The text in all the books is Swedish.

For the last few days, this is where Lenny has been spending his free time. He shows up and roams around for twenty minutes until he finds a room he likes, a room that suits his personality or his mood or whatever. He sits down on one of the designer leather sofas, reasonably priced at $149.99 with mail-in rebate, and he stares. Most times he's there to feel safe and secure, but today is special, because today is his birthday. Lenny is thirty-one, and this year he's giving himself the gift of legacy.

Just down the aisle is a kitchen crammed with cookware and neon posters that say "30% off!" Two employees, teenagers, stand behind the counter in red vests, talking in hushed tones. Both of them keep sneaking glances at Lenny through the crowded doorway. Neither one covers their lips, so Lenny can see every word.

"Dude, this is like the fourth time I've seen him in here. I'm telling you, we should call a cop."

"Look, he's not bothering anybody."

"He's bothering me."

These two kids talking, they look like they're still in high school. They have big innocent eyes and shiny skin and greasy hair and pimples. Teenagers all look the same. Always have, throughout time. Lenny wasn't any different at that age. He was just as weak as they are.

"It's creepy! Okay? It's creepy and weird. Where's the supervisor?"

"Just… He's not bothering anybody! He's not. He's just… He's just sitting there. Honestly, I don't think he has any place else to go."

When Lenny was seventeen, he lied to the government about his age and enlisted.
"What do you care who I tell?"

"I don't. I mean… I don't know. I just feel sorry for him. I think he, like, used to be in the army, or something."

By the time he was nineteen, Lenny Murdock had killed twelve men in the name of his country. He'd been shot two times. He'd fired more than sixty different firearms and operated four different types of tanks. You'd be surprised what he can still remember.

Example:

The MK19 Grenade Launcher, or Mark 19, is mainly used against infantry, either on foot or in armored personal carriers. A weapon of raw explosive power, a Mark 19 is capable of firing over four hundred rounds per minute, although most configurations will have it set up with forty-eight round barrels. It is not commonly used in standard combat due to its size; it will typically be mounted on a vehicle or tripod. New recruits love to use them during training exercises, because in all honesty, it's just fun to blow up a jeep.

The new Ikea retail outlet, it's the biggest thing to hit Appleton in years. The way they had music and flags during the grand opening, you'd have thought it was a parade. You'd have thought it was a national fucking holiday.

If you want to know what this tiny town is like, imagine that in the morning, while driving, the only stores you see are corporate. Comerica. Best Buy. McDonald's. Shell. When it's dark, the landscape is dotted with the tiny glowing logos of a million franchise chains. This is because only huge conglomerates can afford to piss away millions of dollars on setting up shop in the middle of nowhere. Each one is an island in a sea of parking lots and freeways. It's easy to get lost when all your landmarks are Seven Elevens. Make a wrong turn and it's corn fields. Everywhere, corn fields.

At Ikea, one of the high school punks is saying, "Look at that face. It looks like a roadmap."

"How old do you think he is? Forty-five? Fifty?"

Thirty-one.

Every day, he looks for a job. He reads the classifieds. He parks in front of strip malls to walk in and out of each store, one right after another, with his happy game face on. Subway. Border's. Target. Lowe's.

Lenny does this every day. He's done it for two weeks straight, and he hasn't had a single call back.

It's hard finding work that plays to your strengths. Sure, you can assemble/disassemble an M4 Carbine in less than sixty seconds. Sure, you know how to kill a man three times before he really dies. That doesn't mean you know how to make a good sandwich.

Two weeks ago, Lenny was fired.

An M4 Carbine is more or less an updated version of the M16. It has the advantages of a rifle (high accuracy at long distances), but has been modified to be lightweight and versatile for close quarters combat. Due to the use of a Picatinny rail system, this gun can be fitted with many personal attachments from night vision, laser sights, a shotgun, or even the M203 Grenade Launcher. This weapon would not be practical for ranges more than six hundred meters or against armored vehicles. Its only real disadvantage is that because of its lower 5.56 caliber, it doesn't have the stopping power of larger weapons like the AK47, and the enemy's body armor often protects against its rounds.

Two weeks ago, Lenny worked at a grocery store, but his boss was a real dick. It was nobody's fault, really. Lenny's memory just isn't what it used to be. The old stuff, sure, the stuff from way before, that he can recollect no problem. It's the new stuff he has trouble with. Give his mind too many tasks to follow and it locks. Speak slowly. Repeat yourself.

But Lenny's boss didn't understand concepts like patience or tolerance.

Example:

This was a man who would complain and whine every day about how tough he had it, always worried and griping about some such bullshit. And every day, after closing time, this man, this piece of crap who threw tantrums and stomped his feet, this man would go home to a house with a wife and three beautiful daughters. And probably they would have dinner together at a table or something, and talk about their day. And then probably, at night, Lenny's boss and Lenny's boss' wife would fuck in a big warm bed with sheets and blankets and pillows all over the God damn place.

Getting fired wasn't a problem. Lenny hated that job. He hated everything about it. And it's done with. He is free.

The problem was really about gaining perspective. At the time, it didn't feel so liberating. It felt a lot more like a crisis.

Last Thursday, Lenny was sitting at home in his studio apartment that has leaky pipes and no heat, and he realized he'd lost his income. He couldn't pay the water bill. He couldn't afford food.

There's nothing like walking into a Little Caesar's and asking to fill out an application. No sir. No feeling quite like that.

The closest thing Lenny's had to an interview was the diner on the corner. It was a routine walk-in. The manager happened to be there, so he took Lenny to the back room where they could have a nice little chat. The manager was very friendly. He was a big, round man who read comic books in the kitchen. He could tell Lenny was nervous, so he made a lot of funny jokes to break the tension.

The manager said, "Have you ever worked in the restaurant business?"

"No."

"Well, that's all right. We can teach you all that. I saw on your application here… You served in the military?"

"Yes, sir. The United States Army."

"My son just joined the airforce. He's only eighteen."

"I see."

"Yeah. Just snuck off and joined, didn't tell anybody. He ships out in a month. Says he wants to make something of his life. Says he wants to be remembered. The wife is worried sick…" The manager chuckled. "I'm sorry, I just… I'm reading the military record you have here, and it is… wow. It's impressive. This is true? You really did all this?"

Lenny nodded.

"But you're practically a war hero. You're… I mean, you're Captain America, man. Why on earth do you need this crap job?"

So then, Lenny had to tell the manager the story, the one that starts out with explaining how years ago, he got married. She had been a beautiful redhead from Okalahoma, and he had loved her with all his heart, even if she wasn't always the nicest person. She got pregnant, so they had their wedding in June, outdoors.

Two days into the honeymoon, Lenny got a phone call at the hotel saying he was being deployed. He had to be on a bus in nine hours, and he wouldn't see his new wife for three whole months. Lenny wanted to stay, but his new bride wouldn't hear of it. She told him his country was waiting. At the bus station, they kissed. He promised her he would write.

Now sure, they'd had their ups and downs, but every night, Lenny Murdock thought of the woman waiting for him back home. Once a week, he called or wrote a letter, and once a week, she wrote him one back, along with a care package. This package was a pipeline to the outside world. Most times it was the latest Sports Illustrated. Or a video tape full of TV shows he'd missed. Her hobby was cooking, so she used to bake muffins or cupcakes and tie them up in a bow, because that's supposed to be cute.

Three weeks of this.

Lenny was stationed at an army base in New Mexico when he got the last box. Inside was a tape and a bag of chocolate chip cookies. The tape was labeled "Star Trek."

There was no letter.

Right now, sitting at the new Ikea retail outlet, Lenny Murdock has a purpose. His hands are resting in his pockets. They hide something cold and loaded.

That night at the base, everyone had the night off. Lenny and a few of his buddies hooked up a spare VCR to the TV in the mess hall. One dude brought popcorn. Another dude had poker chips, even though you weren't supposed to. In this huge room lined with lunch counters and empty benches, five guys sat facing one glowing corner in folding chairs. Someone else waved and sauntered over, six guys. Two more popped by to say hello, eight guys. Even a senior officer showed up, all smiles. This was going to be great.

And for an hour, it was. While the actors on the screen recited lines and told their jokes, Lenny ate and drank and played cards with his friends. In ten minutes he'd eaten half the cookie bag. There was chocolate smudged on his lips.

A few more buddies. The more the merrier. Ten guys. Eleven guys.

On TV, the tape continued to play.

It was five minutes into the last episode that the image flickered and suddenly cut to a porno.

Of course, there was a roar of jubilation. Everyone jumped out of their seats, clapping hands, cheering.

The tape showed a hairy guy giving it to a woman on a bed. His hands were everywhere; bending her, twisting her, tossing her around. Judging from the moans, she didn't seem to mind.

The sound of skin slapping skin echoed through the mess hall, faster and faster. One of the soldiers started hooting, and turned the volume up all the way, because he didn't want to overlook the originality of the dialogue.

Example:

"You love this, don't you. Yeah, you love this. Say it."

"I love it… Oh, God… I love it so much…"

In the hall, people were getting curious about the noise. They trickled in two at a time. Thirteen guys. Fifteen guys.

Everyone else in this room thought of this tape as a gift. Some of these men were in their fifth month away from home. They needed an outlet. They needed an image for later.

To everyone else, this tape was a blessing.

To Lenny, this was a video of some hairy guy fucking his wife.

"Almost there, baby. Almost. Are you ready for it?"

One of the things they don't tell you when you sign up for the military is how easy it is to lose everything you own.

"Oh…I'm ready… Do it… do it now…"

Sixteen guys. Twenty.

Whenever you're deployed, you are taken through the process of accepting death in a legal way. You have to fill out tons of paperwork cataloguing all your personal effects, some of which include your will and power of attorney.

"You're my little whore. Say it."

"…I'm a whore…"

If you don't know what power of attorney is, it basically gives another person the right to make decisions on your behalf. Anything they do with your money is legal in the eyes of the government.

That day in the mess hall, amidst all the laughter and all the high fives, Lenny watched in silence as the man on the tape started grunting. He rolled onto his side, pulling out, while the woman leaned back to grab something off-camera.

"This is it. This is it. This is it."

And then things got weird, because when the woman came back into frame, she was on her knees holding up a big blue bowl. Twenty-four guys yelled and howled as Lenny just stood there, frozen.

"Yeah. Oh, yeah. Yes."

The main advantage of an AK47 is its higher caliber, which allows for possible penetration of cover at close ranges.

The woman on the tape started laughing.

This rifle can also be set to fully automatic. The average Joe won't know the difference, but that means the weapon will fire until it either runs out of ammo, or the trigger is released. It really isn't good for much besides suppression.

Lenny had to look away for a moment, just for a moment. He was dizzy. When he looked back, the hairy guy was collapsed on the bed, on Lenny's bed, beaming. The woman was stirring something into the bowl. She kissed the man on the mouth, then stood up and walked, naked, toward the camera until her sweaty face filled the screen, and she said to the whole platoon:

"Hello, Lenny. I just wanted you to know that you aren't welcome back home. The baby isn't yours. I've sold all your things, and the money in the accounts is finally mine."

One by one, the voices of Lenny's buddies trailed off and died.

"Don't come looking for me. I don't love you. I never loved you. You're disgusting. You make me sick."

The whole room was silent. Everyone was staring.

"Hope you liked the recipe, fucker."

Lenny's wife picked up the camera, and the world whizzed by at crazy angles.

And then, on the tape, there was one last shot of the blue bowl as Mrs. Lenny Murdock sprinkled in the chocolate chips.

Then, static.

This is the story Lenny told the manager at the diner, who stood up, shook his hand, said he'd call, but never did.

Sitting in the new Ikea retail outlet, with the one invisible wall, Lenny watches as strangers creep in from one corner and disappear around another, eyes scanning the whole way. He watches them put their grubby hands on the tables and chairs. Not a care in the world, they open his cabinets and finger every little knick knack inside, looking at the price tag and putting it back, wrong. These people, they don't even bother to take off their shoes before traipsing all over his rug. They are rude and thoughtless and sloppy, and none of them will ever be remembered.

Lenny thinks about the way the manager shook his head in pity and disgust. He remembers the high pitched voice of his old boss, the sound of his wife's shrill giggle, and all the lies his country fed him.

As his hand tightens around the heavy thing in his jacket pocket, Lenny can feel the same sweet, hot hatred he felt in the mess hall. In the grocery store. In Panama.

Soon, Lenny will be dead. He doesn't plan on giving the cops any other choice. In the morning, coast to coast, people will open their morning paper and read what's about to happen. This senseless, unprovoked massacre. The poor, innocent people. The networks will start running specials. They'll do investigative reports and psychological profiles. Every website will run his photo on its homepage. They'll have T-shirts. A week-long segment on Oprah.

People will call this a tragedy. A psychotic stress reaction. Some veteran that couldn’t make a life in the real world. The experts will come up with theories. Everyone will say he just snapped.

And that's okay.

It's not important why he's famous. Only that he is.

When you're famous, the world can't forget you.

Today, Lenny Murdock is thirty-one years old.

Tomorrow, he'll be immortal.

Provider

There’s a heavy thump as the bumper hits something hard, and my knuckles go white on the wheel. I slam the brakes out of reflex, which everyone says not to do, so we skid for five seconds before I realize I’ve lost total control of the car. The shrill tire screech echoes into silent night, and it’s the most horrible sound in the world.

Then we jolt back in our seats and it’s over. The air is calm. The little hula girl on the dashboard is still dancing.

For a long time, nobody says anything, but eventually Stevie can't help himself.


“Dude, what did you do?”

My hands still clenched tight, I feel myself turn to look at him. Stevie, who still has one lit cigarette in his pale, shaky hand.

I tell him I didn’t do anything.

Stevie unbuckles, sits up. He rolls down his window. It’s the manual kind, so he makes a big show out of how much labor is involved. Leaning out, he says “I think you fucked up the car, dude. There’s smoke.”

In the backseat, Eli says, "We hit something."

Eli's been to prison and he talks with a French accent. I met him three hours ago. His real name isn't Eli. I don't think.

“Did you see that shit?” says Stevie, and it’s making me sick how excited he is. I remind myself how young he is. “We spun like three times! That’s not even possible! Seriously, that is not even physically possible.”

I tell them I think it was just a pothole. They have them all over these dirt roads.

“We hit something,” says Eli.

“Yeah dude, we hit something. All James Bond and shit.”

I ask if either of them saw what it was.

“No, man, but come on! Didn’t you feel that? It was like, BOOM. Just like that, BOOM. That’s not how a pothole sounds, dude.”

I start swearing and I open the car door.

Eli leans forward. “What are you doing?”

I’m going to check.

He stares at me in the rear view mirror. His eyes are sharper than they’ve been all night. For a second I think he wants me say something else, but then he just sits back and goes, “Suit yourself.”

Outside, it’s three in the morning. There aren’t any lights in these forest areas, just miles of freeway and dirt and no street signs. All around us is the looming blackness of trees and the creepy chirping hum of all that gay-ass wildlife. If you look up, there are so many stars it makes you sick.

I step around into the beams of the car, shielding my eyes. Stevie was right. There’s smoke. And we hit something. The front end is smashed in. Whatever, we were going to ditch the thing anyway.

“Felt like a deer,” says Stevie, still hanging out the window.

There aren’t any deer in this area.

“A dog maybe.”

Eli gets out of the car, dusting himself off. He nods at the darkness behind us. “Back there.”
I start walking, but Eli stops me. "I'll go. Turn the car around. We need some light." Then he disappears into the darkness before anyone can argue.

I sigh and get back in the car. That macho crap doesn't get to me the way it used to. In the passenger seat, Stevie is laughing. "I'll bet you hit somebody," he says. "I bet you hit some guy. Some old gypsy man, and now his family's gonna curse you. Oh, that would be the SHIT."

I turn the ignition.

Stevie pitches his cigarette. "Where's Eli?"

Eli needs some light.

"Fucking guy gives me the creeps, man."

The car rolls back, then forward.

"Whole way to the hotel, all he did was talk about the government. Oh, and war, he's all big on that, too. Spartans or Persians or some such nonsense. Christ. Motherfucker better not try to skip out on gas money, I swear to God."

We turn, the headlights sweeping over tree trunks and mist.

"God damn fucking French people. I'd have no problem—"

The car stops moving, Stevie stops talking. Together, we stare.

Up ahead, Eli is standing calmly in the middle of the road, basked in light, squinting. He's cradling something in his arms, and it's wearing a red dress.

After that all hell breaks loose. Stevie is shouting. I'm shouting back. We're outside the car. Eli doesn't pay either one us the attention we deserve. He just lays the little girl down flat on her back and looks at her.

She isn't more than fifteen.

The girl, she's wearing a formal evening gown, the kind you buy off the rack at a mall with your mom, the kind my little sister's wearing in her prom photo. My sister's dress was white. This one is red. It's torn and dirty now, but it's soft enough to feel expensive. And it fits her so well. Her figure is slender. Her blond hair is loose and wild, and her green eyes, looking up at us from the ground, they won't close, not ever, not ever again.

The girl is dead, but you'd never know it, not just by a glance. Her limbs are there, all accounted for. And there isn't really much blood. No, you'd have to peer pretty close at the blank stare of hers to know anything was wrong. You'd have to pick her up to feel the way her bones sag inside her skin, to see the way her head twists and droops at awful angles. More than that, a live person—no matter how quiet or still—a live person just doesn't lay the way a dead one does. This girl is broken. She's over. She's done.

This chick in the dress, she's been dead at my feet for nine minutes before the shock starts wearing off. I start thinking a little more clearly. So does Stevie. So does Eli. His eyes haven't left the body, not once.

Stevie lights another cigarette and turns to me. "You. This is your fault."

And I'm like, MY fault?

"You were driving the car."

They saw what happened. She came out of nowhere. It was too fast. It was an accident.

"It was YOUR accident. You were driving. The police are going to blame you."

There isn't any blood. Where is the blood.

"Dude, it's all over the place! You just can't see it because there's no light. Touch her chest, she's spilling out everywhere. It's disgusting."

I'm not going near that stupid bitch.

Eli kneels down in the shadows, touches her gently, and shows me his fingers. All we need is one car to pass by and see us. Just one.

"What the hell was she doing out here?" asks Stevie. "Middle of nowhere like this. And that dress. Looks fancy. Not what you'd wear on a midnight stroll."

Yes, it's all very mysterious. We're very impressed. Maybe she's a hitchhiker. Maybe she's a ghost. Does anyone have a cell phone?

"Not on me," Stevie says.

Eli shakes his head. "Better kill those lights."

"Nobody's going to answer my question, huh? Just gonna gloss over it? Mother fucker, what was she doing out here in the street?! Fucking dumbass kids think they're invincible. Not a care in the world. Fuckin-A. Slut had it coming. Maybe now she'll learn. You don't just go--"

And then Eli says, "We'll have to cut her up."

Me and Stevie look at him.

"We can't leave her here," says Eli, speaking slow, calm words. "The police will find her too soon. It'll make things harder. Unprofessional."

Stevie cocks his head. "What?"

"There isn't enough room in the trunk. We have our bags in there. Our stuff. She's getting stiffer by the second. If we try to fold her, she'll break." He makes a movement with his hands. "Big mess."

"Are you fucking serious?"

Eli's still looking at the girl. Just watching her. He keeps talking, and as he does, his voice starts getting soft. Distant. "Take off your belts."

"What for?"

Eli says, "Take them off."

"Tell me why and I will. I'm not your girlfriend, asshole."

"Tourniquets."

"What do you—"

"They make for easy cleanup. Less scent for the dogs."

Stevie starts laughing again. "Dude, you are fucked in the head. You hear me? We're done here. This whole thing's been compromised now. There's a trail, man. There's a trail. You can go back to your guy and tell him the deal's off, we don't got shit to say to him or to you. Fuck the money. You tell him—"

And I look Stevie right in the eye, and I tell him to give Eli his belt.

Stevie's like, "What?"

I tell Stevie, like he said, there's a trail.

Stevie's eyes go wide. "You psycho. The both of you. Psychos."

"Belt," says Eli, all quiet.

Stevie hesitates. Then he undoes the clasp and yanks his belt free. Makes a big show. A fucking drama queen, I swear to God. He throws it on the ground and walks away, cursing.

I pick it up and ask Eli what the plan is. Before he answers, he bends down and picks up the girl, softly stroking her face. "Get the knife from my bag. I'll take her into the woods about a mile.
You and that idiot stay here and clean up what you can before someone sees."

He might not be doing it on purpose, but as he talks, holding her, Eli's hands start rubbing. Almost imperceptibly, I can see his fingers squeezing and testing. I don't know why it's making me so uncomfortable. It's not like I give a shit.

"The legs will have to go. The legs and the head."

There are garbage bags in the backseat.

"That's good. That's good. Do you have a saw? A cutting tool?"

No.

"Then the knife will have to do. Might take some time. The blade is very small, very weak. But it will have to do."

He's going to take her into the woods.

"She is so young," whispers Eli.

His eyes haven't left her body. Not once.

And then before I can stop myself, I tell Eli that I'll do it.

He looks at me, surprised. Then his face relaxes. "Are you sure? It will not be pleasant. Not for you."

I'm like, yeah, I'm sure. It should be me, anyway. I was driving the car.

Eli looks down at the girl one last time and breaths deep. It looks like he wants to argue, but he hands her over to me with a nod. She's light as a feather. Just this tiny little thing. She's a kid, really. She's a child.

Eli gives me his knife, which is this black titanium number, military-style. It's got a clean blade on one side and teeth on the other. Teeth, like, for sawing. Eli loops the belts onto my shoulder.
"We'll come find you in an hour with the bags. Be done by then."

The headlights click off, and blackness surrounds me. Holding this little person, I march, snapping twigs on the ground the whole way into the woods, where not even the moonlight will see.

Then I start talking to her. To the girl. I know that's stupid. Makes me sound all, you know, morbid. I can't say why, but I start talking to her. It's panic, probably. My brain coping with the panic. Because once I start, I don't stop. I apologize for what I did. I tell her I'm sorry about Eli, he's new. I tell her about the big paycheck we're all looking forward to. I tell her it isn't like in the movies. In real life, it's a lot more middle-class.

And as I talk, I notice I'm looking at her, right at her face, and I'm not flinching. She's a great listener. I can really open up.

It isn't until I'm right in the thick of it, digging away at her neck with blood and crap all over me, that I notice there's a kid in a suit watching this whole thing. He's been standing there for a good thirty seconds maybe, listening to me grunt and swear. Listening to my confession.

The kid in the suit, he's older. Seventeen. Eighteen, maybe. His clothes look too big for him. Like they're not his. His tie is loose. A little yellow flower is pinned to his lapel. He's holding a beer bottle.

At first I don't see him. It's too dark. I'm absorbed in my work, with half her head in my lap, and then I hear this weak voice say "Amy?"

I look up and there he is, his face trembling, his eyes wide. He looks at the girl. He looks at me. The beer bottle shatters onto a rock, and the sound wakes me up.

I go for my gun, but before it's even in my hand the kid gets wise and takes off. I hear his footsteps crunch off into the shadows, calling for help, that pussy.

I'm on him in a heartbeat. There's a chase. I really hate running after people. Pissesme off.

The chase ends in the flickering light of a campfire, where the kid who saw me is weeping. He starts yelling "Amy's dead, Amy's dead" at the top of his lungs. I look and see two more couples, teenagers, glowing orange in the dim light and acting really confused. Then they see me, and they stand up. One of the girls spills something. Another girl screams.

Five kids. Looking right at me.

So much for passing unnoticed. So much for the quiet clean up. So much for covering our tracks.
The crybaby's wailing, trying to explain. I point my gun right at that little fucker's face and I don't feel a god damn thing.

No more reason to play this quiet.

No reason at all.

_ _ _


I'm sitting on a white beach where a crystal blue ocean pounds the surf again and again. Where the sun hangs high and warm and bright, and I can peer at dark-skinned waiters over my sunglasses and order fancy drinks that make me queasy. At night, there is dancing, and beautiful girls sit next to me, and they laugh at all my jokes.

My wife, Wanda, this is her favorite place. It was her favorite before she'd ever been here. She spent two years learning Spanish. You should see her, talking to all the locals, imitating their customs, fitting right in. She's great.

We have a daughter, Carrie. She's starting sixth grade next year. And we have another one on the way. We don't know the sex, but I bought a baseball mitt. Sue me.

My girls deserve this. The vacation, I mean. They've been so great about everything. I haven't been around as much lately. Long trips out of town. I call them every night on the phone, but it's not the same. Everything comes out hollow and forced.

I'm thinking about what I'm going to have for dinner. I'm sick of steak. I'm sick of seafood.

What else. Something new. Something exotic. I'll tell the chef to surprise me.

Kicking at the waves, Carrie squeals, "Daddy, you're not LOOKING…"

Wanda is sitting by my side, talking on her cell phone. That's just like her. My wife, she talks on the phone all the time. Right now she's talking to her sister.

Wanda tells her sister how in yesterday morning's paper, there was an article about a horrible incident that occurred just eighty miles from where we live. A group of high-school kids were murdered in the woods. They'd been out tailgating after the big school dance, and for real, they each turned up dead. Shot. One of them all butchered up. The TV started running stories about it on the news, mothers and fathers holding picture frames and crying.

The police were looking into all sorts of suspects. They had all kinds of theories. Probably gang-related, they said. Probably some sort of crazy school rivalry. Kids today, getting all hopped up on this or that till they don't even know what's what.

Wanda tells her sister how terrible this world is, how violent and scary things have become. She says she can't believe something like this happened so close to home.

What they don't discuss is the missing lawyer mentioned on 3B of the very same newspaper.

There aren't a lot of details, but the article says that the lawyer was in the middle of prosecuting a case when he just upped and vanished one night. No note. Nothing. Just gone.

They had to declare a mistrial. Certain people went back to jail, and certain other people walked free.

Normally, the designated parties would appeal, or riot, or whatever it is people do when they feel the system doesn't work and that they've all been greatly wronged in some way. Typically, there would be marches and websites and columns and books.

But now, that silly old trial seems boring. All those dull arguments and big words. All that jargon. Now there is something simpler, something fresh to worry about. Something with sparkle. Something with action and mystery. Something they'll make a movie out of.
The last thing anyone cares about is a lawyer.

In the distance, I can see my daughter building a sandcastle. She plays in the water, barefoot, spinning in her little red sun dress.

Wanda is saying how she finds the criminal mind fascinating, and she sips at the big fruity cocktail I paid for.