Angry Buddhist (9781609458867) by Seth Greenland Page A

They’d steal appliances mostly and sell to a fence in Hemet who ran his operation out of a secondhand furniture store. Gorman would go into the house with his cell phone on vibrate and Dale, seated behind the wheel of his hand-controlled van, would keep him abreast of what was occurring on the street. They’d done nearly twenty jobs together and other than an unexpected run-in with a pit bull that Gorman nearly blinded with pepper spray, they had never had any surprises. On the night they were pinched a freak winter storm had knocked out a cell phone tower and the two of them weren’t able to communicate when Gorman went into the house that belonged to a couple from Los Feliz, a high-class neighborhood on the east side of the Los Angeles. A Sheriff’s Deputy in a patrol car had noticed Dale parked outside this particular house and had pulled alongside the van. The uniform was engaged in a conversation with him when Gorman emerged carrying a thirty-two inch flat screen television. Gorman quickly ascertained the situation, dropped the television and ran off into the desert. The officer persuaded Dale to stay put by pointing a gun in his face. When he told Dale to get out of the car, the man was nonplussed to learn he was dealing with a paraplegic. Gorman got picked up the next day and the two of them went down. It was a front-page story in the local paper because Dale’s brother was serving his second term in Congress. Randall had cursed whoever it was who said there was no such thing as bad publicity. Dale Duke was certified bad publicity, having been in and out of jail most of the last two decades, drug possession, check kiting, now breaking and entering. Gorman: still in prison, his brother a pipefitter not a Congressman. Dale: ready to rock with ten thousand dollars cash parked in a safe deposit box in Borrego Springs.
    Being the bad boy is something Dale embraces more from a paucity of choices than an inner conviction. With only a high school education and no marketable skills breaks have never come winging through his window. It would be a pleasure unbound to show Randall that he is possessed of innate worth. But where is the opportunity? Selling recreational vehicles does not satisfy his craving for larger meaning on a bigger stage.
    Stripped to his boxers and tee shirt, Dale lies face down on the floor doing one-armed pushups, withered legs behind him, crudely tattooed arm thrusting up and down. In prison he lifted weights and played wheelchair basketball with the five other inmates in chairs. The scarring in his brain that causes the seizures also resulted in a weakened left arm that is immune to weightlifting. On his upper right side, Dale looks a gymnast. But his left arm and legs, they look like a bad science experiment.
    On his twenty-fifth pushup the door opens and he hears a familiar voice: “You’re not gonna get up and lay me out, are you?”
    â€œJimmy Ray motherfuckin Duke,” Dale says. “You want to arm wrestle?”
    Jimmy drops the bag of takeout food he’s holding on the table and says sure.
    They line up opposite each other on the floor and grab hands. Jimmy counts off and they begin. Both are powerful men and neither has an advantage at first, but the superior leverage Jimmy has as a result of all of his limbs working, combines with Dale’s push-up induced fatigue and allows him to finally get the back of Dale’s hand to touch the floor.
    â€œYou get stronger in prison?”
    â€œI want a rematch and next time I won’t do any pushups before.”
    â€œYou’re not getting a rematch, Slick. You might win.”
    â€œForget
might
, dude.”
    Jimmy flops on the couch and looks around. He tries not to look as Dale crawls along the floor and hoists himself on to a chair like a seal. Feeling sorry for Dale is not in Jimmy’s repertoire. And how do you feel sorry for someone as badass as Dale anyway? He’d just laugh at you.