sterile miles Boyd enlivened with rocking stereo wattage, the soulful wail of his voice, and steering wheel drum solos.
Los Angeles lay before him, spread open wide, as inviting and ripe as a mango. With a new name and new fortune, swimming pools and movie stars, a man could shed his past here and find his true destiny, in this twisted Shangri-La.
And then he got there, and in less than a day that glorious Midas touch had to go all hinky on him.
Truly, this was a malign universe.
*
His first stop was Pasadena and his brother Derek, who no one ever believed could be his brother. Stand them side-by-side and skeptics shook their heads. Brothers three, the Dobbins boys, and each had stepped away from the genetic roulette wheel with the lion’s share of something.
Youngest brother Malcolm had gotten the voice, was working FM radio in Boston. Boyd, in the middle, saw no reason for false modesty, knowing that he’d come away with the looks. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with long lashes and an easy crooked grin that made him appear more shy than he’d ever truly been, he was an irresistible choirboy that women wanted to take home and corrupt.
Good looks, velvet voice … he and Malcolm had been far, far luckier than elder brother Derek.
Derek had gotten the bones.
Maybe their mom had overdosed on calcium supplements during that first pregnancy. Derek’s arms and legs had grown and grown — long, massive, clublike. His spine was a birch trunk, his rib cage the size of a whiskey barrel. His skull looked as big and hard as an iron kettle, seeming to stretch the skin painfully tight. For the past eight years he’d owned a discount stereo outlet on East Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, Boyd wondering if his success was less a factor of price than sheer physical presence. Some poor music lover walks in to browse, sees Derek ambling over like a shaved lowland gorilla, and fears that if he tries to walk out without buying anything, his arms will be torn from their sockets.
So Derek was tall. So Derek’s shadow could cause bladders to spontaneously void. Boyd looked over the whole package deal, what could have befallen him in the facial department, and felt none too bad about standing a mere five foot seven. One consolation — he fit into his Daytona more comfortably than Derek.
“What happened to your car?” Derek pointed at the spiderweb of cracks down the windshield.
“Suitcase blew off somebody’s luggage rack on the highway. I guess they didn’t have it tied down tight enough. I see that thing coming, bam.” He shook his head. “I was so cool under fire. Didn’t even swerve half a lane’s width. I should be a stuntman out here.”
“Uh-huh,” said Derek. Just sitting there with that gigantic head of his, staring through the damage. “Boyd? Do I look like I’m suffering from a bullshit deficiency?”
Boyd rolled his eyes. Just no slipping one past big brother. Derek had watched him grow up from a five-year age advantage, and learned all Boyd’s tricks when they were boys lucky enough to have parents who’d believe black was white, if the point was argued persuasively enough.
“Allison,” he confessed. “Allison and a big-ass flowerpot. So listen, while we’re at it? Don’t go punching my right shoulder, whatever you do.”
Derek laughed, the taunting and delighted laugh that only an older brother could deliver. “Allison, still?”
“And a big-ass cactus.”
Derek laughed again, relishing his miseries. “And she sounded so even-tempered and sweet, the way you described her. Me, I’d’ve guessed it’d been that real ballbreaker you told me about. Your pit boss from the casino, what was her name again?”
“Madeline. Madeline DeCarlo.” A shudder. Los Angeles in early September, sidewalks that could fry eggs, but with one mention of Madeline the temperature plunged forty degrees. “I deserve combat pay. And medals. And an Academy Award. God have mercy, that woman could make Rambo
Los Angeles lay before him, spread open wide, as inviting and ripe as a mango. With a new name and new fortune, swimming pools and movie stars, a man could shed his past here and find his true destiny, in this twisted Shangri-La.
And then he got there, and in less than a day that glorious Midas touch had to go all hinky on him.
Truly, this was a malign universe.
*
His first stop was Pasadena and his brother Derek, who no one ever believed could be his brother. Stand them side-by-side and skeptics shook their heads. Brothers three, the Dobbins boys, and each had stepped away from the genetic roulette wheel with the lion’s share of something.
Youngest brother Malcolm had gotten the voice, was working FM radio in Boston. Boyd, in the middle, saw no reason for false modesty, knowing that he’d come away with the looks. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with long lashes and an easy crooked grin that made him appear more shy than he’d ever truly been, he was an irresistible choirboy that women wanted to take home and corrupt.
Good looks, velvet voice … he and Malcolm had been far, far luckier than elder brother Derek.
Derek had gotten the bones.
Maybe their mom had overdosed on calcium supplements during that first pregnancy. Derek’s arms and legs had grown and grown — long, massive, clublike. His spine was a birch trunk, his rib cage the size of a whiskey barrel. His skull looked as big and hard as an iron kettle, seeming to stretch the skin painfully tight. For the past eight years he’d owned a discount stereo outlet on East Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, Boyd wondering if his success was less a factor of price than sheer physical presence. Some poor music lover walks in to browse, sees Derek ambling over like a shaved lowland gorilla, and fears that if he tries to walk out without buying anything, his arms will be torn from their sockets.
So Derek was tall. So Derek’s shadow could cause bladders to spontaneously void. Boyd looked over the whole package deal, what could have befallen him in the facial department, and felt none too bad about standing a mere five foot seven. One consolation — he fit into his Daytona more comfortably than Derek.
“What happened to your car?” Derek pointed at the spiderweb of cracks down the windshield.
“Suitcase blew off somebody’s luggage rack on the highway. I guess they didn’t have it tied down tight enough. I see that thing coming, bam.” He shook his head. “I was so cool under fire. Didn’t even swerve half a lane’s width. I should be a stuntman out here.”
“Uh-huh,” said Derek. Just sitting there with that gigantic head of his, staring through the damage. “Boyd? Do I look like I’m suffering from a bullshit deficiency?”
Boyd rolled his eyes. Just no slipping one past big brother. Derek had watched him grow up from a five-year age advantage, and learned all Boyd’s tricks when they were boys lucky enough to have parents who’d believe black was white, if the point was argued persuasively enough.
“Allison,” he confessed. “Allison and a big-ass flowerpot. So listen, while we’re at it? Don’t go punching my right shoulder, whatever you do.”
Derek laughed, the taunting and delighted laugh that only an older brother could deliver. “Allison, still?”
“And a big-ass cactus.”
Derek laughed again, relishing his miseries. “And she sounded so even-tempered and sweet, the way you described her. Me, I’d’ve guessed it’d been that real ballbreaker you told me about. Your pit boss from the casino, what was her name again?”
“Madeline. Madeline DeCarlo.” A shudder. Los Angeles in early September, sidewalks that could fry eggs, but with one mention of Madeline the temperature plunged forty degrees. “I deserve combat pay. And medals. And an Academy Award. God have mercy, that woman could make Rambo
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