“I admit it,” she said somberly. “I…admit it.”
“You told them…to oust me.”
She breathed deep. “I told them.”
“In the worst possible way.”
Something twitched in her without movement, a last piece of resistance, but she snuffed it.
“Yes. I told them. To let you go. And to make it final.”
“Why?”
“To spare you.”
“Spare me?”
“Yes, my…my mother, she—she said to…cut ties. She said it was merciful. She—”
“Merciful? They came to my door. They mocked me, laughing their asses off. In front of my dad.”
“I know,” she said. “They—didn’t understand. They were children. We were all children, Benji. And I am so sorry.”
He sneered, soaked in the confession, and for a split second, I thought it had penetrated him, softened him.
I was wrong.
He started laughing himself into a frenzy, jacked the gun up under her chin. “Yeah? Well, here’s where I get merciful. First, I’m gonna redo that record in my name. Every fucking song. Then I’m gonna put it up on Spotify, take Elkaim’s money, and promote the shit out of it. ’Cause I am The Daily Telegraph, the breaking news—now where is it, Zantz?”
He thrust the gun again as I was about to answer, but at that moment a lamp that had been dangling hit the ground with a smash, he turned and in the flash of distraction, I pounced, karated the pistol out of his hand, sending him in one direction, Cinnamon in the other. She scattered and fell back onto the floor as Appelfeld and I rolled on hard cement, punches flying—he grabbed at my hair, bashed me against some kind of car track, but I kick-toppled a table over him, sending him onto his bad leg, and he grabbed at the downtown skyline to balance.
I was down, trying to pull myself up onto the capsized table, then Cinnamon screamed as Appelfeld leapt up, ape-style, and went into a crazy jacked-up one-legged snort dance, looking for the gun, his shoulders bouncing. She was shivering full-on now, clutching onto the edge of the table. I thought she might throw up. I almost got up but slipped. He hollered like a banshee, lunging forward onto a skyline, up on his bloody knee with the tilted City Hall wobbling behind him. With determination he reached and broke the telegraph pole off the Wilshire Grand, its antennae as straight and sharp as coat wire, swishing and thrusting like a sword, thrashing the air as he came at me.
“Your ship has sailed, motherfucker!” He charged down at me, the sharp metal about to plunge into my gut and then—
A thundercrack, earsplitting loud—Appelfeld flew back and arched like origami and crashed onto the corded floor, the antennae flying as he clutched at his back.
Cinnamon seemed to shake from the gun wavering at the end of her skinny arms. She stared at it in horror, dropped it, and came for him, not to finish him off but to save him, and she threw herself over him as if to reach for a former safety long gone, cradling him under the busted Hollywood sign, the folded mountain range razed in green and brown. All at once, Appelfeld started heaving, he was still alive, a hunted animal curled under these ruins, a plastic paradise shattered all around him, his shirt going red, and she looked to me, dazed and shaken.
I hauled myself up on sore knees and said, “Call an ambulance—now.”
She pulled her phone and started calling as I tore off my hoodie, ripped it and tried to tie off his torso. She pleaded to the dispatch operator, and then there was a grim chaotic silence, nothing but AC and the whirring of lights.
I said, “Help is on the way.”
But I couldn’t tell if he heard me—the wounded animal, considering a flight he can’t actually make.
“Don’t move,” I said. “ ’Cause if I let go of this rag…you’re toast.”
He took it in, nodded, his lip curled.
Then, to my great surprise, Cinnamon took his hand, gazed upon him with patient tenderness.
Their eyes met. Something was exchanged, something only old friends can share.
Then, without rancor, she said, “Why’d you do it, Benji?”
He flashed with pain and shame, but he understood her.
“Why’d you hurt Rey-Rey?”
He winced.
“You could’ve gunned down the whole band,” she said with a half-laugh. “But you picked the one guy, our little Rey—why, Benji?”
He didn’t or couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. He panted. I held him in place—his blood was on my hands, and I couldn’t let go. His eyes did a mini-REM, fighting the darkness. Then he exhaled sharply.
He mumbled, “I found him there, naked.”
“Found him?” She was coolheaded, right here in the here and now.
“Your mom’s studio, she was…under him.” He snorted. “And when she saw me, she threw Rey off her and pulled the sheet.”
Cinnamon nodded—one knowing nod—it was enough to keep him going.
“I…I went crazy, Cin. Yelling—how…how they burned me.” He looked up at her, soldier to nurse. “Your mom, I loved her.”
Cinnamon stiffened with barely veiled disbelief.
