FICTION - HIDE A THOUSAND SINS

Manny's in the underbrush. Sitting on the edge of a canyon turnout in Malibu over an hour. Arthritis stiff in his joints, telling him he's too old for this sort of game.

Sunrise peeks over the Santa Monica Mountains, Santa Ana winds blowing hard and hot. Six A.M. and it's already seventy. Another hour it'll be crawling toward eighty. Manny's from Albany. Took him years to get used to this kind of heat in October.

It takes another fifteen minutes for his meet-up to arrive. Franklin Peterson. Teaches art history at UCLA. Nice guy. Everybody says so. Too bad.

Franklin pulls up in his Subaru, kicks up dust and gravel in a cloud that lasts barely a second before the winds whisk it away like it's something personal. Manny sees the unease in Franklin's face. Not sure what to make of the note he left on his car last night, maybe. Or the picture.

He won't have a gun. Nice guys rarely own them. Not a big deal if he does. Manny's got his own, a snub-nosed .38. A shot out here, no one to hear but the coyotes.

Franklin waits a beat, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, gets out. The door creaks from some long ago accident left unrepaired.

“You're the guy,” Franklin says.

Manny nods. “You got the money?”

“You got the pictures?”

Manny shows him the manila envelope. A lot like hunting deer, Manny realizes. The speed that Franklin comes toward him, he might as well be holding a salt lick.

“Whoa there,” Manny says. “Cash.”

Franklin hesitates. Pulls a thick envelope out of his jacket.

“Ten thousand,” he says.

“Toss it on the ground. I'll toss you the envelope.”

“Throw me the idol, I throw you the whip?” Franklin shakes his head. “No. On three.”

“Jesus,” Manny says. “Just give me the goddamn money.” Kid's got no respect for age.

Franklin glares at him. “On. Three,” he says.

“Whatever.” Franklin counts down. They toss their envelopes at each other's feet.

Franklin tears his open, photos, negatives falling like rain. He stares at the pile.

Manny pockets his envelope, doesn't bother to open it. “Worth ten K?”

“You unbelievable bastard,” Franklin says, stoops to pick up the scattered pictures before the wind does it for him.

“She's tasty, isn't she?” Manny says. “Looks like you two were having a good time.”

“If you've shown these to her husband,” Franklin starts.

“Ten thousand buys a lot of quiet,” Manny says.

“He hired you didn't he?”

Manny shrugs. “I take opportunity where I see it.” He digs a Zippo out of his pocket, tosses it to Franklin. “Do yourself a favor. Burn 'em.”

Eventually Franklin gets the lighter going in the high wind, touches it to a corner of the envelope. “Awful helpful for a blackmailer.”

“I'm a helpful guy,” Manny says.

“Yeah?” Franklin says, drops the burning envelope, wind whipping the flames. “Then help me. Her husband beats her. Cracked her jaw. Put her in the hospital twice. Fucker's old enough to be her father. Give me a hand with him and there's another ten for you.”

Manny says nothing for a long time. Lets the wind fill in his side of the conversation.

“Rough weather today,” Manny says finally. “Santa Anas sure kick up a hell of a fuss, don't they? Fire starts fast. Takes out acres, jumps over freeways.” He looks at the burning envelope. “Weather like this, brush fire'll hide a thousand sins.”

“Did you hear a goddamn word I said?”

“I did,” Manny says, drawing his gun. “Did you?”

---

The evening news. Talking heads going on about Palestine, Africa, some place in France. Not what he's looking for.

The front door opens. Quiet, like a mouse padding its way past the cat.

“You're home early,” Manny says.

“Fra-- The teacher wasn't there tonight,” his wife says behind him.

“Really?” he says. “That's too bad.”

“I'm going to bed,” she says.

“Brush fire in Malibu,” he says, as the story comes on the screen. “Big one.”

“I'm going to bed,” she repeats.

“You do that, honey,” he says. He cracks his knuckles. No respect for age.

Later, he'll teach her some.