“I want the envelope.” She was shaking, the knife barely in her hand.
“No.” I wondered if she knew how badly I was shaking.
“I need that fucking envelope!” She was moving towards the door.
“Why?”
“What the fuck do you care. Give it to me.” The knife in her shaking hand, shifted as she moved and clanked as it fell to the floor. I kicked it to the corner. Desiree thought about going after it, but the terror of the moment was overwhelming her, whatever bravado she had died with Boyer. Now she was simply terrified. “Goddammit, look what you’ve done! I was just going to steal them. Stupid fucking bastard! Why couldn’t you leave me alone? Why can’t you miserable bastards just leave me alone?” The tears, black with mascara, were streaming down her face, mingling with the blood. She stood there shaking and crying.
“I’ll give you a little time to get out of here.” I don’t think she had a plan for what she was going to do next. “You might want to get going before you really shit yourself.”
Her face, wet and ugly, burned with hatred and loathing. She spit at me, but most of it drooled onto her blood-soaked blouse. With that, she was out the door.
I moved closer to Boyer.
So much for that good vibe I was having. I took a seat in one of the chairs against the wall. I was still shaking when I opened the envelope.
3
Hanson Bartholome did not like this one bit, not one bit. As we waited for Durant, the head of security bemoaned being dragged back into the kinds of things he’d left the police force to get away from. It had been a struggle enough for me to get him down here. For a moment, I seriously considered calling 911, but I knew people like Durant did not want surprises right under their nose, right in their house, being broadcast to the outside world without their consent.
Bartholome resisted my entreaties to get his ass down here.
“Down where? Who is this? Why can’t you tell me over the phone?” he demanded.
Phones can be tapped, recorded. I’m an off the record guy.
His reaction to finding me sitting in a chair against one wall and Boyer decaying against the other; carved, bloody, and beginning to stink was quite amusing. Apparently, dealing with the newly dead wasn’t something he regularly did in his policing days. I watched as he lost the color in his face as well as his lunch into the wastebasket.
So much for a pristine crime scene.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” he muttered.
“I’d recommend calling Durant.”
“That’s Mr. Durant, Buttman.” Ah, another suck-up.
“My apologies; Mr. Durant.”
Bartholome inched closer to the remains. It wasn’t pretty. Some of Boyer’s intestines had leaked out. His eyes, with a hint of wonder, gazed out into nothingness. It reminded me of the hogs we slaughtered in a previous life. It took some getting used to. It was one of the reasons I left, I was getting used to it.
“Seems like a terrible way to die.”
“It was actually pretty quick, a couple of minutes or so.”
Bartholome’s eyed widened, his expression a cross between disgust and alarm. “What are you saying here, Buttman? Do you know what happened?”
“Let’s just say that sometimes it’s a bad idea to sodomize those working for you.” I applied the requisite smile as a means of emphasis. “Besides, it’s fairly obvious, with his pants down something less than platonic was going on, wouldn’t you say?”
“Even so.” His voice trailed off as the door opened.
Having taken his private elevator down, in strode the managing partner, Mr. Marsyas Durant, a member of that class of smart beautiful people littering our fine metropolis. He was one of the drivers of the machine my father so loathed; one of the many characters this job gave me access to. Like Martin, he was tall and angular, almost as if from the same mold. Durant, unlike Martin, was very bright, and very clever, and not someone to trifle with. Durant noticed me first, then Bartholome. He, like Bartholome, was stopped, momentarily, by the carnage he did not expect.
“What in God’s name happened here?” I thought the comment rhetorical.
“Mr. Boyer’s been murdered, sir.” Bartholome did not.
“Jesus Christ, Hanson, I can see that!” Durant cautiously made his way around the room, careful not to touch anything or step in any blood. He took in what was left of the up and comer, noting the fact that his pants were at his ankles and what little was left of his genitals. He turned to me. “Are you the one who called Hanson about this, Mr. Buttman?”
“Unfortunately, I am.”
I expected more questions, but instead he turned to Bartholome.
“Hanson, call Captain Goncalves, and ask him to please come down here with his people and assist us with this unfortunate situation.” He looked at me as he uttered the word, unfortunate. “In the meantime, I don’t want word of this getting out even among the people here in the building. Keep the door closed till the captain and his people arrive, and even then I don’t want anyone not authorized to be let in here, no one!”
“Yes sir.” Bartholome reached in his pocket, retrieving his phone.
“Let me know when he gets here. Mr. Buttman, please come with me.”
Bartholome kept a close eye on me as I followed Durant out the door. Together, we entered his private elevator and rose to his office high atop this architectural marvel. The office, as one might expect, was as distinguished as its occupant. I assumed the furniture to be handmade of only the finest materials, the photos and testimonials to be genuine, and the view, a good 270 degrees around, to be quite spectacular. I was not disappointed. Durant motioned me to a couch by one of the windows as he sat on the edge of his desk.
“What do we have going on here, Mr. Buttman?”
“To the what, I can’t say. All I know is that Mr. Boyer had me run a couple of messages today, one of which included this package. I came back to return it, as he requested, and that’s when the shit hit the fan.”
I handed the package to Durant. He removed the papers and began examining them. On and off he would look over at me as he paged through them. He began re-organizing the papers, I assumed, to their proper order.
“Are these all the pages? There are no others?”
“As far as I know. Martin, I apologize, but I don’t know his last name, grew very angry while he was reading the papers and threw them across the room. His wife and I gathered them up.”
“Judith was there, was she?” That drew a thin smile. “Did you notice her reading any of the documents the two of you were picking up?”
“Yes, she did. It made her laugh.”
“I imagine it did.” The smile grew. He collected the papers and set them on his desk. “Who else did Mr. Boyer send you out to see today, and the messages?” I told him of my day, the trip east to John’s hole in the wall, and back west to Martin. I relayed the same messages I had given John and Martin. He kept his eyes on me for an almost uncomfortable period of time. “How would you say the recipients acknowledged their messages; one more time, if you don’t mind.”
“John took his in stride, although I would say it gave him pause. Martin seemed shocked by his, and became more agitated as he looked over the papers. He said he would not sign them, that he couldn’t be made to.”
Durant sat quietly as I spoke. I tried to stay serene, unattached. It would help with the shakes. Though Boyer wasn’t the first man I saw killed with a knife, it still freaked me out; something about the sensation of a sharp blade easily breaking the skin and penetrating the organs gave me the willies, too many bad memories.
Durant wander
ed over to the window next to the couch.
“I think it best if these conversations were not shared with Goncalves’ people. You and I may need to review them at a later time, so I would ask that you keep this to yourself for now.”
“Sure.”
“Is there anything you think I need to know concerning the death of Mr. Boyer?”
“That I can’t speak to, either. I can answer any questions you might have, but you’ll have to elaborate on any specific aspect of the event.” I found this kind of tiptoeing oddly fascinating. He continued to gaze out at the world beyond.
“Will they be looking for the woman?” I assumed he meant Desiree. I gave it a few moments.
“I would think so, yes.”
“That’s disappointing.” The phone on his desk began filling the room with its elegant chime. Durant walked to his desk and picked up the phone. “Yes? Thank you, Hanson.” He ushered me towards the elevator door. The police were here.
The captain met us by the door. He was the epitome of everything I was taught to believe about the cops, the fuzz, or the old man’s favorite, pigs: big, stern, and not to be fucked with. He and Durant huddled while I watched the investigators and techs come and go. It seemed obvious to me that the two of them, Durant and Goncalves, had developed a relationship such that it was mutually beneficial. No doubt someone like Durant was important to cultivate if you had ambitions. Durant did most of the talking with the captain nodding in a serious upright manner.
The captain called one of his people over and pointed at me. It was my turn. The officer ushered me to a corner away from the hurly-burly all around us. Durant had opined as we rode down in the elevator that, for now, it would be best if I did not implicate the woman, as he called Desiree, in my statements to the police. I thought it interesting that he would protect the killer of one of his own. I didn’t ask why. I figured if I were meant to know it would come up later.
The officer started the questioning. Was I the one who discovered the body, I was; about what time, roughly five-thirty; did I see anyone, not that I recall; did I touch or disturb anything in the room, only the doorknob and phone; why were you here, finishing up my errands, it’s where I checked in; How can we reach you if we have further questions, I gave him my address. No phone? No Phone. That was the only time I got a rise out of him. I could see the semi-scorn on his face. Who doesn’t have a phone in this day and age? That would be me. He asked me to wait, so I did. After an hour or so of doing nothing and my legs beginning to ache from standing so long, I was released. Durant motioned me over just as I was ready to bolt down the back stairs.
“I may need to see you later, Mr. Buttman. I assume that can be arranged in the usual manner?”
“I don’t know why not, it’s not like I have a lot on my calendar.” He raised his eyebrows at that.
“Excellent. As always, I appreciate your cooperation and discretion in this matter.” I’m sure he did. “Good evening, Mr. Buttman.”
“Mr. Durant.” We went our separate ways. As I walked to the car I made it a point to look for cameras. The only one I found was at the entrance/exit of the parking garage.
The evening was warm. The sunlight cut in and out as I moved between the buildings. I saw no reason to take the interstate; it was like walking in sand. The pace along the boulevard was uneven, but I wasn’t in any particular hurry. I stopped at the market down the street from my place and grabbed some chicken and salad. I had to eat something. I couldn’t remember eating anything today, but that can’t be right? I must have had something this morning? Now there was this murder, it made my head hurt.
My place was in an old part of LA. It was one of those bungalow types that used to pepper what was once the outskirts of town. There were ten bungalows in our little enclave, the Moonlight Arms, rented to a mostly geriatric crowd. Other than Joanie, me, and the hipster couple two doors down, everyone was a senior citizen. Though I knew most of the tenants by sight, and a few by name, Joanie was the only one I had any communication with or interest in.
It was nice and quiet. I put the food on the table in the small kitchen and sat down. I had no interest in the food and was not hungry. Much as I tried, I could not get the images from the afternoon out of my head. Desiree, standing there with that crazed expression as the blood dripped down the front of her, and Boyer, with his look of disbelief, that this would be the way his life came to an end.
I choked down a few bites. I should be hungry; I hadn’t been eating much lately. That didn’t hurt my manly figure, but my energy level was down and I was tiring too quickly. I put the leftovers in the fridge, promising that I would eat them this time unlike all the other times I let the food go to waste. We can’t let food go to waste the old man told me repeatedly; people were starving, out there, somewhere.
I needed a drink. The glass was where I left it, where it always ended up, in the freezer. A few chunks of ice were left in the bag next to it. I combined the two with a splash of Jack and wandered to my only piece of outdoor furniture: a green and white folding chair I bought for a buck at a yard sale down the street. The sun was past the point where it could do me any harm. I closed my eyes and let the breeze take me away. Maybe it was time to go back to the farm. I’d been gone for years, a part of me missed it; missed the land and the lack of faces, unlike here with the millions of them bouncing back and forth off one another. I had planned to see the old man but with no real timetable. That was months ago.
I always made plans.
Today felt like a spur to get me moving. Maybe tomorrow, no, tomorrow I was having a drink with Agnes. The sound from the TVs was beginning to pick up. Staccato noises and laugh tracks insinuated themselves within the soft whistles of the breeze. A couple of kids were hollering at each other.
A whiff of perfume joined in.
I had company.
4
“It continues to amaze me that you only bought one of these chairs. A gentleman should be able to offer a lady a chair rather than have her just stand around.” I opened one eye. Joanie stood there, beautiful as always, with her hair flowing down along her shoulders, caressing the straps of her dress, a flowing chiffon kind of thing that stopped just above her knees.
“They only had one! If they had had two I would have ponied up the other buck.” It was our standard greeting. That I’d had the chair now for four years didn’t particularly matter, nor did the fact that her own folding chair rested in the hand not on her hip. It was how we started our conversations. “Besides, I see you brought your own seating arrangements.” She unfolded her chair and sat next to me.
Joanie was a small woman whose green eyes were slowly washing out. In the late eighties, as a teenager, she had come here intent on joining the girl band craze. When that fizzled out it was the Riot Grrrl thing that kept her going. When that faded and she had nothing else to do, one of her many boyfriends talked her into doing a lounge act with him as a kind of ironic metaphor, but with her beautiful raspy voice, and the not so insignificant fact that she could actually sing, she found herself with a fan base and a series of rotating gigs that kept her afloat while she worked her way through any number of potentially suitable mates which, for a brief glorious moment, included me.
I was, it must be said, something of a fling, and during those times, when neither of us had any pressing relationships to nurture, we found a modicum of comfort in each other’s arms. Sadly, at least from my perspective, this didn’t happen often enough. For the last four or five months I’d seen little of her and our talks, such as they were, were few and far between.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered.
“Only if you have something other than that awful whiskey.” Her nose crinkled at the thought.
“There’s wine, K
ahlua, maybe a soda. Water?”
“Any ice left?” Some things you never live down, like being out of ice at the most inopportune times.
“A couple of cubes, help yourself.” I closed my eyes as I listened to her fetching her drink. We sat and watched as the old couple next-door left for their evening walk. Joanie thoughtfully reminded me that they were the Madison’s. They had to be in their late eighties. He held her arm as they slowly shuffled by. Both waved as they passed us. We waved back.
“I wonder what it’s like to be with someone for that long. Ardis told me they’ve been married for almost seventy years.”
“Who’s Ardis?” That brought a smack to the back of my head.
“Mrs. Madison. I told you that. Many times! They came out here because of the war. He was in the Navy. When he got out, they stayed here and worked in the film industry. He was a set designer, she did costumes. They used to own this place. That’s why they have the biggest bungalow. The person they sold it to said they could stay as long as they wanted.” Joanie had a fascination with the old couples that lived here. She knew them all quite well. Joanie and I were the only ones not married. Amazingly, given their ages, all the couples were still together, still relatively mobile and alert; none yet widows or widowers. All had persevered through the good and the bad. The only time I thought about it was when she brought it up, and she brought it up whenever we sat outside on these quiet languid evenings. The hipster couple had the jazz playing; soft mournful stuff, not the raucous bebop sound most people associate with jazz.
“Shouldn’t you be at a gig tonight?”
Where Fools Dare to Tread Page 3