Double Solitaire

by Craig Nova

  “Catherine may die soon. Will die soon. That’s all she’s got left, the hope of someone keeping that promise . . .”

  “Upstairs,” he said. “Leave the window open so we can smell the hillside.”

  “Yes,” said Rose Marie. “Indian summer doesn’t last.”

  12

  THE PEOPLE FARRELL HELPED LIVED on the coast, not in Malibu itself, but off the roads to the right, to the east, if you were going north on the Pacific Coast Highway. Others lived little farther north, even as far as some towns inland from Santa Barbara. An easy commute for actors and other people who got into trouble.

  This meant donations to police department benevolent funds, and more direct contributions, always in used bills, always in an envelope that was generic, just something he would pass along to a coroner, or a head of detectives in a town where he needed help. Farrell had done this in every town and jurisdiction from Long Beach to Santa Ynez. Records, details, arrests. People were always glad to see him. Who doesn’t want to see money coming in the door?

  Portia and Charlene lived in Santa Monica. Jerry Macaulay, who worked the Juvenile Section of the Santa Monica Police Department, said when Farrell called, “Hey, Farrell, where you been. I miss hearing from you. Keeping your nose clean?” Macaulay spoke as though he was explaining to a teller at the bank that his daughter was having her teeth straightened.

  “As much as can be expected,” said Farrell. “Could you give me what you have on Portia Blanchard and Charlene Klauski. That’s K-l-a-u-s-k-i. They live in Santa Monica.”

  “Hang on,” said Macaulay.

  Farrell held the phone to his ear, breathed deeply to get the scent of the roses, and while he waited, he opened the front door. He glanced at Rose Marie’s house. Maybe she was making the bed with a snap of the top sheet, like a flag in the wind. . . .

  “Well, well,” said Macaulay. “It could be better but it could be worse. They didn’t try to kill anyone, but they have records for suspected prostitution, attempted blackmail, shoplifting, making false statements about being raped, and, of course, some drug possession. Coke. The usual. Blanchard’s mother, by the way, that’s Cherry Blanchard, has an arrest for prostitution.”

  “Thanks,” said Farrell. “I know how expenses add up. One thing and another.”

  “Thanks, pal,” said Macaulay.

  The JennAir refrigerator in his kitchen made a low, ominous hum. Farrell lingered in the domestic air of the toast and coffee.

  If you are going to deal with the cops, maybe it is best to do it all at once and get it over with. He winced, shrugged, and picked up the phone.

  He wasn’t surprised that Shirushi kept tabs on him, or the people he gave money to, and, sure, he thought, she was right about Tommy Black. Still, since cops were gossiping anyway, maybe it was best to see them all as fast as possible. Let them think they knew what he was doing.

  Of course he was ready to cause some trouble, but to do that he had to know what was real, and in a place like LA that wasn’t easy.

  He had set a Google News Alert for sex crimes in Los Angeles, and he learned that James Karicek, twenty-four years old, featured in the Los Angeles Times, the man who had mesmerized Terry, and who had been accused of drugging and sleeping with underage girls and the occasional boy, had been released on bail.

  “Hey, Farrell,” said Tommy Black. “Long time since I heard from you. Everybody must be behaving themselves.”

  “Can I come down to see you?” he said.

  “Sure,” said Tommy. “Always good to talk face-to-face.”

  Santa Monica Boulevard, in Hollywood, was a collection of hairdressers, dry cleaners, coffee shops, florists, insurance offices, all arranged in a sort of insane clutter, an expression of chaos. Farrell didn’t know whether it was his mood or the actual businesses that left him with the notion that it made no sense at all.

  The Barnum & Bailey Circus had a tradition, when Farrell had been a kid, of parading the elephants down Santa Monica Boulevard at 4:00 a.m. . . . Nothing, it seemed, was as sad as a circus. One step down from a zoo.

  Tommy’s office building looked like a post office, as though crime was more bureaucratic than anything else. And, when Farrell thought about it, this seemed right. Dull. Tommy Black’s desk was an institutional item that looked like it had been made with a 3D printer. A block of gray plastic.

  “So, how can I help today?” Tommy Black said.

  “Are you still working the sex crimes detail for beach cities?”

  “Some things never change,” said Tommy.

  “Are your kids doing all right? Do they need braces?”

  “No,” said Tommy. “But there’s always something.”

  “I understand,” Farrell said.

  “Good,” said Tommy. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say everyone is behaving themselves.”

  “Well, just how far would you go?” said Black.

  “It depends,” he said. “I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

  “Well, yeah,” said Tommy. “What can you expect? Human beings, for Chrissake.”

  “That’s the problem?” Farrell said. “Being human?”

  “I don’t think about stuff like that,” said Black. “And you know what? If I were you, I wouldn’t either. Just do your job. Hope you get out alive. That’s my philosophy of life.”

  “Sure,” Farrell said. “Are you still running the home detention section?”

  “Let’s go out in the hall,” said Tommy. “Out by the vending machines. Better to talk there. You bought into vending machines, right? Don’t you have a little business on the side? No trouble with shakedowns?”

  “Not yet,” Farrell said.

  “Wait for a while,” said Tommy Black. “Vending machines are like a dog in heat for the shakedown artists. What’s it called?”

  “Coin-A-Matic,” Farrell said. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff people put into vending machines, slugs, flattened bottle caps, all to get a free Mars Bar, or a bag of chips. And then we got another problem. Rodents.”

  “Rodents?” said Tommy. “You’re telling me about rodents?” He hiked up his pants. “Do you think technology is going to put Coin-A-Matic out of business?”

  “No,” Farrell said. “We’ll just get better machines. You know, they have one that makes hot, fresh pizza. You can choose the toppings and the thing cooks the pizza right there. In the bus station or hall of the probation office.”

  “No shit,” said Tommy. “I’d like to get one here.”

  “So, it’s Gino’s and the chain pizza places that are going to be in trouble.”

  “All right,” said Tommy. “Make it fast. What’s on your mind?”

  “Karicek,” Farrell said.

  “Karicek,” said Tommy. “A real hall of famer. What a guy. You’d think he’d learn to leave girls under sixteen alone. Wouldn’t you?”

  “You could hope,” Farrell said.

  “Define hope,” said Black.

  “Some other time,” said Farrell. “You let Karicek out night before last. Where is he?”

  “Let me look it up,” said Tommy.

  Tommy Black went into his office, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking on the linoleum, which was like an eternal sound of police offices. Farrell looked at the vending machine, which had some wrinkled looking bags of chips and chocolate chip cookies. Desperation food. The click of computer keys came into the hall, then Tommy Black’s voice as he mumbled greetings to someone on a phone. . . . More steps on the linoleum. In the hall, Tommy said, “Manhattan Beach. The Brooklyn Bridge motel. Jesus, you’d think they’d be able to think of something better than that. Manhattan. Brooklyn. Get it?”

  “Yeah,” said Farrell.

  “We got a judge here that just loves to turn ’em loose,” said Tommy.

  It wouldn’t do me much good if he was in jail, thought Farrell.

  “I’ll buy you a drink soon,” said Farrell.

  “I’d like t
hat,” said Tommy. “Just make sure you remember your friends, right?”

  Friends.

  “Thanks, Tommy,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” said Tommy.

  * * *

  Farrell got lucky. The movie crew was shooting a scene in which only other actors were needed. Terry had a day off. After Tommy Black, Farrell was able to call Terry to make sure that the girls and Cherry Blanchard would be at Terry’s house in the afternoon.

  Farrell came into the living room. The time the girls and Cherry had waited hadn’t done them any good. Portia had that look of anger that comes from the third or the fourth argument, and Charlene sulked under Portia’s gaze. Cherry wore a khaki skirt, a blue blouse, had her hair in a ponytail, and wore shoes with a low heel, as though she could compensate for the mood here with a hint of modesty. Terry wore jeans, a Biarritz T-shirt, a pair of running shoes without socks.

  “So, we’ve almost got this worked out, right?” Terry said to Farrell.

  Terry’s expression, his presence, had a quality so false, so oddly insincere it was as though he didn’t exist at all, and that emptiness was the quality that Farrell watched. What was there in that vacuum? Wasn’t that the problem Farrell confronted, that emptiness? No, not just the emptiness, but what it could do.

  Cherry sat on the edge of the sofa, her eyes at once angry and worried, hopeful and terrified.

  “I’m working on getting you your lines,” Farrell said. “The director is being difficult.”

  “Difficult?” said Portia. “I’ll show him difficult.”

  “I understand,” Farrell said.

  “Do you?” she said. “Somehow you aren’t acting like it. And you know what? I am getting impatient.”

  Cherry smiled at Farrell as though to say, You know how kids are.

  Portia was too angry for just putting the bite on someone.

  “The other night, when Terry took the British girl to the doctor,” said Farrell. “How long was he gone?”

  “Why are you harping on that?” said Terry. “That’s all gone. Done with.”

  “Portia?” said Farrell.

  “I don’t know,” she said, as she looked out the window. “Ten minutes, an hour. We were all pretty messed up.”

  “Forget it,” said Terry. “Let’s fix our problems right here.”

  “Yeah,” said Portia to Terry. “Can’t you call the director? To speed things up. To get really good lines.”

  “I can’t talk to him about this,” said Terry. “He’ll want to know why.”

  “Tell him you have found some talented young actresses who are a tremendous asset . . .”

  “Well, you know, he’s heard things like that before . . . not to mention a producer is involved, too.”

  “I keep telling you,” said Portia. “That’s not my problem.”

  “We want the lines,” said Charlene. “It’s a start. A credit. Our names on a card.”

  “They are talented,” said Cherry. “They deserve a chance. So, they slept with you, but that doesn’t take away from their talent.”

  “They were pretty talented,” said Terry.

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Cherry. “You have to do the right thing.”

  Farrell put five thousand dollars, in dirty bills, on the table now. The glass was scratched from the use of a razor blade.

  “What’s that?” said Terry.

  “Good faith,” said Farrell. “Just to buy a little time.”

  Portia poked at the money. Charlene stared. They looked at each other. Were they going to take it or not?

  “I’m sorry about the lines,” said Terry.

  “Not as sorry as I am,” said Portia. Then she turned that gaze on Farrell.

  “If I were you, I’d take the money and let’s see what happens,” said Farrell.

  Terry’s glance had the cool, estimating quality of a falcon as it circles in the air. Yes, thought Farrell, Catherine had been right. Look out for birds of prey as they circle.

  Portia stared, those dark, artificial eyes drilling into Farrell. That was another item he hadn’t seen before, a hatred without limit. Usually it was disappointment or regret, but here it was fury so strong it had a stink.

  “So, you think we’re just kids you can push around. Don’t you?” said Portia. “You better think again.”

  “Charlene?” Farrell said. “What about you?”

  “Portia’s gonna talk for us,” said Charlene.

  “Good.”

  “We could still go to the cops,” said Portia.

  “We’ve been through that,” said Farrell.

  He picked up the money and put it in the pocket of his jacket.

  “Go the cops. It’s the end,” he said to Portia. “And I think they’ll pull up a couple of things. Like your record.”

  “What about my record?” said Portia.

  “She’s a good girl,” said Cherry. “Never any trouble.”

  Her face was blank, like a bank teller who is at the end of the day and needs a drink. Farrell was sorry for her and wished he could stop what was coming.

  “Suspicion of prostitution,” he said. “Possession of drugs. Making false statements to a police officer, which really was an attempt at blackmail over a false accusation of rape.”

  “That’s just, you know, semantics,” said Cherry.

  Charlene looked at her shoes.

  “And me?” she said. “My record?”

  “Yeah,” Farrell said. “You, too.”

  “And so what do you want?” said Portia.

  “A little time,” said Farrell. “That’s all. Just some time.”

  “And you’ll leave the money,” said Portia. “As good faith.”

  Farrell put the money on the table.

  “Okay, Mr. Jones,” said Portia. “You bought a little time. But not much.”

  13

  AS HE DROVE BACK TO Laurel Canyon, the caller ID showed Shirushi. Fast work, thought Farrell.

  “Hey, Farrell,” she said. “I’ve got something for you.”

  The car had been in the sunlight in front of Terry’s house, and now it felt like he was sitting on a heating pad.

  “So?” said Farrell.

  “Let’s meet,” said Shirushi.

  “I’ve got things to do,” said Farrell. “Just tell me.”

  “I want to see your face,” said Shirushi. “Let’s meet in Studio City. That sounds about right.”

  Du-par’s was the closest thing in the Valley or Los Angeles for that matter to a Parisian boulangerie. On the right, near the door, stood a long glass case in which there were cream puffs, cakes, cookies, and the overall impression was a line of tarts made from bright fruit, strawberries, raspberries, cherries, and all of them were topped with white, cloud-like whipped cream.

  Shirushi sat in a booth when Farrell arrived, a cream puff and a cup of coffee on the table in front of her. Dark eyes on him as he came in, still wearing his uniform of the invisible outfitter. He sat down and the waitress brought him a cup of coffee.

  Cream leaked out of the pastry when Shirushi cut into it, and she licked the fork she put into her mouth. A little of the white fluff clung to her lip, and she ran her tongue over it.

  “Mmmmm,” she said. “I’ve always had a sweet tooth. Don’t know why. Now, I’ll have to swim an extra mile at my pool tonight. Worth it though. Want a bite?”

  She held out a fork with some cream and pastry.

  “Thanks,” said Farrell. “Some other time. So?”

  She swallowed and looked at him as though she was working out a trigonometric proof.

  “So, what do you know about Terry Peregrine?” she said.

  Farrell shook his head.

  “Is that, no, you don’t know anything, or no, you can’t tell me anything?”

  “What did you find out?” said Farrell.

  “They’re brothers. Karicek and Peregrine. Same mother. She, by the way, is in the women’s prison in Alderson, West Vi
rginia. Murder. A boyfriend, of course, but he was selling young women to a pimp in New York City.”

  She went back to her cream puff. Then she glanced at Farrell.

  “So?” she said.

  Farrell shrugged, as though he had a pain in his shoulder, then winced and said, “I don’t know. That’s about all I can say.”

  “You look like you’ve got a headache,” she said. “You want an aspirin?”

  “No, I don’t want an a-a-aspirin,” he said.

  “Just asking,” she said. “You don’t have to get huffy.”

  “I’m not huffy,” he said.

  “Define what you are,” she said.

  “Give me a break,” he said.

  “Sure, sure,” she said. “I get it. I give you information and you blow me off. Sure. That’s right.”

  She finished her cream puff. Licked the fork.

  “I don’t know much,” she said. “But something like this, that Terry’s brother has been caught with underage women, can do a lot of damage to someone in the movie business.”

  Farrell looked right at her.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “So, right now,” she said. “I should be careful. I don’t know anything, but I could start looking.”

  Farrell looked at his cup of coffee and at that black circle of the surface.

  “How did you think there was something between them?” said Shirushi.

  “Family resemblance,” said Farrell.

  “Have you seen Terry Peregrine recently?” she said.

  “Don’t, don’t . . .” he said. “Just don’t . . .”

  “Well, no one has made any complaint,” she said. “I have no reason to dig into any of this. Now.”

  “Then wait a little,” he said.

  “So, you want me to put this in the secrets category?” she said.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  She stared at him and said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Do you want another cream puff?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ve had enough. Take care.” She picked up the check. “My treat.”

  Shirushi put a twenty-dollar bill on the table. When the waitress brought the change, Shirushi left it. The waitress said, “Thanks, honey.”