by Craig Nova
The certainty appeared out of that interior silence, that quiet darkness which exists before any idea that arrives without warning. Farrell felt it in his chest as a lightness, a buoyant awareness, like getting a joke, although he knew it was anything but a joke. The British girl wasn’t there, or she hadn’t been there, when he had looked. If she had been, he would have found her.
Farrell was working farther out on Mulholland, closer to the beach, when he looked up at that sky, as pale as a cataract, and realized a new possibility. He pushed through the brush, head down, something like a rugby player, back to the car, where, in the back seat he had the call sheet for Braumberg’s picture, which had headings across the top that read “Time, Scene, Description, Cast, Location, Pages.” Of course, the script wasn’t shot in order, and Farrell flipped pages until he came the correct date. Terry’s call was for a location in Downtown LA. An alley. Crew loads at 9:00 a.m.
Farrell backed into the shoulder, turned east, and drove until the houses were more visible, the pullouts less cluttered with evidence of what happened at night. A van was parked in front of Terry’s house, and on the side was painted Perfect Pool Maintenance, Repair, Robot Cleaning. A cartoon of a swimming pool was below the words.
The pool attendant was a woman of about twenty-five who wore a pair of shorts, a khaki shirt, dark glasses, and was smoking a joint as she watched an automated vacuum cleaner work along the bottom of the pool. The machine seemed, in a way Farrell couldn’t really explain, to enjoy the job, like a terrier going after a rat. The attendant had a pole and a sponge, which she was about to use on the sides of the pool where the robot couldn’t reach.
Her nose ring was large, the tattoos on her arm were close to the color of the San Gabriel Mountains, dark to black, and the streak in her hair looked like the color of a pink lemonade Popsicle. At the back of the lower part of the house, a sliding door was unlocked, and at the entrance she had left a bottle of cyanuric acid and a plastic bucket, like the kind Sheetrock compound came in, that was filled with Trichlor tabs.
“Nice day,” said Farrell.
“What’s nice about it?” said the attendant.
“That cyanuric acid really helps,” said Farrell.
“Just put it in,” said the attendant.
“It protects the chlorine from ultraviolet rays,” said Farrell.
“What are you, the Science Guy?” said the attendant.
“No,” said Farrell. “Just a friend of Terry’s.”
“He has friends?” said the attendant. “Well, you should tell them to stop leaving condoms in the pool. It fucks up the robot. Guess who has to dig them out?”
“Not Terry,” Farrell said. “That dope smells good.”
“Here,” she said. She held it out.
Farrell took a long drag, held it in his lungs, and then slowly exhaled.
“Where do you get this stuff?” said Farrell.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said.
“Whew,” said Farrell.
She smiled.
“Without this stuff half the pools in this town wouldn’t get cleaned.”
“I left something here the other night,” Farrell said.
“You want to go in?”
“Yes,” said Farrell.
“Terry was all bent about me keeping my pool cleaning stuff in there,” said the attendant. “About a week ago he was all antsy about it. But this morning, when I arrived, he said it was no big deal and I could store my stuff again. So, I guess it’s all right. Go on in.”
The room beyond the sliding door was dim, since the blinds were drawn. A large TV, a sofa, a table, a desk with a computer, an Eames chair and an ottoman, the laminated wood of them showing dark streaks. In the next room and through a sliding door, a small kitchen had been set up, along with a bar, and next to the bar was a flat freezer, about six feet long. Farrell stood in the doorway, that sense of knowing what he had missed as definite as a cool breeze. He opened the top. It was empty. The British girl hadn’t been out there in the hills when Farrell had been looking. He guessed Terry had kept her in here for a while, and then pushed her into the brush. If that’s what he did.
Farrell knew he’d have to start over. He had started too soon.
He took a hundred dollars out of his pocket and went back outside.
“Looks great,” he said. He pointed at the pool.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” said the attendant.
In manner of speaking, thought Farrell.
“Here,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything either.”
She put the money in the pocket of her khaki shirt, below the sewn-in script, in red thread, that read Saskia.
“Thanks, Saskia,” he said.
She frowned and said, “We’re all Saskia. As long as we last.”
“Take care,” said Farrell.
“You better believe it,” she said. “Just think about it. A million swimming pools waiting to be cleaned.” She took a deep hit. “A million.”
“Maybe you should look for another job.”
She just stared at him, partly high, partly mesmerized by the robot in the pool.
“Now there’s an idea.”
Farrell got into his car and knew he’d have to start over. Terry had driven around with the British girl, then brought her back to his house to think about what to do, had driven up to the back door, and brought the British girl in where he could hide her for a while.
* * *
It didn’t take long, now that Farrell had started searching again from the first locations. He expanded the radius of his search by another half mile. The body was not that far into the bushes, just enough to be invisible from the road. It was turned on its side and seemed as though it had not been dragged very far. She had on a white tank top with narrow straps for her shoulders, and over that she wore a short denim vest, cut with a wide opening at the bottom, like an upside-down V, and a wide opening at the top, like a V right side up. Only a short middle part of the vest, with three large brass buttons. The straps that held up the vest were dark cotton braids, which were almost childish, like something done as a project at a summer camp. Along with the tank top and the vest she wore dark jeans, not the bleached ones American kids wore, but an iris blue. Her running shoes had a sole with holes along the side, so that they appeared to have the texture of fish gills.
The girl had scratches on her shoulder where the skin wasn’t covered by the tank top, but the scratches hadn’t bled and were just dark lines. Farrell nodded as he thought, already wanting to look away, that this showed she had been dead when she had been left here. Of course, she lay at an unnatural angle, but why should it be any different? If a girl runs away from England, gets involved with people like the ones she so naturally found, as though gravity drew her to them, why should she look natural?
The sensation of being correct, or connected to the real world, came to Farrell as a change in his perception of light, and something else, too, which was a slight separation from the place where he stood, as though he had imagined it as much as discovered it. The British girl didn’t look like she had been there for long, and the horrifying details of what happens after death were delayed by the cold of the freezer. It wouldn’t be too much longer, though, for it to begin—odor, insects, swelling, those details that Farrell recoiled from, although he knew they were coming. Still, he had more time than he had previously thought he might.
But the problem was still there, as much as he wished otherwise.
A hawk floated over the Valley in the thermals above the smog. Its eyesight was so keen it could see a mouse even through the reddish air. Just like that, it occurred to Farrell that a hawk killed not by grabbing, but by hitting the thing it wanted so hard, with its talons, that they worked like a club.
Portia and Charlene had said the British girl had a tattoo. He put on a pair of latex gloves.
He didn’t want to touch the brush, and he made sure none of his clothes was torn, not
a shred of clothing left behind, at least from him. He didn’t want to touch her, but then it could be a mistake, that is, this could be someone else altogether, since, after all, someone else could have killed another young woman in Los Angeles. She was just as light as he expected, and after she had been turned on her back, he unzipped the jeans and used a finger to pull her underwear down enough to see the tattoo. “Blessed is the man that heareth me . . .” Still clear, but the hair had grown a little, just like the beard of a man who will need a shave before he is buried.
He left her as she had been, clothes in order, although she still seemed to be lying in an awkward posture. Then he sat back on his haunches, and thought, So what am I left with now? Fury, is that it? Could he even say the word? The desire for vengeance? How had he come to this point, in the brush off Mulholland with this young woman? It all begins so easily, and yet, you can end up like this. Bum, he thought, is that what his father had meant? No, no, thought Farrell. He had never intended this. Never.
A small handbag, made of pale leather, but now appeared more like the color of a snake’s belly, was in the brush near the girl’s feet.
Farrell knew it was a felony, and a serious one, to tamper with evidence. But he picked up the bag, a round one like an enlarged compact, and turned the clasp. Aspinal was the brand name inside. He guessed this must have been a British brand, but there was no need to check it. Bland, ordinary cosmetics were inside, lipstick, shadow, a comb, an unopened packet of Kleenex, a couple of earrings that could have come from anyplace. He pushed them aside and at the bottom sat an Italian toothbrush, made of tortoiseshell, heavy, luxurious. The kind of brush a model in Rome might have. Next to it was a more ordinary, basic pharmacy toothbrush.
Farrell sat there for a moment, considering what this girl was trying to tell him, then went up to his car where he took a ziplock bag from the glove box, brought it back, and put the Italian toothbrush in it. The question was, had she used it? No, he thought, probably not.
A piece of dead brush was near the road, just a branch. Farrell started the car, drove it onto the hardtop, got out, and then used it to brush away the tracks of his shoes and the tread of the tires from the dirt of the shoulder. The branch went into the canyon.
He knew he shouldn’t waste time, but he still stood opposite the Valley and the San Gabriel Mountains and strained to understand the meaning of “Blessed is the man that heareth me . . .” And what was that? What was she saying? What did she want Farrell to hear? Is this the last thing that could save him, this listening? Yes, he thought, that’s what’s working in the dark. The mood here, like transparent fog, was one he knew by its claustrophobia.
17
IN THE CAMRY, WITH ROSE Marie in the passenger seat, they went down to Sunset and turned right, toward the ocean. This part of town had gotten more run-down, just a memory of what it had been years ago. Junkies on the street, the usual desperation and false atmosphere, women in fishnet stockings, young men in tight-fitting jeans who were already hungry by early afternoon. Today, in the morning, they had the air of people waiting for a disaster they knew was coming.
“What’s the rush?” said Rose Marie. “Why do you want to see the kids so soon?”
“I just thought I’d come along,” he said.
“What’s going on?”
“I wanted to see you and I wanted to come along,” he said.
“Nothing else, huh?”
The door of the hospital, that enormous revolving cylinder, moved with its unstoppable motion, as though it was part of the inevitable. Farrell hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his face made a little static when he ran a hand over it. When they got out of the elevator Rose Marie said, “What are you trying to do? Look like a French actor? Sort of cute, though.” She blinked. She leaned close, the scent of her hair strong, the touch of it soft and reassuring.
“I don’t think I’m cute,” he said.
“No, I guess not. Not with that scar in your eyebrow and that shopworn look. No, not cute.”
The hall was clean and bright, the paint on the walls fresh.
“So, what’s that tremble in your voice all about?”
“Th-th-is and that,” he said.
The room was as before, a classroom, although the diagrams for math had been erased from the board. Now, “The Battle of Hastings” was written in large letters. “Offensive weapons triumphed over defense. Invaders had more archers than the defenders.” The zing, the vibration of a bow string, seemed to linger as he stood there, considering a fight a thousand years ago while a dead girl was left in the brush at the side of the road.
Gerry, Catherine, Ann, and Jack were there, a sort of chorus, but somehow all the more powerful because they were young and seemed innocent. The definition of the difference between the way things appeared and the way they were.
“So, back again, huh? Just can’t get enough of us, can you?” said Catherine.
“Most people who come here to see us are just faking it,” said Ann. “They want to see us, but then they move on.”
“I’m tired of things being faked,” said Farrell.
“You know people like to do things for sick kids. Right?” said Gerry.
“Not really,” said Catherine. “Once is usually enough. They pat themselves on the back, and that’s it.”
“What about that woman, the singer?” said Jack. “The blond . . . who came a couple of times?”
“Just as phony as the rest,” said Catherine. “She just did a better job. And look at you. Slobbering over her. I thought the chemo killed hormones,” said Catherine. “You better get down to the pharmacy and check your chemo. You’re still all wired up on testosterone or something.”
“Come on,” said Rose Marie. She turned to Farrell. “Tell us a story.”
“Yeah,” said Gerry. “Something juicy. Some actor, you know, who is in deep trouble . . .”
“Let’s talk about stuntmen,” said Farrell.
“Isn’t that what you do?” said Catherine. “Aren’t you a sort of stuntman?”
“Let him talk,” said Rose Marie, but her voice had an edge.
“In the old days, before digital effects and other tricks, stuntmen had to take some chances. For instance,” Farrell said, “milk used to come in flat-topped cartons. The stuntmen would put out a mattress, cover it with a layer of the one-quart, flat-topped cartons, then put another mattress on top, then another layer of cartons, then another mattress. This was the best way to absorb energy when a stuntman had to take a fall from a second-story window. He hit the pile of mattresses, buffered by the collapsing layers of one-quart cartons. The stuntman would walk away.”
“Wow,” said Gerry. “Those days are gone.”
“So, what’s your milk carton?” said Catherine to Farrell.
Jack took off his hat and his scars were still pink, although a couple old ones were as white as fish bones.
“The stuntmen weren’t afraid,” said Jack.
Catherine turned to Farrell. “Do you get used to being afraid.”
“Maybe,” Farrell said.
Her dark eyes, her eyeliner, her white skin all the more uncanny than the last time. It was as though she was becoming more knowledgeable and more ethereal. She turned that glance on Farrell. It was like having the light of a prison swing over someone who is trying to escape.
“You’ve come back so soon,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Those stuntmen were a dying breed,” she said.
They were quiet for a moment, not glancing at each other or the walls or the windows, either. Catherine sat there, her dark eyes with that odd, almost beam-like presence.
“You don’t lie,” she said to Farrell. “That’s important to us. What’s the percentage in lying to us? There’s none.” She kept on looking at Farrell. “So, what are you really doing?”
“Work,” he said.
“What kind of work do you really do?” said Catherine. “If you don’t talk . . .” She gestured to
Rose Marie. “We will tell her not to bring you around anymore.”
“No lies,” said Ann.
“I try to get people out of trouble,” he said.
“You mean like actors and stuff,” said Catherine. “You always read about them taking drugs, rehab, quack, quack, quack.”
“I’ve worked with other people, too. Like baseball players. Athletes.”
“I bet they really fuck up,” said Jack.
“Language,” said Rose Marie.
“Well, you know what?” said Jack. “If this guy hasn’t heard the word, it’s about time he did. And if he has, one more time isn’t going to hurt him.”
Catherine giggled.
“You know there aren’t many people like you,” Farrell said to them.
“How’s that?” said Catherine.
“I can trust you,” Farrell said.
“You better believe it,” said Jack.
“So, what’s the problem?” said Catherine.
“It’s hard to say,” Farrell said.
“Oh, screw that,” said Jack. “If you can’t make it real, then it’s not a problem, right?”
“Right,” said Catherine.
“Well, yes and no,” Farrell said.
“Don’t get slippery,” said Catherine.
“Yeah,” said Jack.
“Make it concrete or go home,” said Catherine. She began to cry a little, not much, and then touched the side of her face with the back of her hand.
Don’t fail them, he thought. What would it feel like to walk out of here and not be able to come back?
“Let’s say you get into something for a simple reason. You think a lot of people are in trouble because they are judged by hypocrites. You know, you use a drug, you sleep with someone’s wife, or husband, you make a promise you don’t keep, you get married more than once without getting a divorce, you hide the fact that you have a kid, that you stole some money, that you have been in jail, and the people who judge you do the same thing. And they want to ruin you for it.”
“Sure,” said Catherine. “Sure. But that’s just the beginning.”