Double Solitaire

by Craig Nova

  Muted voices came from the office next door. Not quite an argument but some vibrant intensity.

  “Bingo,” said Dent. “There it is. What do you want to know? He just had lunch at Philippe’s. Great French dip sandwiches.”

  “What about travel?” said Farrell.

  “A few weeks ago he bought a ticket to Alaska.”

  “Alaska,” said Farrell.

  “Yeah, you know, bears and salmon and dark winters. You don’t look happy. You need something more?”

  “The name on the ticket,” said Farrell.

  “You don’t think I can get that?” said Dent.

  “I didn’t say it,” said Farrell.

  “The airlines think they are so cool,” said Dent. “But they aren’t. You want the name on the boarding pass.”

  Farrell nodded, yes, yes.

  Dent worked at the keyboard. Waited.

  “A guy by the name of Karicek.”

  “Round trip?” said Farrell.

  “That’s right,” said Dent. “Came back on the same day.”

  Farrell sat in his car with the credit card record and the copy of a boarding pass. The date was the same as the postmarked card with the picture of the bear on it.

  19

  THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE MOTEL WAS on the Pacific Coast Highway in Manhattan Beach. Its rooms were fanned around a pool in what Farrell thought of as a California courtyard. Farrell parked by the pool.

  A bundle of five thousand dollars was in the false bottom of the glove box, and when Farrell took them out, they were too thick for his wallet. So, as at other times, he put the bundle into a cheap envelope. Farrell put the envelope into the large pocket of the fishing shirt he wore. He wasn’t a fisherman but the big pockets were handy. The morning was misty, but by afternoon the light would look like it was being filtered through cigarette smoke in a bar at 4:00 a.m.

  In the trunk of the Camry, Farrell moved some tools around, a box in which he had some screwdrivers, a set of sockets, an adjustable wrench, a cordless drill, and a bolt cutter with jaws like a snapping turtle. Or anything that could really bite.

  Karicek’s room was on the second floor, in the middle of the building, which meant that he could run two ways along the veranda in front of the doors of the rooms. The railing, like the pipes used for handrails in prisons, went around the veranda. It had rusted in the salty air, and the blistering of it suggested the unstoppable impact of this place.

  The venetian blinds made a little click behind the window as Karicek moved them to see who had knocked.

  “What do you want?” Karicek said through the door.

  “I’ve got some money for you.”

  Farrell waited at the door. He knew Karicek had every reason to wonder about strangers offering things to him. Still, it was possible that people from something like Publishers Clearing House were offering deals on magazines. Farrell thought Karicek was probably a sucker for a deal on magazines.

  “This isn’t a good time,” said Karicek.

  “You’d be surprised,” Farrell said.

  More silence behind the door.

  “Yeah?” said Karicek. “Why would I be surprised?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about that.”

  “I’ve got to be careful these days,” said Karicek.

  Farrell put the envelope of money against the window, where Karicek had spread the venetian blinds. The parallel lines of the slats looked like the spreading fronds of a palm in a jungle.

  Farrell flipped the used, dirty bills like a deck of cards, gestured at the handles of the bolt cutter that stuck out of the gym bag that Farrell had put on the veranda. Karicek’s eyes glanced down at the red handles with the black grips.

  Karicek produced a Buck knife, which he opened and locked. He used the blade to hold the blinds open. Then he opened the door a little. Farrell came closer. Just a couple of inches were between them.

  “What’s that?” Karicek said. He pointed at the red handles of the bolt cutter.

  “You’re wearing a tracking bracelet, aren’t you?”

  Karicek opened the door. Farrell came into the room.

  The scent of cigarette smoke came out of the air conditioner, and the sanitation bar in the toilet gave the room a sickly air.

  “I’ve talked to the cops already,” he said.

  “I’m not a cop,” Farrell said.

  “No,” Karicek said. “A cop wouldn’t have a bolt cutter. And he wouldn’t have money.”

  The bag sat on the floor.

  “My name’s . . .” Farrell said.

  “Let me guess,” said Karicek. “Mr. Jones, right? No one uses a real name with me. Sure. Sure. Nice to meet you Mr. Jones. Close the door. Like I say, I’ve got to be careful these days. They think I have something to do with five-year-olds. I don’t get involved with anyone that young. That’s the truth.”

  “Sure.”

  “They’ve got to be women,” he said. “You know?”

  “I know,” Farrell said.

  It seemed to Farrell that the air was getting heavier. He considered Nemesis, or other gods who dispensed justice. How vain the gods must have been when they brought vengeance.

  The sofa, the chair, the paint-by-number landscapes on the wall, the empty bags of fast food, of Chinese takeout, which Karicek had eaten with a plastic fork stuck in some chow mein, the drab carpet were perfectly generic. Karicek put the knife, locked open, on the table next to the white boxes of the Chinese takeout.

  “You don’t look happy,” said Karicek.

  Karicek had pulled the blinds shut and the room was lighted by a sixty-watt bulb in a lamp. A fluorescent glow came from the bathroom. Karicek was in his late twenties, with long hair, which he wore in a ponytail. A gold earring. A tattoo of a snake, a boa, wrapped around his neck. On his ankle he had a GPS bracelet. It looked like a robot’s love charm.

  “No,” Farrell said. “I’m not happy.”

  “That makes two of us,” said Karicek. “I’m not happy. I don’t want much, not really.”

  Farrell took the money out of the envelope and put it on the table next to a box of pork lo mein.

  “This is a new one,” said Karicek, as he touched the bracelet on his ankle. “For a while the old one didn’t work. No signal. So, they came this morning and changed them.”

  He looked at the money with an expression at once needy and terrified.

  Farrell picked up the money.

  “Hey, hey,” said Karicek.

  Someone walked by the door on the veranda outside, and Karicek stiffened, turned his ear toward the door.

  “You know,” Farrell said. “You’ve got some trouble.”

  Karicek stroked his ponytail, as though that would bring him luck. Everything about him, even if tawdry, had the air of a fetish.

  “You’ve been convicted before on child endangerment and sex with minors. A number of times.”

  “Well, what can I say?” said Karicek.

  “Tell me,” said Farrell. “When you are locked up, what do you do? You have to be pretty alone.”

  “Yeah,” said Karicek. “I don’t mind. It’s safer.”

  “But what do you do?”

  “I’ve got a hobby,” said Karicek.

  “A hobby?” said Farrell.

  “Yeah?” said Karicek. “I think about cars. Building them. Buying parts for them. And you know something? All the parts catalogues come to prison. No trouble. Not like lingerie companies.”

  “Car parts?” said Farrell. “Well you are going to have plenty of time to think about them. Sex with minors and child endangerment.”

  “All bullshit,” said Karicek. “Jesus, the girl looked eighteen.”

  “I’d say they looked fourteen,” Farrell said.

  “You’ve been talking to the cops, right?”

  “No. Let’s just say I’ve had some experience.”

  “Jesus,” said Karicek. “Everyone in this town does it.”

  “Like your brother?” said Farrell.
/>
  “My what?”

  “Your brother,” said Farrell. “Let’s talk about him.”

  “How do you know about that?” said Karicek.

  “And let’s talk about the British girl,” said Farrell.

  Karicek sat back, put his hand on his ponytail, considered Farrell with an expression that was so familiar, so much like Terry’s, as to be uncanny. His fingers touched the knife, as though thinking it over.

  “What about her?” said Farrell.

  Karicek shook his head, but it was hard to tell if it meant, No, I don’t know anything about this, or No, I don’t believe anyone knows.

  “I love my brother,” said Karicek. “You know that?”

  “And when did you start seeing underage girls?” said Farrell. “In West Virginia? The two of you.”

  “What are you after?”

  “Let’s just talk it over,” said Farrell.

  “Yeah,” said Karicek. “West Virginia. But you’ve got to realize you are taking a chance. A big one.”

  “You’re already in so much trouble there’s not much you can do.”

  “If I am, what’s a little more trouble?”

  “So, you were there the other night?”

  “Define ‘there’?” said Karicek.

  “Terry’s house. With the British girl.”

  “You’re taking a chance,” said Karicek.

  “But Terry didn’t take her to the doctor. You did. Right?”

  Karicek moved from side to side, poked at one of the cold Chinese takeout boxes.

  “No,” said Karicek. “I didn’t. He wanted me to, but I didn’t. I love him, but I already helped him before. No. That British twit was his problem. He took care of it, not me.”

  “Was she alive when you left her at Terry’s?” said Farrell.

  “She was fucked up,” said Karicek. “I didn’t want anything to do with it.”

  “But you helped him before?”

  Karicek looked at the stale pork lo mien.

  “You know why I love my brother? Do you know what it takes to get from a shithole like we grew up in . . . to a place like Terry’s in?”

  “I think I do,” said Farrell.

  “No, you don’t,” said Karicek. “You think you do but you don’t.”

  “And when Terry was out here and you followed him, you found the young girls for him, didn’t you?”

  “So what?”

  He touched the knife.

  “Terry couldn’t start hanging around in the juice bars on Sunset. He’d be recognized,” said Farrell. “And what were you doing in Alaska?”

  “Taking care of a problem,” said Karicek.

  “Like this?”

  Farrell held out the postcard.

  “Yeah,” said Karicek.

  “This card ties you, Terry, and the Alaskan girl together . . . you see that?”

  “I love Terry,” said Karicek. “Even though he’s ashamed of me. He uses me, but I don’t mind. I love him. There’s only one problem. He doesn’t give me much money. It’s like he still holds it against me that I got a used bike for Christmas when he didn’t get anything.”

  “You know, people are looking for the girl from Alaska,” said Farrell.

  “Have they found her?” said Karicek.

  “So you know she’s somewhere to be found,” said Farrell.

  “Oh, boy,” said Karicek. “You are a piece of work. You really are on the ragged edge of thinness.”

  Karicek kept his eyes on the money, which was the color of tattoo ink.

  “You’re facing the three strikes and you’re out problem,” said Farrell. “Murder one. Not to mention that as a sex offender, they’re going to keep you . . . for a long time.”

  “So you’re a fucking lawyer,” said Karicek.

  “No. I’m just telling you the way that’s going to work out. This isn’t like gambling or stealing credit card numbers or making phony IDs. This isn’t like that. Period. This isn’t could-be life. This will be life in a place like Pelican Bay.”

  Karicek put his finger on the money.

  “They’re talking about a moratorium on the death penalty.”

  “Good news, huh?” said Farrell.

  “And you’re supposed to be helping Terry? Is that it?”

  “I’m looking into it,” said Farrell.

  “Hang on a minute,” said Karicek.

  He tapped a number in his phone, poked at the stale lo mein while a number rang, then looked directly at Farrell.

  “Yeah, Terry, it’s me. I know, I know. I wouldn’t call if I didn’t need to. I know you’re busy. Yeah. I’ve got a Mr. Jones here? I don’t know how he found out, but he knows. Maybe he found out by knowing someone in West Virginia.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “Okay,” said Karicek. “I’ll do that.”

  Karicek hung up, then looked at Farrell and then down at the money.

  “He’s not happy,” said Karicek. “Not happy at all.”

  “He’s going to be worse if you don’t make sure about the girl from Alaska.”

  “Like how?” said Karicek. “Just sort of as a thought exercise. How?”

  “It’s important for Terry that she’s not found,” said Farrell.

  Karicek blinked as he concentrated.

  “That she’s properly hidden,” said Farrell. “And that she doesn’t have her identification on her. A wallet. Did you take that?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Karicek.

  “The wallet should not be there,” said Farrell.

  “And how would someone wearing this take care of anything?”

  He put out his leg to show the ankle monitor. Farrell took the bolt cutter from the bag and put it on the table.

  “That’s manageable,” Farrell said.

  Outside, on the highway, a motorcycle went by, the whine of it almost impossibly high, like an instrument from a tribe in the Himalayas. If the window had been open the scent of the ocean, mixed with the exhaust of the Pacific Coast Highway would come in.

  “You know what they do to child molesters in a place like San Quentin? Or Pelican Bay?”

  “I’d go for protective custody,” said Karicek.

  “Well, there will come a day when you have to share a shower or an exercise pod, or go to the doctor, the infirmary, something like that, and . . .”

  “So?”

  “You know how to make a spike out of a toothbrush? It’s as good as an ice pick. But I think in your case it’s more likely a matter of being slashed. A razor blade in a melted comb or toothbrush or something like that. Here.”

  Farrell pointed to the money-colored tattoo on Karicek’s neck. That boa.

  “You think when someone got guillotined and the head was in the basket it had time to know what was happening?” Farrell said.

  Another motorcycle went by.

  “So you cut this thing off,” said Karicek. He ran his finger over the ankle monitor. “What do I give you?”

  “You make sure about the girl from Alaska. That way, Terry isn’t going to get dragged into anything.”

  “Are you talking about honor,” said Karicek. “Me taking care of my brother?”

  Honor?

  “Your hands are shaking,” said Karicek.

  “Are th-th-they?”

  “Yeah,” said Karicek.

  “You say you love your brother?”

  Karicek nodded.

  “Good. I give you a little walking around money. Cut off the bracelet. You do the honorable thing. Maybe you’ll escape what’s waiting at Pelican Bay.”

  Karicek put his head down, held his ponytail, then rubbed his neck.

  “You never think you are going to end up like this,” said Karicek.

  “I understand,” said Farrell.

  On the shelf behind him were three books. Young Love, Forever a Teen, and Picking Winners at the Track . . .”

  “What about those girls in the house?” said Karicek. “And that B
ritish item?”

  “They’ve been taken care of,” said Farrell.

  “And Terry won’t get hurt?” said Karicek.

  The bracelet came off with a little click, like the sound of fate, which always reveals itself in the smallest detail. At least in the beginning, in the first appearance.

  “Well,” Farrell said. “Good luck.”

  “Sure,” said Karicek. “Same to you.”

  Karicek held out his hand. They stood opposite each other, and Farrell thought of the gladiators, who said, “morituri te salutamus . . .” We who are about to die salute you. He took Karicek’s hand and shook it.

  “If they find the girl from Alaska, or if she isn’t hidden properly,” said Farrell. “It will come back to Terry, and when that happens, it will come back to you.”

  Karicek sat down and put his head in his hands, and when he looked up, his eyes showed the true depths of awareness of what he was facing.

  It must have been like looking through a telescope at the images of the depths of space. All mystery, all chill, even beautiful in a way, that is, if you thought reality could be beautiful.

  The door wasn’t locked, and it opened with a hush as the bottom of it ran over the shag carpet of the room. Karicek looked up as Farrell did, and Nikolay, with his formfitting T-shirt and those arms that looked like water balloons under the skin, and Pavel, with that acne like a gray surface of the moon, came into the room. They stood for a moment, sniffing the air, glancing at those white boxes, with corners like an envelope, that were filled with stale Chinese food. Nikolay moved his eyes, as though they were something like a metal detector, to the money on the table.

  “Hey, Farrell,” said Pavel.

  Farrell nodded. Karicek still held his head in his hands but he was now sweating, the icy sheen of moisture visible on his skin.

  “You know,” said Nikolay. “Our friend doesn’t look so good, does he?”

  “And this other one,” said Pavel, his acne covered face showing disdain, looking at Karicek, “doesn’t look so good either.”

  “So, you followed me?” said Farrell.

  “Why you must be getting dotty. Of course, we did,” said Nikolay. “You don’t think we believed that you were in the vending machine business because you liked Doritos.”