by Tom Pitts
“I told him everything I found out. There’re limitations with this stuff, you know. Contrary to popular belief, everything is not on the internet.”
“This is something else.”
Richie listened.
“I want you to find out whatever you can about a man named Calper Dennings.”
He set down his unlit cigarette and rummaged through the debris on his nightstand for a pen. “Calper who? Hang on a sec, lemme get this down.” He was relieved. Relieved Gary wasn’t dead, relieved Linda was even speaking to him. And happy she was asking for his help.
“Calper Dennings,” she said slowly. “I need you to find out where I can find him. Addresses, any phone numbers, and anything else. Any kind of history, legal stuff, arrests, just anything.”
“Calper Dennings,” Richie repeated. “Weird name.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The night before, Calper had gone out to a small bistro on Melrose, a place he went from time to time, usually when he was celebrating. After his long deliberate meal—a soup, then salad, then a luxurious steak smothered with some strange salty mushrooms and plated with oiled asparagus—he drank quietly at his table. The strong beer they served worked its way into his head quickly as he rolled over the facts of his last job. Pint after pint, he held the table and watched the patrons come and go. Rich Hollywood denizens. Not the super-rich, not the power players, just the regular well-to-do demographic littered throughout the new Los Angeles. You had to have money to live in any kind of comfort in this town. Hell, you had to have a fair amount of dough to live uncomfortably in this town. There were patrons who looked like doctors, maybe software successes, anonymous corporate middle-echelon, everybody clear-skinned and bright-eyed, happy to be throwing down more than fifty dollars a plate.
Calper shouldn’t have been eating here himself, but he was treating himself, giving himself a break from pacing his apartment. He wanted to clear his head from the constant thrumming of investigators, from the cycling and recycling of images and information from what was turning out to be the worst job he ever took.
It was about money. It was always about money. That’s why he did the work he did. Land one job and sit pretty for months until the next job walked in the door. Only this time, the promise of money was sweeter. And, like all these materialistic, shallow-hearted young professionals seated around him, he took the bait. He knew, like most everyone did on some level, that money wasn’t everything, it didn’t solve all your problems. Money can’t buy you happiness and all that bullshit. But when the opportunity for big bucks came knocking at his door, he answered it. You’re fucking right he did.
Promises of an increased bonus had been coming from Taber, in person and cryptically over the phone. They’d increased both in frequency and amount. The lure was over one hundred grand now—above and beyond his initial fee—enough to keep Calper comfortable for a long while. It wasn’t just the money tethering him to this one either. It was a job well done. That’s what got him the next job. Word of mouth, that he could be relied on, that he was loyal, that he could keep his mouth shut. The Hollywood elite, the ones who didn’t live in Hollywood, the ones who’d never be caught dead down on Melrose in an overpriced bistro, the ones with the big problems, the expensive problems, the ones who paid his tab—they counted on these qualities in Calper. It wasn’t lost on him that they were the same qualities that propelled one to success in organized crime. The most important of which—and the one most valued when it came to a recommendation—was keeping his mouth shut.
But in this case there was a mutual benefit. He pondered this as he ordered what he told himself would be his last pint before stumbling home. To break his code of silence now would surely mean a fusillade of felonies. His comfortable carefree life would be replaced by a prison cell, of this he was certain. He’d gone too far with this one, they’d dragged him past the point of no return. He was in bed with Stephan DeWildt, and now he was trying not to get fucked.
He woke in the bleary daylight with a dry mouth and a slow throb between his temples, the calculations and machinations of the night before blurred and faded. He’d come to important conclusions while walking home, but now they were gone like a deep-slumber dream.
He sat up sharply, realizing he was not in his bed. He was on the couch. The regret of causing himself a hangover of that magnitude had only begun to well up when his cell sounded with the sharp ting warning that his battery was low. He looked at it sitting on his coffee table and started up to get its charger, but promptly fell back into the couch. The phone pinged again and Calper exhaled an audible, “Fuck it.” He let his head fall back and listened to the slow steady drumbeat inside his ears.
He sat still there awhile, how long he couldn’t say, he may have even slept. The phone stopped pinging, it lay lifeless as a stone before him, and his mouth had gone from dry to absolutely parched, his lips close to cracking when he moved them. He had to pee but wasn’t sure if he had the ability to stand up and make it happen.
There was a loud buzz, the doorbell.
He realized that’s what woke him.
The door buzzer trilled again, electric with its vibration in the small apartment. On the third buzz—at least the third buzz he was aware of—he pulled himself up and lumbered toward the intercom beside the door.
“Yeah…”
“Mr. Dennings?” A woman’s voice.
He leaned into the wall with his forehead and poked at the intercom with his index finger. “Who is this?”
“I need to speak to you.”
“Okay.” Not sure if it came out as a question or a statement.
“This is Mr. Dennings, right?”
“That’s right.”
The intercom was silent for a moment before the voice said, “Well, can I come up?”
“It’s not the best time. What’s this regarding?”
“Mr. Dennings, I’ve traveled a long way to speak to you, I’d appreciate it if I could talk to you face to face.”
Calper heard himself growl, the low frequency purr that vibrates between energy and annoyance. “Who is this? Who am I talking to?”
The voice came through clear and bright. “My name is Linda Carson.”
Three brisk knocks. Calper opened the door.
“Come in, come in.” He swept his hand back and ushered her into the tiny apartment, pointing to the couch, the only place to sit down in the main room. “Have a seat.”
She dropped a large purse on the coffee table and pulled off her sunglasses, blinking at the dimness. Calper reached into the lampshade at the end table and clicked on additional light.
“How are you? How’s Gary?”
She sat and settled herself before answering. “He’s in a coma. Still. He’s been the same since that night. It’s been almost six weeks and he just lays there. They can’t tell me anything. Or maybe they won’t, I don’t know.”
Calper didn’t know how to respond, so he said, “I was just about to make some coffee. You want some?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Did I wake you?”
Calper tamped down his hair and stepped into the small kitchenette and began scooping coffee into the coffee maker. He spoke from the sink. “I had a late one last night. I’ve been kind of cooped up here since, you know, that night. I needed to get out, I guess.”
Linda leaned forward, taking in the space, not saying anything. She looked at the small table serving as a desk in the corner. It was stacked with papers and centered with an open laptop. She regarded the art on the walls, guessing not much thought was put into their purchase. A large TV sat dormant in front of her. No pictures, no bookshelves. She wondered if Calper Dennings actually lived here or if it was a temporary lease.
When the soft chug of the coffee machine began, he returned to the living room. He took the plastic chair from the makeshift desk and set it across the coffee table from Linda.
“It’s a little Spartan, I
know.”
She shrugged again.
“I haven’t seen you since, before. How’re you holding up?” He tried to keep his tone tender, sympathetic, but the gravel and phlegm knotted his efforts.
Linda looked directly at him. She didn’t speak for a moment and the tension between them was static but thick. Finally she said, “I need to speak to you.”
“I know.” He smiled although a grin felt inappropriate as soon as his lips curled. “That’s what you said when you were downstairs. How can I help you?”
“I want to know everything.”
Calper cleared his throat. “Everything?” He said it as though he wasn’t really sure of the definition of the word.
“I want to know why that man wanted to kill his son. I want to know why you were hired to kill Juliet and the baby. I want to know who that man was that shot my husband. I want to know—”
Calper held up his hands and said, “Wait a second. Slow down. What do you mean I was hired to kill a baby? What are you talking about?”
Linda told him about the phone calls she’d gotten from Russell. There were three of them, tortured calls each disintegrating into tears at the end. She told Calper what Russell had told her, about the baby, about the botched murder attempt, about Jason fleeing from his family. When she was finished, she said, “That’s why I want the rest of the story. I want to know what you know.”
The coffee maker had stopped its gurgling. Calper used the moment to stall. He got up and fetched two mismatched mugs from the cupboard and filled them. He took a carton of milk from the fridge and cradled it in his arm while he held the two mugs. He set them on the table and asked Linda if she wanted sugar.
“Milk’s fine,” she said.
When she’d dolloped hers, he took the carton and treated his own mug. “Well, it sounds like you know some things I don’t. I’m going to tell you this now, before this conversation goes any further, I had absolutely nothing to do with Juliet. I know about it, yeah. But I found out about it after it happened. Now what’s all this about a baby?”
“Russell said she was pregnant when it happened. That’s why it happened. That’s why all of it happened.”
Calper sat back in his chair, a montage of images flickering through his throbbing skull: when he was first asked to stake out Calper and Juliet, when his cover was blown for reasons he didn’t understand. He was starting to understand now.
Chapter Twenty-Six
What Jason remembered most about that day was the firemen. They were so nice to him. Letting him sit in their engine, ring the polished bell. They all seemed so strong and strange, like a gang of men who were exactly the same, all mustaches and uniforms. He liked the feeling, the attention. They didn’t ask him silly questions, they were concerned about how he felt, making sure he was comfortable, smiling.
He was in their truck awhile, until some paramedics took him by the arm and gently led him to an ambulance. Blue shirts and mustaches again. They told him the ambulance would take him home. He didn’t want to go back home again. He didn’t want to be alone in the house with his father.
He was home for only a few hours when his father called him to the study. The strong voice echoed in the house, enunciating his first name with two syllables—the way he did when he was angry. Jason didn’t answer at first, he wanted to stay where he was. The TV room was more of an oasis than ever. There’d been lots of people coming and going, and all of them wanted to rub his head or pat his back and say annoying things like, “Are you going to be a big boy for us?” And, “My, you’re almost a man now.” They brought endless food and spoke to his father in hushed tones, but never stayed very long. It was easy for Jason to avoid them by staying in the TV room.
His father kept calling, each time louder and angrier than the last, until, finally, Jason got up, leaving his toys on the floor, and walked the length of the house to his father’s den. By the time he’d reached the doorway, his father had retreated to his position of power behind the large mahogany desk.
Although it was midday, Jason’s father had dimmed the lights. The room was so dark, Jason had to let his eyes adjust, and even then his father’s face was shadowed.
“Sit down, Jason.”
He crawled onto one of the stuffed leather chairs that faced the desk and turned himself toward his dad, the leather squeaking as he shifted his body. He waited to be spoken to. His father leaned forward and folded his hands together, letting what little light there was spill onto his face, elongating the deep shadows.
“Do you understand what happened the other day at the beach?”
Jason thought about it a moment, wondered if it was one of his father’s trick questions. He shook his head.
“Your mother is sick. Terribly. I don’t know if you’ve even noticed, the way you spend your time locked away in that room, but she’s gotten worse.”
Jason wasn’t sure what that meant. The TV room wasn’t locked.
His father said, “She won’t be coming home.”
He didn’t say today or for a while, he only said she wouldn’t be coming home.
“Where is she?”
“She’s in a hospital. She’s going to live there now.”
Jason thought about this, tried to picture his mother living in a hospital bed. They didn’t let you smoke in hospitals, and she wouldn’t like that. She wouldn’t have her books or her kitchen. A sadness welled up in him and suddenly he missed her terribly. He wanted her to explain all this, not his father.
“Can I go visit her?”
“No.”
Then his father unfolded his hands and sat back in his big chair. He opened an envelope and held the paper inside to the light so he could read. Jason knew the paper had nothing to do with him or his mother, that this was the signal their talk was over. He climbed off the chair and made the leather squeak again. He glanced up to see if the noise displeased his father, but he didn’t look up. Jason quietly padded out of the room, back to the TV, back to his pretend world, back to the place he was in control.
Stephan DeWildt stood beside Taber watching Jason sleep. He was in his usual position, head back on the sofa, legs sprawled out on dirty plates and magazines on the table, the TV’s remote control clutched in his right hand. A loud snore snarled from his open mouth, the kind of snore punctuated with apnea, an unhealthy, unsteady growl that sounded more like he was being choked than getting any rest.
“You’d think with the way he eats those pills he’d overdose already,” Stephan said.
“It’d take a lot more than those pills to kill him off,” Taber said. “He’s got a mighty tolerance built up from the drugs he was doing on the street.”
“What if he was able to get some of those? The drugs he was doing, I mean.” Stephan regretted saying it as soon as the words left his mouth. Not because he was openly plotting to kill his son while he slept, but because he let Taber in on what he was thinking.
Taber knitted his brow as though he were considering what it’d take to knock off Jason. “You want my advice? Let him be. Let him get better. It took a lot of doing to get him out of jail and on that couch. There’re a lot of eyes on you right now. Any death, even an overdose, would be considered highly suspicious.”
“It’s your advice that got me into this mess in the first place.” Stephan turned away and walked into the kitchen and Taber followed.
“My advice? You’re saying this is somehow my fault.”
“Yes. I’m saying it’s entirely your fault. I had a plan. A simple plan. And you had to go and complicate it. All that bullshit about needing a fall guy. Martek never would’ve gotten caught. Now look where we are.”
Taber’s voice edged upward. “But he fucked it up, didn’t he? He botched the job. His incompetence is what started this whole thing rolling. Taking my advice is what’s going to save us in the end. Now at least we have some cover, some distance. Bringing that psychopath into any
more of your business was a mistake.”
“I understand you didn’t like the man, but he always served me well in the past.”
“Like the man? I didn’t know him. But it doesn’t take much to figure out he was a risk. A high risk.”
Stephan looked at Taber with disgust. “You fucked up. Admit it. Now we’ve got to clean house. And we’ve got to do it under the scrutiny of ten different law enforcement agencies, thanks to you. You want to help? You figure out a way to contain this mess without putting me in prison.” Stephan thrust a bent finger under Taber’s nose. “Because if I go down, you go down. And if you go down, I won’t be paying your legal fees.”
Calper rubbed his face with both hands. The cascade of information made his head throb even harder than before. The urge to escort the woman out and get to work on his own leads was overwhelming. She had more information for him, and he couldn’t send her on her way, not with what she thought she knew. Misinformation could do more damage than the truth if it came from a source like her. He needed to know how she intended to use her knowledge, and if the DeWildts had already reached out.
“Are you hungry?”
She raised her eyebrows like she hadn’t quite understood the question.
“I haven’t eaten,” he said. “You want to go get a bite? We can talk about this some more.”
Her chin twitched downward in tacit approval. She watched him get up and pour the remainder of his coffee down the sink. This wasn’t going as she’d planned. She wanted to show up and attack him with information, she envisioned herself grabbing Dennings by the shirt and throwing him up against a wall—demanding to know why he’d taken that young girl’s baby, what hand he’d had in trying to take her life. She didn’t expect the quiet acquiescence of this man. He denied trying to kill Juliet, and he assured her there was an explanation. He was likeable without being affable. He was believable.
“There’s a place down Melrose. They do kind of a brunch thing. It’s good. I was there last night.”