Usuality

by Thomas Mueller

  Johnson stretched, yawned, and then banged his hands down loudly on the table, causing the silverware to rattle.

  “Finish up your coffee. The man asked us to go, so we’re going.”

  Dale Two Trees stood up, eyes glued to the papers before him.

  “Tell me about this man, the one you say wore glasses.”

  “We were just heading out.”

  The smell of butter and bacon momentarily distracted Garrett. His stomach growled, reminding him that he couldn’t remember the last time that he’d eaten.

  “Tell me about the man with the glasses,” repeated Two Trees.

  Johnson sighed, but the satisfaction in his eyes said he had Two Trees dancing to the tune he wanted. “He’s six-one, skinny as a rattlesnake and with eyes like one, too. Drives a white panel van, license plate,” he looked at his phone and rattled off the number he had snapped a photo of. “Uses a homemade silencer, which would make sense if he did some sort of wet work for the government after the war— ”

  Two Trees gestured for silence. He studied the papers, then selected one of the three and brought it to Johnson. It was handwritten, the script crisp and straight as if the pen that wrote it had been used against a ruler. Johnson reached out for it, but Two Trees stared pointedly at his hand until Johnson withdrew it. Then he set the paper carefully down on their table.

  “Harlan Lang,” read Johnson, looking at the photo attached to the dossier. “That’s him. Is this address current?”

  “Do not ask questions you already know the answer to.”

  “He wasn’t in Wade’s unit.”

  “That is correct. You are the detective, you figure it out.”

  The Cuban, Arturo, came out then carrying four white paper bags.

  “Forty dollars,” he told them.

  Johnson looked at the others. When nobody offered to pay, he scowled, took out his wallet, and removed a pair of twenties. The Cuban and the twenties disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “I need one more piece of information,” said Johnson. “Wade’s cell number, and don’t tell me you don’t have it. Anything that potentially valuable, there’s no way you haven’t tracked it down.”

  Two Trees cleared his throat. Johnson, taking the hint, removed a third twenty, and held it out to the waiter. Two Trees shook his head and gestured to the table.

  Johnson put the twenty down next to the dossier, but Two Trees only stared at him.

  “What?”

  “My people know better than most when we are being cheated. It is why we build casinos; when the House cheats it is called Odds. It is better to be the House.”

  “Yeah well, sometimes you poke the bear...”

  Two Trees narrowed his eyes. He pointed at the table.

  Sighing, Johnson took out yet another twenty and put it down on top of the first, then a third.

  Two Trees recited a number from memory, then retrieved his hand-written profile and used it to scoop the money from the table in such a way that he did not actually have to touch the bills. “Go home,” he said. “Do not seek out this man Harlan Lang. I have had my eye on him for some time. If he has killed, he will kill again, and it will be you who he kills.”

  “He’s done this before?”

  Two Trees nodded. “Nothing was proven, but I believe so. Some men are too good at killing for the world not to find a use for them. Do not seek out this devil, you will be sorry.”

  Johnson grimaced. “A little late for that seeing as how he’s the one doing the seeking.”

  Dale Two Trees smiled an unpleasant smile. “Then I am sorry I did not take more of your money.”

  XXVII: A FOR-REAL LESBIAN

  “I cannot abide this type of creamer. Non-dairy creamers in general leave much to be desired. Their flavor is inferior, artificial-tasting. They do not compliment the coffee, but instead overpower it. And they do not mix properly. Look at this, like an oil slick upon the surface.”

  “Creamer is made for people who don’t like the taste of coffee to begin with.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Here’s my question: familiar as he is with my predilections, why would Rochester choose to stock my fridge with this abomination?”

  “It has a longer shelf life?”

  “Bah!”

  “Your assistant’s name isn’t Rochester, yet you insist on calling him that. Why?”

  “Why does everything have to mean something to you?”

  “Isn’t that what you pay me for?”

  “I say he’s Rochester, he’s Rochester. End of discussion. What’s the point of having more money than God if I can’t have real creamer for my coffee? What do I care if it spoils? I’ll buy a new one every day, I have to.”

  “Mr. Wade, it’s late. I’d really rather be back home with my family. What is it that’s so upset you it couldn’t wait for your usual appointment?”

  “You want more money, is that it? Done. Double your usual rate.”

  “That’s not the issue here.”

  “Triple, and don’t pretend you don’t have your price. We all do.”

  “I’m sure things will look better in the morning. Why don’t you sleep on it? If the trouble persists at your next appointment we can get to the bottom of it together.”

  “You’d better hope so. I can’t sleep. Two o’clock in the damn morning and I’m wide awake as—whadaya call it? Word that means you can’t sleep?”

  “Restless?”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Why is it you’re having trouble sleeping tonight, Mr. Wade?”

  “I...I don’t want to talk about it. You want a cup of coffee?”

  “Is it anything to do with your...unresolved issues?”

  “You think I sent for you in the middle of the night to discuss my childhood? Oh, right, I see what you mean. Yeah, you’re goddamn right it has to do with this fire burning in my loins.”

  “Fire for the...ah, woman across the way? Your neighbor.”

  “I got it bad for her, doc.”

  “And her, ah, situation. Has it changed?”

  “Do you think I’d be in this state if nothing had changed?”

  “Really? I’ll admit, I’m surprised. So she no longer finds herself attracted to other women?”

  “What? No, no, I didn’t mean that.”

  “Then she is still a homosexual.”

  “She’s not a for-real lesbian. Pay attention, doc. I told you about this last time. I know her secret.”

  “Her secret?”

  “Why she’s funny in the head, why she likes women.”

  “Ah, yes. I see it here in my notes. Something about a traumatic event in her past, that you believe contributed to her—”

  “I didn’t ask you here to patronize me, doc.”

  “What would you like me to say?”

  “I’d like you to pay attention. That’s your job, isn’t it? I pay you to listen, so listen. She was confused as a child. Came out to her best friend after her sixteenth birthday party, tells the poor girl—her name was Rachel—tells her she’s been in love with her since they were kids. Naturally, such a revelation causes her friend great distress. She tries to run away, but Michelle, Ms. Lyon, she reaches out to stop her, wants to talk, make her understand. She grabs her friend, pulls her off-balance. The gardener says she pushed her, she didn’t pull her, but I don’t think that’s how it happened. So anyway, the friend falls, hits her head on a brick planter beside the path, and that’s all she wrote. Dies right there in Ms. Lyon’s arms. The father, Mr. Lyon, paid the right people to wash her slate clean, but like I said, the gardener was there, saw the whole thing. Never told a soul.”

  “I’m still unclear how you managed to discover—”

  “You think I spend all my money on coffee creamer? I have a whole staff of people do this sort of thing for me. You dig deep enough, talk to the right people, you discover what there is to know about a person. When you care for someone like I care about Ms. Lyon, you naturally do what you ca
n to find out their secrets.”

  “And you enticed this gardener to break his silence...monetarily?”

  “I gave him an early retirement. He’s taking care of a plot of daisies for me.”

  “How delightful. Tell me about what’s going on.”

  “You mean about what happened tonight?”

  “I mean what happened tonight, yes.”

  “Then say what you mean, doc. For Chrissakes, I’m dying here. Listen: you remember how I told you that, ever since the murder, Ms. Lyon has gone to ridiculous trouble to conceal her, ah, sexual preferences?”

  “That she’s a ‘not-for-real’ lesbian?”

  “Are you patronizing me again?”

  “Not at all. You think murdering the girlfriend she was in love with was the event that made her attracted to women in the first place.”

  “Maybe she was confused as a kid. Hell, I don’t know. But when something like that happens, it changes you. Even if you do have your head on straight in the first place, which she didn’t. Look, doc, I was in the War. I met Death, shook his frigid hand. You look the Grim Reaper in the eye, you can bet your insides get all tossed out of sorts. Changes your perspective. Wealth and power, those can change your perspective, too.”

  “You believe she’s spent her whole life covering up her sexuality out of guilt?”

  “Bingo.”

  “And now she’s well-respected and financially successful...yes, I think I see. Fascinating. Her ego is rebelling against her years of self-enforced secrecy. She feels deserving now, entitled, perhaps even a little arrogant, yet still trapped by her childhood demons. Conflicted. From a clinical standpoint—”

  “She leaves the curtains wide open when she’s got ladies over. They do things in full view of God and everybody, like she wants me to see her.”

  “What for others might be considered reckless behavior is consistent with her narcissistic tendencies. She’s tempting fate, trying to affirm this newly perceived control she has over her own destiny, never realizing she held power over it the entire time. She might go even further. She could be dangerous to herself and those around her. She could feel it is her prerogative, that she’s owed something for her years of self-imposed denial. And if she believes she’s already committed murder—”

  “So you’re saying it’s a cry for help.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Sounds to me like you are. See, I want to help her, doc. That’s what you do for somebody you care about. If they have problems, you make those problems go away. That’s what happened tonight; somebody else found out her secret. Have you seen the news?”

  “No, I had been asleep. Why?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Does it have anything to do with those police in the lobby?”

  “I said never mind. This is my dime we’re on. My dime, my time. We talk about what I want to talk about, understand?”

  “I understand perfectly, Mr. Wade.”

  “Good, that’s good. What you said earlier concerns me. She’s no danger to anybody, is that clear? I don’t want you thinking it’s your doctorly duty to tell the police about any of this. I wouldn’t be at all happy if you decided to do that.”

  “You pay me for my discretion. And I have my professional pride.”

  “Fine, fine. If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “You said you wanted to help her? How?”

  “Already done. I called in an associate who’s sorting things out.”

  “Sorting things out?”

  “My associate fixes things. The people who found out about her secret tonight, they’re a threat to her. I care for her, that means I gotta have her back in a pinch. It’s only natural. And watching out for her means protecting her secret. But here’s my problem, doc. She won’t know it was me who saved her. I can be her white knight, but she’ll never know.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “How do you think it makes me feel?”

  “Frustrated.”

  “So what should I do? Should I tell her? Show her I’m the last of a dying breed, a gentleman.”

  “That’s not...she might react unpredictably.”

  “Your big fancy degree tell you that? Anybody might react unpredictably to any old goddamn thing.”

  “If you tell her and she doesn’t take it well—”

  “Then at least I’ll sleep in peace. This will work, it has to. I’ll call her in the morning. Better yet, I’ll tell her in person.”

  “But Mr. Wade—”

  “I owe you one, doc. I’ll send my associate around tomorrow with a little bonus. That will be all. Rochester will see you out, he’s leaving for the night anyhow.”

  XXVIII: OTHER PEOPLE’S BULLSHIT

  “What’s the story with you and him?”

  They were seated at the curb, eating breakfast sandwiches from the white paper bags the Cuban had provided. Down the street the occupants of the Thunderbird were standing beside their car, voices louder than they needed to be. The car’s doors were open, its radio cranked up. The bumper had a Stanford sticker on it, and by the way they were going at their bag-wrapped bottle, the driver and his buddies would be fighting hangovers at class in the morning if they managed to make it to out of bed at all. It was a regular party, and Garrett was half-surprised Marin hadn’t taken it in her head to join them. Like a bug drawn inexorably to a zapper, thought Garrett, if all that zapper wanted to do was dance and get high and never sleep again.

  The air smelled of rain, and the food filled Garrett with a sense of wellbeing. It had more grease than a leading man could afford to consume in an entire week, but he felt a surprising absence of guilt. He and Reagan sat pressed close to one another. The touch of her filled his world. She was wearing his tux jacket again, but he was neither cold nor tired and he felt happier than he had in ages.

  All it had taken was somebody trying to kill them.

  Johnson tore open a packet of ketchup and squeezed some out. “What story? You mean Dale Two Trees? It’s just one of those things. We crossed paths a while back.”

  Reagan finished her sandwich. Garrett handed her the rest of his and suddenly they were back in art class sharing lunch and he didn’t know quite how to reconcile the people they had become and the lives they now led with the fact that none of the rest of it seemed quite as important as sharing his sandwich at two in the morning with this woman he had known for over half his life.

  “Are you from the Bay Area?” he asked Johnson.

  “I buy you breakfast and now you want to fuck?” The detective sucked the last of the ketchup from the packet. “Fine, you want my life story, you got it. Born and raised in wine country. Only child. How do I feel about that? Wouldn’t have had it any other way. I hated people back then almost as much as I hate people today. Went to a Catholic school and learned that God hated people too. Married, divorced, no casualties. Married to the Corps for a tour, divorced, more than a few casualties. How do I feel about that? I think I did some good. Not that anyone will ever believe it thanks to your lot.” Garrett assumed he meant actors. “Since then I’ve been investigating other people’s penny-ante bullshit and getting paid for it. Now it would seem I’ve transitioned to cleaning up other people’s bullshit and not getting paid for it. I’m not even going to try to puzzle that one out.”

  “What happens now?” said Garrett.

  Johnson got to his feet. “Now we get some sleep.”

  “Why couldn’t we have just done that in the first place?” Reagan looked at the college students by the Thunderbird with unease. It had been a risk coming here. If anybody recognized Garrett from the news...

  “Because I don’t know how to get in touch with Dale Two Trees during the day, and I suspect nobody else in this city does either.” Johnson climbed into his VW. A second later he poked his head back out again and said, “By the way, Little Miss Cheerful is gone.”

  XXIX: A CAGE TO CATCH OUR DREAMS

  It had been a lon
g night for Julia Ocampo-Stolzman.

  The microwave dinged. Water for her third cup of Lipton was ready.

  She hated tea. People assumed that, since she looked Asian, tea was somehow her birthright, like being good at math or using chopsticks. She was half-Filipino and terrible at calculus, but she’d discovered in college that what she was gifted at was creative writing. She had played up the stereotype, taking the pen name of Jade Sun after she’d found it less than lucrative writing pseudonymous porn novels under the European-flavored alias Evelynn Belletreaux. She wanted more than modest success out of life, and anyone in Hollywood who wanted any kind of success at all needed an angle. The ethnic angle was best nowadays and, luckily for her, she looked the part.

  Leo Stolzman, her father, had been a Spanish-German electrical engineer who’d left Julia, her mother, and her younger sister in San Francisco when Julia was eleven. Years later, she more fully understood the irony that it had been her father who had moved back to the Philippines, where he had met her mother, leaving the family he’d brought to America behind. But she was glad to stay. America was where dreams came true, especially if you didn’t look too American. And so her father’s only saving grace had been his genes, which hadn’t been particularly dominant in either her or her sister.

  Except for not liking tea, hot or iced, she had the Asian thing down. But tea didn’t work for her. She was a coffee person. The problem was that right then coffee reminded her of William. Of his death and, worse, the death of her big chance at Hollywood Success. Why couldn’t he have waited until after the deal for their screenplay had been finalized before dying under suspicious circumstances? For that matter, why had she allowed him to put his name on the damn thing at all? That he would sabotage her like this from beyond the grave was unconscionable.

  Although, strictly speaking, it hadn’t been his fault. She knew from the news reports who was to be blamed.

  Garrett Lindsay: Person of Interest.

  The man had been the bane of her existence since he’d entered her life the previous afternoon. He’d nearly wrecked their pitch. How he’d managed to finagle his way into delivering the all-important singing telegram was beyond her. And, afterward, he’d laid in wait to murder her partner as the other man was leaving. The whole scene played out vividly in her writer’s brain. Garrett, in a fit of jealous passion, had killed the man he perceived to be standing between him and the woman of his dreams: Jade.