Not Sinatra.
Neil Diamond.
He went inside the law office, came back out a few minutes later holding a manila envelope, unlocked a silver Mercedes using his key fob, the lights blinking twice, disappeared inside, started it up, rolled back across the street to the parking lot. A woman came walking out of the old man’s hotel room then—she looked young, maybe sixteen—met the old guy in the parking lot, got in the passenger side of the car, pulled away. Five minutes later, the Benz was parked in the Royal Californian’s lot and the old man was headed back into the hotel, which is when he spotted Shane up on his perch.
“You always stand around at dawn watching people?”
“Just having a smoke,” Shane said, “while I contemplate which car to steal.”
“Why not just get an Uber?”
Shane pointed at the man’s Benz. “German engineering has always appealed to me, but as a Jew, it feels shameful. So you’re safe.” Shane telling him he was a Jew to put him at ease, no one ever felt scared of Jews, but also just to see how he reacted, Kales seeming like a Jewish last name. Shane flicked his cigarette butt over the balcony. It landed, still smoking, a few feet away from the man. “You mind stepping on that for me?” Shane pointed at his own foot. “I’m down a limb.”
The old man scratched his stomach absently but didn’t make a move to the cigarette. “You here for a court date?”
“No,” Shane said. “Not today.”
“You need a lawyer, I’m right across the street, as I think you know.”
“How much for a murder defense?” Shane asked, but he laughed, a big joke, two guys at dawn, bullshitting.
“Less than you’d think.” Terry walked over to the butt, stepped on it, cocked his head sideways to get a better look at Shane’s foot up above him. “Looks like self-defense to me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shane said.
“I keep office hours at Cactus Pete’s.” He pointed at the bar attached to the Royal Californian. “Be there until at least six thirty. I’ll buy you a drink, we can talk about your case.”
“I’m innocent.”
“Yeah,” Terry said, “that’s what we’ll tell ’em.”
Shane couldn’t tell if Cactus Pete’s had a seventies kitsch design aesthetic or if it just hadn’t changed since that decade. He’d never been in a bar that had shag carpeting. The VIP area, set off from the tiny dance floor and deejay booth by an actual red-velvet rope, had high-backed booths that reminded Shane fondly of the Angus, Terry Kales sitting in the biggest one, sipping on a glass of something brown, papers spread out in front of him, a cell phone to his ear, another cell phone and his car keys keeping his papers from blowing away, the overhead fans working overtime to keep the room cool. He didn’t look up when Shane walked in, at least as far as Shane could tell, which was hard because Terry had on sunglasses, the bar’s windows flooding the room with bright light.
It was just before three. Tomorrow at this time, he’d be in the clear. That was the hoped-for result. He’d found a 99 Cents Only store two blocks away, limped his ass over there, his foot on fire, picked up a change of clothes, some sunglasses, a Padres baseball cap. Went next door to the Circle K, got his disposable phone. He was about out of cash now, but he’d figure that out. This old man? He’d probably had a good enough life.
On the dance floor, a woman was setting up for karaoke, and for reasons Shane could not fathom, there was a guy dressed as a clown sitting at the bar. Green hair. Red nose. Striped pants. Big red shoes. Stars-and-stripes shirt and vest. Back of the vest, embroidered in rhinestones, it said HERMIETHECLOWN.COM. He had a cup of coffee and a Desert Sun, the local paper, reading the sports page. Shane sat down at the bar but kept a stool between himself and Hermie.
“Get you something?” the woman setting up the karaoke asked. She was younger than Terry, older than the clown, somewhere on the plus side of fifty. She had on a tank top that showed off her shoulders—muscular, but lean—and a full sleeve of tattoos down her right arm. Shane saw two names—Charlotte and Randy—amid flowers, sunsets, and spiderwebs. She had a name tag pinned above her left breast that said Glory.
“Was wondering what time the show was,” Shane said.
“Six,” Glory said. “You sing?”
“Yeah.”
“We have a lot of regulars, so sign up early.”
“Truth is, I was wondering if I could warm up first.” When Glory didn’t respond, Shane said, “I’m staying here.”
“Room?”
“204,” he said. “On account of my foot. Gotta have surgery in the morning. Just trying to have one last good night before I get the knife.” He looked over at the clown. “Unless you’ve got first dibs.”
“He don’t speak,” Glory said, “or sing.”
The clown nodded in the affirmative.
Glory leaned over the bar and examined Shane’s foot. So did the silent clown, who blew lightly on a whistle he kept around his neck, which Shane found disconcerting. He slid his flip-flop off, wiggled his toes.
“You can’t be in here without a shoe on,” Glory said.
“Just letting it breathe,” Shane said.
Glory nodded solemnly, like they’d come to some agreement about life. “What’s your song?”
“I mix it up,” Shane said, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Terry slide his sunglasses down his nose, “but mostly Neil Diamond.”
Shane was midway through “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon” when Terry came over and stood next to the clown; Terry had tears streaming down his face. Terry and the clown swayed back and forth together, Shane digging down deep for the end, telling that girl, sooooooooon you’ll need a man, giving it some real soul, some real pathos.
“Again,” Terry said, and tossed Shane a fifty, so he did it again, Terry breaking down in full sobs this time, clearly going through some shit. When he finished, Terry said, “One more, your pick,” and then went and sat back in his booth, the clown following him. Shane went with “Song Sung Blue.” When he was finished, Terry motioned him over to his table.
“You really having surgery?” Terry asked once they were all comfortable in the sweaty half-moon banquette, Terry’s shit spread out everywhere, Shane eyeing his car keys, his plan coming into full focus, Hermie busy on his phone, answering texts. Popular fucking clown. “I heard you talking to Glory.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “At the hospital up the street.” He’d seen it in the brochure. It was named for John F. Kennedy, which Shane thought was some bad presidential juju.
“Good hospital,” Terry said. “All of my best clients have died there.”
“Like the girl this morning?”
“That was my daughter.”
“Really?” Really.
“Yeah,” Terry said, “I’ve got limited visitation at the moment, so I take what I can get.”
“Okay,” Shane said, not sure if he believed him. “What about you, Hermie? Any kids?”
Hermie looked up from his phone, shook his head no.
Thank God.
“Can I give you some legal advice?” Terry said. “Jew to
Jew.”
“Mazel tov,” Shane said.
“You’ve clearly been shot in the foot. In about two hours, when the courthouse closes? This bar is gonna fill up with off-duty cops, DAs, public defenders, judges, and expert-witness types. You should be gone by then.”
“That is good advice,” Shane said. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“When it all comes down,” Terry pointed at a television above the bar, the sound off, running Fox News, “they’ll take us both.”
“Apart from that.”
“You have the natural ability to make a person feel something, you know? That’s special.” Terry adjusted his sunglasses, Shane thinking maybe he was getting a little teary-eyed again, or maybe he just liked the Jim Jones vibe he was giving off. “Sometimes a song, sung by the right person, it’ll touch you. You touched me up there just
now. I don’t know. Maybe I’m drunk.”
Hermie nodded vigorously.
“You saw my daughter? Her mother,” Terry said, “won’t have me in the house, which is why I’m in this situation over here. ‘Girl,’ that was our song. Our wedding song. Seems dumb, no?”
“People pick terrible songs for their weddings,” Shane said, and then told Terry about his job working weddings, all the times he sang “Wild Horses” for newlyweds.
“No one listens anymore,” Terry said. “Words used to mean something.” He looked over at Hermie. “No offense.”
Hermie shrugged.
“Anyway,” Terry said, “you seem like a nice guy in a bad situation. So. Maybe I can help you. Do you want help?”
“I could use a friend,” Shane said.
“I could be a friend.” Terry reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, slid a business card over to Shane. One side was in English, the other in Spanish, but both were for a dentist named Marco Degolado in Los Algodones, Baja California, right over the Mexican border, according to the thumbnail map printed on the card.
“You got any warrants?” Terry asked.
“No,” Shane said.
“That’s two hours from here. Two exits before Yuma. Easy in and out of Mexico, all the snowbirds go there for dental care when they’re down here. They’re liberal with their opiates and antibiotics in Mexico.” Shane nodded. “Dr. Degolado knows his way around minor surgery as well. He’s a friend too.” Shane nodded again. His foot was killing him. “Let me make a call.”
“You’d do that?”
“You walk into JFK with that,” Terry said, “you won’t walk out.”
Shane looked over at Hermie. He gave Shane an affirmative nod. What the fuck went on in that guy’s fucking mind?
“All right,” Shane said. “Set it for tomorrow afternoon?”
“What’s your name?”
Shane thought for a moment. “My friends,” he said, “call me Gold Mike.”
“What do you want the doctor to call you?”
“Mike Voski.”
Terry picked up his cell phone. “Give me five minutes,” he said, and then headed outside, which gave Shane a chance to casually snatch up Terry’s car keys from the table. He turned and looked out the window to where Terry’s Benz was parked, around the corner from where Terry stood, hit the unlock button, watched the car’s lights blink twice, set the keys back down.
Hermie the Clown didn’t utter a word, so Shane said, “You a monk or something?”
Hermie stared at Shane for a few seconds, then said, out loud, “You ever meet a chatty clown?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“That’s part of the game.” He reached over and picked up the car keys. Hit the button. Lights flashed again. Locked.
“How about I give you fifty dollars and we call it even?” Shane said.
Hermie said, “How about everything you’ve got in your wallet?”
Shane had his gun tucked under his shirt and could have, he supposed, shot Hermie, done him like Han Solo did Greedo, but Shane wasn’t yet the unprovoked murdering type. “Not gonna be much more than fifty.” He dug out his wallet, pulled out everything, set it on the table, sixty-seven bucks.
Hermie took it all. “Not personal, you understand.”
“Just two guys doing business,” Shane said.
Hermie stood up then, gathered up all his belongings, then pulled out his own business card, everyone in this fucking place the kings of Vista Print, apparently. It said:
HERMIE THE CLOWN
Parties. Charity Events. Private Functions. Restaurant &
Bar PR.
NO KIDS 18 + ONLY
SEE WEBSITE FOR RATES/CELEBRITY PHOTOS
Hermietheclown.com
Phone: 760-CLOWN-69
E-mail: [email protected]
“I’ll be back in a few days,” Hermie said. “If you’re coming back.”
“I’m coming back.”
“You’d be good in the clown game. You’ve got a nice presence.”
“Thanks,” Shane said.
“I got my teeth capped in Los Algodones. Can’t have janky teeth and be a clown. Freaks people out. Terry hooked me up.” Hermie went silent again, like he was trying to get Shane to ask him a question.
“And then what?” Shane finally said.
“And then I have to do Terry favors, periodically. Drop things off. Take out the garbage sometimes. Clean up his room. Favors. So, if you’re not willing to do that, I’d say keep moving, hoss.”
There it was.
“He really Jewish?” Shane asked.
“His brother was a rabbi,” Hermie said.
“Was?”
“Died.”
“Natural causes?”
“I didn’t ask for an autopsy.”
“Out here?”
“Las Vegas,” Hermie said. “Everyone here is always trying to get to Las Vegas, everyone in Las Vegas is always trying to get somewhere else, no one happy to be any one place.”
“You make a lot of sense, for a clown.”
“You’d be surprised what a guy can learn by staying quiet.” He looked outside, where Terry was still on the phone. “My Uber is here.” Hermie stood there for a moment, shifting back and forth in his big red shoes. “He doesn’t have a daughter,” Hermie said, then closed a giant, exaggerated zipper across his mouth, locked it, tossed away the key, and walked silently back out into the heat of the day. Hermie bumped fists with Terry, got into a waiting Prius, and drove off.
Shane unlocked the Benz again.
Terry came back in a few minutes later. “You’re all set, Gold Mike,” he said.
“What do I owe you?” Shane asked.
“Doctor will have a couple prescriptions for you to bring back.”
“That all?”
“Well,” Terry said, “you’ll need to go back for a follow-up. In which case, I might have something for you to deliver. Could be you come to find you like Mexico.”
“I’m gonna need wheels.”
“You beam here?”
“No,” Shane said. “Car broke down. It won’t be fixed for at least a week.”
Terry tapped a pen against his lips. “Okay,” he said. “How about I have Enterprise drop off a car for you. Nothing fancy, you understand. What do you have for collateral?”
Shane pondered this for a moment, then reached under his shirt and put his gun the table.
Shane waited until Cactus Pete’s was in full swing to make his move. Terry wasn’t kidding about the clientele: a steady stream of men with brush cuts and tucked-in polo shirts were followed by men and women in business suits, mostly of the off-the-rack variety, not a lot of tailored sorts doing time in Indio’s courthouse. Terry came out a couple times to take phone calls, cops and attorneys greeting him as they passed by, Shane watching from his window as they all glad-handed each other.
Shane took Gold Mike’s head, hands, and feet out of the safe, refilled the freezer bag with some fresh ice to help with the smell, zipped the bag back up, and headed downstairs. It was about seven, the sun still up, at least 105 degrees, and Shane saw that there were now anthill mounds rising up through the cracks in the parking lot pavement. The lot was full, a dozen Ford F-150s with American flags and 1199 Foundation stickers in the window, a couple Lexuses, a few BMWs, another five nebulous American cars, a surprising number of motorcycles, a couple Benzes. There was a Mexican kid, maybe six or seven, sitting on the tailgate of an F-150 parked next to Terry’s Benz, eating a Popsicle, playing on his phone. Shane’s rental, a white Ford Fiesta, was parked next to Terry’s Benz.
“You staying here?” Shane asked the kid.
“On the other side of the fairgrounds.” The kid pointed beyond the courthouse and jail.
Shane looked down the block. There was, in fact, a giant county fairground right next to the jail and courts. Across the street was an A-frame Wienerschnitzel cut-and-pasted from the 1970s, a fire
station, an Applebee’s, a used car lot. He tried to imagine what it would be like to grow up here. Figured it was like anywhere else. Either you lived in a happy home or you lived in a shitty one.
“You should go home,” Shane said. “It’s late.”
“My dad works at the jail,” the kid said.
“Oh yeah?”
“He’s inside having a drink.”
“What’s he do there,” Shane said, “at the jail?”
“Something with computers.”
So probably not a cop. That’s good. “You see anything weird here?”
The kid looked at Shane for a few seconds, like he couldn’t be sure of his answer, then said, “I saw a clown. Like in that movie.”
“What movie?”
“I didn’t see it,” the kid said. “But my cousin? He saw it and said it was fucked up.”
Shane looked around but didn’t see Hermie. “Recently? The clown I mean.”
“Couple minutes, I guess.”
Odd.
“You do me a favor?” Shane asked.
“I’m not supposed to talk to anyone,” the kid said, “cuz my dad says the East Valley is filled with criminals and pedos and losers and that’s just who he works with.”
“Yeah, that’s smart.” Shane pointed at his foot. He’d wrapped it in a towel and then taped his flip-flop to it, so he could walk around a bit better. It looked absurd. “Could you just run over and get me a bucket of ice from the front desk?”
The kid looked at Shane’s foot. “What happened?”
“Stepped on a nail.”
“Must have been pretty big.”
“You do this for me or not?”
The kid slid off the back of the truck and headed to the hotel’s lobby, which gave Shane the chance to pop open the unlocked trunk of Terry’s Benz, drop the freezer bag in, and then close it.
* * *
Shane got in the Fiesta—it smelled weird inside, like vinegar and shoe leather and wet newspapers—started it up, turned left on Highway 111 out of the hotel, so he wouldn’t pass Cactus Pete’s, since he’d told Terry he wasn’t leaving until the morning, then kept going, driving west into the setting sun, his left foot inside a bucket of ice. He rolled past the presidents—Monroe, Madison, Jefferson—then was in La Quinta—Adams, Washington—and into Indian Wells, then Palm Desert, just another snowbird in a rental car, could be anyone, so he opened the Fiesta’s moon roof, let some air in, get that weird smell out. Then he was in Rancho Mirage, passing Bob Hope Drive, then rolling by Frank Sinatra Drive, Shane starting to feel like he’d gotten away with it, so he took out his burner, called the anonymous Crime Stoppers hotline, was patched through.
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