Marked Man

by William Lashner

  “It was her idea,” said Purcell. “As soon as she saw Hugo, she realized how to do it. He was the same size as the old man, same build and coloring. And the old man was the only one who didn’t have to sign in and out of the building. She swiped a suit and hat, did the makeup herself, taught him how to walk, how to stoop, how to ignore the guards like the old man ignored the guards. While she was out with the old man in the garden, Hugo went in a different exit and then went straight to a closet and hid until the time was right to let the rest of us in.”

  “And you made off with a fortune.”

  “Not quite a fortune. She had been overoptimistic, and some of the jewels we were counting on had been out that night. And then, of course, we knew from the start that the paintings couldn’t be sold. They were too famous to be worth anything.”

  “So why did you take them?”

  “One for her, all she wanted from the deal, a sentimental gesture she said. And one for us, our ace in the hole to deal our way out of trouble if it turned bad. Always have a backup plan, kid, or the vultures here will eat you alive.”

  “And you left your ace in the hole with Charlie?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. With Charlie.”

  “Why with him?”

  “Had to be somebody. Look, I didn’t have much choice. After Ralph melted down the gold and I had a fence look over everything, we were picking up only about seventy thou. Enough for me to make my start, but not enough for an even split. So I took it all and ran. The others would have pissed it away in any event, I knew that. Ralph on girls, Joey on cars, Charlie in a futile attempt to run from his mother. They were trapped. I still had a chance. So I took it all and bought my opportunity.”

  “Tony in Love.”

  “It was a big hit, kid. It put me on the map. I didn’t just sell the property, though they wanted to buy me out. Instead I bargained my way into a three-picture deal, my own production company, an office on the studio lot, my place at the table. I been eating there ever since.”

  I pushed my quail away, the meat stripped from the fragile array of bones. “Eating on the carcass of your old friendships.”

  “Eating on the carcass of my old life. Teddy Pravitz didn’t have it in him to screw his pals like that. But Teddy Pravitz was nothing but a bartender in some cheap Del Rey dive. I ate his corpse and grew into someone new. I had my name legally changed, just in case the old crowd started looking for me, and I became what I dreamed. That’s what it takes in this world, kid. You put everything on the line and see where it ends up.”

  “And that’s why you got scared it was all going up in smoke when word reached you that Charlie wanted to barter the painting for a get out-of-jail card.”

  “Scared is not the word.”

  “Terrified?”

  “No, you don’t get it. I saw an opportunity to help out my old pals. I had already put Hugo through law school, helped him change his name, set him up at that big firm of his. I figured buying the painting and letting the others split the proceeds was an easy way to give the three of them the payoff they had been waiting for without tipping my hand. Let them all retire in high style.”

  “So you sent in Lavender Hill to make a deal.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you were going to buy the painting.”

  “You got it.”

  “With what? I look around here and I see rooms empty of furniture, I see a pool without a pool boy, a yard gone wild, I see a man on the edge of financial ruin.”

  “It’s an up-and-down business, kid. I’m down right now, sure, but I’ve had more comebacks than Lazarus. And I got a new film coming out that’s going to make a bundle.”

  “But if you’re down now, how were you going to pay the money you were promising Charlie?”

  “I worked it out. There’s a Swiss banker who dabbles in the movies and the arts. He’ll be putting the painting above his fireplace.”

  “And you’ll get your cut.”

  “God bless America.”

  “What about the murders?”

  “Yeah, what about them? Who’s doing the killing?”

  “You.”

  He shook his head. “Not my doing, kid. They were once my friends, all of them. I only wanted to help. Best I can figure it, the killings are all about Charlie. He fell into some bad company after our little deal. His old gang doesn’t want him to come home and talk, that’s the story. It’s why I want him to take Lavender’s offer and stay away. That’s why I let you into my house, to convince you to convince him to take the offer and save his life.”

  “That’s what you want?”

  “You got it. Make the deal, send him to some far-off place. Belize, maybe. You ever been to Belize?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Nice place to retire, I hear.”

  “Not really,” I said. “And why do I have the feeling, Theodore, that as soon as you find my client, he’s going to end up as limber as Ralph and Hugo?”

  “Don’t be a fool. They were my friends. Why on earth would I want to kill my friends?”

  “Because of Chantal.”

  He sat back, stared at me for a moment with those big blue eyes framed by his oversized glasses. “It’s a little insane to tattoo on your chest the name of a girl you never met, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I admire the hell out of that. You might have the makings of a producer after all. But tell me, kid, what’s the point?”

  “I guess it’s so I don’t forget.” I lifted my wineglass and waved it about. “So I don’t get swayed by luxury and recreation.”

  “You’re her avenging angel, is that it?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  He laughed. “It’s almost romantic, kid, except you got the wrong idea about everything.”

  “You said Chantal was the best part of your story,” said Monica. “What did you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said. You think I created my new life only on a crime, but you’re wrong. There was something heroic, too. I didn’t hurt your sister, I saved her. Gave her the life she always dreamed of.”

  “We’re supposed to believe that?” I said.

  “Lou,” he called out, “let’s get on with dessert. I got a date tonight. She’s twenty-four. The jaw of a wrestler, but twenty-four. And she wants to be in the movies. Imagine that.”

  “You don’t really think you can just brush us off with your bland assurances, do you?” I said.

  “If I thought that, you wouldn’t be here, kid.”

  “Then tell us what happened to Chantal.”

  “Why ask me? Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Chantal?” said Monica.

  “Sure, kid. How about tomorrow? Afternoon good? I’ll set it up. About time you met your sister, don’t you think?”

  55

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” said Monica Adair.

  “That’s my line,” I said.

  “No, really. Stop the car. I need to get out. Please.”

  “We’re on an L.A. freeway, Monica. If we stop the car in the middle of the highway, someone will shoot us.”

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

  “Calm down.”

  “I can’t calm down. I’m having a heart attack right here in this crappy rent-a-car.”

  “But I got the premium model. It set me back an extra seventy-five bucks a day.”

  “My arm. I’m seeing lights.”

  “That’s the sun glinting off all the bumpers. You’re having a panic attack, Monica. You’re going to be fine.”

  “How are you so certain? Are you a doctor?”

  “If I were a doctor, I’d be better at golf. I like golf. Not so much the game, which is actually a little silly, but the outfits. Sweater vests, white gloves, plaid pants.”

  “Shut up, Victor.”

  “You don’t approve of plaid pants?”

  “There should be a law against plaid pants.”

 
; “It’s the state pant of Connecticut, did you know that?”

  “Why are we talking about plaid pants?”

  “Because you’re having a panic attack, and nothing cures a panic attack as quickly as garish men’s attire.”

  “Is that why you wear that tie?”

  “Keeps my anxiety level low.”

  “Well, if I am having a panic attack, can you blame me?”

  “No, not really,” I said. “Panic away.”

  “It just, I think this might be the most important moment in my life.”

  “Or not.”

  “I’m meeting Chantal. Finally, after all these years. I’m meeting my sister.”

  “Or not.”

  “I am,” she said. “It’s her. I can feel it. All this time she’s been silently communicating with me. And through the tattoo and the missing painting and all the mess in Philadelphia, she’s been drawing me to her.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been simpler if she called?”

  “Don’t be silly, Victor. That’s not the way saints work. They don’t just pick up the telephone or send e-mail. They give mysterious messages, they place barriers in your way, they require you to move toward them on faith and faith alone.”

  “And your sister’s a saint?”

  “Why not?”

  “If you have such faith, then why are you so nervous?”

  “What if I’m not good enough? What if she rejects me? Victor, don’t tell her what I do. Promise me you won’t.”

  “I promise.”

  “I work in a law office. I’m dating a nice young man. I have a dog.”

  “But you do have a dog.”

  “Victor.”

  “Monica, tell her whatever you want to tell her. That’s between you and her. I’m just there to listen.”

  “You don’t believe in her. Still.”

  “What did I tell you about him?”

  “But maybe he’s telling the truth?”

  “And maybe fish fly and birds swim.”

  “But they do, don’t they? It’s a matter of faith, Victor. Do you believe in anything?”

  “Pain and money. Everything else has disappointed me.”

  “That’s sad. Really. No, really. You should get some help, something to change your outlook on your life. Maybe a tan, for starters.”

  “What do you believe in, Monica?”

  “Chantal.”

  “You want to know something strange? In my own way, so do I.”

  The address Purcell gave us was in West Hollywood, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. It was one of those beige apartment complexes they don’t have on the East Coast, places with names too fancy for the building, with two levels of bland apartments surrounding a small, cloudy swimming pool, with a tattooed super and rusted wrought-iron railings and the old, pale-faced lady in apartment 22 who clutches her housecoat as she answers the door for the liquor-delivery boy and tells him she was once in a movie with Jean Harlow, yes, Jean Harlow, a real star, not like these skinny little waifs they have today. The place was called the Fairway Arms, though the nearest golf course was twelve blocks south.

  The two visitor spots in the underground lot were taken, so we parked where we could, space 22 to be exact. No harm, I figure, since the old lady’s car had probably been repossessed in 1959. At the complex’s front entrance, Monica danced around a bit and then finally pressed the button for apartment 17.

  Monica was about to press it again when a voice came from the speaker. “Who’s there?” A female voice, strangely familiar.

  Monica froze, unable to respond, her hand still reaching for the button like the hand of Michelangelo’s Adam reaching toward the white-haired guy.

  “Mr. Purcell sent us,” I said into the speaker. “We’re here to see Chantal?”

  “There’s only the two of you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Come on in, then,” said the voice as the buzzer buzzed. “And don’t worry about Cecil. If you keep your hands in your pockets, he won’t bite them off.”

  Cecil turned out to be a dog, white with one spotted ear, a blunt nose, and a body like a single clenched muscle. He silently rose from his spot on a chaise by the pool, jumped down, aimed himself at us, and trotted our way. He wasn’t big, his back was the height of our knees, but it only took a second look to realize that this torpedo-shaped thing could take me apart with a leisurely snap of its jaw and jerk of its neck. I put my hands in my pockets. Cecil took that as a sign to close upon us even faster.

  I stepped back, Monica stooped down. She reached out her hand, palm up. Cecil swerved toward her, stopped suddenly, sniffed Monica’s fingers, tilted his head as if confused by something, and then rubbed her hand with the muzzle of his nose.

  “That’s a nice boy, that’s a sweet boy,” said Monica. “He’s just like Luke, all he wants is to be hugged.”

  “Cecil, come here,” came a voice from the side of us.

  The dog gave Monica’s hand a quick lick and then trotted over to a now-open door and rubbed his nose against the leg of a tall young girl in jeans and a T-shirt. She was pretty and blond and stared at us with a flat, unselfconscious gaze. Bryce. How could I have been surprised?

  “He doesn’t usually take to strangers,” said Bryce.

  “Is he yours?” said Monica, standing.

  “He belongs to the super. But I take care of him.”

  “How are you, Bryce?” I said.

  “Fine. I figured it was going to be you, what with the tattoo and all.”

  “Do you know Chantal?” said Monica.

  “I guess, if that’s what you’re calling her.”

  “What do you call her?” I said.

  “Mom.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” said Monica, stepping toward her. “Look at you. Look how lovely you are. Do you know who I am?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you said your mother’s name was Lena,” I said.

  “It is. Or was. Or something, I don’t know. It’s L.A., right?”

  “How about your father? Who’s your father, Bryce?”

  “He lives in Texas. His name is Scott.”

  “Scott, huh? You see him much?”

  “Holidays and stuff.”

  Just then from behind Bryce appeared her mother, no more the competent poolside secretary. She was wearing jeans, a loose white shirt, her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, her hands clutched nervously together.

  Monica took a step forward. “Are you Chantal?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Hi. I’m your sister. Monica. How are you? Oh my God, I can’t believe I finally found you.”

  And with that, Monica burst into tears and lunged forward, reaching out to embrace her long-lost sister and her niece. Blinded by love and longing, by a need that was raw and unyielding, swept away within the obsession that had taken hold of her life from its earliest dawning, she didn’t notice how Bryce shied away, she didn’t notice Cecil sneering as he scurried back to his spot on the chaise by the pool, didn’t notice the expression of panic and fear on Lena’s face. She didn’t notice any of it, because for a moment the gaping hole in her life had been filled with something rich and full, something loving and warm, something close to hope.

  56

  We’ll call her Lena, because that’s the name she called herself. Lena sat primly on the edge of her sofa, her hands clasped together on a knee, her lips tense. Lena had been in a few movies many years ago. Theodore had been able to help her get the roles when she was still in high school. She had been Girl Number Three in a Chevy Chase film, she had been Sue Ellen in a slasher flick that actually made a ripple at the box office. She wasn’t one to blow these accomplishments out of proportion. With a shrug she told us there were thousands just like her, pretty girls who made a little money and had a little fun but never had the talent or fierce determination to make a career of it.

  “Mom, do you know where that shirt is?” called out Bryce.
>
  “Which shirt?”

  “The one with the things on the you-knows.”

  “It’s hanging in the bathroom, on the shower rod.”

  “Thank you.”

  We were sitting in the living room of Lena’s small apartment at the Fairway Arms. The sofa was faded, the chair slightly greasy from age, but the paint on the walls was fresh, and the pictures were bright, and the television was a wide-screen LCD hooked up to all kinds of electronic contraptions. Compared with the wreck I had waiting for me back in Philadelphia, Lena had done pretty well for herself, and for Bryce, too.

  Lena had been married, she told us. Her husband’s name was Scott. He was a cowboy, who had traded in his horse for a limo. He had driven Theodore and Lena to a premiere one night. Scott hit on her, they hit it off, and the hits just kept on coming. He was older than Lena, and drastically good-looking, with an edge of anger that both scared and attracted her. He was a mistake from the start, but at the time she was nineteen and desperate to get out of the house. Theodore was strict about her hours, her life. No drinking, no late-night dates, no clubbing. She was young enough still to enjoy her life, she thought, and certainly young enough to ruin it on her own, so she ran off with Scott. They lived in Texas for a while, came back here after she had the baby. Scott thought it was the perfect time to hit up Theodore for some money and a job. But Theodore, who was still angry at the whole elopement thing and knew how to hold a grudge, told him to hit the pavement. After a while, as their debts grew and taking care of the baby got so hard, Scott finally hit the road. That’s when Theodore came once again to her rescue.

  “Mom?”

  “What, honey?”

  “Can you come here a moment, please?”

  A look of sweet exasperation. “What is it, Bryce?”

  “I need something, I don’t know what.”

  “Can you give me a moment, please?” said Lena.

  “Of course,” said Monica. “Go.”

  Lena went. I looked at Monica. She was overcome with some sort of unbearable emotion. She straightened her shirt, wiped at her eyes.

  “She’s borrowing my jewelry,” said Lena when she returned. “She has plenty of her own, Theodore’s so generous, but she feels more mature wearing mine. I don’t know, I can’t remember ever being that young.”