‘So what’s your agenda for tomorrow?’ the woman asked him. ‘Do you have one?’
They were dressed now, sitting in her living room. It was late, after midnight. They’d had sex again and drank another half bottle of wine, but slowly, over a couple of hours, so Wycliff was clear-headed. Not completely, but good enough. He’d be extra-careful driving back to Billy’s place. His ride was hot and his license was bogus. A stupid DUI bust would blow his whole deal, which was way better now than it had been a few hours earlier.
‘Go to the hospital in the morning,’ he informed her. ‘That’s it, for now.’
‘Good for you,’ she said, as if giving him her seal of approval. ‘Brothers need to stick together, especially in a crisis.’ She took another cigarette out of her pack and lit it, blowing a smoke ring up at the ceiling. ‘That leaves the afternoon free for us to go shopping. You need some decent clothes of your own, you can’t wear your brother’s stuff, it isn’t your style. And don’t worry about what it’ll cost. It’s on me. A loan, until you get on your feet, since you’re new here.’
She was going to fuck him cross-eyed and outfit him too? What had he done to deserve this?
The puzzle. He had to remember that. She wanted something from him. What was it? Something illegal? If that’s what it was, how dangerous would it be? He had to find out before he got in too deeply. Illegal he could handle; he had made a living scamming the system. But real danger, the kind that could get you killed or sent away for a long time, was something to be avoided at all costs. It was okay to be out on the edge, but not so far out that one stumble and over you went.
Be careful, he cautioned himself. Don’t be another chump that got taken by a woman, no matter how alluring. Like what Glenn Close did to Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction. He shivered, thinking about how it ended. He looked over at Charlotte, who was reclining on her sofa, smoking her cigarette. She was wearing a fluffy white Terry robe that sported a Four Seasons hotel logo on the breast pocket. Don’t be one of those crazy ladies, he prayed as he stared at her.
She stood up. ‘You have to go now. Pick me up tomorrow at one. I’ll be waiting for you outside.’
Their good-night kiss at her front door was the perfect way to end the night. ‘I hope I won’t regret this,’ she said.
‘Regret it how?’ Again, his antenna went up.
‘All of it. And what’s to come.’ She licked his ear. It felt like he’d been zapped by a lightning bolt. ‘I’m not as much a femme fatale as you’re thinking I am. I’m too old to be now, if I ever was. I’m flattered you wanted to sleep with me, to tell you the truth. Not every young man would, especially one as attractive as you.’
And if a pig had wings … ‘You’re wrong about that,’ he said. ‘You’re a beautiful woman. Your age doesn’t matter.’
She smiled. ‘I hope you keep thinking that.’ Gently, she pushed him out the door. ‘I need to get my beauty sleep. I don’t think you’d feel the same about me if you saw me in the morning.’
‘I bet I would.’
‘That’s sweet.’ She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. As he turned to go, she stopped him. ‘I don’t think you should tell your brother you met me. Not yet.’
Maybe they really had been lovers, Wycliff thought, before Billy got sick. His brother could swing both ways. Especially with a woman this attractive. Even though she was old enough, he thought with a kinky flutter, to be his mother.
‘Fine with me,’ he agreed. ‘You’ll be my secret.’
She smiled. ‘And you mine.’
THREE
Wycliff didn’t have to give Stanley the boot. The forlorn caretaker had flown the coop on his own. He left a self-pitying note in what looked like a girl’s handwriting: I hope you’re happy now, you narrow-minded shithead. Don’t forget to water the plants.
‘Narrow minded?’ Wycliff said out loud. ‘That’s the best you can do?’ This dipshit had seriously underestimated his bigotries. ‘Hell, son,’ he declared pridefully to the room, as if he were working an audience at Caesar’s, ‘I’m an equal-opportunity, jack-of-all-trades prick! My brother didn’t hip you about me?’
Whatever, good riddance to that sorry loser. I am in business! Wycliff thought gleefully. He had his own pad (at least until Billy came home, if he ever did), a primo set of wheels (short-term, but for now his ass was going to be riding on baby-soft leather), plus he’d connected with a rich, erotic, mystery woman who was going to lead him to who knows where? Something crazy, he knew that, for sure. But exciting.
This had been one hell of a day, he thought, as he stripped down to his Jockeys and crawled into his brother’s bed, now laid with freshly washed sheets. He had come out here to try and wheedle, guilt-trip, threaten, whatever it took to get his dying sibling into cutting him into some of his estate. If Billy had offered him five grand to go away and never come back, he would have taken it in a heartbeat. Now, in less than twenty-four hours, he was way ahead of the curve.
Times have been lean, he thought to himself. Now they’re going to be fat.
‘You didn’t waste any time,’ Billy said sourly. He was propped up in bed on two fluffy pillows. He had been shaved and bathed and was wearing fresh pajamas, but he still looked awful. ‘Stanley called and told me this morning. The poor man was in tears. He really extended himself for me, and you pissed all over him.’
Cried like a girl, Wycliff thought derisively. ‘His choice, not mine,’ he replied, faking like he really was sorry. It was a lame attempt that wouldn’t have fooled a deaf man, not that he gave a damn. ‘I would’ve been happy to share. There was plenty of room for both of us.’
‘Not enough for him, with you,’ Billy corrected him. ‘For anyone with you.’
Wycliff shrugged off the insult. ‘We all have our demons.’
‘Except yours are way more visible than other people’s. Yours scream out.’
Wycliff thought of last night, with Charlotte. ‘Some people like me the way I am,’ he said, almost boastfully. ‘Some people like it a lot.’
‘Sick people.’
‘You’re about as sick as they come.’ It was almost too easy, toying with Billy like this. He needed to rein that in. Eye on the prize. But he couldn’t help digging. ‘Are you saying you like me like I am? I thought it was the opposite.’
Billy’s head lolled to the side, as if there was virtually no musculature in his neck to support it. ‘Fuck off.’
It was ten in the morning. Wycliff had slept like a brick. After he woke up he took a long, scalding shower, cooked himself a bacon-and-eggs-and-coffee breakfast, dressed in his best remaining outfit, and read the LA Times, which he found on the front porch. Breakfast and the paper at home like a civilian, he thought, as he scanned the comics. There are benefits to living the square life. It was too bad he wasn’t cut out for it. It must be nice, not to be living on the edge all the time.
Starting today, his life was going to be different. Change was in the air.
‘Any word on when they’re going to let you come home?’ he asked.
Billy glanced at him, then away. ‘No.’
‘Haven’t seen the doctor yet today?’
‘He was by. We didn’t talk about that.’
Wycliff looked at his brother more closely. They’re never going to let this poor bastard out of here, he realized. He’s going to die in this miserable place. That sucked. Billy was going to die anyway, and not in months, but weeks. Why not let him have the dignity of doing it in his own bed, in his own home, with his friends attending? Wycliff knew why: money. They could come on all pious about taking care of the patient better here, and they probably were sincere, he had to give these people some credit, they lived with these sick and dying victims day in and day out, but still, they got paid for it. The institution got paid by the patient, by how many beds they filled. Altruism only goes so far. It doesn’t pay the bills.
‘Whose decision is it?’ he asked his brother.
‘What decision?’
/> ‘When you can go home.’
Billy looked at Wycliff in surprise. ‘It’s up to the doctors,’ he said. ‘When they think I’m strong enough.’
Wycliff’s brow furrowed. ‘Strong enough for what? To bale hay? You’re never going to get any stronger. And I know you good enough to know you don’t bullshit yourself about stuff like that, it’s too important.’
In truth, he didn’t know that about Billy. He barely knew anything at all about his brother. But he knew it anyway, it was part of their shared DNA.
Billy’s exhale was like stale air leaking out of a punctured tire. ‘Strong enough to take care of myself.’
How stupid was that, Wycliff thought? ‘You’re never going to be. Wasn’t that the point of Stanley? I’m sure there are dozens of your friends who would be happy to help you out.’
‘Not dozens, but some,’ Billy answered. He sounded embarrassed that more of his old friends wouldn’t come to his aid. ‘But at the stage I’m in, only family is legally permitted to be in charge of your care at home.’
They stared at each other. ‘And I’m the only family you’ve got,’ Wycliff said.
Billy held his look for a moment; then he turned away again. ‘Right.’
Wycliff could hear the air-conditioner humming. It helped, but not enough. ‘I could do it,’ he said. ‘They’d have to let me sign you out, wouldn’t they?’
His brother started laughing. It came from his chest, like nails on a blackboard. The tortured laugh turned to a hacking cough.
Wycliff looked down with alarm. ‘Jesus, man, don’t check out on me now.’ He leaned over and pulled Billy away from the bed, holding him against his chest, pushing rhythmically on his back. ‘In and out. Come on.’
Billy got control of his breathing. He swallowed in deep gulps of air. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ he asked in surprise.
‘I worked in a hospital once.’
Billy stared at Wycliff with suspicion. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘What you don’t know about me would fill the Yellow Pages. You hardly know anything about me,’ Wycliff said. ‘And vice versa.’
Billy nodded. ‘To answer your question: yes, you could sign me out. You’re the only one who can.’ He licked his lips. ‘So now we both know when I’m going to get out of here.’
Wycliff walked over to the window. The room was on the ground floor. The view, what little there was of it, was of the parking lot. ‘Maybe I will,’ he said, staring out.
Billy started laughing again, but caught himself before it became a hack. ‘You’re going to take care of me? That’ll be the day. You have no idea of what that would entail.’
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
‘Dealing with dying men who can’t even wipe their own behinds?’ Billy snorted. ‘I can just picture you emptying bedpans and dressing open sores.’
‘I’ve wiped plenty of butts in my day, believe me. And worse.’
That was true, every word. What Wycliff left unspoken was that the hospital had been in the Dade County, Florida jail, a notoriously tough place to do time. Volunteering for hospital duty had cut Wycliff’s sentence of a year for kiting bad checks to four months. To shave two thirds off his time, he could endure cleaning shit and piss and vomit off sick men. Besides, the hospital was the only safe haven in the jail. In the general population you joined a gang for protection – in his case it would have been a skinhead gang, you stick with your own race, especially in a jail where most of the prisoners were Latino or black – or you became some heavyweight’s jailhouse girlfriend. Wycliff was a pretty big guy, and under normal circumstances he could take care of himself, but inside that joint he was woefully inadequate. He had lied to the jail authorities about having worked in a hospital in the army. He knew they wouldn’t check up, they needed all the willing help they could get.
He did his time and managed to survive a jailhouse virgin, but the experience seared him. He never wanted to face the prospect of being in that position again, because he knew that if there was a next time, he might not be so lucky. That was why he was careful, vigilant. Why he was going to be cautious regarding Charlotte.
‘I’ve got a few deals going,’ he told Billy. ‘I don’t know how long I’m going to be around. Of course, if things were different between us …’
Billy stared at him. ‘You think I don’t know your game, you moron? I could read you in Braille. The moment I signed any money over to you, you’d fly the coop like a hawk.’
‘Then don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’ Billy asked with suspicion.
‘Don’t sign anything over. I’ll get you out of here, take you home, take care of you. If and when you want to do anything for me, that will be up to you.’
Billy’s face hardened with suspicion. ‘What if I never do?’
‘Then I helped my baby brother live his final days out with some dignity.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe God will reward me.’
‘God doesn’t know you exist.’
‘Well,’ Wycliff said, ‘then that’s a good reason to do it.’
FOUR
Charlotte, wearing a wide-brimmed hat that shaded her face against the sun, was waiting outside her building when Wycliff pulled up on the stroke of one. Even though her daytime outfit was more subdued than the one she had worn last night she still looked great, even better than he remembered. A beautiful, wealthy, mature lady who could shame most women half her age.
As he looked at her, his inner voice, the hard-earned voice of self-preservation, warned him: do not forget how you met her, the out-of-nowhere improbability of it. She was playing a game and he didn’t know the rules. Hell, he didn’t even know what the game was. He had to play it super cool. Don’t let your emotions control your brain. Easier said than done.
‘You look very nice,’ he complimented her. ‘Better than nice.’
‘Same to you, cowboy,’ she told him cheerily. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her perfume made him light headed.
‘Where to?’ he asked. Wherever she wanted to go, he was ready to follow.
‘Culver City. There’s a wholesale men’s outlet there that has the same selection as Barney’s, at half the price. I only pay retail when I have no other choice.’ She smiled. ‘Somewhere in the past I must have Middle Eastern blood in my veins. The souk has always fascinated me.’ She pointed out the window. ‘Take this street to Venice Boulevard, then go west.’
Wycliff didn’t know what a souk was, but he wasn’t going to show his ignorance by asking. She already had him pegged, rightly, for a rube.
Charlotte fastened her seat belt and ran the manicured fingers of one hand along the smooth leather. ‘How long have you had this car?’
‘Not long.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
Meaning she was on to his heisting it? Or that it was so new he couldn’t have had it long? He glanced over at her, but her face didn’t reveal which choice was the right one. Lexuses were for women, anyway. He was more the BMW or Audi type. The M3 Beemer would be a great ride, but a car that hot could be a red flag. No need to advertise his presence. A nice 5-series sedan would do just fine. With the big engine. Never mind, he already had a gorgeous older woman for a lover, a hot set of wheels, and a new wardrobe on its way. What was next, winning the lottery?
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Charlotte said, breaking his reverie. The tone of her voice indicated she already knew them.
‘You,’ he told her. That was easy to say, because it was true, so he didn’t have to come up with a lie, his more normal MO. ‘My brother coming home. A beautiful day. Life could be worse.’
‘Or better,’ she answered. ‘Or both,’ she added, somewhat cryptically. ‘Turn right at the next light.’
The jewelry store was on a quiet side street on the eastern edge of Beverly Hills. Wycliff parked around the corner, per Charlotte’s instructions. As they got out, she reached into the back seat for one of the new sports coats she had bought him, a navy-blue Brioni. ‘
Put this on,’ she said, slipping it out of its plastic bag. ‘And your hat, too.’
She had known precisely the look she wanted for him. One dark suit for special occasions, a couple of sports coat and slacks combos, shoes, shirts, neckties, and accessories: Armani shades, Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch (a good knockoff), and a Dodgers hat (‘you are in LA now, darling’).
He did as instructed. Charlotte nodded her approval. ‘Are you packing?’ she asked casually.
He jumped. ‘A gun?’
‘No, a hatpin. What else would I be asking about?’
He shook his head, flustered. ‘No.’
She snapped open her large Gucci purse and pulled out a short-barrel S&W revolver, the classic FBI model. Wycliff had fired one at a shooting range in the Arizona desert when he was testing various under-the-table pieces (as an ex-felon, he couldn’t buy a gun legally). He had wound up purchasing a Glock 17, a sweet agent of destruction, but he’d had to pawn it to cover the rent, and he had not yet raised the scratch to redeem it. This little S&W was considered old fashioned, but it had plenty of kick. You hit your target with it, they’re going down.
‘Take this,’ she told him. ‘Just in case.’
He recoiled. This relationship had suddenly vaulted to a higher plateau. ‘In case of what?’ he stuttered.
‘In case the Martians invade us.’ She thrust the gun into his hand. It felt heavy, solid. ‘Put it away.’
He slipped the gun into his waistband at the small of his back and looked over his shoulder to see if there was a tell-tale bulge under his sports coat. There wasn’t.
They walked around the corner to the store’s entrance. The reinforced steel door was locked. Charlotte pushed a buzzer. A moment later, the door lock clicked open. Charlotte turned the knob and entered, Wycliff on her heels. ‘Keep your hat on and your hands to yourself,” she told him as the door silently closed behind them with an authoritative thunk.
The store was plush. Low lighting, thick wall-to-wall carpeting, a pair of matching oxblood-colored leather club chairs. A select display of women’s jewelry – bracelets, earrings, rings – nestled behind the locked display cases. Reflexively, Wycliff looked up to the ceiling. A surveillance camera was tucked in one of the corners behind the counter, aimed downwards. SOP for a place like this. An old con he had befriended in the joint, who specialized in high-end burglaries, had hipped him to the fact that most of the cameras were dummies, their mere presence usually enough of a sufficient deterrent to discourage theft.
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 3