‘Here’s the lowdown on that television story,’ she said. ‘It’s a load of crap from start to finish.’ She held up her left hand. The ring glistened on her finger. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Speechless, Wycliff gaped at the rock.
‘It’s also worthless,’ Charlotte told him. ‘Any reputable jeweler would take one look at it and kick you out the door.’
Wycliff’s head was spinning. ‘Then what was the point?
Charlotte laughed. ‘Money, my darling. Money is always the point.’
She explained: ‘That owner has been trying to run with Harry Winston and Tiffany for years. Before the economy tanked in 2008 he managed to keep his head above water, but once the bottom dropped out …’ She pointed her thumb to the floor. ‘Even though the economy has recovered, he didn’t. The customers don’t come to him anymore.’
Wycliff was lost. This was moving too fast for him.
‘What do you do when your business goes kaput?’ Charlotte asked rhetorically. ‘You sell off your inventory for whatever you can get for it, dimes on the dollar if you’re lucky. But you’re still under water, so you burn the building down and collect the insurance. Except this poor shlub doesn’t own the building, so he’s shit out of luck there.’
She smiled. ‘And that’s where I come in. The shady lady walks out with the ring and the distraught owner calls the police. They investigate his claim, and validate it. His insurance company will bitch and moan, but ultimately they will pay up. They’ll negotiate a price well under the stated amount, but it will still be hefty.’
She took another little sip of wine – she was careful not to drink too much. He had noticed that about her the first time they met. ‘What the smarty-pants insurance doofuses don’t know,’ she continued deliciously, ‘is that the ring they appraised two years ago and my ring aren’t the same. The real ring was sold on the black market. To a Chinese buyer, I presume, they buy everything. This one –’ she held up her hand again to show him – ‘is one hundred percent bogus. Glass and silicone. What you win when you knock over the bowling balls at the county fair.’
She put her glass down. ‘Everyone goes home happy. The insurance company low-balled the owner on the premium, he puts his illegal gains in his bank account, and my fee covers my expenses for a year. It’s a win-win, all around.’
Wycliff’s mind reeled. Charlotte was all woman, but she sure did have brass cojones. They were birds of a feather. The difference was that she flew high, and he didn’t. Not yet. If he hung with her, though, maybe he could learn how to soar.
There was something off with this, though, and he had to find out what it was. ‘Why did you need me if it was all a set-up?’ he asked her. ‘You didn’t need my help to pull off this caper. You could have done it just as easily on your own.’
She nodded in agreement. ‘No,’ she admitted, ‘I didn’t need your help. But I did need something from you. Something more important than you standing behind me with a gun in your pocket.’
‘What was that?’ he asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the reason.
‘I needed to find out if you had the balls to be a player. That you wouldn’t cut and run.’ She smiled. ‘You stood firm. You passed the test.’ She paused. ‘This time.’
She sat up straight. ‘One thing I have to know,’ she said sharply. ‘You didn’t touch anything in the store, did you? I specifically told you not to.’
He had kept his hands to himself, per her instructions. He hadn’t even opened or closed the store’s door, even though, as the man, he should have. Charlotte had done that. She had done everything.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘I didn’t touch anything. No fingerprints, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Good boy.’ Her tone was like an owner’s complimenting a dog that had been trained to roll over and play dead.
She had nothing on under the raincoat and he was butt-naked under his jeans, so stripping down for action was quick and easy. As before, their love making was an explosion.
Her cab was idling at the curb. He walked her outside. ‘Pick me up later today,’ she told him. ‘Not too early, I need my beauty sleep. We’ll continue with your makeover.’ She kissed him on the tip of his nose. ‘I love playing Henry Higgins. For most of my life I’ve been Eliza.’
Not for the first time was Wycliff clueless regarding what she was talking about. He waited until the taxi drove down the street and out of sight. Then he went back inside, made sure all the doors were locked, and poured himself a stiff bourbon nightcap.
FIVE
The salon on Rodeo Drive was way classier than the one in Tucson where he had pinched the Lexus. That was Arizona; this was Beverly Hills, California, where the world learns what class is all about. Charlotte had said nothing about his new wheels when he picked her up outside her condo, except to remark that this car was more his style. Where or how he got it was seemingly of no concern to her.
The receptionist at the front desk confirmed his name in the appointment book. ‘Last-minute cancellation, lucky for us,’ Charlotte informed him. ‘Usually it takes weeks to get a booking.’ She instructed his stylist on precisely how she wanted Wycliff’s hair to look, then left him to have her nails done.
Two hours later, after a shampoo, rinse, cut, blow-dry, and color highlights, Wycliff arose from the chair a changed man, at least on the outside. When the finished product was revealed in the front and back mirrors he gaped at himself in slack-jawed disbelief. This dude in the reflection was as sleek as a seal. His hair color, for his entire life a muddy brown, was now the shade of dark mink, with subtle blond highlights. As a bonus, his scraggly beard had been shaved as smooth as a baby’s ass. He had not seen his unadorned face in over fifteen years. Not a bad-looking guy, if he did say so himself.
Charlotte beamed her approval. ‘Lovely, Fernando,’ she complimented the stylist, as she handed him a sheaf of bills. ‘You are a true miracle worker.’
She hadn’t used a credit card. He remembered that yesterday, she had paid cash for his new wardrobe. This woman leaves no trail.
Dazed and dazzled, he let her lead him outside. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt the sun on the back of his neck. ‘A huge improvement,’ Charlotte complimented him. ‘Now you don’t look like a Barstow truck driver.’ She took his jaw in her small hand and twisted his face one way, then the other. ‘No one will recognize you from your old look.’
Meaning he couldn’t be matched up to a surveillance tape if there turned out to be one. That was a heavy load off his shoulders. She wasn’t one step ahead of him, she was in front by leaps and bounds.
‘Lordy Miz Claudy!’ Billy exclaimed breathlessly. He could barely get the words out, he had so little lung power. ‘This can’t be you.’
Wycliff, standing at his brother’s hospital bedside, was sharply dressed in a slick guyabara shirt and black linen slacks that Charlotte had picked out for him. ‘It’s me, pal,’ he confirmed. ‘The me that was always there, just waiting for the right time to get out from under.’
‘From under the right rock.’
Christ, Billy, let it go already. He didn’t say so out loud. He knew all too well that after a lifetime of hostility, that was hard to do. Yet somehow he was learning to do exactly that. It was amazing how much better it felt. Hopefully, his brother would learn that, too. It would help him find peace in his final days.
Billy squinted at him through weak eyes. ‘Man, what a change.’ His diseased-gum grimace was wolverine. ‘You have a rough-trade kind of appeal, Wycliff, now that you’ve lost the cave-man look. If you wanted to go on the gay hustle, you could make serious money.’
‘Not my thing, but thanks for the compliment.’ The thought of having sex with a man repulsed him. Scared the shit out of him, too. A fate that could await him if he ever wound up back in prison.
Billy’s release papers were in order. The hospital attendants bathed, shaved, and dressed him for the last time, then wheeled him down t
he corridor to the elevator. Wycliff trailed behind. The entire on-duty staff, including the doctors, formed a congratulatory farewell line. Some of the women dabbed at their eyes.
Outside, waiting for the valet to bring the car around, Wycliff handed Billy a pair of sunglasses. ‘Your eyes are weak,’ he said, repeating one of the instructions Billy’s doctor had given him. ‘They can’t handle harsh light.’
Billy fumbled the glasses onto his face. He was so gaunt they made him look like Mr Magoo. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered. He was breathing in short, panting bursts. Wycliff unscrewed a bottle of Evian and handed it to his brother, who drank in thirsty gulps.
The BMW, all bright and shiny, arrived at the curb. ‘Is that yours?’ Billy asked suspiciously.
‘Lock, stock, and pink slip,’ Wycliff answered breezily. Not exactly true, but so what? His brother wasn’t about to run a DMV check.
‘I thought you were down and out. You must be doing better than I guessed.’
If you only knew … ‘Way better.’
He lifted Billy up out of the hospital wheelchair and deposited him in the front passenger’s seat, securing the seat belt as if for a child. He tipped the valet, made a minor adjustment in the rear-view mirror, and pulled away into the traffic flow. Billy stared out the window as the car purred down Beverly Blvd. ‘I never thought I’d see this again.’
Wycliff glanced over. ‘See what?’
‘The rest of the world, outside that hospital room.’
‘Makes you appreciate the little things.’
Billy looked at Wycliff. His brother he had never really known and now hardly recognized. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. His voice was thin and strained. ‘It really does.’
Wycliff parked in the driveway and got out. ‘Wait here,’ he said. As if this poor bag of bones could go anywhere without being assisted. He went into the house and came out a moment later pushing a wheelchair. He opened Billy’s car door, lifted him out, and set him in the chair, making sure he was secure, so he wouldn’t fall over.
‘Brand spanking new,’ he told Billy. ‘You can rent one, but I didn’t want you sitting on someone else’s dried-up sweat. You need as much of a germ-free environment as possible.’
‘How do you know all this?’ his brother asked. He couldn’t keep the suspiciousness from his voice. A new hairstyle and wardrobe didn’t make up for a lifetime of lies and deceit.
Wycliff wasn’t going to let Billy’s hostility get under his skin. If the shoe had been on the other foot, he would have reacted the same way. ‘I’ve been reading up on it. The hospital workers gave me advice. The hospice people, too.’
That was true, but there was a large omission in his accounting. His practical knowledge about cleanliness had come from his on-the-job training in the Florida jail hospital. Men died there needlessly and stupidly from routine infections that could have been avoided if the staff paid attention to simple stuff like washing their hands and autoclaving their instruments.
He wheeled his brother up the walkway to the front door. ‘Ready?’
‘I’ve been ready since the day they carted me out of here. Waiting for this has felt like forever.’
‘Then welcome back to your home.’ Wycliff opened the door and wheeled his brother inside.
The hospice contingent, two women and a man, had arrived early in the morning. They had converted the living room into an at-home hospital room: hospital bed, oxygen canisters, all the necessary implements required for a patient who was already in bad shape and would only get worse. A new window air-conditioner had been installed to keep the temperature a steady 72 degrees. Even though the house had been cherried out and updated, the wiring was iffy for handling the extra power an air-conditioner would pull, so Wycliff had done a heavy-up on the electrical system to make sure it wouldn’t overload. Back when he had tried to get his life in some kind of order, he had been a journeyman electrical assistant. He could wire a building pretty good. He prided himself on that skill, one of the few accomplishments he had done in his life he could boast on.
Billy appraised the set-up from his wheelchair. ‘Oh, man,’ he said softly.
‘The president of the United States wouldn’t get it any better,’ Wycliff told him.
The flowers were the sweet touch. After the hospice people had finished and left, Wycliff had gone to Trader Joe’s and bought half a dozen cheap bouquets, which were displayed in vases set about the room. They filled the air with a fragrant redolence.
He helped Billy out of his clothes and into a new pair of pajamas. His brother was so weak he couldn’t undress or dress himself. Wycliff handled him like he was a newborn as he lifted him onto the bed, which had an egg-crate mattress pad on top of the regular mattress, to prevent bed sores. He could feel the bones under the skin, which was as fine as parchment. The bones felt like dry twigs. One slip and his brother could break a leg, a hip. Had to be careful not to let that happen.
They sat together for the afternoon, watching daytime TV. The television had been set up so Billy could watch it comfortably from his bed. He dozed on and off. When he woke up, Wycliff heated some soup he had stocked up on from Whole Foods. Everything his brother ate or drank was going to be organic. His death was inevitable, but if they could hold it off an extra week, a month, that would be a victory.
The first relief attendant, a wiry Filipino, showed up at four. He would work an eight-hour shift, so Wycliff was free until midnight. Hiring help was expensive, but Billy’s estate could afford it. He had discussed the costs and arrangements with Billy, and once Billy had been assured this wasn’t one of his brother’s shady scams, he had called his lawyer and made the financial arrangements. All the money would flow through the lawyer: Wycliff wouldn’t touch a cent. That was fine with him. If there was a payoff for doing good it would come after Billy died, and it would be big. Jeopardizing that possibility was stupid. You don’t jump over dollars to pick up dimes.
‘Any special instructions?’ the attendant asked in a slight sing-song accent, scrutinizing the layout.
‘Just keep him comfortable and happy,’ Wycliff said. ‘The medical chart is in the kitchen. My cell phone, his doctor’s.’ He bent over his brother, now awake and watching Oprah. ‘I’ve got to go out for a little bit. I won’t be gone long,’ he promised. ‘Anything you want me to pick up?’
‘No.’ Billy scrunched his dry bloodshot eyes, one of the multitudes of painful afflictions he was suffering from, with more on the way as he regressed further. Life’s a bitch and then you die, Wycliff thought. He gently tilted his brother’s head back and gave him a squirt of Liquid Tears in each eye. Billy blinked from the soothing drops. ‘Thanks.’ His voice was a wheezy gasp.
‘Don’t exert yourself,’ Wycliff cautioned him. ‘You need anything, that’s what Diego’s here for.’
‘His name is Diego?’ Billy asked, painfully craning his neck to look at the caregiver, who was in the kitchen boiling water for tea.
‘Hell, I don’t know what his name is.’ Latinos were Jose, blacks Rufus, Filipinos Diego, Chinese Chan, whatever. He didn’t think of his attitude as racist; it was simply an easy way to deal with a bunch of foreigners who wouldn’t mean anything to him, once this was over.
Billy sagged back on the fluffy pillow. Just that much exertion had exhausted him. Wycliff patted his brother’s hand. He could see the veins throbbing through the skin. ‘You’re home, man. Where you’re supposed to be.’
Real tears formed in his brother’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
SIX
Charlotte took him to dinner at a sushi restaurant in Little Tokyo. ‘You’ve never experienced a meal like the one you’re about to have,’ she promised him. Wycliff didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.
The restaurant was a narrow hole in the wall, a front-to-back Formica counter with a dozen plain wooden stools. You practically had to squeeze in sideways between the stools and the opposing wall to get by. The calendars and posters on the walls were in Japanese, featur
ing pictures of tourist-looking sites. A small overhead television was playing a Japanese soap opera without English subtitles. No one seemed to be watching.
The lone sushi chef behind the counter, a stern-looking older man, was dressed in a traditional white sushi coat. His jet-black hair was bound up in a blue-checked bandana. A dazzling array of raw fish was geometrically arrayed in front of him. The waitress, a young woman with tiny porcelain features, wore tight black slacks and a white blouse of some synthetic material that clung like Saran wrap on her skinny frame. She had a row of earrings in her left ear, including a long dangler with a pearl in the center. She tottered up and down the aisle in gravity-defying high-heeled shoes, dispensing hot moist towelettes and drinks.
All the stools were occupied except for two in the center, which had reserved placards on the place mats. When Wycliff and Charlotte sat down, the waitress whisked the signs away.
‘Konnichiha,’ Charlotte greeted the chef. He grunted back at her. She picked up the sake list, looked it over, and pointed out her choice to the waitress. ‘You drink sake, don’t you?’ she asked Wycliff as she washed her hands briskly. She folded her towel and placed it to the side. ‘Its wine, made from rice.’
He followed her lead on the hand washing. ‘Yes,’ he answered. He’d had it a few times. He preferred whiskey or beer, but the Japanese stuff wasn’t too bad.
‘And you eat sushi, I assume. You’d better, for what a meal here costs.’
He watched as the chef placed two pieces of raw fish on rice patties and put them on a wooden board in front of the man sitting next to Wycliff. The fish was dark red. It looked like it had been alive five minutes ago. The patron looked familiar, from a television series, Wycliff was pretty sure. What was the name of that show? He couldn’t place it, but he recognized the face.
The unknown celebrity picked up the first piece with his thumb and forefinger and looked at it like he was going to cry with joy. He ate the morsel in one bite, paused a moment, then did the same with the second. ‘If this isn’t heaven, it’s damn close,’ he said to his companion perched on the stool next to his, a beautiful woman who definitely looked well known. Another television star? From one of the reality shows, like American Idol? Wycliff wasn’t about to make an ass of himself by asking them who they were, but he would have liked to know. Eating elbow to elbow with a television star and his hot lady friend who is also probably famous, you don’t get opportunities like that back in Tucson or any of the other places he had lived in.
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 5