‘I keep my head above water,’ Cummings said. He lifted a glass of white wine from a passing waiter’s tray. ‘What’s your racket, my friend?’
Again, Charlotte stepped in. ‘Wycliff is a contractor.’
Cummings raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Charlotte nudged Wycliff in the ribs. ‘Housing,’ he said, responding to his cue. ‘Mostly remodels, these days.’
‘Are you any good?’
‘He’s excellent,’ Charlotte said forcefully.
Cummings breathed out a long hmmm. ‘Nice to know there’s someone decent in that business. I can’t tell you how badly I was ripped off by my last contractor.’ He shuddered.
‘It’s a crapshoot,’ Charlotte said with seeming expertise.
‘True that. But if I am gambling, I prefer to do it in Vegas, not with my home.’ He clapped a hand on Wycliff’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps I could prevail on you to come take a look. It’s still a mess.’
Wycliff was out of his league here. Charlotte knew that, of course, but she wasn’t going to bust him. Just the opposite: she was puffing him up. To make her look good, so he wouldn’t be just a boy-toy on her arm. Still, ten minutes at the guy’s house and it would be clear he was a bullshit artist.
Fortunately, he had an out, one he had used before. ‘I’d like to help you,’ he told Cummings, ‘but I’m not licensed in California.’
‘Too bad,’ Cummings said. ‘I pay top dollar.’ He took a sip of wine, wrinkled his nose. ‘So what is your business here, if you’re not working?’
Wycliff could knock that one out of the park with his eyes closed. ‘My brother’s dying. He doesn’t have much time left. There’s no other family, just the two of us.’
Cummings seemed genuinely mortified. ‘My God. I’m sorry.’
‘Wycliff walked away from everything to take care of his brother in his final days,’ Charlotte told Cummings. She gave Wycliff an adoring look.
‘That’s damn noble of you, man.’ This time Cummings’ hand on Wycliff’s arm was for real. ‘No one in my life would do that for me.’
‘No one in most peoples’ lives,’ Charlotte chimed in. ‘The older we get the more cynical we become, but this gesture moved me tremendously. It’s one of the reasons I’ve become so fond of Wycliff.’
There might not be any movie stars here, Wycliff thought, but there was one damn good actress, the lady whose arm was in his. He felt like he was a character inside a video game. Everything was a close facsimile of the real world, but it was all make-believe. Nothing was how things are in real life, like what was happening to his brother or how he felt when he was with Amelia.
He helped himself to a glass of wine from a passing serving tray. The trick was to not give a damn. He had been scamming his entire life, just on a lower level. Now he was raising his sights, thanks to Charlotte. He could skate through this without breaking a sweat.
‘If you two lovely men will excuse me for a moment,’ Charlotte said, breaking into his thoughts, ‘I’m going to powder my nose.’
She made her way through the crowded room, exchanging greetings along her way. Wycliff and Cummings, thrown together without ballast, awkwardly stood next to each other. ‘How about them Dodgers,’ Cummings cracked.
‘They’re getting it together.’ Wycliff had been in Los Angeles long enough by now to have learned about the pathetic saga of their former owner and the hopes raised by the new ones.
‘I have season tickets, but I rarely go. You’re welcome to use them, if you’d like,’ Cummings offered. ‘Good seats, field boxes at first base.’
Amelia might like that. He’d check with her.
‘Let me ask you a personal question,’ Cummings said. ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. What is your brother dying from?’
‘AIDS. He’s in the final stages. Everything’s shutting down.’
Cummings shuttered. ‘That’s brutal. I feel for you.’
‘I’m doing okay. He’s the one to feel for.’
‘I’ll pray for him.’ Cummings changed the subject to a safer one. ‘Your business that Charlotte mentioned, contracting. That’s a cash business, isn’t it? Cash and checks. That’s how I paid my contractor. Almost all transactions all over the world now use credit cards, but yours seems to have sidestepped that. Or am I wrong? Do you take credit cards?’
Wycliff didn’t have a credit card, let alone a business that took them. His last Visa card had been confiscated by a geek store employee when it was refused on a sixty-dollar charge for socks and underwear. Day-laboring and temp jobs, the only straight work he had done the past several years, were strictly cash and carry.
‘Some of my vendors do,’ he lied smoothly. ‘I don’t. The surcharge they tack on would put me out of business. I prefer to pass the savings on to my clients.’
Cummings leaned in close, as if they were conspirators. ‘I know exactly what you mean! All those government regulations. They’re killing the American dream. If someone in power had the guts to pass a law abolishing the federal government, I’d be the first one to sign up.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t take me seriously. But entrepreneurs are way over-regulated. That’s why the economy’s still in a mess.’
Wycliff nodded. He didn’t give a shit about politics, they were all jackals. He’d never voted in his life, a perverse distinction he took pride in.
‘So without getting personal,’ Cummings continued; then he laughed. ‘I already said that, didn’t I? Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ This man was uncomfortable with silence. He didn’t have to answer any question he didn’t want to.
‘Thanks.’ Cummings paused. ‘What do you do with your money? Are you in the market?’
It was time to end this charade before he said something stupid and blew his cover. ‘Like you said, that’s personal.’
Cummings took a step back. ‘You’re right. It’s none of my business. You seem like a really good guy, taking care of your brother, putting your business on hold.’
He took out his billfold from his inside coat pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to Wycliff. ‘Helping people manage their money is what I do. I’m good at it. Charlotte will attest to that. If I can ever help you, give me a call. No strings.’ He looked around the crowded room. ‘You’re doing something worthwhile. Most of the people in this room wouldn’t know what the right thing was if it kicked them in the balls,’ he said bitterly. ‘Hang in there.’
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished,’ Charlotte declared. ‘Those were the most insipid hors d’oeuvres I’ve ever eaten. Who hired that caterer?’
Wycliff smiled. Charlotte was being real, a regular person. She could be fun when she wasn’t pushing his buttons.
They were on Melrose, driving towards her apartment. It was slow going, normal LA evening traffic. ‘We could try Dan Tana’s, but they’ll be mobbed,’ she said, thinking out loud. ‘Why don’t we just pick up burgers and fries? We’ll wash it down with a good red wine, it’ll be like eating in a funky bistro in Paris. Native food and decent plonk.’
They detoured to the In-N-Out on Sunset (his choice, Charlotte would never set foot in a place like that by herself, she wouldn’t even know it existed) and picked up burgers and fries, which they nibbled on as he drove to her place. ‘These are good,’ Charlotte exclaimed with delighted surprise.
As soon as they got to her apartment they made love right away. Charlotte was her usual insatiable self, but there was an undercurrent of tenderness and maybe anxiety he hadn’t seen in her before. If she noticed the bite mark on his shoulder she didn’t comment on it. Her bedroom was dark, there were no lights on, and they had gone to it right away without foreplay, so maybe it hadn’t been visible to her. Or else she had decided tonight was not a good time to get in his face.
They reheated their food in the microwave. Wycliff had put his pants and shirt back on; Charlotte was comfortable in one of her silk dressing gowns. When they finished eating she boiled water for instant coffee whi
ch they laced with Kahlua and took outside. Traffic hum drifted up from the street. A warm fog was rolling in. The view was shrouded, as if covered with a watery veil.
Charlotte put her feet in Wycliff’s lap and purred as he began to massage her arches. ‘What did you think of the auction?’ she asked, as she lit a cigarette and exhaled through her nostrils. ‘Could you believe the prices those paintings were selling for?’
What Wycliff thought was that the whole shooting match was bullshit ego-stroking. It was about showing off. I’m rich and I want everyone to know it. I’m so rich I can spend thousands of dollars on a painting that’s no better than something I can download off the Internet for free.
‘Rich folks tossing their money around,’ he responded. ‘I notice you didn’t bid on anything.’
‘There was nothing I wanted.’
His coffee was getting cold but he drank it anyway and fired up a cigarette. ‘Then why did we go?’
‘For the usual reasons people go out, Wycliff. To get out of yourself, have fun. I enjoy being among people. And to show you off. You’re a desirable man. Being with you makes me desirable, too.’
‘You already are. You don’t need me to prove that.’
‘That’s nice of you to say. And I don’t disagree, I know men find me attractive. But at my age I need reassurance.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘There, I’ve said it.’
‘Said what?’
‘That I’m getting old.’
‘We all are.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘That’s not what I said. Of course we’re all getting older, every person on the planet gets older every day. Getting older and getting old are two very different things. One is benign and natural, the other is …’ She put her coffee cup down. ‘Tragic. And comic. And pathetic. All of the above. Especially pathetic.’
Christ, he thought, how did talking about a bunch of lame paintings and the jerks who buy them turn into a dialogue about the meaning of life?
‘You’re not pathetic, Charlotte.’
She gave him a penetrating look. ‘You’re right, I’m not. But I am getting old. Older.’ She sat up. ‘I’m being selfish. Here you are, living with a dying man who is half my age and I’m complaining about crow’s feet around my eyes. Now that is pathetic. Can you forgive me for being selfish and shallow?’
He didn’t need this conversation. Charlotte was a living, breathing force of nature: sexy, fascinating, chock-full of surprises. She wasn’t close to the end of her life. When he was away from his brother he wanted relief from death and dying. He sure as hell didn’t want to be talking or thinking about it. Especially not with her.
‘I forgive you.’
‘Thank you.’ She stood and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I’m getting cold. Let’s go inside.’
He followed her back into the apartment. ‘I’m having a cognac,’ she said. ‘Do you want one?’
‘No thanks. I need to get home and relieve the caretaker.’ He sat on the sofa and started to put his socks and shoes back on.
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks for being a good sport. I know events like tonight’s are boring to you.’
‘It was okay. I liked talking to your friend. He seems like a sharp guy.’
‘He liked you, too. He was really impressed by what you’re doing.’
Wycliff shrugged off the compliment. No one knew the real reason he was taking care of Billy. No one had to.
‘John’s brilliant.’ She crossed to her portable bar and poured two fingers of Hennessy into a snifter. “He’s made a lot of people very wealthy, even in this turbulent economy.’ She tasted her cognac. ‘I’m sure he would like to help you.’
Wycliff stared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Like how?’
‘By investing your money.’
He guffawed. ‘You mean my millions?’
‘He doesn’t require that much to get started.’
‘That’s good, because I don’t have that kind of money. Nothing like it. Which you know.’
‘Your brother does.’
He shook his head. ‘Money doesn’t matter to Billy anymore. Not where he’s going.’
‘But it matters to you, doesn’t it?’
‘So what if it does?’
‘Couldn’t he loan you the money? You’re going to inherit his estate. Why couldn’t you ask him for some of it in advance? You’ve thrown him a lifeline, Wycliff. He’d be alone and dying in a hospital bed if you weren’t so big-hearted. Don’t you think he’d like to return your kindness?’
Wycliff felt like puking. ‘Who says he’s leaving his money to me?’
‘You’re his only living relative. Who else would he leave it to?’
Anyone else, he thought. Anyone but me. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he told her roughly.
She stepped back, jolted by his strong reaction. ‘I’ve touched a raw nerve. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, darling. I’m trying to help. Really.’
He needed to get out of here and breathe some fresh air. ‘I’ll see you.’
‘It wouldn’t require that much to get started,’ she persisted. ‘You need to think about your future.’
Christ, let it go. But now there was an itch in his brain that needed to be scratched. ‘How much?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It was insensitive of me.’
‘But you did.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’ She was silent for a moment, then told him. ‘Five hundred thousand.’
He gawked at her.
‘That’s the normal minimum to open an account with John’s firm. But I think he would let you in for less,’ she said in a rush. ‘I think he’d accept a hundred thousand dollars. I’m sure he would.’
He should have taken her up on that offer for a drink. He didn’t keep a flask in his car because he didn’t want to give a cop any reason to run a check on him. He wished he had one in his glove box now, though. He’d pound a stiff bourbon as soon as he got back to the house. ‘That’s not only out of my league, it’s out of my world.’
She blushed. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. It was rude of me. I’m sorry.’
‘I have to go, Charlotte.’
‘You’ll call me?’ There was more than a hint of desperation in her voice.
Just get out. ‘Yes. I’ll call you.’
FIFTEEN
The coughing was loud and harsh. For a few seconds, discombobulated from being awakened unexpectedly, Wycliff didn’t know where he was; then he remembered with a jolt. He rolled over and looked at the numbers on the digital clock next to his bed: 3:35. The coughing grew louder, a gasping death rattle. He lurched out of bed and staggered into the living room.
There was enough moonlight streaming through the windows to see that Billy was turning blue. Wycliff had a checklist for emergencies he thought he had memorized, but now, almost paralyzed with panic, his mind had gone completely blank. The physical list was in the kitchen, but Billy was dying right in front of him. He couldn’t take the time to leave him, go to the kitchen, find the list, and then read it to figure out what was going wrong.
He forced himself to think. First thing: make sure the oxygen mask was securely in place. Billy could use the nasal inhaler on and off during the day as he needed it, but at night he had to be masked, to insure that he kept breathing while he was asleep.
Wycliff looked at the mask. It was on tight, the way it was supposed to be, but nothing seemed to be flowing through. Was there a crimp in the air line?
It was too dark to see clearly. He turned a light on at the side of Billy’s bed and stared at the gauge on top of the oxygen canister. The needle was all the way down to zero! Really panicking now, he tapped the side of the canister. It rang hollow. Oh my God, he realized, it’s empty.
He had checked it last night before he went to bed. He was positive he had.
It was empty.
He disconnected the empty tube, grabbed one of the spares, and attached it,
his hands shaking, fingers fumbling with the threads, making sure it was connected. He turned it on.
Immediately, the gauge shot up. He could hear the flow moving through the tubes into the breathing mask. Hang on, Billy, he prayed. He held the mask tight against his brother’s face to make sure none of the precious oxygen was leaking out.
For a few seconds, there was no change in Billy’s complexion. He was chalk-white, his body rigid, as if rigor mortis was already starting to set in. Wycliff put his hands on Billy’s chest and started pumping, in, out, in, out, trying to force the air into his brother’s lungs.
With another cough and a gasp, Billy started taking the oxygen in. Almost immediately, the color began returning to his face and body. In a few more seconds he was breathing normally again.
Wycliff sagged into the chair next to the bed, his body drenched in fear-sweat. My God, he thought, I almost killed him. He reached over and took his brother’s hand. Forgive me, he begged silently. I’ll never do anything like that again.
Billy’s eyes popped open. He turned and stared at Wycliff. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
Sadie arrived at nine in the morning for a normal checkup. Billy was asleep, so she took what vital signs she could without disturbing him. ‘He seems to be holding his own,’ she told Wycliff, as they retreated into the kitchen so their conversation wouldn’t wake Billy up. ‘Have you noticed any changes?’
Wycliff was exhausted. He hadn’t slept a second since he had brought his brother back to life. The weight of his irresponsibility was crushing. He had hovered at Billy’s bedside until Billy, breathing normally, went back to sleep. But the fear of another incident had wired him as if he were on meth. He made himself a pot of coffee and drank it watching all-night movies, the sound muted so the noise wouldn’t wake his brother.
Sadie appraised his haggard condition with professional understanding. ‘This is hell on everyone,’ she commiserated. ‘It’s as hard on the caregivers as the patient, even more when it’s family. You need to take care of yourself, Wycliff. You won’t be able to help your brother if you aren’t sharp.’
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 13