-At first I just felt pressure against my chest, like squeezing a balloon, but then I really focused all my attention, like Marissa was saying earlier, look within and place your…your whatever…awareness, and then, dude, man, then there they were.
-She probably felt you too.
-How could she not?
I was trying to focus my own awareness. Richard had come in through the patio, that’s why he’d caught me undressed and unawares, he hadn’t used the front door. And when we left, no Lexus in the driveway. He must have parked in the garage. If that was his normal routine coming home, then it wasn’t him I saw entering through the front door the other night. The mystery had not been solved. And there was more.
-Dude, you didn’t feel them when you got a hug?
-No.
-That’s because you didn’t look within. You weren’t in the present moment. That’s how I’m going to live, from now on. I’m going to feel life’s nipples.
-Pete, did she whisper in your ear?
-No. Not yet.
-She whispered in mine. Seriously.
-Right. What did she say?
-She said, I saw you out back.
-Dude, stop.
-Swear to God.
-No, stop here. I need to do something.
I pulled over. We were back at the site of Pete’s accident. He reached under the seat.
-Where did you…did you take those?
He was holding the fresh cut flowers from Sigrid’s vase. They had been by the front door.
-Robin Hood, baby. What did you get?
-Nothing.
-No, you got this.
He handed me a book: the hardcover Grisham.
-You’re insane, man.
-I’ll be right back.
He stood in the same driveway, watching traffic go by. Criminals return to the scene of the crime because they’re just plain stupid. I waited in the car with the engine running, watching for the angry homeowner to emerge, and replaying Sigrid’s five breathy words: I saw you out back. Did she mean the first time, when I was breaking and entering, or just now, when I was naked? What was she getting at? And what is Pete doing running out into the middle of a four-lane highway? He stopped, waited for a car to zoom past, then placed the flowers on the double yellow line. The next car slowed down, the driver carefully avoiding the crazy man in the street. I rolled down my window.
-Pete, come on.
He ignored me and started shouting at the passing cars.
-I didn’t die here! I’m still alive! I’m still alive!
10
According to the newspaper, southern California is in a drought, has been for some time, meaning we’ve been getting less precipitation than normal. Much of our public water comes from the Colorado River, which drains the mountains of Colorado and Utah, and they too are short on rainfall. So our reservoirs are in danger of drying up. In response, some California cities have enacted half-hearted limits on water use, like no watering your lawn between eight a.m. and six p.m.
-How about no lawns period?
That’s what Pete said.
-Seriously, why grow northern European flora in an American desert? What a waste. And all the fertilizers, the weed-killers, straight into the ocean. There used to be more fish, more birds, everything, it’s becoming a dead zone.
-So no golf courses, right?
That set him off.
-Dude, don’t get cute, lawns are a luxury, golf is a basic human need. But you’re right, that day is coming, because all these private lawns nobody sits on, nobody plays on, just a bad habit is what they are, and when things get worse the public golf courses are gonna be the first to go, the tragedy of the commons all over again. I mean like what’s the new rule in Laguna Beach—a hundred dollar fine for washing your car without a spray nozzle? Like that’s going to make a difference. How about a ten thousand dollar fine if you water your lawn or wash your car or spray down your driveway, and the second violation they chop off your hose?
That was the image that popped into my head—a city employee, like maybe one of Laguna’s humorless meter maids, patrolling the neighborhood, binoculars and two-way radio in hand, butcher knife at the ready—when Lawson asked the first witness of the morning about his chosen profession.
-You go to somebody’s house and wash the car?
-Wash, wipe, and wax.
-While they wait?
-Ain’t no waiting involved. The client just goes on about their business, eating lunch or watching tv, making love to their wife, and we let them know when we’re done.
His name, he had informed the court, was Reed Benson—that’s Reed with two e’s now—and I pictured him and Bud Jack with their buckets and soapy sponges, scrubbing away on a late-model sedan under the vigilant eyes of a uniformed woman with an axe to grind.
-How do these clients find you?
-Word of mouth. Like we’re at a house on Ocean, some place prime like that. If the neighbors come out, we ask if they want a car wash. Don’t want the wackest-looking ride on the block, see what I’m saying? Or we knock on a few doors, leave our card. They got five dollars off with the card.
Marissa would say this is racist, but Reed With Two E’s Now looked almost like a white guy: narrow face, pointy nose and chin, and his curls were loose and round, not tight and kinky. Light skin, too.
-Do you go all over Long Beach?
But you could tell he was black—the way he talked.
-Mostly we’re by the water. Belmont Shore. Leisure World.
-Leisure World the retirement community?
-You gotta go where the money’s at.
Yawn. I felt suddenly drowsy.
-How much does Bud Jack pay you?
-We go seventy-thirty.
Yawn. My morning caffeine was wearing off.
-You get thirty percent?
-That’s right. ‘Cause he’s got the overhead. Tips is fifty-fifty.
There’s an old joke: what’s harder than getting a pregnant elephant in the back of a Volkswagen? Getting an elephant pregnant in the back of a Volkswagen.
-Do you do anything besides wash cars?
-We vacuum the inside. Five-star spotless.
Here’s a new one: what’s harder than getting a passed-out drunk Marissa out of the back of her two-door Saturn? Very little.
-I mean besides cleaning cars.
-Trucks, vans, whatever you got. We done a motor home one time.
After leaving Sigrid’s house, I had dropped Pete at The Cave, driven back across Laguna, got lucky enough to find a parking spot right near my apartment, and tried to rouse Marissa. She had a pulse—I checked twice—but she was dead to the world, deadweight, and even with the driver’s seat slid forward I couldn’t get enough leverage to pick her up or enough space to drag her out.
-Hey, Marissa.
I was tired, I was getting pissed, I banged my head on the door frame.
-Goddammit! Marissa, wake up.
Nothing.
-Marissa!
Nothing to do but hurry inside, grab some blankets and a pillow off my bed, and hunker down in the front seat.
-Reed, what I mean is does Bud Jack pay you to do anything else, aside from washing and cleaning vehicles?
-You mean like make coffee, open the mail?
-Anything.
-No, man, we don’t even got a office.
Did someone say coffee? My attention was fading in and out.
-Would you say you know Bud Jack pretty well?
-I know he gotta have the radio on hip hop. I know he wants fish tacos for lunch.
-What about girlfriends?
Well, a girl in every port, if his grandmother has it right. Meanwhile, I spend the night tossing and turning in my sort of girlfriend’s compact car—good on MPG, hopeless for REM. With my head resting against the driver-side window, I caught the headlights of passing vehicles. Flipped around, head on the passenger side, a street lamp blazed in my face. When I tried slumping low, the handbrak
e between the front seats dug into my thigh or someplace worse, like they should call it a Uranus not a Saturn.
-He got a girlfriend here and there, just like anybody else. He don’t say too much about it.
Test drive Uranus today. Uranus seats four comfortably.
-Do you ever go to Bud Jack’s house?
-Sometimes.
No mountain’s too big for Uranus. Sorry, Uronor, but it’s either pathetic jokes or I’m taking a snooze, or maybe you could direct Lawson to get to the point. Heronor didn’t respond. No telepathy, that one.
-Sometimes?
-If we got time to kill, we go check on his grandmother, just chill out.
Yawn. Nine in the morning and I can’t stay awake. Midnight last night I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t keep my head out of the light, and couldn’t keep Sigrid out of my head. It was the way she had said it—I saw you out back—whispered so no one else could hear and at the last minute, on our way out the front door, so I couldn’t respond. I shoved my feet up onto the dashboard and tried outlining the possibilities, the way I do on the chalkboard in class. Was she 1) being flirtatious, implying she had seen me in my birthday suit when I got out of the hot tub, and was it 1a) a friendly, joking flirt, or 1b) did she have something more serious in mind, maybe lighting the candle on my birthday cake? Or 2) was she letting me know she knew it was me she’d caught sneaking out her gate, and, if so, was she 2a) saying all is forgiven, we’ll just keep it between the two of us, or 2b) making a threat? I couldn’t work out which option Occam would go for, they all seemed straightforward enough, but I was pretty sure Grisham’s Razor would have Sigrid 2b) threatening to expose me as the local pervert unless I voted not guilty, it was all part of Richard’s secret plan, and meanwhile Richard was inviting me back for a barbecue. Were the Wilhites playing good cop/bad cop?
-Did Bud Jack ever mention a guy named Juan Castro?
Lawson was stuck in boring cop.
-That don’t sound familiar.
-Did he ever say anything about having a problem with anyone? Maybe a guy in Huntington Beach.
-No.
My eyelids drooped to half-mast. This was getting painful.
-Maybe a Mexican.
-No. But he don’t talk about hisself too much. Mostly he’s all business—how many cars we got lined up, if we behind schedule or not.
-How many cars do you wash a day?
Maybe I can listen with my eyes closed.
-Five or six. We could do more but we’re real careful. Spit and polish, baby. Five-star clean.
My mind flashed back to Sigrid sitting on her couch, serving up tart.
-They’re not really gardeners, not even the Vietnamese guy. They don’t know the first thing about flowers.
She threw up her hands in disbelief. Pete elbowed me. Her disproportionates were trying to bust through her t-shirt. Whoosh-whoosh.
-I would tend the yard myself—manual labor is good therapy—but who has the time?
A new image: Sigrid in her tight shirt, raking up leaves and sweeping the patio. Whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh. Another elbow from Pete.
Wait, that wasn’t Pete. I opened my eyes. It was The Marlboro Mouse in chair two, reeking of cigarette smoke as usual. Had I fallen asleep? The Mouse nodded.
-Reed, does Bud Jack carry a gun?
-I never seen one.
-Is Bud Jack involved in drugs? Buying? Selling?
-Like I said, we wash cars, that’s it.
My eyes slipped shut again.
-Is Bud Jack in a gang?
Lawson, please, haven’t we been through this?
-Yes.
How long till lunch? I’ll never make it. Did he just say yes? Hello!
-He is?
Lawson appeared taken aback.
-SSC, baby. Southside Squeegee Crew. Me and him’s a gang of two.
Oh. Two E’s Reed was two n’s grinning. One E Silverson was one n not.
-Please, Mr. Benson, answer the questions directly.
-Sorry. Just seeing if folks is awake.
Was he referring to me? The Mouse nodded. I swear that varmint can read my thoughts. Hey, Mouse, want some cheese? Honk if you love cheeses. Nothing. Not even a smile.
-I’ll ask again. Is Bud Jack in a street gang?
-No, sir. He’s a businessman, same as me. Gainfully employed.
Speaking of varmints, across the room a short, hairless rodent had his beady eyes on me. Had he noticed me nodding off? Would he rat me out to Judge Silverson?
BAILIFF BALDY: It was Juror One. He’s the sleeper. You want, I could give him a wake-up call. Maybe pull out his fingernails.
JUDGE SILVERSON: I’m a bit drowsy myself today.
A certain scenario came to mind, causing me to smile at the stuffy bailiff. He looked away.
SILVERSON: You were snoring again.
BALDY: I was not.
SILVERSON: Even my neighbors couldn’t sleep.
A door next to the jury box opened, and somewhere a giant unseen vacuum sucked every ounce of air from the courtroom.
That was a line straight from Grisham. I had sworn never again after Patrick Lanigan, the ninety-million-dollar man, got stood up and ripped off by the beautiful Brazilian, after the complicated, impossible plan had worked and then Grisham, maybe out of boredom, maybe just to tease his loyal readers, had thrown in one last twist: sorry, people, this time our hero doesn’t end up with all the loot, he’s still happy though, don’t worry, and wiser too. I’d sworn never again will I waste my time with a bestselling legal thriller. But it was two a.m. when I discovered the stolen Grisham beneath the passenger seat where Pete had left it, and I couldn’t sleep, and if Pete was right, somewhere on a dark, impoverished Indian reservation black coal was burning to keep Laguna street lamps glowing, so the least I could do would be not let those kilowatts go to waste, right? There was just enough light for reading, and I figured after ten or twenty pages I would drift off.
Lawson sat down. Sloan stood up.
-Mr. Benson, do you and Mr. Jack wash cars in Huntington Beach?
-No. Seal Beach sometimes.
I was hoping the prosecutor would tear into the witness, create some fireworkth, but Sloan had little use for Double E Reed.
-Thank you. No further questions.
Double E departed. Silverson summoned Sloan and Lawson to the bench for a conference. I decided to bait the trap. Forget 2b or not 2b, if Sigrid is 1b) offering me quality time with her triple D’s, I’ll vote any way she says—not guilty, innocent, pure as Sunday snow—and if she wants two jurors in her pocket I’ll bring The Mouse along in mine. Hell, I’ll even let The Mouse go first, I’ll get down on my hands and knees so the little pipsqueak can stand on my back and reach Sigrid’s low-hanging fruit.
The Mouse scrunched his nose. I was watching him out of the corner of my eye. That’s right, Cheese Lover, nuzzle up and nibble on that Double Gloucester, I know you’re a titmouse. His upper lip lifted, baring two brown teeth. Go ahead, Mouse, double-click.
The startling sound he produced was more an explosive splutter than a laugh, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore, and trying to disguise it as a cough only made it louder: Puh-FAH-kee-koo-KOO-sis! Something like that. The Mouse had roared.
Judge Silverson asked if he was okay. The Mouse nodded and coughed again. The nerdy guy in chair three offered him a lozenge. I looked over with a grin. Gotcha! That’s what you get, Mickey, for having big ears.
The conference at the bench continued, joined by the pinched-nose bailiff. They appeared to be arguing.
BALDY: I wasn’t snoring.
SILVERSON: Why do you think I slept on the couch?
LAWSON: Man, you must have been snoring if she crawled out of her own comfortable bed. I’ve been there, I know.
SLOAN: I’m glad I don’t snore.
SILVERSON: No, you’re more of a wheeze.
At one point, Lawson gestured toward the jury box, and Bailiff Buzzsaw looked right at me. Now what did I do? Is
a slumbering juror grounds for mistrial? Uronor, I just closed my eyes, I swear, I didn’t miss anything. Please, Uronor, call a recess, give me ten minutes, a quick nap, and I’ll be good to go. Nothing. I heard Chad whispering behind me.
-These guys must get paid by the hour.
A door next to the jury box opened, and somewhere a giant unseen vacuum sucked every ounce of air from the courtroom.
That line bugged me. Isn’t unseen vacuum redundant? Unless Grisham meant a giant unseen machine, like a vacuum cleaner. The book’s setup had promised a typical Grisham morality tale: a church-going, Mississippi town struggling against a giant, New York-based chemical company that had poisoned their water and made them all sick. One woman sued and, though the lengthy trial bankrupted her small-town lawyers, she won a verdict to the tune of forty-one million dollars. The chemical company CEO was the classic Grisham villain—filthy rich, greedy for more, heartless and conniving. Screw the dying town, with many more plaintiffs lining up against him, the CEO would appeal the decision to the Mississippi supreme court.
Angling the book to catch the yellow glow from the street lamp, I had skimmed through the pages, I wasn’t going to get involved in the story, this would only be a one-night fling. After twenty pages and no closer to sleep, I told myself I would read until I uncovered the secret plan. It didn’t take long. Court-watchers expected the verdict to be upheld by a 5-4 vote, so, with the help of other heartless connivers aka political operatives, the CEO would throw millions behind a candidate who would run against an incumbent judge in the upcoming elections—supreme court judges being elected in Mississippi. The CEO’s stooge would win the seat, change the balance of the court, and see the decision overturned, the case thrown out and buried, future class actions stifled.
I closed the book and closed my eyes. Would the evil CEO get his way? I know, I know, it wouldn’t be a Grisham if the plan fails, but if it succeeds, if the CEO’s candidate takes the election and swings the court into tossing out the forty-one million dollar decision, then the CEO comes out on top, greed pays, and if the avaricious, unrepentant bastard doesn’t get his comeuppance, if there’s no greed-suffering-redemption sequence, it couldn’t be a Grisham. Did I have it right? If a) the plan works, then b) greed pays, and not c) a Grisham. If a, then b, and not c. And if the plan doesn’t work, then it definitely can’t be a Grisham—if not a, then not c. Either way, not c, not Grisham. Maybe it wasn’t a Grisham. Maybe it was a cheap knockoff trading on his bestselling name. It sure looked authentic, with the bright, white JOHN GRISHAM in its usual place of prominence, bigger than the title and superimposed over a shadowy, conspiracy-suggesting cover design. The usual breathless newspaper blurbs too. “The best American storyteller writing today.” “Could become its own era-defining classic.” “Detrimental to sleep. You may read all night.” Perfect: I was looking for a sleeping pill and get a dose of “packs a wallop” instead.
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