Deceived

by James Scott Bell

  “Really? No! They’re liquid. Something like that. In the body. And Swami says if you have them in balance, you become like a liquid battery. Like car batteries with liquid gel or something like that.”

  “I don’t find that humorous.” Rocky was trying to read the story on Arty’s death.

  “So tell me more about this guy you met.”

  “Geena, do you mind?”

  “I’ll tell you about mine if you tell me about yours.”

  Rocky stopped reading. “What do you mean, yours?”

  “No fair. I said you first.”

  “Geena, my humorous friend, I have not met a guy, okay? Mac’s Arty’s friend, that’s all.”

  “Do tell.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Will you knock it — ”

  “You have no idea” — Geena did a spin move — “what is in store for you.”

  “Not romance, if that’s what you’re thinking. That ship has sailed. Crashed, burned, and sunk. Now can I get back — ”

  “His name is Leonard.”

  “Whose name is Leonard?”

  “Leonard.”

  “I got that. Is this your guy?”

  Geena did a spin move the other way. “Might be.”

  “Is he humorous?”

  “He’s smart, is what he is. Anything computer. Anything digi. Anything, anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Yeah. How ’bout that?”

  “I’d like to meet this Leonard.”

  “You would?”

  Rocky closed her laptop. “Like, now.”

  2:22 p.m.

  “Lord,” Mac said, on his knees, at his bed, Bible open, “please don’t let me do anything stupid. Please keep me from doing something wrong. Please keep me from breaking the law. Please keep my head from hurting.”

  For the moment, while he was praying, while he looked at the Bible, his head was all right.

  Maybe, he thought, if I walked around with an open Bible all the time, that would keep me out of trouble. Keep it tied to my face like a horse’s oat bag.

  Slezak. Slezak. You can kill him and get away with it.

  Not God’s voice. The con voice. He closed his eyes and put his head on the Bible pages.

  “Make it take,” he said aloud. “Make it take . . .”

  2:36 p.m.

  “Ted?”

  “Hmm?”

  “How you doing?”

  “Warm.”

  “Relaxed?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Nerves steady?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “You’re not going to bail on me, are you?”

  “No way.”

  “I can count on you, can’t I?”

  “All the way.”

  The drinks had warmed him up. He never knew bourbon could make him feel so good. It was a nice, wood-fire kind of thing, right in the middle of his chest. And his head was happy. It all just made him feel so good.

  That book is great, he thought. Mom said if I read it, it would make a difference. Boy, oh boy, was she right. Sorry, Mom.

  “What did you say?” Liz was looking at him.

  “Hmm?”

  “It sounded like you said Sorry, Mom.”

  “No,” he said. “No way.”

  “I’ll put on some music,” Liz said.

  “Oh yeah. Oh yeah.”

  “Who do you like?”

  “Hendrix,” he said. “Do you have any Hendrix?”

  3:21 p.m.

  When they got to the apartment on La Brea, Rocky almost had to hold Geena down, she was so hyper. Being stuck for a long time in LA traffic hadn’t helped things. All the bubbling, vibrating, universe-vectoring energy that was Geena Melinda Carter was ready to burst forth like an electric storm.

  It happened when the door opened, and Geena jumped the guy. He stumbled backward into his apartment.

  So this was Leonard. A fuzzy-headed, sloe-eyed, lumbering sort with black glasses. He had a slight lisp as he said, “You must be Geena’s friend.”

  Genius. Pure genius. Rocky grunted as she entered the apartment, which smelled of sandalwood incense.

  “We met at the ashram,” Geena said.

  “Ah,” Rocky said. “Another of Swami G’s acolytes?”

  “T,” Geena said. “Swami T.”

  “If Swami T married Kenny G, what would they name their kids?” Rocky said.

  Geena and Leonard just looked at her.

  “You ever been ’shramed?” Leonard said.

  Geena giggled and squeezed his arm. “He means ashramed. Doesn’t he have a way with words?”

  “He’s a regular Hemingway. Now, can you help me with this?” Rocky pulled out the half cell phone she’d found in Pack Canyon.

  Leonard took it. “That’s half a phone,” he said.

  “Swami does it again,” Rocky said.

  “Isn’t she funny?” Geena said.

  “It’s all good,” Leonard said. “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Get me the information on it,” Rocky said. “Who it belonged to. And anything else you can recover.”

  Leonard stroked his scraggle of facial hair. “Might be some cool ring tones on there,” he said. “And games.”

  “Isn’t he the cutest?” Geena said.

  Rocky blew out a stream of tired air. “Oh yes. Cute would be the word.”

  “Let me keep this,” Leonard said. “I’m late for my colonics appointment.”

  “You have a colonics appointment?” Geena said. “Can I come?”

  “Sure,” Leonard said. “How ’bout you, Rocky?”

  “Um, can I say no?” Rocky said.

  “You ever been hosed?”

  “Thanks, Leonard, that will be enough.”

  “You haven’t lived!” Leonard said.

  “My problems are all behind me,” Rocky said.

  Geena giggled. “See? Funny.”

  5:21 p.m.

  Liz felt completely in control. Even more, that she could shape events outside herself with a wave of the hand. She was driving as calmly as a deacon with a full tithe envelope. Ted was right behind her in his car with the incriminating cargo. It was almost as if he were on an invisible string. In a way, he was. A puppet, performing the dance she was choreographing.

  Yes, he would do exactly as she said.

  It’s going to be all right, Mama, she thought. Then she heard her mother’s voice saying, I know, honey. I know you can do this.

  It was the same thing Mama said the night she killed Miller Jones.

  Two days after he had come to Liz’s bed, Mama seemed agitated in the trailer as they waited for him to come home. They were eating macaroni and cheese, and Miller Jones was out getting drunk as usual.

  Mama didn’t say much, except Drink your milk and Wipe your face with your napkin and not the back of your hand.

  After dinner, Liz asked if she could watch TV and Mama said fine. They had a little black-and-white TV in Mama’s room, and Liz liked to watch I Love Lucy. She thought Lucy was funny and Ricky kind of strange with that accent and hair. The character she couldn’t stand was Fred. She hated Fred. She hated the way he wore his belt up to his chest. And she hated the way he treated Ethel.

  Liz couldn’t help it, but she always wondered why there wasn’t a show where Ethel killed Fred and she and Lucy had to figure out a way to get rid of the body before Ricky got home.

  What would they have done? It would have been really funny to see Ricky come home and find Fred’s legs sticking out of a trunk. Ricky’s eyes would go wide: “Lucy! What joo doo?”

  But everybody would decide they were happier without Fred, and Ethel could marry a man who was her own age instead of an old fart who could have been her father.

  This night it was an episode where Lucy and Ethel made bread with way too much dough and yeast, and this giant loaf came shooting out of the oven, pinning Lucy on the other side of the kitchen.

  Now that was funny.

  She heard Mille
r Jones come in.

  Liz knew his walk, his sound, the way he closed the door, the way the trailer rocked with the weight of him. She knew his smell. It was bourbon, Mama said, and it was sour and could knock over a horse.

  She heard his voice, too, thick with drink so the words came out like mashed potatoes.

  “Neee sumthin’ a eat . . .” he said. This was followed by some curse words. Liz thought it was because he had trouble getting into a chair.

  Mama’s voice was soft tonight. Liz thought that was odd, because usually Mama screamed at Miller Jones when he was like this, making demands on her. Mama would scream until her husband hit her. Then it would stop for a time and then start again.

  It got real quiet then. Liz turned the sound down on the little TV and peeked out the curtain of Mama’s room. She saw the back of Miller Jones slumped in a chair. Both his arms were hanging at his sides. Mama was at the little stove, spooning out the last of the mac and cheese into a bowl.

  Liz thought that was nice. Maybe they’d get along with each other for once. Maybe they’d have a quiet night.

  Usually when Jones was like this, he went right to sleep and snored loud. He wouldn’t be bothering her this night.

  She was just about to go back to I Love Lucy when her mama did something strange. She stepped around behind Miller Jones, holding a knife behind her back.

  Even before Mama did it, everything that happened next seemed to come to Liz like a movie preview.

  Not just the bloody death of Miller Jones, but what she and Mama were going to do about it.

  Liz didn’t even scream.

  When Miller Jones’s body was finally still in a bloody heap on the floor, Liz came out.

  Mama said, “It’s done.”

  Liz nodded.

  “He ain’t never gonna touch you again. Now you got to listen to me.”

  Liz said, “Yes, Mama.”

  “We’re gonna go over and over what happened, and you’re gonna tell it just the way I say to tell it. Can you do that with me?”

  “Yes, Mama. I can do it.”

  “I know, honey,” Mama said. “I know that you can do this.”

  I know that you can do this.

  Liz checked her rearview mirror. Ted was still right behind her, more obedient than a bloodhound.

  She could do this indeed.

  Liz found the driveway off Mulholland Highway, turned into it. The sun was going down, and it was perfect lighting for what they were about to do.

  The small lot at the end of the drive had spaces for six cars. It was empty.

  She parked, got out, and waited for Ted to pull up. She left her car and got in with Ted. His car smelled like old cheese.

  “Now I want you to drive all the way up,” she said.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to take a dirt road I know about.” Arty had showed her once, on a day hike.

  “What about tire tracks and all that?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You see that all the time on TV.”

  “Leave it to me, will you? I know what I’m doing.”

  “I know you do,” Ted said.

  “Then drive.”

  He hesitated. What was he doing? “Go on,” Liz said.

  “Would you do something first?”

  “What?”

  “Would you kiss me again?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. I can’t stand it.”

  “All right,” she said, “but after this you do what we talked about.”

  “Yes.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, and tried not to think about it as she did. It was like kissing liver. She didn’t think she could do it again.

  “Now drive,” she said.

  “Oh yeah.”

  5:39 p.m.

  Mac saw Henry Weinhouse, owner and operator of Pack Canyon Market, rearranging some tomatoes in the produce section.

  Henry was a friendly ex-firefighter who’d moved to Pack Canyon back in the eighties, when houses were cheap and the market wasn’t really making it. He bought it and turned it around, so Mac had heard, with something innovative: personal ser vice. He knew what his customers liked and even extended credit.

  He’d done that for Mac on more than one occasion. Which was why Mac refused to shop anywhere else. You could go to the Food 4 Less or Wal-Mart and save money. But there was something called loyalty, and that was in short supply, so Mac always came to Henry Weinhouse’s store.

  “How’re them tomatoes?” Mac said.

  Henry, who wore an old-fashioned grocer’s apron, turned and said, “Lycopene, baby. Got to have your lycopene.”

  “What I want now,” Mac said, “is milk and Oreos.”

  “Having a party?”

  “For myself. Thought I’d rent me up a good ol’ John Wayne movie.”

  “Can’t go wrong with that,” Henry said. “Hey, how you getting along? I mean, with Arty dying like that?”

  “It was a shocker, that’s for sure.”

  “Saw his widow this morning. She came in to get a paper.”

  “Liz was here?”

  Henry nodded. “She looked out of it, to tell you the truth. I tried to talk to her a little. Has she got any family?”

  “She’s got a church. My church.”

  “That’s a good thing. A church is a good thing. Can I send her anything from the store?”

  “That’s real nice of you, Henry. How about I let you know?”

  “You’ll be going to see her?”

  “I’ll look in on her. Maybe tomorrow. I think she needs a little breathing room. She’s had a rough few days.”

  Henry nodded. “She’ll make out. She’s got some grit, that girl. She’ll make out just fine.”

  5:45 p.m.

  “Over there,” Liz said, pointing. Ted saw the dirt road. More like a dirt path. It headed off into some trees.

  “Is this like a park?” Ted said.

  “Something like that. Go on.”

  “What if somebody sees us?”

  “Then we make out until they leave.”

  That made him hope somebody would see them. The path twisted around a couple of times. It was clearly a hiking trail, not meant for cars. But there was no law here. Only the law of the jungle, he thought, and almost laughed. How far he’d come since he was eight years old and stole that bike.

  He was with his friend Brett, and they saw this very cool bike leaning against the wall of the 7-Eleven without a lock.

  Brett said, “Let’s take it.”

  “But what if they see us?” Ted had asked, scared.

  “I’ll go in and see if the kid is there and what he’s doing. Look at the front. If I wave at you, take it and ride it four blocks down that way. I’ll find you.”

  “But — ”

  Brett turned and went into the 7-Eleven. Ted stood there looking around, thinking hidden cameras were all over, watching him. But he felt excited. This was the most exciting thing he had ever done. Or was about to do. The anticipation was the thing. The almost doing it was what got him juiced.

  And Brett did wave at him out the front door. Without another thought, Ted got on the bike and rode as fast as he could to the street, turned right, and pedaled hard exactly four blocks.

  He found a house with some ivy in front and put the bike in the ivy. Then he sat on the curb and waited for what seemed like an hour. Until Brett showed up, breathing hard and covered with sweat.

  “So where is it?” Brett said.

  “It’s right here,” Ted said. “Let’s just leave it.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “We don’t need it. They’ll probably find out we took it.”

  “Come on!”

  But the excitement was over. The taking of it was over. There was a letdown, and Ted didn’t want to do anything else. He just got up and started walking away, even though Brett called him a whole bunch of names.

  Now, driving with Li
z, he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to call it quits before going all the way. There was a new resolution in him. Brett, buddy, if you could see me now.

  “Stop here,” Liz said.

  They were in a little clearing. Ted could see that the path narrowed and wouldn’t be able to accommodate his Cougar.

  “It’s getting dark,” he said.

  “Yes,” Liz said.

  “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “A shovel. Don’t we need a shovel?”

  “No,” she said. “We won’t need a shovel.”

  “But what are we going to do with the body?”

  She didn’t answer. She had a strange, faraway look in her eyes.

  “Liz, do you need me to do some thinking for us?”

  She whipped her head around. “Don’t you ever say that to me.”

  “I’m sorry, I — ”

  “Don’t you ever say I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Don’t. Let. This. Slip. Away.

  “Keep on,” she said. “Turn to the right.”

  “Off the path?”

  “That’s what I said. Didn’t you hear me?”

  He did as she asked. Just a little longer, just a little more, and this would all be over and they’d be together. They could go back to the house. They could stay there for a long time, just the two of them.

  He moved slowly, because the ground was bumpy and he had to avoid some big rocks. He wondered what would happen if he got a flat tire.

  She’d get them out of it. He wasn’t going to do anymore thinking. Not yet.

  “Stop,” she said.

  He stopped. Just ahead of him, two trees stood like armed guards, blocking the way.

  He really wondered what they were going to do with the body. If she wanted to bury it, they needed that shovel. He didn’t have one. She might have one, but she left her car in the parking lot.

  She wasn’t saying anything. She had the faraway look again.

  No, that wasn’t it. A frozen look. Her eyes were still and cold. They were looking at him, and then he saw a knife in her hand and wondered, Does she intend to cut up the body with that knife?

  It was the last thing he ever wondered.

  6:02 p.m.

  Mac drove by Arty’s house, thinking he might stop in and see how Liz was. He did want her to have some breathing room. But he didn’t want her to try to carry the load all alone.

  As he cruised past, he didn’t see any lights on in the house. He didn’t see her car in the driveway. Arty’s old BMW was probably still in the garage.