Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He punched my arm hard. “Motor Moran, little bro. Don’t fuckin’ use it up.” Tossing me the cereal box, he went to the fridge and got beer and salsa.

  “Got any chips, woman?”

  “Sure, cowboy.”

  “Then move your ass and fix me some dip.”

  “You got it, cowboy.”

  She calls all the losers she brings home “cowboy.”

  Moran thought it was all for him. “Back in the saddle, baby, we goin’ gallop!”

  Motor Moron. His real name is Buell Erville Moran, so you can see why he’d want a nickname, even a stupid one. I saw it on his driver’s license, which was expired and full of lies. Like his height being six-four when it’s maybe six-one. And his weight being two hundred when it’s at least two-eighty. In the picture he was wearing a huge red beard. By the time Mom brought him home, he’d shaved off the chin hairs and the mustache and left humongous sideburns that stick out, really stupid.

  He wears the same thing every day: greasy jeans, smelly black Harley T-shirts, and boots. Trying to make like he’s a Hell’s Angel or some big outlaw biker, but he has no gang and his chopper is a rusty hunk of junk, usually broken. All he does is fool with it alongside the trailer, get blasted, watch talk shows, and eat, eat, eat.

  And spend the AFDC and the disability checks. The AFDC’s are basically mine. Aid to families with dependent children. My money.

  At least I’m not dependent anymore.

  Mom changed when I turned around five. She was never educated, but she used to be happier. More interested in how she looked, using a hot comb and makeup and wearing different outfits. Now it’s all T-shirts and shorts, and even though she’s not really fat, she kind of droops and her skin’s pale and rough.

  She used to work the Sunnyside weeks and only drink and toke on weekends. I don’t want to blame her—she’s had a hard life. Started picking in the fields when she was fourteen; had me when she was sixteen. Now she’s twenty-eight and some of her teeth are gone, because she has no money to take care of them.

  She never had much schooling, because her parents picked fruit, too, traveling up and down with the crops, and they were alcoholic and didn’t believe in education. She can barely read and write and she doesn’t use good grammar, but I never said anything to her about that; it really didn’t bother me.

  She had me nine months after her parents died in a car crash. Her dad was drunk, coming back to Watson from seeing a movie in Bolsa Chica, and he drove off Route 5 straight into a power pole.

  Mom and I passed by the exact spot lots of times on the bus. Every time we did, she’d say, “There it is, that damn pole,” and start rubbing her eyes.

  She didn’t die, because she was out partying with some grove workers instead of being with her parents at the movies.

  She used to tell me the whole story, over and over, especially when she was drunk or stoned. Then she started adding stuff to it: The party was at some fancy restaurant, with big shots from the farm workers’ union. Then it turned from a party into a date, her and some rich union guy, and she was all dressed up, “looking hot.” Then she really got going, saying the rich guy was handsome and smart, a lawyer who was a genius.

  One night she got totally blasted and made this big confession: The rich guy was supposed to be my father.

  Her version of Cinderella, only she never got to live in the palace.

  Having a rich, smart, handsome father would be a cool thing, but I know it’s bull. If he had money, why wouldn’t she go after it?

  When she got that way, she sometimes pulled out old pictures of herself, showing me when she was slender and pretty and had thick, dark hair that hung down past her waist.

  She has no pictures of the amazing rich guy. Big surprise.

  When she told Moron the story, he said, “Cut that bullshit, Sharla. You fucked a million assholes, can’t remember nonea them.”

  Mom didn’t answer and Moron’s face got dark and he looked over at me and for a minute I thought he was going to come after me, too. Instead, he just laughed and said, “How you ever gonna know which gleam in the eye produced this little piecea shit?”

  Mom smiled and twisted her hair. “I just know, Buell. A woman knows.”

  That’s when he backhanded her. She fell back against the fridge, and her head snapped back like it was going to come off.

  I was sitting at the table, eating the little he’d left me of a jumbo can of Hormel chili, and all of a sudden fear and anger were burning through me and I looked for something to grab, but the knives were across the kitchen, too far away, and his gun was under his bed with him right in the way.

  Mom sat up and started crying.

  “Cut the bullshit,” he said. “Shut the fuck up.” He raised his hand again. This time I did stand up, and he saw me and his eyes got really small. He turned red as ketchup, started breathing hard, made a move toward me. Maybe Mom was trying to help me or maybe she was just helping herself, but all of a sudden she was in his lap, wrapping her arms around him, saying, “Yeah, you’re right, baby, it is bullshit, total bullshit. I don’t know jack. Sorry. I’ll never lay that bullshit on you again, cowboy.”

  He started to shake her off, but changed his mind, said, “You gotta cool it with that bullshit.”

  Mom said, “I ain’t arguin’. C’mon, baby, let’s scoot into town and party.”

  He didn’t answer. Finally he said, “Fucking A.” Looking over at me, he licked her cheek and slipped his hand under her tank top.

  Moving his hand in slow, slow circles.

  “Let’s party right here, baby,” he said, starting to pull the tank top off of her.

  I ran out of the trailer, hearing him laughing, saying, “Looks like the rich guy’s kid got all hot.”

  He started off with more hand squeezes, tripping me, pinching my arm. When he saw he could get away with that, he started slapping me for stupid reasons, like when I didn’t get him a pickled egg fast enough. It made my head buzz and I couldn’t hear right for hours.

  The worst time of the day was when I came home from school. He’d be outside the trailer working on his bike. “Hey you, rich guy’s jizz! Get the fuck over here.”

  There was only one door to the trailer and he was in front of it, so I had to do it.

  Sometimes he bugged me, sometimes he didn’t, and that was almost worse, ’cause I kept waiting for it to happen.

  Rich man’s kid, fuckin’ rug rat snotty-little-asshole think-you’re-smartern everyone.

  Then he started with the tools. Putting a chisel under my chin, sticking my thumb in a lug wrench and tightening it on the bone, watching my eyes to see what I would do.

  I worked hard at not moving my eyes or any other part of me. The wrench felt like when you catch your hand in a drawer, but at least that’s over fast—this kept throbbing and throbbing. I could imagine my bones cracking and breaking and never healing again.

  Going through life with broken hands and being called Claw Boy.

  Next time was a screwdriver. He tickled my ear with it, pretended to jam it in with the heel of his hand, laughing and saying, “Shit, I missed.”

  A few days later, his hacksaw blade went up against my neck and I could feel its teeth, like an animal biting me.

  After that, I couldn’t sleep well, would wake up a bunch of times a night, and in the morning I’d have a sore face from clenching my teeth.

  Why didn’t I just sneak over to their bed and get his gun and shoot him?

  Part of it was being scared he’d wake up, get to the gun first. And even if I did shoot him, who’d believe I had a good reason? I’d end up in jail, ruined forever; even when I got out I’d be an ex-con, with no right to vote.

  I started thinking about running away. The thing that decided it for me happened on a Sunday. Sundays were the worst because he sat around all day drinking and smoking weed and popping pills and watching Rambo videos and soon he’d feel like being Rambo.

  Mom was in town getting groceries
and I was trying to read.

  He said, “Get the fuck over here,” and when I did, he laughed and pulled out a pair of wire cutters, then yanked down my jeans and my shorts and put my dick between the blades. The sac, too.

  Billy No-Balls.

  I almost peed, but forced myself to hold it in because if I wet him I was sure he’d cut it off.

  “Rich guy’s kid got a little one, don’t he?”

  I stood there trying not to feel, wishing I could be somewhere else. Lists, lists; nothing was working.

  He said, “Snip, snip, go sing in the fuckin’ pope’s choir.”

  He licked his lips. Then he let me go.

  Two days later, when they were both at the Sunnyside, I went through the trailer looking for money. All I found at first was eighty cents in change under the couch cushions, and I was getting discouraged and wondering if I could leave without money. Then I came across the Bathroom Miracle—some money Mom had been hiding in a Tampax box under the sink. I guess she never really trusted Moron, figured he wouldn’t look there. Maybe she felt trapped, too, wanted to get out one day. If I messed up her plans, I’m sorry, but she still has the AFDC and it was my balls between the blades of that cutter and if I stayed longer he would’ve killed me. Which would make her feel terrible and probably get her in trouble for child neglect or something.

  So by leaving I was doing her a favor.

  The money in the Tampax box came out to $126.

  I wrapped it in two Ziploc bags, put them in a paper bag tied with four rubber bands, and stuffed it all in my shorts. I couldn’t take books or too many clothes, so I just put my most comfortable stuff in another paper bag, buckled my Casio on my arm, and walked out into the night.

  There are no street lamps in the trailer park, just lights from inside the trailers, and at that hour most people were in bed, so it was nice and dark. It’s not really a park, just a dirt field next to a grove of old twisted orange trees cut low by the wind that don’t fruit anymore and one long, curvy, open road that leads to the highway.

  I walked the highway all night, staying on the grass, far as I could from the road so cars and trucks couldn’t see me. It was mostly trucks, big ones, and they just zoomed by, creating their own storms. I must have walked twelve miles, because the sign at Bolsa Chica said it’s that far to Watson. But my feet weren’t hurting that bad and I felt free.

  The station was closed because the first bus to L.A. was at 6 A.M. I waited around till some old Mexican went behind the counter, and he took forty of my Tampax dollars without even looking up. I bought a sweet roll and milk at the station and a Mad magazine from the news rack, was first on the bus, sitting in the last row.

  Everyone else was Mexican, mostly workers and a few women, one of them pregnant and moving around in her seat a lot. The bus was old and hot but pretty clean.

  The driver was an old white guy with a crushed face and a hat too big for him. He chewed gum and spit out the window; started off slowly, but once he got going, we were rolling along and some of the Mexicans took out food.

  We drove by some used-car lots on the outskirts of Bolsa Chica, all these windshields reflecting white light like mirrors, then some strawberry fields covered with strips of plastic. When I’d passed them with Mom, she’d always say, “Strawberry fields, just like the song.” I thought about her, then made myself stop. After the fields came nothing but road and mountains.

  A little while later we passed the place where Mom’s parents drove off the road. I stared at it, watched it disappear through the back window. Then I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Stu drew Petra aside. “Cart Ramsey. If it’s true.’’

  “She seemed sure.”

  He glanced at Susan Rose, loading her tripod back in her car. “She looks like a stoner, but she does have a certain conviction.”

  “My first thought seeing all that overkill was someone the vic knew.”

  Stu frowned. “I’m calling Schoelkopf right now, get some guidelines. Any idea where Ramsey lives?”

  “Nope. Thought you might.”

  “Me? Why—oh.” His smile was thin. “No, never did his show. Have you ever seen it?”

  “Never. He plays a P.I., right?”

  “More like a one-man vigilante squad. Fixing stuff the cops can’t.”

  “Charming.”

  “Bad even for TV. It started out on network, got dropped, went indie, managed to pull some syndication. I think Ramsey owns the show.” He shook his head. “Thank God I never got called for it. Can’t you just see the fun some F. Lee Bombast would have with that?” His lips twisted, and he looked ready to spit as he turned his back on Petra.

  “What’s especially bad about the show?” she said.

  He faced her. “Wooden dialogue, weak story lines, no character development, Ramsey can’t act. Need more? It fills space in a late-Sunday time slot, so the station probably picks it up at budget price.”

  “Meaning Ramsey’s only a minor gazillionaire.”

  Stu thumbed a suspender and looked over at the body, now covered. “Ramsey’s ex means media carrion. While I call Schoelkopf, would you please go over to Ms. Rose and ask her to keep her mouth zipped till the bosses have weighed in?”

  Before she could reply, he started for their car. A uniform began waving frantically from the far end of the parking lot and they both hurried over.

  “Found this right over there.” The cop pointed to some brush near the entry gate. “Didn’t touch it.”

  A black ostrich purse.

  A tall young tech named Alan Lau gloved up and went through it. Compact, lipstick—also MAC; that made Petra’s stomach flutter. Loose change, a black ostrich wallet. Inside the wallet were credit cards, some made out to Lisa Ramsey, others to Lisa Boehlinger. California driver’s license with a picture of a gorgeous blonde. Lisa Lee Ramsey. The birthdate made her twenty-seven years old. Five-five, 115; matched the corpse. Address on Doheny Drive—an apartment, Beverly Hills. No paper money.

  “Emptied and tossed,” said Petra. “A robbery, or wanting to make it look like one.”

  Stu didn’t comment, just headed for the car again as Lau began bagging the contents. Petra returned to the body. Susan Rose was near the feet, capping her camera lens.

  “Finished,” she said. “Want me to shoot something else?”

  “Maybe the hills up there,” said Petra. “We’re waiting for the K-9’s; depends on what they find.”

  Susan shrugged. “I get paid either way.” She reached under her grubby sweatshirt, drew out a necklace, and began playing with it.

  Guitar picks on a steel chain. Bingo for Detective Connor’s intuition!

  “Play music?” said Petra.

  Susan looked puzzled. “Oh, this. No. My boyfriend’s in a band.”

  “What kind of music?”

  “Alternative. You into it?”

  Petra kept her smile within bounds and shook her head. “Tone-deaf.”

  Susan nodded. “I can carry a tune, but that’s about it.”

  “Listen,” said Petra. “Thanks again for the ID. You were right.”

  “’Course I was. But no big deal—you would’ve found out soon enough.” The photographer turned to leave.

  “One other thing, Susan. Who she is complicates things. So we’d appreciate it if you don’t talk to anyone about this until we work out a plan for handling the press.”

  Susan fingered the necklace. “Sure, but someone like this, everyone’ll know before you can say senseless murder.”

  “Exactly. We’ve got a narrow window of opportunity. Detective Bishop’s calling the brass right now, trying to get a plan. We’re also going to need to inform Cart Ramsey. Any idea where he lives?”

  “Calabasas,” said Susan.

  Petra stared at her.

  The photographer shrugged. “It was on that tabloid show. Like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Sitting in the Jacuzzi, drinking champagne, a little putting green. Her in some
beauty pageant bathing suit competition or something, then, after he beat her up, with a black eye, split lip. You know, before and after.”

  “A beauty queen,” said Petra.

  “Miss Something. They showed her playing the saxophone. Look where her talent got her—hey, here’re the dogs.”

  Two K-9 officers, one with a German shepherd, the other with a chocolate Labrador, took instructions from Stu and started up the slope above the parking lot.

  Captain Schoelkopf was in a meeting at Parker Center, but Stu managed to get patched through. When Schoelkopf found out who the victim was, he let out a stream of profanity, ending with a warning not to “F-up” (Stu’s cleansed translation). Doheny Drive was a jurisdictional mess, cutting through L.A., Beverly Hills, West Hollywood. A lucky break: Lisa’s apartment was LAPD territory and uniforms were dispatched. A maid was working there and she was detained. With no knowledge of other relatives, Stu and Petra’s immediate assignment was to notify the ex-husband.

  Now they watched as the dogs circled and sniffed and made their way upward methodically, toward a wooded area, thick with cedar and sycamore and pine, fronted by outcroppings of boulders. A stone ridge, midway up the slope, some of the rocks graffitied, most worn smooth and shiny. The Labrador was ahead, but both dogs were moving fast, closing in on a particular formation.

  Something up there? thought Petra. No big deal; this was Griffith Park—there had to be tons of human scent all over the place. Pulling tire marks from the parking lot was useless for the same reason. The asphalt was one giant mural of black rubber.

  Soon they’d be heading out to Calabasas. Sheriff territory. That edged the whole thing up another notch on the complication scale.

  Cart Ramsey. What a name—had to be a fake. His real one was probably something like Ernie Glutz, which would play havoc with the Mr. Rockjaw image.

  She rarely watched TV, but she was vaguely aware Ramsey had knocked around on the tube for years. Never achieved major stardom, but the guy did seem to work pretty steadily.

  A bland type, she’d always thought. Was he capable of this kind of brutality? Were all men, given the proper circumstances?