Something Borrowed, Something Black

by Loren D. Estleman

  Johns Davis fingered the white bandage at his throat. It resembled a clerical collar. “I’m the victim here. If you want me to say on tape I ever placed a bet for a third party, you’d better let me call my lawyer.”

  “Come on, Davis. We don’t do Vice any favors. You lucked out yesterday. Odds are you’ll run out of Jags long before whoever it is you pissed off runs out of buttons.”

  “He wanted the car.”

  “Six-to-five Sill hangs a material-witness tag on him,” Benteen said.

  Gonzales grunted. “Better not place it with Davis. You’re into him for a yard already.”

  “Shut up, asshole. He’s kidding, Lieutenant.”

  Childs turned away, losing interest, and almost bumped into Sergeant Murillo. Murillo and Officer Gonzales might have been twins, except the plainclothesman was more fat than chunky, with a double chin and less intelligent eyes. What he lacked in personal initiative he made up for in unquestioning obedience. People liked him: other cops, citizens, even some of his collars. Childs liked him, God alone knew why. The man wasn’t a conversationalist.

  Without greeting, the sergeant held up a computer printout with an FBI heading, identifying the John Doe. It ran several pages.

  FOUR

  When Peter returned, ten minutes after he went out, he was as he had been before, tender and playful. Laurie was so relieved she almost forgot to attack him again. She’d drawn on a new silk wrapper she’d bought for the honeymoon, but it vanished so quickly she wondered later why she’d bothered with the expense.

  This tussle was briefer, less heated, but just as satisfying, and left them still energized. The concierge called while they were freshening up to tell them their car was waiting in front of the hotel entrance. Twenty minutes later they were seated in an apple-green Camaro convertible, fighting their way through Valley traffic and out of the smog, where they could put the top down and be like Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr.

  Peter was an accomplished driver. He caught all the green lights with ease, reacted instantly (and without cursing, which was even more impressive) when a Jeep Wrangler with children in the backseat cut across three lanes of traffic suddenly, forcing him to relinquish the lane to avoid a collision. He drove a steady five miles above the limit, slowing down gently when he spotted police cruisers, a hundred yards before Laurie noticed them herself with her young eyes, and changed lanes with almost unconscious smoothness, always choosing the one that was moving more consistently. She put all this down to the experience of numerous sales trips.

  “Didn’t you bring a camera?” she asked then. “You sold them all those years. You’d think you’d have a good one.”

  “I got out of the picture-taking habit. There wasn’t much worth preserving those last few years, and then I was alone. Anyway I look like a gargoyle on film. Except for my driver’s license I haven’t had my picture taken in ten years.”

  “Well, I want one of us together. Next drugstore we see, let’s buy one of those disposable Kodaks. We’ll get someone to snap us with the ocean at our backs.”

  “I’d rather just drive.”

  She looked at him briefly, but said nothing. He’d sounded casual, but something in his tone invited no discussion.

  The morning was overcast, their lunch in Santa Barbara disappointing. The restaurant Peter remembered had changed hands and slipped downhill. Laurie’s steamed clams were soggy and tasted of the can, with the ocean almost close enough to touch, its waves rolling jeeringly toward them outside the windows and presumably loaded with the fresh article. Peter expressed his opinion that the place had been bought by the Combination. “The Organization, I guess they call it here.”

  “The Mafia, you mean? How can you tell?” Gangster films fascinated her. She looked around, saw no fat Italians in silk suits with their napkins stuck under their chins.

  “Just a guess. Every time they try to make an honest dollar they screw it up. Just like the government.”

  He was smiling. The moodiness he’d shown twice that morning seemed to have passed. He cupped his hand over hers where it rested on the table, and they spoke again of where they would live after he sold his house in suburban Detroit. They’d agreed the place needed more work than they cared to put into it. Although she would not have brought it up, Laurie was relieved that she would not have to spend the rest of her life in the place that had witnessed the deterioration of her husband’s first marriage. California was discussed, and Florida; sunny places were the inevitable alternative among Mid-westerners.

  “Do we have to decide right away?” she asked. “Can’t we just travel, and see what suits us?”

  “Should we be Gypsies? I can’t play the violin or pick pockets.”

  “Better not try. To pick pockets, I mean. You’re too law-abiding. You couldn’t help looking guilty.”

  They started back. In Montecito, exploring a little shop, Laurie found a small framed oil painting of a ruddy-faced man with a blue bandanna tied around his head. It made her think of a Gypsy, although Peter thought it was more likely a self-portrait of an overage hippie from Berkeley. She bought it anyway. “To remind you not to pick pockets.”

  The sun came out when they were back on the road. They stopped often to get out and look at the ocean from railed promontories set aside by the Highway Department. She saw her first sea lion belly-flopping its way onto a sunny rock, and kissed Peter long and passionately before a heart-wrenching orange-and-purple sunset. Laurie, a former recording secretary for her high-school environmental action group, knew that auto and factory emissions were the cause of the vivid colors, but she was too drunk on the feral beauty of the Pacific to care. She was on her honeymoon in a fairy-tale place with a man who, she was amused and delighted to learn, would change lanes to avoid running over a fat seagull dozing on the asphalt.

  She beamed at him. He looked grumpy. “Wouldn’t want the animal rightists on our backs,” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She placed a hand on his thigh and leaned over to peck his cheek. Settling back, she brushed his crotch as if on purpose, and smiled to herself at the instantaneous reaction. They were the same age below the belt.

  “Oh, Mr. Macklin.”

  The couple, approaching the elevators with their arms around each other’s waist, sprang apart as if caught in an illicit act. The baby-faced clerk behind the desk was holding up an envelope. They went back.

  Peter tore loose the flap, removed a scrap of hotel stationery, and read the handwritten message quickly. Laurie was watching his face. It didn’t change, a troubling sign. He glanced toward the pink light of the bar, then stuffed paper and envelope into his pants pocket and kissed her. It was a parting smack.

  “Is she pretty?” She made it sound teasing. A small cold fist had closed in her stomach.

  He smoothed her hair. She’d cut it short recently, and he’d approved, quite against the prevailing male preference. “It’s a he,” he said, “and he isn’t even handsome. We used to do business. I’m afraid I have to be polite.”

  “Why? You’re retired.”

  “He’s one of the ones who made that possible. It won’t take long, promise.”

  “It better not. That waiter who brought breakfast was pretty cute.”

  He smiled, but she could tell his attention was elsewhere. He kissed her again and left. It was the third time that day he’d gone away from her before actually leaving.

  She resisted the temptation to look inside the bar. She didn’t want to be one of those wives. Her mother had always been checking on her father, and although he’d given her ample reason, Laurie had always wondered if it wasn’t her mother’s jealousy that had driven him to fulfill her worst fears. Anyway, she was certain there was no other woman in the present picture.

  Riding in the elevator, she asked herself why she found so little comfort in that.

  He found Carlo Maggiore where he expected, alone in a horseshoe-shaped booth big enough to seat six. It was in a corner, with a view of the entrance. In the ri
ght mood, if the booth was occupied when he came in, Maggiore might pick up the party’s bill and send a couple of bottles of good wine or twelve-year-old Scotch to the new table. He was also capable, like the Midwestern crimelord he was, of relocating them physically to the street. Since the man was rising to smile and offer his hand, no heavy lifters in sight, Macklin suspected there was a gathering of happy drinkers somewhere on the premises.

  “Put on a few,” Maggiore said, lowering his hand unshaken. Ignoring it had been a gesture of caution on Macklin’s part, not distaste. He never surrendered the use of his right hand in such company. “Marry a good cook, I always say. Looks don’t last.”

  “You look different, too.” Macklin weighed the same as he had for years, and knew the other was aware of it. The crime boss, however, had trimmed down. He looked younger, too, almost Macklin’s age, and had probably had some help with that. His sandy hair appeared thicker, his forehead as smooth as a blister. He’d acquired an even tan in place of his Detroit pallor and done something about the congenital hump on his left shoulder. It seemed to be a combination of good tailoring and expensive surgery.

  “Well, you might as well wipe your ass with your money if you don’t spend it. What you drinking?”

  “Water.”

  “Glenlivet it is.” He snapped his fingers, summoning a waitress in a green jerkin; the bar’s theme was The Adventures of Robin Hood, starring Errol Flynn. Posters and production stills covered the walls. “Two more of the same.” He sat down.

  Macklin sat on the end of the booth, allowing himself the second-best perspective. He could see most of the room and part of the entrance. When the drinks came he let his stand untasted.

  Maggiore stirred his twice, then sipped, leaving in the swizzle and holding it out of the way with his thumb, just like a Mack Avenue thug too lazy to take the spoon out of his coffee. “Why L.A.? Fixing to live out here?”

  “Just a vacation. I heard you’d settled in.”

  “Can’t seem to stay out of the papers. It’s better than Detroit, though. I don’t just mean the weather. I can always count on some movie star getting caught with his dick out on Sunset and booting me to a back section. I saw your wife. Nice snatch.”

  Macklin gave him nothing, which was what he felt. Plainly this irritated the other, who when he was a boy would have been the kind that fed Drano to dogs. He sat back. “I’m not mad at you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. You tried to kill me, but that was personal. This is business.”

  “I’m retired.”

  “Me too. Well, semi-. Them new government laws raised the bar too high. These days I’m in the entertainment industry.”

  “Drugs or unions?”

  “Some other things, too, but I won’t bore you. It’s out-of-town work I’m talking about. When I found out you were around I couldn’t believe I didn’t think of you before.”

  “Who fucked up?”

  Maggiore showed a set of worked-over teeth. “You didn’t forget how things work. I admit you weren’t my first choice. Not because I didn’t think you could handle it. Because of the other thing.”

  “You mean my trying to kill you.”

  “I had kind of a block over it, I’ll say that. But it’s like they say here, you’ll never work in this town again—until we need you. The money’s good. Fifty large.”

  “I’m okay for money.”

  “I can see you think it’s too hot. It isn’t. I’m talking lower-middle talent. No one anybody’d miss.”

  “Then use one of your regulars. They’re on salary.”

  “That was my first idea. He fucked up, like you said. Now I need to upgrade.”

  “I’m still retired.”

  Maggiore looked at his watch, a thin one with a blue face held on with an asymmetrical band. “I’ve got another incentive.”

  “I wondered when you’d get around to it.”

  “I invited another old friend. He’s a little late.”

  “Another fuckup?”

  “Hey, it’s California. Place has a permanent case of jet lag. The kind of talent I need’s scarce out here. This one can’t tell time, but he knows how to keep count. Well, you know him. Here he is now.”

  Macklin spotted him at the same time, coming in from the lobby with that loping gait you seldom saw in the city, even a noncity city like Los Angeles. Of all the gin mills in all the towns in all the world … He changed his mind and took a drink.

  In the room, Laurie took her impulse purchase out of its sack and leaned it against the wall atop the low bureau facing the bed. The man in the bandanna reminded her of Peter. Not because of what he’d said about their becoming Gypsies or because the ruddy face bore any resemblance, but because of what the eyes were doing. Although the man was smiling, they were turning inward, and appeared mildly saddened by what they saw. She could not tell if the man was in mourning or simply trying to remember what the sensation was like. Finally she decided she was trying to get too much out of what was really an amateurish painting, and turned away.

  She selected one of the nightgowns she’d bought for the honeymoon, dusty-pink and weighing only a few ounces, with a transparency that had made her face burn when she’d looked at herself in the full-length mirror in the store dressing room. It was long enough to drag behind her—cutesy short baby-dolls nauseated her, and anyway her thighs were not her favorite feature—and when she stopped walking, the hem drifted forward and floated to rest around her bare feet. The man who would not react to such a garment was either seriously injured or dead.

  The room, like the hotel itself with its glossy black-and-white photos of glamorous old-time stars in the lobby, was done in classic Hollywood motif: white-on-white drapes and carpet and a sleigh bed with a headboard upholstered in white satin. Carole Lombard would have felt at home in it. Laurie spent some time arranging the pillows and propped herself into a sitting position atop the slick spread. When Peter unlocked the door she would gather in her legs and stretch her arms languidly out to the sides, resting them along the tops of the pillows. It was the pose that felt the least ridiculous among those she’d rehearsed.

  She noted the time on the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. Twenty minutes seemed enough for Peter to have a drink with a former business acquaintance and make his way up to the room. She fixed herself more comfortably, picked up the remote, and switched on the TV. Nick and Nora Charles were greeting the usual suspects on AMC, but for once Laurie had no patience with the leisurely pace of the 1930s film. She switched to Nick At Nite and fell asleep thirty minutes into an I Dream of Jeannie marathon.

  “Laurie, wake up.”

  She smelled Peter’s scent before she was awake enough to open her eyes. He avoided colognes and aftershave, but his particular musk was a pleasant combination of warm skin, the slightly woodsy soap he preferred, and a gingery-leathery something she suspected he’d been born with, that reminded her of the interior of a well-kept automobile. She was so glad he was there, rescuing her from a dream in which some tart in an Arabian Nights costume was trying to steal him away from her (while William Powell and Myrna Loy looked on) that she forgot she was mad at him. With her eyes still shut she snaked her arms around his neck and lifted her face to be kissed. He obliged. His lips tasted faintly of scotch. She unwound one of her arms and groped for the buttons on his shirt.

  He closed a hand over hers, stopping her. “Darling, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I have to go out again. I only stopped in to tell you.”

  Her eyes sprang open. There was light in the room, but she knew without looking it was still dark outside. The TV was still on. She recognized Major Healy’s irritating babble. Jeannie was working her magic yet.

  She drew back against the pillows to see Peter clearly. His expression was gentle and loving and regretful, but his eyes were remote. He was in that other place.

  “It’s a stupid legal thing,” he said before she could ask the question. “A snag over the sale of my business. I sold it to a firm here in L.A., a
nd there’s a state tax thing involved. I have to fly up to Sacramento and file a deposition. It has to be in person.”

  She looked at the clock. It was almost eleven. He followed her gaze.

  “I booked a midnight flight. I’ll be back by midmorning. We’ll meet in the hotel restaurant at noon.” He paused. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll bring a shovel and dig up every last plaster prop from The Ten Commandments while you watch.”

  “You’ll be exhausted.”

  “I’ll sleep on the plane. I didn’t expect to get much rest on this trip anyway.”

  He smiled then, and he looked so much like a little boy who’d been caught hiding the pieces from a lamp he’d knocked over that she couldn’t think of a single harsh word.

  “Why does it have to be tomorrow morning?”

  “Tomorrow’s the deadline. If I miss it the state of California will slap a lien on the assets. The new owners will turn around and sue me. They can’t win, but I’d be five years proving it. The lawyers have been trying to reach me in Michigan and only found out today I’m here in town. Best thing to do is to make it go away.”

  “I’ll ride with you to the airport.” She started to get up.

  “Uh-uh. You’ll need your sleep. Especially if you plan to wear that nightgown tomorrow.”

  Smiling dopily, she assumed a semblance of the vamp pose. “Why waste it tonight? You’ve got an hour.”

  “Of which thirty minutes belong to the freeway between here and LAX. I’ll just change my shirt. I smell like a rank tiger.”

  “You smell wonderful.”

  She watched him pull off his polo shirt on his way into the bathroom, ached at the sight of his naked back with the odd arrowhead-shaped scar beneath his right shoulder blade, where he said he’d had a cyst removed. She’d told him he’d had a butcher for a surgeon. She heard water splashing, then he came out and put on the white shirt she’d talked him out of wearing that morning. By then she was under the covers. She’d felt cold suddenly in the thin gown.