by Jack Kinsley
The Chef nodded, but appeared preoccupied with a greater agenda.
"What else you got cooking? Other than what's in this kitchen?" Travis thought he might tell him he had another job waiting for him somewhere else.
Chef Tom chuckled nervously. "Funny you should put it that way, because I just got news about an hour ago that my wife's got another bun in the oven." He began caressing the light skins of the Yukons under the faucet. "And you know how she is — already riding me about job security. I should have never told her we were down to one client."
"Well, first...congratulations! I'm really happy for you guys. Children are heaven sent. And secondly, tell her she doesn't need to worry. Even when we were without clients for two weeks that time — I still took care of you. And I will again, but that deals between us. Okay? Don't go sharing that with anybody else, because there might be some changes around here." Chef Tom regarded him curiously, but Travis pressed on and added, "Dani's here for another month anyway, so I very much doubt it'll come to that. So, you just tell the missus everything will be fine — she'll have plenty of other things to worry about when little Tom arrives."
Travis had almost convinced himself that everything was going to be all right, but he knew Crystal Heights was a house of cards waiting for the Ana typhoon — if the giant didn't take care of her first.
"Thanks, I appreciate that. To be honest, I'm not too concerned about that. What's really scaring the shit out of me is that it's only day one and she's already acting like a nervous wreck. I'm more worried about me. You remember me before my first child — before I had grey hair? This round, she'll drive me bald as a cue ball by the time this one's born." He said it lightheartedly, but Travis knew the concern was real.
Travis laughed it off. "Excited, but already afraid of the wife? That sounds about right." He slapped him on the back and then grabbed a strawberry Propel water from the fridge, realizing he hadn't had anything to drink all day. No wonder he was feeling so lightheaded: he was dehydrated. He nearly downed the entire bottle and froze the length of his throat. It made him want a cigarette to warm it back up.
"Thanks, that's always comforting. Hey, can you ask Helen if she's planning to stay for dinner? I believe she's still in the office with Sarah. Dani said she wasn't seeing her tonight, but I don't know how long she'll be here."
"Sure, no problem." But Travis knew it was a definite problem. It was a firing squad waiting for him in the office. Helen would never be there this late without motive, and it explained Sarah's strange texts earlier. He could only imagine the two of them in there consorting about how they would jump him — Sarah would probably hold him while Helen hit him. As he watched Chef Tom clean his last potato, he thought of insisting that he would go for the sour cream instead — but he knew he couldn't run from them for too long. He was sleeping with one and the other was a psychic bloodhound.
"Okay, I'll let you know," he told Chef Tom, and headed toward the office like a schoolboy setting out to receive his reprimand. There was no doubt the women had only the best intentions for him, but his back had already been broken once today.
When he walked into the office, he first met eyes with Sarah, then Helen, and then spotted the house bottle of emergency Valium on the desk. It was the only thing on it. He dropped himself into a chair and let out a sigh that said, bring it on ladies, but know I may die right here in front of you. At least the Valium from earlier had started to kick in a little. Maybe the Propel had dislodged it from somewhere inside his dry windpipe.
"Evening, ladies," he said. "How are we doing tonight?" There was the stitch of guilt in his voice; it wouldn't have mattered if he'd said the sky is blue — he would have still been blameworthy.
Sarah looked to Helen to begin, and then she got straight to the point. Her eyes drilled into him. "Let's start with handing it over." She held out her empty palm like a mother forcing a dangerous toy from a child. "And if you don't, we are both walking out of here tonight. The time for second chances has expired. We've already been through this."
Travis considered, looking over at Sarah — who was definitely in pit-boss mode, no leniency there, and then back at Helen, who never bluffed. He sat quietly. As he leaned back in his swivel chair it became top-heavy and nearly fell backward. He had to slap the wall behind him to support himself and recover.
"Look at yourself!" Helen stood and shouted. "There's no denying it. You're a complete wreck. Now, enough of this bullshit and hand it over!" Her arm stretched out again.
"Travis!" Sarah screamed at him in support of Helen's words, and then almost whispered, "No more games now."
He began coyly working his right hand deep into his pocket, unable to look at either of them as he produced his little black box and held it up for them to see. He hesitated, as if there was some other option, but finally placed it gently in Helen's hand. She left her hand open, displaying the box as if she wanted to keep his secret revealed in the harsh office light.
Immediately, there was a weight lifted, but somewhere in the cavern of his tortured soul a voice cried out helplessly. He wanted to snatch it back from her and keep it tight in his fist.
"This will be the end of it," Helen said, still holding it out in front of him. "I have now lifted this burden from you a second time. And I will help you, like I did before, but I need your commitment. This is it for me. No more chances. Now...are you ready to make that commitment?"
"I'll help you too," Sarah said.
Helen nodded in agreement.
He didn't know if he could do it. He needed more time — just a few more days, maybe. Everything still loomed above him, and he was sure the pills were the only thing that held him together. Without them, he would implode, turn to dust, be blown into oblivion.
"Yes," he told her, without conviction.
Helen stood frozen before him. The room was silent. He couldn't bring himself to look at her for more than an instant. He could feel her inner polygraph going haywire.
"No," she said, and placed the black box on the desk next to him. "Best of luck, Mr. Martin. This is where we part ways."
"No!" Sarah cried, and jumped from her seat. "He'll do it. Wait! I'm sure he'll do it. I'll make him!"
Helen stroked the side of Sarah's arm as if to say, sweet, poor girl — he'll never change.
"Tell her you'll do it!" she screamed at him. "Tell her! She's going to leave!"
He sat motionless; speechless. He couldn't defend himself anymore, or plead his case — because he didn't care. The single candle inside him had flickered a last time and only a single grey line of smoke rose above it.
"Travis!" Sarah shouted.
He lifted and dropped his open palms. "I said yes."
But Sarah knew his answer this time around. "I can't believe you! I don't believe you! What about us?"
It was a deafening question that cleared Helen's suspicions. She looked at both of them knowingly and waited for Travis's response. Nothing. "See," she told Sarah. Then she picked up her purse from the floor, slung it over her shoulder, and walked out the door without looking back.
Sarah was in tears, staring at Travis as if she had finally seen him for the animal that he was. She stood next to the door, seemingly contemplating her decision as she watched him for some hidden detail that would convince her what to do. Then, as if she couldn't wait any longer, she rushed over to him, threw her arms around him and sobbed on his shoulder, swearing she would never leave him.
He held her tight, but didn't say another word.
Chapter 17 / I'm Not Saving You
The following morning, Travis told Sarah to go ahead without him to Crystal Heights; he would catch up with her later in the afternoon. They had barely spoken to each other since Helen's exit, and although Sarah had been somewhat affectionate in bed — holding him for parts of the night — there was uneasiness while they lay awake, drowning in their own thoughts. It was the beginning of the end; the silent erosion of their relationship. While he remained in bed, hearing th
e pop of the toaster in the kitchen and the scraping of butter and jam, he knew what he had to do — and not just for Sarah.
After she left, he unexpectedly fell into a deep sleep that buried him until an afternoon bar of light ticked across the bed and lit the back of his eyelids a bloody red. The rest had done him good, and he felt a slight charge in his corroded battery. It was enough to get him out of bed, showered, and even prepare a cup of coffee and some toast. While he ate, he studied the message he'd received from Dallas late last night, as if the five words — all part of the plan — had something further to reveal. At least it was more than punctuation. And it put a little wind in his sails — but only a gust — before everything became salted with apprehension. Which plan was he talking about? When would it take place? What about Bella?
Travis originally hammered back a response asking, Details fucker!!!. It had felt good to write it, but he changed it to, Details...please! and then pressed the glass send button so hard he had to tap it a second time lightly for it to fly out into cyberspace. There had been no response from Dallas last night and nothing this morning. He began to wonder if the prepaid phones were still working properly. Whatever he was up to, Travis could only hope he would receive a message giving him enough time to react appropriately. He reminded himself to never do business with a psychopath again.
He would do a drive-by past the motel again, but this afternoon he was heading to the Malibu Beach Inn, where Jordan Pratt was almost certainly fermenting in a stew of women, drugs, and alcohol inside one of the oceanfront suites.
Travis and Ana had stayed at the inn exactly one year and two days after Bella had come into the world. Grandma Nica had been visiting from Romania for Bella's first birthday and suggested they do a couples weekend getaway. It took a day to convince Ana it would be good for them, but from the moment they walked into the room with only the Pacific Ocean to greet them, Ana had slipped right out of motherhood and briefly became his wife again. She readily indulged in the eleven-bottle wine selection of California varietals they had inside the suite — a selling point she tasted from A to K, but left a half glass in the last bottle to prove her moderation.
Travis imagined the bottles in Jordan's suite had been empty before the first knock of room service, and then there would've been a steady stream of deliveries from there — booze, not food. The strip of golden sand out front was nicknamed Billionaire's Beach, a pristine swatch of coastline. It couldn't have been a more beautiful place to die.
Driving past the giant's motel, Travis could see the SUV was missing, but pulled in anyway. He parked, kept the engine idling, and popped an Adderall and a Valium. It didn't make any sense to take them together. It would only make him an increasingly taut rope in a tug of war, but he'd reached a point where he was just feeding an addiction and reasoning had lost precedence. There was the irrational hope it would hold him steady somewhere in the middle.
Heading down PCH toward the Malibu Beach Inn, he could feel the pills battling one another inside his stomach amidst a pool of coffee and minced bread. He lowered his window all the way, thinking everything was going to shoot loose in the wind at sixty miles an hour, but the immediate fresh breeze held the urge back and he kept his head out like a cooling, smiling Labrador as he drove the rest of the way.
At the inn, he tucked his head back in, followed the narrow entrance up, then parked under the massive square canopy and waited for valet service. A teenager with long, blond-white hair and a farmer's tan jogged out wearing a black vest over a white long-sleeved shirt, polyester pants, and mirror-black shoes. To Travis, he seemed way too happy to be there, sweating and panting like he'd just sprinted a half marathon. He opened Travis's car door and Travis asked him to keep the car close by, very close — ready to leave at a moment's notice. He held up a twenty, slipped it into the kid's front pocket, and then started for the lobby. Before entering, he looked back at the valet and watched him drive his car ten feet and park it. Wow, two bucks a foot and watching yourself get robbed. Priceless.
Travis went straight up to the top floor, knowing Jordan wouldn't settle for anything less than the zenith to carry out the plan for his demise. A maid's cart was parked in front of an open door, and Travis was feeling lucky, thinking maybe it was his friend's room. He poked his head in only to scare the shit of the maid, who screamed and in turn scared him. They both recoiled and then came hesitantly back together.
"So sorry, it's only me," he said, as if that would mean anything to her. To his surprise, it did.
"Mr. Martin?" she asked, coming all the way out of the bathroom.
"Yes, it's Mr. Martin. Travis." He didn't know how she knew him until she smiled and he saw her front dead tooth. She had helped him with clients before — Jordan wasn't the first client who'd gone AWOL at the Malibu Beach Inn.
"Nice to see you..." he checked her name tag. "Rosa."
She only nodded.
"I'm looking for a friend of mine, Jordan Pratt. Do you know which room he's in?" Travis mimed a massive beer belly.
"Sí, he your friend?" A wave of concern wrinkled her face.
"Yes, good friend. He still here?"
She nodded, slipped past Travis, and began walking down the row of doors. He followed until Rosa stopped at the second-to-last door. There was a DO NOT DISTURB sign collared around the handle. Travis checked the door. It was locked. He knocked and they waited, listening for any noise inside. He heard only crashing waves on the other side. He knocked louder and called out, "Jordan, it's me Travis," but not too loudly; this wasn't a Motel 6.
He looked down at Rosa's waist. There was a large ring of keys fixed to an empty belt loop on her uniform. She followed his gaze, realized what he wanted, and then shook her head to say she couldn't.
"My friend is in trouble. Big trouble." He exaggerated his facial expressions to emphasize the gravity. "If I don't get him out of there, he will die." He tilted his head, closed his eyes, and stuck out his tongue. He almost broke into laughter imagining how ridiculous he looked.
Suddenly there were voices at the end of the hall. A couple had just exited their room and were waiting for the elevator. Travis and Rosa also waited. A bell rang, the elevator doors opened, and the couple vanished from sight. Travis turned back to Rosa. She was fixed in thought, one hand frozen on her loop of keys — wavering. Travis plucked three twenties from his wallet, folded them, and then tucked them into the wide loose front pocket of her apron. She looked horrified and flicked her eyes to the ceiling, where a security camera was mounted ten feet away. Travis took a step to the right, hiding her from the camera, and dropped another twenty into her apron. "For last time," he whispered. He remembered not having cash the last time she had helped him.
She ducked a little to be completely off video and gave him the Shh sign. And then, almost magically, she turned and he heard the click of the lock instantly. She put a hand up to stop him from rushing in, then scurried down the hall with the keys jingling on her hip. At the room she had been cleaning before, she gave him a last nod and disappeared into it.
Travis slowly opened the door and called out to Jordan. The living room was in chaos and had the pungent odor of hibernation. Throw pillows were scattered on the floor, with one squeezing out the lower back of a patio chair that had been brought inside. A large seat cushion on the couch had been lifted and propped up onto the rolled sofa arm, as if a big kid had customized the seat for his throne. An oval sweat stain darkened the tan cushion. There was a litter of chips crushed into the carpet and a coffee table pulled over it — cocked at an angle toward the regal seat for easier access. A plethora of empty bottles were at arm's reach: vodka, whiskey, beer, and the eleven California varietals — all compacted together in a drunken attempt at a bowling pin rack. It was evident Rosa had not made her way in for quite some time.
Travis called out for Jordan again and walked further in, toward the wide fixed opening leading to the bedroom area. Outside, a strip of cloud temporarily blocked out the sun. In the dim
inished light came flickers of colored light from a muted TV, giving the room an eerie glow. Travis prepared himself for the worst. He crept around the corner and saw his friend in bed naked, except for a thin, twisted sheet that stretched over his lower back, leaving his ass exposed. A soft snore could now be heard. He was out cold — but alive.
"Jordan?" he called out and clapped his hands. There was no movement and his snore remained steady so Travis walked around the bed to see his face. "Hey! Wake up! It's Travis!" He began rocking him back and forth. At least his tool kit was covered, but it was still more intimate than Travis would prefer and he was getting impatient.
Outside, the sun gradually cleared its bandage in the sky and the room grew bright again. Travis gained some momentum in rocking Jordan and then rolled him over to face the light, hoping it would lift him from his stupor. When he walked around the other side of the bed, he noticed the sheet had slipped from Jordan's crotch. Though he'd tried not to look, he couldn't help seeing the man's dick wearing a crusty condom.
"For Christ's sake, Jordan!" he shouted and quickly covered it with the sheet. "Wake up, you disgusting piece of shit!" He kicked the bed. It shifted abruptly and banged into a nightstand, where a lamp crashed to the floor. Jordan stirred slightly and Travis began shaking him relentlessly, screaming his name, until he could see his eyes start to swim behind his lids. He let go and then at once, Jordan's bloodshot eyes blasted open. He looked Travis up and down and then back up again — trying to decipher whether or not he was dreaming.
"It's me, Travis! I'm really here. Wake up!"
Jordan rolled onto his back, sat up, and rubbed his face harshly with his palms. He looked back at Travis as if seeing him for the first time.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?" he demanded.
"I'm taking you back to Crystal Heights. Now get up and get some clothes on. We'll send Lucy back for the rest of your things."