by Chill, David
Alexa went over to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka out of a cabinet. I declined her offer, so she took out one tumbler, threw some ice in and followed it with a healthy pour of Absolut.
"I met a woman at the health club not long ago," she said, sipping her drink. "I belong to Sports World over on Centinela. We were riding cycles next to each other and started chatting, and she told me about some volunteer work she did at Wayne's Center, whatever it's called. I knew Wayne so I knew all about the Center. I told her my story about Wayne. She was shocked. Next thing I know she's telling me that she had slept with Wayne also."
I shook my head. "What is it about this guy that women find so irresistible?"
"Oh, he's great looking but that's only a part of it. When he's with a girl, he just makes her feel like she's the most special, most cherished thing in the world. That you're the only two people that exist. I know that may sound childish, but there's something wonderful about being protected, being taken care of. It's nice to be around a man who acts like the world's in the palm of his hand."
"Uh-huh," I said. "And the fact that he was married didn't enter into the equation?"
She took another gulp of vodka and stared straight ahead. "Look, it's admittedly not my idea of a fairy tale romance, okay? I'm thirty-one years old and Prince Charming hasn't found me yet. If I meet somebody I'm attracted to and the feeling's mutual, then why not? Maybe I'm selfish that way. Who do we hurt?"
The thought of Wayne's limp body in his chair at Second Chance suddenly flashed before my eyes. I don't know what prompted that vision to loom before me, but it was startling nevertheless. I didn't bother to answer Alexa's question.
"You found out Wayne wasn't Prince Charming."
"Not by a long shot," she said. "And from what I've learned since then, Wayne was notorious for cheating on his wife."
"Did his wife find out about this woman you met at the gym?"
"No. She said she had some sort of a weird connection to him. She said she was the one who ended the affair, and told him it was a one-time thing that could never happen again."
"Do you mind telling me who this woman was?"
She shook her head. "Never got her name. But she felt Wayne had no morals and would sleep with anyone. That there was no woman who would be off limits. That he had no boundaries."
"Did you feel that way also?"
"I don't know. But when he ended it, it was so sudden and finite that I felt used. Used and then discarded, just like a cheap piece of article of clothing. Being abandoned isn't a very nice feeling. One other thing about this woman you might find interesting."
"What's that?"
"She got really mad after I told her about me and Wayne. Said something about taking steps to make sure he didn't do this to another woman again."
*
I thanked her and left. Walking the few blocks back to my humble abode, I started wondering what I had missed about Wayne Fairborn. He struck me as a man deeply concerned and committed to helping people, albeit within his own value system. His relationship with his wife never indicated any outward disenchantment on either side. They were hardly cooing lovebirds, but few long-term marriages maintained a red hot romance forever. There was some issue that was obviously churning beneath the surface of their relationship, apparent perhaps only to the principals themselves. And the lovers Wayne took on.
Perhaps it was the maudlin feeling that exuded from Alexa Polo that made me pick up the phone when I entered my apartment. Perhaps it mirrored my own sadness, and my own sense of isolation and being disconnected from a loving relationship. The vibes I got from the Alexa Polos and Nina Lovejoys and Amy Flanders of the world, attractive, sexy women all, did little to reassure me that everything was right with the universe. Particularly in my own little corner of it.
I had known Gail Pepper for over a year. She was the first woman I had allowed into my life in a long time, my own fears and distrust preventing me from forming any lasting relationship. In the field of law enforcement there is a strong exposure to the seamier side of life, the side which most people never see. Having been on the LAPD for thirteen years, my outlook on life had been colored and jaded. But Gail taught me that not everything was as it seemed. Until she left, I had all but forgotten the void in my life that had existed before her arrival.
I dialed her number and a subdued voice came on the line and said hello.
"Good evening ma'am. I'm conducting a survey on the effect that too many attorneys can have on an otherwise happy, functional society. Would you care to partake?"
Soft laughter floated towards me. "Were you aware you're breaking the law as it currently stands."
"Pardon?"
"The law allows for phone solicitations until nine o'clock in the evening. By my watch, it's a quarter of ten. I believe you're in violation of a federal statute. How do you plead?"
"Usually on my knees," I said. "And with my hands clasped together in a hopeful pose."
"And I'll just bet you look cute that way, compadre."
"I wish I could give you an actual demonstration."
"And I wish I could see it."
"I guess we'll have to settle for letting imaginations run amok."
She sighed into the phone. "How are you, honey?"
"Missing you desperately."
"That's good," she said.
"Funny how I have trouble viewing this in a positive light."
"This is a poignant test for us," she said. "We'll see if absence indeed makes the heart grow fonder."
"I'm living proof. What about you?"
"Oh," she said a little too lightheartedly. "I miss you."
"That hardly sounds like a powerful statement," I said, feeling a bit slighted.
"Well, law school eats away most of my time. It's really interesting, but the demands are pretty great. Between classes and reading cases and preparing briefs, my day goes by quickly. I get a lot done, but it's an awful strain sometimes."
My own days were going by rather quickly also, but I was seriously questioning what I was getting done. My accomplishments were a sore wrist, a bruised elbow and the beginnings of a cauliflower ear. Interesting and demanding were words that described my life too, but so were frustrating, disheartening, and physically dangerous.
"If it means this much to you, stay with it," I told her. "Anything good in life is worth working for."
"No matter how much I want to be with you?" she asked.
"It's just a passage," I said. " You heard about Wayne?"
"Wayne? No. What about him?"
"I guess local news down here doesn't travel all the way up to Berkeley. Wayne's dead. Killed by a .32 right through the heart."
Gail gasped. "Oh my God," she said haltingly. "What happened?"
"I'm trying to piece it together," I replied. Without much luck I should add. I went ahead and told her the whole story and included everything I had picked up along the way.
"You know, it doesn't altogether surprise me," she said. "About Wayne's infidelity."
A spark shot through me and it took all the courage I could muster to ask her to expand on that thought. If Wayne put the moves on Gail, I'd be sorely tempted to go and kick over his tombstone.
"He always seemed intrigued by me. And it was more than just friendliness or a passing interest. He had this intense air about him. A sense that everything was important, an event."
"Did he ever make a play for you?" I said, practically choking the words out.
"I swear, you men are the most possessive things," she said, annoyed. "To answer your question, no, he did not. The fact that I used to be a security officer and carried a gun may have played a role in that. Not to mention the fact that you and I are involved. Or you and he were friendly. But it doesn't surprise me that he's played around with other women. Some guys are just always flirtatious."
Heaving a sigh of relief, I managed, "I guess the thought of you with another man doesn't sit very well with me."
I could p
ractically see her gleaming smile across the phone lines. "That's sweet. Old fashioned, but sweet. Next time I see you, I'll have to reinforce this obsession you have with me."
"And when will next time be?" I asked.
"Mmmm. I don't know. I might be able to get away for a couple of days. But it may have to wait until Thanksgiving. Unless you'd like to come up here for a weekend."
I smiled. "Am I allowed to be in the girls' dorm after hours?"
"The law is very clear on this," she said. "You're allowed to be wherever I invite you."
Chapter 15
I spent much of the next day hunting for Lenny Mast, alias Mustard, who might provide me with some insight into who killed Raff and ultimately who killed Wayne Fairborn. Checking with half a dozen social service agencies and shelters yielded only one person who even remembered him. There was a possibility he might show up at the Second Chance workshop that night, but the way my luck was going, it was likely he'd be elsewhere. I also stopped by Serge Markovich's home in Torrance, but not surprisingly, my knock on the door went unanswered.
The workshop began at seven. Unlike the skeleton crew from the other night, a full host of volunteers showed up for this workshop. Sensing the possibility of Second Chance going under with the demise of its founder, Jerry Winkler got on the phone and rounded up a group of volunteers to work with the twenty or so homeless that arrived. Mustard was not in attendance, but there were plenty of familiar faces nevertheless.
In addition to three new helpers that had attended the orientation last week, this meeting brought out Nina, Mel, Amy, Jerry, and two surprises. I ambled over to them.
"Hello there," I said, as pleasantly as I could manage.
Rusty and Sara Haas looked up simultaneously, as if their movements were connected. In fact, they both began to speak at the same time, and then both paused to give the other the opportunity to talk. Sara finally deferred to Rusty.
"Listen, uh, Burnside," he said. "I'm sorry about what happened last week. It was a bad scene man, and I was out of line. I shouldn't have grabbed you like that. It still bothers me."
I massaged my wrist. "It still bothers me, too."
Rusty managed a weak smile. "Whenever we meet up, somebody seems to get hurt."
"Ain't that the truth."
Sara cleared her throat and I wasn't sure if she was about to speak or about to spit on me.
"How is the investigation going?"
"Not so well," I said, shaking my head. "I'm learning plenty about Wayne, but precious little about who killed him."
"Meaning?" she asked.
"From what I can gather, Wayne was not above a fling or two. Or maybe five or six. He seemed to get around."
Sara looked up at me in amazement. "That's... incredible. How did you find this out?"
I smiled to myself. "We have our ways," I said. "You'd be surprised at some of the things people will offer up."
Sara's mouth remained open. "Who was he with?"
I answered her with the standard company line. "I'm not at liberty to reveal that."
Sara rolled her eyes. "Burnside, does Crystal know about all of this?"
"Some of it. Maybe all of it. I don't know. She hasn't been completely forthcoming with me, but when your spouse sleeps around, it's not a topic you want to advertise."
"Did it," Rusty started, "have anything to do with someone at Second Chance?"
"Someone here tonight?" Sara added. "Like Amy?"
I looked into Sara's eyes, but they revealed little. "Sounds like you know something about Wayne too."
Sara's mouth tightened. "I just know what my sister's told me."
"Maybe we should talk a little about that."
"I don't know if I want to talk to you at all. I don't like the way you speak to people."
"I don't like it myself sometimes," I replied evenly. "But that's often how I learn things."
Rusty put a big hand on Sara's arm and told her to take it easy. Even though Rusty was trying to be the peace maker here, I had an uneasy feeling about him. Rusty's career had faded after our first USC-Notre Dame game, and I knew he held a grudge which was bound to flare up again. But I had the impression he wanted to choose his spot carefully.
"Look, we didn't mean to imply anything," he said. "It's good of you to come by tonight."
"No problem."
"Thank you," Rusty said. "We've been under some strain lately, me being out of work and all. This isn't the best of times for us. That's part of why we're here, to get our minds off our own problems for a little while."
I nodded. "Sure. Other people have issues far worse than most of us."
"That's so true," Sara jumped in, suddenly forgetting she didn't want to speak with me. "I'm also writing an article about some of the clients I've met here. Many of the homeless are actually women. They have some fascinating stories. Heartbreaking."
"I don't doubt that. Speaking of fascinating stories, where do you think I can find your father, the missing Mr. Markovich?"
Sara frowned. "I haven't talked to him for a few days. I suppose he's at home."
I wanted to probe a little further, but Jerry called for everyone to sit down so we could begin. Taking a seat nearby, I listened to Jerry talk for a half hour on how to apply for a job. These were basic, common sense techniques such as filling out an application neatly and not drinking before you rolled out of bed in the morning. One man commented that peanut butter had a peculiar ability to conceal liquor on the breath.
"It only hides the smell," Jerry said. "Your voice may be uneven, your actions may be clumsy and your answers may be slurred. Don't take the risk. You may think you need a relaxer, but you don't. Courage comes from within, not from a bottle or a pipe."
At the end of Jerry's talk, we broke into small groups again and went over some basic principles of job hunting. As the session was winding down, I began asking about Raff and Mustard.
"Big fat guy, you say?" asked a short, man named Eckles, who sported something of a pot belly himself.
"Let's just say, he hasn't missed a meal in a while," I said. "Or a snack."
"Yeah, right." Eckles mused. "I know him. Man groans about the chow down at City Hall but I ain't noticed he's passed any of it up. I don't care if the food ain't got enough this or that, long as it fills my stomach. Mustard thinks he's a chef, but I know what he does."
I frowned. "What does he do?"
"He works over at that Italian place on the Promenade. It's called. DeLoia's. Where all them rich folk go to eat them plates of spaghetti with names you can't even pronounce. He ain't no chef, though. He just cleans up when they're done."
"How long's he been working there?"
Eckles shook his head. "A few days maybe. He was over at City Hall the other day bragging about how this would be his last lunch eating like a head of cattle. Said he'd be eating gourmet food for free now. Told us all about it. Said that restaurant doesn't even put out butter for their bread. They just pour out some olive oil into a dish. Can you imagine? Man, if my mama saw that, she'd be in shock."
The thought wasn't exceptionally appealing, I had to admit. As I was about to ask about Mustard's work hours though, I heard a commotion out in the hallway. A jostling of sorts was audible over the din of the workshop and some shouting followed it. I rose and hustled out of the room.
It seemed like little more than an argument, a lover's quarrel perhaps. The throng of about half a dozen people seemed more amused than concerned. Even when Mel Fenster moved his face within inches of Nina Lovejoy's, the reaction of the crowd of mostly homeless people was one of an event happening, rather than a bout of potential domestic violence.
Nina's cheeks were scarlet and her chest was heaving. She said nothing, just listening and watching Mel throw what might be called a conniption. He screamed at her, berated her as a slut, and told her she had as much worth as a cockroach. Nina took it all in, let him vent his boiling rage on her, his accusations even referred to a somewhat moody private investigator. A
s he wound down the tirade he finally asked if she had anything to say for herself. With a rage of her own, she answered his question in a two sentence response that evened the score and then some.
"All you ever wanted to do was screw," she said in a voice that was both quiet and trembling, "And you weren't even good at that."
The crowd let out a whoop that indicated that the verbal contest had been decided game, set, and match. Mel's ears were as red as the shade of Nina's face. His chest heaved up and down for a moment before he reared back and slapped her hard across the face. It was a blow that was nasty enough to send her reeling to the concrete floor.
"Get up, bitch," he screamed. "Nobody talks to me like that! I'll show you what a slut deserves."
He reached down and grabbed her by the hair and started to lift. She let out a shriek and by the time I pushed through the crowd, he almost had her back on her feet. His left hand had a hold of her golden locks and his right was getting set to launch another blow.
I drove my good fist, the right one, into the side of his face, just under his eye. Mel doubled over and let go of Nina, looking up at me in anger. Out of a crouched position he weakly tried to throw a punch, which I fended off painfully with my left hand. Grabbing him by his wrist, I twisted it enough to turn him off balance. I threw another right into the pit of his stomach and could practically hear the air go out of him. His face was contorted with agony.
"I think you owe Nina an apology," I said, applying a little pressure to his wrist. He had an anguished look on his face, but his ego was still intact.
"Fuck you," he said with a grimace.
"That's not a very nice thing to say," I pointed out. Drawing his right fist up with my left hand, I pulled it towards me for a moment and then jammed the fist back into his own face. A few people in the crowd began to laugh. If my own wrist wasn't starting to ache again, I might have joined them.
"I think you should say you're sorry," I told him, shoving the fist into his nose this time. "The sooner the better."