CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Opportunity Rings
Bobby had just exhaled a fragrant cloud of purple smoke when the phone rang. Who the hell would be calling at this hour? No friend would be calling so late. He had no friends anyway. Didn’t need any fucking friends. Because, in the drawer under the tabletop, he had everything a man might possibly need, more than a friend might provide. A full ounce of cocaine.
On the second set of rings he looked at the phone to see who it might be. E. Glidden. That bitch.
“This better be good,” he answered.
“How’d you like to make fifty grand?”
“Who do I gotta kill?”
“He’s already dead.”
Hmmm. Interesting.
Very interesting. Now he was driving to Temescal Canyon in his green Infiniti 335, the only remnant of his old life. Fifty for a night’s work. That was his style. Mr. Bobby Lebow style. He reached over, into the leather valise on the passenger seat, felt for the bag of small rocks. There it was. He relaxed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Spontaneous Combustion
I woke up the next morning with a low, shitty feeling in every cell of my body, the sword of what’s-his-name right over my head. I heard sirens in the canyon but they weren’t for me. Yet.
I had one more Nedra Scott detail to accomplish before the authorities descended. For a honeybee in the right hand, information I had requested yesterday had been procured. I now had the personal cell phone number of Robert Patrick, the heavy cheese behind Azure Gardens, LLC.
He picked up on the second ring. “This is Bob.”
“Hi, Bob. This is Dick Henry.”
A hesitation.
“Do I know you, Mr. Henry?”
“Now you do.”
“You got twenty seconds.”
“That’s all I need. I represent Nedra Scott. From Bledsoe. This is a warning. If your goons mess with her again, or even look at her funny, I’ll be holding you personally responsible. You got that?”
“I don’t know who you are and I resent the implication that I have—”
I realized I had a blinding headache. “Cut the shit, Bob. I’m only going to tell you this one time. Lay off Nedra Scott or you pay. Personally. You got me?”
“Listen, here. I’m calling the authorities—”
“The authorities can’t help you, Bob. I got your personal phone number, I know your address, I could walk into your bedroom tonight. I know what’s on your bedside table. This is between you and me. Now, you can offer Ms. Scott any price you like, who knows what she might accept, but the threats from you and your goons are over. You understand me?”
“Listen—”
“You listen. And understand me, Bob the Knob, of 271 Charing Cross Road.” I could hear him breathe. “Don’t fuck up now. My name’s Dick Henry. They call me the Shortcut Man. Ask your friends about me.”
I hung up, found some ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet. Swallowed two blue capsules. The phone rang. Good. That would be my new friend, Bob the Knob.
It was Puss.
“Dick?”
“I’m sorry, but fuck you, Puss. Don’t call me ever again. Ever.”
“Turn on Channel Nine.”
“No.”
“Turn on Channel Nine right now. It has to do with you-know-what. Turn it on. I’ll call you back.”
I had to turn it on. It was a low-rent local duo, Bill Devers and Barbara Barnes.
“Welcome back,” said Devers. “And now for a little happy news. Let’s turn to Barbara Barnes.”
Let’s.
Barbara had a pretty face, a nice rack, all her teeth, and could read English in a loud, clear voice. The only qualifications a female newsreader need possess. “Thank you, Bill. Well, clear the decks, everybody. Yesterday one of L.A.’s most eligible bachelors went down in a blaze of matrimony.”
Art Lewis came up on the screen.
“Art Lewis, famed developer and philanthropist, married Eileen Klasky, sister of TV star Ellen Havertine.”
I stopped breathing.
“Havertine is currently married to the Honorable Harold J. Glidden, who sits on the Los Angeles Superior Court. The superprivate nuptial ceremonies were held at the Temescal Canyon home of Lewis. The honeymoon is under way but the location has not been revealed to this reporter.”
I met Puss in the old section of the Farmers Market. We shared a pot of coffee as a Laotian immigrant mangled order numbers for French pancakes. Again, I was reminded the English language is not owned by the eggheads who create expensive textbooks. It’s owned by its speakers around the world.
“Maybe he’s really alive,” said Puss.
“No, he isn’t. He’s dead.”
“It’s called spontaneous combustion, Dick.”
“No, it’s not called spontaneous combustion.” Jesus.
“Yes, it is. I learned it at El Camino.”
“No, you didn’t. And it didn’t happen. Art is dead.”
“So he’s not married.”
“He may be married but he doesn’t know it. It was a posthumous ceremony.”
“Maybe, but he was probably dead.”
“Yeah, Puss.” I wasn’t going to be able to put this one completely across.
Then I saw tears rolling down her cheeks. I put my hand over hers. “I’m sorry, Puss. I’m sorry.”
“I loved him, Dick. And he loved me. In his way. I know he did. Don’t you think so?”
“I’m sure of it, dear.”
Puss sobbed and I let her roll. I was so shell-shocked I hadn’t even thought of the way Puss must have felt. I was too busy imagining the Graybar Hotel.
Poor Puss. How many souls do we allow into our lives in our lifetime anyway? Not only does the process become harder and harder as time goes by, there are precious few to begin with. We overcome the flinch response, we suspend disbelief, and every once in a while we taste glory.
Goodbye to all that. And then you die. But fuck this, or I’ll need a double Stoli and a shot of heroin.
Puss had recovered her composure somewhat. She wiped her eyes, tried to smile.
“Did you recognize the woman he married?” I asked her.
“Ellen Havertine’s sister.”
“You know her.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. You whacked her in the head with a cane.”
“That bitch?”
Yeah, Puss. That bitch.
The news of Lewis’s marriage told me one good thing. I wouldn’t have to wait for the authorities to roust me. The authorities hadn’t a whiff. Because a conspiracy was afoot.
Of the three people mentioned in the media, I put the Havertine lady at the center of things. Her sister, Dick-Dave Eileen, couldn’t have been the brains of the operation. She didn’t have the brains. Or the drive. The L.A. Times had reported that Judge Glidden performed the ceremony. That wasn’t happenstance. He would be part of the conspiracy, too.
I thought about our lunch at the Pantry. Glidden was vain. Vanity would make him susceptible to the pressure to maintain appearances. Grand appearances. Especially to look good for a younger wife. And what would make a judge cross the line so egregiously? Opportunity. Clear opportunity and the pressure from a young, indignant wife in the face of expensive tastes, diminished income. I bet the Gliddens were broke. I would send a honeybee downtown and have it checked out.
What did the Kostabi have to do with anything?
Nothing that I could see. It stood on its own. Maybe. I don’t trust coincidence.
Where did Puss and I fit in? The fact that we had not called the police told the Havertine clique that our presence at the house was not aboveboard either, certainly not the Gas Company. We were mystery people on the other side of the same plot. They’d be waiting for us to claim a share. More than waiting. They’d be looking for us.
PART TWO
Bambi Service
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Tale of Hi-Beam
Blue Mond
ay rolled around, so it was time for me to drop off some checks. I parked in front of the little house on South Arden Boulevard I used to call home, rang the bell, and waited.
If all marriages started with divorce they might last a little longer. Because you’d know the adversary up front. For good or for evil.
Georgette opened the door. She cleverly restrained her good nature. “You.”
“The one and only.”
“Did you bring money?”
I pulled two checks out of my pocket, she plucked them from my fingers.
“How are my little people?”
“They’re asleep.”
No sooner had these pearls dropped from her lips than my daughter, Martine, appeared. Skipping. I loved her five thousand different ways and my heart leapt.
“Hello, little love,” I said, and she rushed into my arms. One of her hugs went a long way. Had to go a long way.
Georgette looked down. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard Daddy’s voice.”
Yes. Daddy’s voice. And only I, Dick Henry, possessed it.
Georgette shrugged. “I guess it’s not too late.”
I set Martine down. “It’s never too late, is it, darling?”
“Sometimes it is,” said Martine, seriously.
“Really. When?”
“When it’s already too late.”
Wow. Led into philosophical thickets by a seven-year-old.
She moved on to code. “X-Y-Z, Daddy.”
I certainly didn’t know what that meant. I looked to Georgette. She knew as much as I did. “What’s X-Y-Z, dear?”
Martine shook her head in a world-weary manner. Directly inherited from her mother. Her hands went to her hips. “Examine Your Zipper, Dad.”
I looked down, zipped up. “Sorry.”
“Someone should have told you.”
“Someone should’ve.” I apologized with a spread of hands.
Martine’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Tell me the dead cat story again, Daddy.”
Both of the kids loved the dead cat story. I looked at Georgette. If you must, she expressed without words.
Actually, I knew three dead cat stories. And one Texas-small-town tale I’d heard in the Navy about how to make a cat into a bagpipe.
How to make a cat into a bagpipe:
1) Catch stray cat.
2) Put cat into paper bag.
3) Orient bag so cat’s head is clamped in armpit, legs pointing down.
4) Place cat’s tail between your teeth (molars).
5) “Tune” cat by manipulating hind leg (avoid claws).
6) Bite down on tail, rhythmically.
7) Enjoy the tuneful yowling.
One cat may be cruelty. Two, a novelty. Three, a statistic. Five, a parade.
So, the dead cat story. “Once upon a time there was a cat.”
“A cat with one eye,” interjected Martine, obsessive with detail. “Just a kitten.”
“Yes. A cat with one eye. Just a kitten. Now what was his name?”
“His name was Hi-Beam.”
“That’s right. Hi-Beam.”
Hi-Beam’s tale was this. After Georgette and I were married, our first home had been a small attachment to a larger house. We had no yard. But, by informal agreement with our neighbor, our landlord had secured us, across a low wall, use of a tiny back corner of the neighbor’s property. The neighbor’s house and seemingly all her personal items were purple. Purple doormat. Purple wheelbarrow with purple flowers.
Our fiefdom consisted of a few square feet of mossy ground, three scraggly rose bushes, a failing jacaranda, some stepping-stones, and a small, gasping fountain. But it was enough for Georgette and me in our happy first days. And it was enough for Hi-Beam.
On Thanksgiving Day, Hi-Beam walked into Alma Avenue and got squashed. Maybe it was the one-eye thing. But his pouncing days were over. Georgette and I were brokenhearted. Now what to do with his remains? The trash barrel seemed heartless. Our landlord’s property was essentially concrete. So it looked like the garden.
I knocked on the door of the purple house but the purple lady was not home. I would talk to her later. We went ahead with our little ceremony in the garden. May noble Hi-Beam be rejoined to the Great Spirit. From whom he parted such a short time ago. Amen. A shoebox-size grave was shallowly excavated and refilled.
That should have been the end of the story. I never did get around to informing the purple lady what I had done on her property, getting her belated permission. Though I had fully intended to do so. Admittedly, it might have been awkward. After the interment and all. I should have called Ravenich.
Four months later, to joyously accommodate her daughter’s baby shower, purple lady had the grounds of her property redone. The scraggly rosebushes had to go. New purple roses would be planted. By wretched luck, a shallow depression in the backyard was chosen for a planting site.
When the Mexican garden team penetrated Hi-Beam’s grave all hell broke loose. I was not on scene.
Georgette called me to explain that a posse of gardeners had electrified the neighborhood with their shrieks and supplications for the mercy of God. Purple lady started shrieking, too. Soon police arrived. And more police. And more police. Maybe a child had been buried in the garden. Aspects of Monte Cristo. On a dark and stormy night. A premature child. A freak. Smothered. A premature freak child with a tail.
Reason was restored with the arrival of the second fire unit, the hook and ladder. “Looks like a fuckin’ cat,” commented unamused Firefighter Garcia, wheelman, ejecting a stream of tobacco juice into the fresh-turned earth. Unless the little bastard had fur. And whiskers.
Georgette had been questioned by the constabulary. What do you know about this?
You mean about the burial in the backyard?
How did you know it was a burial?
I didn’t know. And I still don’t.
Georgette was a terrible liar. But she stuck to her story. Finally, Earl, who lived across the street, settled the matter, walking away with a small plastic bag, ending the controversy.
It was the procedural monkeyfuck that delighted the children. “How many police cars?” asked Martine, ready to explode with mirth.
“Seven.” The number had grown in the retelling.
“And how many fire trucks?”
“Twelve.”
Martine rolled on the floor and kicked her feet. “And how many gardeners?” she quavered.
“Twenty-three.” A cast of thousands.
Georgette looked at me, tapped her watch.
I looked into the eyes of my beloved daughter. Next time I told the tale it would be longer. Maybe Animal Control would get involved. But now it was time to go.
Martine regained her feet, out of breath. She came and hugged me. Her dear little hands. “I love you, Daddy.”
“And Daddy loves you, too, little girl. Next time maybe he’ll stay a little longer and ask you what you’ve been up to.”
“Oh, I’ve been playing Barbie.”
Barbie. If only I’d been smart enough to invent her. “Barbie’s cool.”
“Barbie has impossible figures. Her legs are too long.”
“Actually, darling, long legs are never a problem.” Part of the Shortcut Man’s worldview.
“And her casabas are too big.”
A shadow crossed my good mood. Indoctrination. I smelled indoctrination. Like cat urine. I eyed Georgette. “Casabas? Isn’t it a little early to be filled with . . . with this kind of stuff?”
“The truth is never too early,” said Georgette. Coldly.
“We saw you today, Daddy.”
“You did? Where? You didn’t say hello?”
“At Farmers Market. You were with your new girlfriend. The one with big casabas.”
I looked sternly at my ex. “I think you’re talking about one of Daddy’s clients.”
“You were holding hands across the table, Dad.”
Puss in extremis. “Well, dear,
she was—”
“I know what she is,” stated my daughter, an infant once removed.
“You do? What is she?”
“She’s a pole dancer.”
“A what?”
“Why don’t you run along to bed, sweetheart?” said Georgette, a fixed smile on her face.
Martine gave me another kiss and scampered off.
I turned to Georgette. “What the hell is happening around here? You get religion or something? Casabas? Pole dancer? Aren’t we laying things on a little thick?”
“That woman was built like a pole dancer, Dick.”
“Well, you’re wrong. Way wrong.”
“What is she?”
Let’s see. “She’s a scientist.”
“A scientist?”
We hung there, precariously, for a moment.
Then conversation resumed. Georgette folded her arms. “Speaking for the more modestly endowed, Dick, I don’t know that Barbie worship is a good thing.”
“Can’t she just grow up? Like you did? For Christ’s sake.”
“To make choices like I did?”
“You made some good ones.”
“And you weren’t one of them, Dick.”
I felt that cold adversarial anger rising within me. “My children are my testimonial, dear.”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“Maybe they’re the milkman’s testimonial.”
I took a deep breath, smiled with all the dignity I could summon. “On those fragrant words, you mammal, I’ll be pushing on.”
I reran the conversation all the way to Pacific Palisades. Only in the narrowest technical terms could I declare victory. Mammal. Fuck it. It was Kiyoko I really wanted to see.
Lovely Kiyoko. There was a little flower shop out there. Maybe I’d surprise her with a big fistful of carnations, her favorite.
Or maybe they weren’t her favorite. Kiyoko would know carnations are budget flowers, a friend of mine, Anna, had told me. Maybe she’s going easy on your wallet.
In other words, Kiyoko thought I was some poor, penny-ante waste of skin. Okay. Maybe I’d spring for an orchid.
I went Sunset all the way but the flower place was out of business. But, having gone that far, I decided fate had determined I knock on her door anyway.
Tribulations of the Shortcut Man Page 8