Empty-handed, I smiled winningly. Illuminated by the porch light, she had two words for me.
Get out.
Actually, three words.
Get out. Barbarian.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Honeymoon on Ice
Ellen knocked and heard Bobby get up. The door opened and she went in. After a point, a place got no messier. There was no way to tell.
Bobby went back to his seat behind the coffee table. He grinned. “They’ll let anyone get married these days.”
Ellen shrugged, sat down. “It was Eileen or nothing.”
“Pretty smart. But nothing might have tempted me. You didn’t mention the change to Erin Halle.”
“Not yet.”
“Who knew the old fuck would marry a goat.”
“Thanks for your help last night.”
“I love a honeymoon on ice.”
Bobby poured a gram of coke into the vial and added a thumbnail of baking soda. “How about a hit, Mrs. Glidden?”
“Sure.”
Bobby swirled the tube, cooking it with the Bic. Crystals formed, sank to the bottom.
Bobby grinned. “Does the judge know his wife likes to smoke a little crack now and then?”
“Of course. He loves the idea.”
“Where’s the bride?”
“Stashed. In the desert. With the Indians.”
“She belongs in the desert.” Bobby poured off the water, rolled out the crack sludge onto a CD. Fuck the tomahawk. The Indians had triumphed over the white man with bingo and blackjack. Who could have guessed? While Black Elk had returned to the Great Spirit grieving.
Bobby troweled two pipes, slid one over to Ellen. “Bon appetit.”
Ellen’s gong was rung. “Ohhh, that’s good.”
“You bet it is. I know how to cook, baby.”
Ellen slid Bobby her pipe for a refill. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you about last night.”
Bobby put down the pipes. “Goddamnit. The tell-Bobby-later syndrome. As always. What is it this time?”
“Nothing vital.”
“How not vital?”
“There were some phony Gas Company employees at Art’s house last night. Before you came over last night.”
“What?”
“Eileen let them in.”
“While he was dead?”
“Yes.”
Bobby picked up a can of beer, threw it across the room. It hit the wall, splashed. “God damn it. That’s fuckin’ beautiful. And you don’t think to tell me that before I come over there? That’s fuckin’ huge. I wouldn’t’ve come over.”
“It’s not as bad as all that, Bobby.”
“But they saw him . . . dead?”
“Yes.”
“Christ Jesus. We’re fucked, in other words.”
“I don’t think so. They weren’t real Gas Company people. And I’ve ID’d one of them.”
“Out of how many?”
“There were two of them. One of them was Art’s girlfriend. Her name’s Pussy Grace. She’s a stripper. I had dinner with her and Art a couple of weeks ago.”
“Pussy Grace. Phony name. And the other? A guy?”
Ellen nodded. “I don’t know him. But he’s on the surveillance tape.”
“Who’s the boss?”
“The stripper.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because she’s the one who hit Eileen with the cane. She must be in charge.”
“He’s a lump, in other words. Transportation.”
“That’s what I think. He’s a lump, Eileen has a lump.”
Laughter.
“Why didn’t you show me the surveillance tape when I was over there?”
“I wanted to do one thing at a time.”
“Lying bitch. You just didn’t want to tell me.”
Ellen dug in her purse, pulled out a piece of paper. “This is her address.”
Bobby took it. “Where’d you get it?”
“I was going to send her some classical dance tapes.”
He studied it. “What does Bobby have to do now?”
“Go have a talk with her. Scare the crap out of her. Make her think that Art’s death could be blamed on her.”
“I can do that.” He packed his pipe. “For a price.”
“You made fifty thousand last night.”
He lit up. “Pay me.”
“Bobby.”
“Pay me.” He exhaled.
“I can’t pay you tonight. You know that.”
“Oh well.”
“Bobby. Help me.”
“Okay. But now I’m a partner, not a handyman.”
“Okay. You’re a partner.”
“I want a mil. When this is all through.”
“Okay.”
“A million dollars. Say it.”
“A million dollars. When we’re done. Now here’s the address.”
Bobby studied it. “Just over on Sierra Bonita.”
“Right above Sunset.”
“I’ll roll over tomorrow afternoon.” Bobby filled her pipe. “Have a hit before you split. Partner.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lebow.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Glidden.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A Peach, a Plum, an Eggplant
My phone rang. Latrell. Things were going alright down there. Bosto Ket had shown up, waved a gun around, frightened off the thugs, tried out sweet words on Latrell’s mother.
Sweet words. On Nedra. Bosto had failed?
Utterly and completely.
Latrell, feeling better overall, passed on greetings from barber Deakins. I returned Archie’s salutations. How, inquired Latrell, had I met Archie?
Of course, it wasn’t Latrell’s business, so I told him about a large fish and the Santa Monica Pier and the finding of a gold watch.
Actually it had gone down like this. Archie, on my instruction, referred his blackmailer to his two silent partners, without whose blessing, he, Archie, claimed he could do nothing. The blackmailers, endorsing all stereotypes, met the silent partners after hours in the barbershop back room.
Stracewski and his torpedo were twenty minutes late. In light-colored garments, with visible chest hair and gold chains, they reeked of chutzpah and Miami Beach.
Gold Chain immediately fucked up. Taking in Rojas, the Mayan prince, Stracewski scratched his head, looked at me. “What’s he here for, to mow the lawn?”
I didn’t have to time to warn Gold Chain this was not the way to refer to a prince. Like a jaguar, Rojas was across the room in a single bound, delivering a vicious left hook to Stracewski’s liver. Stracewski’s liver signaled to the brain that the tongue had erred and the legs would no longer support the torso. Down went Stracewski with a ragged gasp of agony.
I met the torpedo coming to render aid. I was confident Torpedo was unaware he was about to meet the former light-heavyweight champion of the 13th Naval District. I feinted with a right and threw a left hook. It hit him in the exact same spot I’d hit Lance Corporal Charlton Parker years ago. With the same gratifying result. The body, deprived of management, waved its fists and fell down in the corner.
In a minute the two pliant gentlemen had been tied to chairs, hands behind them. Rojas held up a barber’s mirror as I put a plastic fastener around Stracewski’s neck and snugged it up.
Looking through his wallet, I removed all cash and cards. That’s how I found out his name was Stracewski. “Do I have your attention, Mr. Stracewski?”
He motioned that I had his full attention. Meanwhile, the plastic tie started his slow suffocation. His face was taking on a reddish hue.
I smiled affably. “My friend, Mr. Deakins, stated that you had treated him with rudeness and disrespect. Is that true?”
Stracewski nodded that it was indeed the truth. That he was sorry for it.
I looked into Rojas’s mirror, into Stracewski’s eyes. “You’re starting to look like a plum.” The man was getting darker by the seco
nd. Purple. The color of contrition.
“Now, in order to facilitate your apology to Mr. Deakins, I’m going to confiscate your cash, which comes to a pitiful six hundred and twenty-three dollars. Is this alright with you?”
It was alright with him.
“And your credit cards and driver’s license. I’m going to shred them. Does that meet with your approval?”
It did meet with his approval.
I indicated his somnolent assistant. “I’m also confiscating Torpedo’s cash and shredding his documents. Does that meet with your approval?”
It did meet with his approval.
Now it was time for intimidating threats. Rojas read my mind. “Tell him about Johnny Santo, dude.” Rojas grinned.
Like I’ve said, you couldn’t be depressed in Rojas’s company. “Mr. Stracewski, if you ever make an appearance on Hawthorne Boulevard again, in Lennox, it will be the last thing you do in this life. Is that clear?”
It was abundantly clear.
“In fact, if I hear your name again, you’re dead. Have I made myself clear?”
Gold Chain nodded. Lack of oxygen had led directly to clarity.
Rojas grinned into the mirror at dark Stracewski. “You kinda look like a eggplant, dude.”
He did look like an eggplant. A dark, rich purple. I snipped the tie with a pair of Archie’s scissors and a wiser Stracewski sucked life back into his body.
Archie had come to me later, laughing. “I don’t know what you done, but people be thinkin’ I done it. Treatin’ me like the Godfather and shit, know what I mean?”
Archie was sporting a new, white broadbrimmed hat. Fanucci-style. He shook my hand. “Best five hundred dollars I ever spent.” He nodded. “Shortcut Man. Gotta dig him.”
Got to indeed.
Got to.
So you met Archie fishing? And you found a watch?
Yes, Latrell. That’s how I met him.
In the fish. The watch was in the fish?
That may have been going too far, but I was already committed. Yes, Latrell. The watch was in the fish.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Anger Management
From the Cherokee to the guitar district was just a few minutes. Down Cherokee to Sunset, and right. Past a couple of heroin motels, Social Security, and Hollywood High.
Then the guitar district. Which meant something different to Mr. Bobby Lebow. He’d been through the crucible of fame. Though it didn’t feel like a crucible when you were in it. It felt a like a well-deserved warm bath. With dozens of happy lackeys, eyes shyly on the floor, ready to hand you towels of infinite softness. Fame wasn’t the arrival after an arduous journey, it was the recognition by the world of your remarkable inner spirit. And once recognized, you humbly took your place in the pantheon, where you would remain for eternity. Except that you didn’t.
A long time ago he’d been a normal twelve-year-old in seventh grade at St. Ambrose School. Mary Tyler Moore had been a student there. So what. The school, as a school, conferred nothing extraordinary besides the fact that CBS Television City was right down the street. Which, in Bobby’s case, was enough.
The class had been invited down to see how a show was put together. But someone had taken note of his fiery red hair and his mischievious laugh. He and Ronnie Clarke had managed to hook a long paper tail on a belt loop of the class president, Richard Atkins, Sister Margaret Louise’s pet, as he went about acting grown-up and responsible, asking intelligent questions.
Someone in a narrow tie asked the redhead his name and next thing he knew, he was on TV. Literally within weeks. He played a kid like himself, in fact. Shrewd producers realized what could not be written and just let him be himself. An asshole. But three-channel America loved him. The show was a hit and fame descended upon him.
Girls he had admired, who had turned up their noses at him, now spread their legs gratefully. They even sucked his dick. Just like they did in those magazines Uncle Pete had. Come to think of it, fuck Uncle Pete. He’d wanted to suck Bobby’s dick, too.
It was a golden period. He was Bobby Lebow. He was sent to the Paul Heinreid cotillion at the Beverly Hilton, where he immediately won first prize. Even though he danced like an ox. In fact, he won every contest, for any aspect of talent, in which he was now entered.
Then some fool asked him if he could sing and his answer was, who couldn’t! Presto! He was in a band and on the cover of Tiger Beat. Tiger Beat, because he, Bobby Lebow, was a tiger. Records came out, written and produced by grateful, obsequious strangers, and went gold. Or wherever they went. He was too busy to really notice.
He had a fan club. He had a fan club manager. Her job, while it lasted, for minimum wage, had been to scrawl Bobby Lebow’s personal greetings and encouragements over millions of eight-by-tens.
Keep rockin’, Bobby
Keep it hard, Bobby
Rock on! Bobby
Rock hard, Bobby
Then his fan club manager got pregnant. Bobby Jr. did not see the light of day. Miss Fan Club was fired, of course, but the situation was kept under control. Relative control. Management had paid out money. After all, the Bobby Lebow Train was an economic juggernaut and could not be stopped for trivial reasons.
And then, fast as a bolt of lightning, he wasn’t cute anymore. Some asshole at Rolling Stone had reviewed his solo album, which, with one exception, he’d insisted on writing himself. The biggest part of being a genius, he’d realized, was realizing you were a genius. The album was a stone masterpiece, if he did say so himself.
But the ninety-pound, pimpled shit-eater at Rolling Stone wanted to look good for his girlfriend or something. So he dipped his pen in venom. The worst album ever made by the most irrelevant snot-bag who’s ever walked upright on planet Earth. Who was Bobby Lebow to cover “Eleanor Rigby”?
It was a splash of ice water to the face. He looked into the mirror, into the abyss, found that every penny he’d earned had been squandered. Squandered, what a word. He’d blown a fortune. Plain old gone.
And then, by the will of a benevolent god, he’d had another chance. And he’d signed on, even though he’d read the script and found it beyond wretched. Me, Dad, and Me.
Me, Dad, and Me created the new teen sensation, Ellen Havertine. In exception to all reason, it was a big hit. A huge hit. For five years. And that money would have lasted. He’d even married Ellen. But cocaine had entered his life.
And now cocaine was his life. That’s why he didn’t live in fancy digs. As long as those residual checks came in quarterly, and Ellen’s checks monthly, he could roll out to Van Nuys and score his two ounces a week, eight grams a day. Cocaine was his life. Though an ounce wasn’t going as far these days. But now Ellen owed him fifty big ones. And had promised him a million.
He knew how he would die. After one really flawless big sweet purple hit, his heart would fail. Just stop. Maybe explode. Which was fine by him. If you’re gonna do the crime, you gotta do the time. He was prepared. That’s how good the shit was.
He passed Guitar Center on his right and the pierced, tattooed acolytes of Never Going to Happen.
He made a right at Sierra Bonita, drove up the street, made another right, parked on Hawthorne Avenue. What he needed was a hit.
One hit led to two, two to four. Now he was ready. He exited the car, removed a light jacket with a DHL logo. Package delivery. From the backseat he retrieved a taped-up, addressed manila envelope.
Number 1544 was one of those nice old bungalows. Pretty well taken care of. The front door was open to the nice weather. He rang the doorbell, looked through the screen door, waited.
Then the woman appeared. “Yes?”
Bobby rechecked his package. “Got a delivery for . . . for Penelope Grace?”
The woman opened the screen door. He put the envelope full of newspapers in her hand, then handed her a clipboard.
“Just sign on the open line. Where the X is.”
As the woman grasped the attached pen, he made his reques
t. “Excuse me, lady, can I use your restroom? Too much Diet Coke,” he added with a pained grin.
The woman looked at him, puzzled. “Do I know you?”
Bobby smiled. With the years, he had passed into an undefined shadow fame. “I don’t think so. But could I use the can?” He hopped on his right foot.
“Okay,” said the lady, “in the back to the left.”
“Thanks.” He’d walked back there, took a relaxed piss, shook it out, studied himself in the mirror, looked through the medicine cabinet. Nothing special. He decided he’d take a quick hit. Two hits. He exited the bathroom.
The woman was right there. She looked a little put out. “You smoking something in there?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling. Then he backhanded her across the face with all his strength, knocking her down.
In an instant he was on top of her, a knee right between her tits. “What I’m really here for is to deliver a message.” He decided to slap her face. Whack! “You’ve been poking your nose places it doesn’t fucking belong.”
The woman raised her hand from her prone position. “I think you’ve made a mistake and—”
Her denial pissed him off. He grabbed her by the hair, pulled her up, slammed her head back down into the floor. Then again. And one more time. As if she were a doll. “I don’t make mistakes, bitch.”
She was bleeding from the mouth. A nice Technicolor crimson. “Fuck you,” she said thickly.
And that did it. He went to town. Slaps turned to punches and the punches had a smooth, relaxed flow of their own. He was the Terminator.
After two or three minutes the cocaine level in his brain dropped below alpha level and he had to take a breath. Then he saw what he had done.
The woman was dead. Like a dog. Like his dog.
He looked at his hands. They were covered with gore and they trembled.
In the bathroom he washed face and hands. Took two hits. Three hits. Then stepped out the back door, walked around the house, out to the sidewalk.
The sounds of Sunset Boulevard, rushing traffic, bathed him in white noise. No one was looking at him. No people in the neighboring bungalows were on their porches, pointing and indignant. He walked up to Hawthorne. His gait felt normal. To question your gait meant you were walking funny already.
Tribulations of the Shortcut Man Page 9