Tribulations of the Shortcut Man

by p. g. sturges

  “Who’s Dick Henry?” asked Westmoreland.

  Bateman tried to swallow his rage. “I’ll take it in my office.”

  Bateman, hands shaking, picked up his phone. “What the fuck do you want?” he snarled.

  Dick, at his own kitchen table, sipped his coffee with appreciation. Splenda was as sweet as sugar. Just like they claimed.

  “I think you know what the fuck, Mr. Bateman. Has Mr. Atwater arrived?”

  Bateman cursed a long, vivid blue streak, confirming Dick’s opinion that Rutland Atwater, though a singular human being, was indeed a man of value. Right here on his very first matter.

  “My advice is this, Mr. Bateman. Go downstairs, to the lobby, and get a cashier’s check from City National Bank. Hand it to Mr. Atwater. Isn’t it the simplest way?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Diseased, the Demented, and the Damned

  The evening moved like molasses toward midnight. Harry Glidden’s appetite had gone south, he felt himself growing peevish and petty. Downtown, at work, his famous grasp of case law had seemingly lapsed, leaving him vacant and distracted. Were people looking at him funny? Because once you entertained the thought that people were looking at you funny, you became mannered, clumsy, and insincere. Trying to regain your natural footing, you unconsciously tried to become the person your critics expected you to be—and, whoever that person was, it wasn’t you.

  Who was Harry Glidden?

  He recalled a dream he’d had years earlier. In the dream he’d awoken from a night’s slumber, only to remember, with reverberating shock, that he was a murderer. He was a murderer!

  Sagging with a great fatigue, he stared at the hollow-eyed man in the mirror, an exile from the people of goodness and honesty.

  There was no way back.

  He would live the years ahead of him in pained acceptance of his new identity: Harry Glidden, one of the diseased, the demented, and the damned.

  Then he woke up. The dismal feeling lingered and then he slowly realized, no, it was all a dream, oh, good God, it was all a dream! A golden relief coursed through his veins. He rushed to the window, opened it up, gratefully inhaled the crisp morning air. He could still be counted as one of the good people! Harry Glidden, jurist, author, father, husband, good guy. Harry Glidden played for the right team!

  But not now.

  Now he was an accomplice in a real crime. He looked across the table at Ellen. Eating watermelon. That she salted. She salted her watermelon. Who was this woman? Unaffected, unencumbered, capable of sleeping peacefully through the night. He wished he could eat, but he couldn’t.

  Ellen looked over at her husband. He was giving off that weak-sister vibration. Too late for that shit. “What’s wrong with you, Harry?”

  He shrugged, enervated and old. Old. “Jesus, Ellen. All I can think of is Art Lewis moldering in his walk-in freezer.”

  “You don’t molder in the freezer. That’s why he’s in the freezer.” She’d heard of moldering. “What is moldering, Harry?”

  “It means to grow mold. I think.”

  “Like cheese.”

  “Like cheese.” Like stinking raclette. Morning milk separated from afternoon milk by a layer of vegetable ash. Or was that Morbier? In his mind a confused, slimy, green Art Lewis sat up amidst the frozen steaks and chops. “I keep imagining somebody finding out.”

  “That’s why Bernardo is there.”

  “Suppose Bernardo gets curious?”

  “Bernardo is a gardener. He doesn’t have a curious bone in his body.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  La Casa de Fantasma

  Like I told Ellen Havertine, I wasn’t going to let her plan succeed. Too much blood, too many tears. That’s why I had again adopted the persona of Dave Hunter, Gas Company employee, and that was why the Gas Company van was rolling through the night. Beside me sat Gas Technician Rojas. Our destination: Temescal Canyon.

  I had tried to explain a few details but he wasn’t catching on.

  “Wait a second, dude. Who’s Dick-Dave again?”

  I knew I shouldn’t have gone there. “Fuck Dick-Dave. All that’s important is what we’re going to do.”

  “But who is Dick-Dave?”

  “Fuck Dick-Dave.”

  “Sounds like a cracker.”

  Jesus Christ. I made a turn and there was Art Lewis’s place.

  “You think the body’s in a walk-in freezer?” asked Rojas.

  “Only place it can be. That’s where they’re going to find it when the next part of the scam comes down.”

  “When he dies again.”

  “Yup.”

  “Only a few people ever died twice.”

  “A few? I only know one. Who else?”

  “Well, Lazarus, for one,” said Professor Rojas.

  “Of course, Lazarus. Who else?”

  “The dude in the Beatles. With the bare feet.”

  “Paul? He didn’t die.”

  “The walrus was Paul.”

  “So what? He didn’t die.”

  “Oh, yes he did. That’s was why he was wearing bare feet to cross the road.”

  “You mean Abbey Road.”

  “I mean he was dead.”

  “He didn’t cross the road for the usual reason?”

  “What’s that?”

  “To get to the other side.” Zingo, Ringo! Got him!

  “Fuck you, white man.”

  “Owned,” I chortled, enjoying my victory. According to my son, owned was the current word denoting superior cutting skills. Like burned had been in my schoolyard days. You just got burned, man.

  I parked on the street, turned off the engine. We grabbed our tool boxes, walked up to the security gate. I hoped the numbers Pussy had given me were still the right ones.

  They were. The gate yawned to full open position, then, as the timer decreed, shut again, quietly, expensively.

  Up on the big front porch we waited. There were a few lights on in the house, but no obvious signs of life. But it was a big house so we waited. Chances were the conspirators would leave someone on guard. But maybe not. I took Pussy’s key and opened up.

  In the kitchen, Bernardo Tavares looked at the walk-in freezers and thought about his orders.

  Like many varieties of trouble, the matter had begun with easy money. The couple had called him into the kitchen, bade him sit.

  “Bernardo,” said Movie Star Lady, “how would you like to earn some extra money?”

  “Some dinero adicional,” added TV Judge, crucifying the Español.

  “Yes, ma’am, yes, sir,” he had said. Bernardo was a very good, conscientious gardener, only overcharged the Gliddens by the customary 25 percent. So, obviously, he could use a little more. These were Malibu Beach white people after all. They were filled with guilt. And he was not.

  “How much money?” he had inquired respectfully.

  TV Judge had exchanged a glance with Movie Star Lady. TV Judge was nervous. Something was up.

  “We have a friend who’s going out of town for a week or so. We need someone to house-sit. If not all day, at least overnights. It’s not far from here, up Temescal Canyon. What do you think?”

  Bernardo considered. Tavares Gardening Service, basically himself and pendejo cabrón Osvado Rodriguez, had commitments five or six days a week. But overnights, why not?

  But why him? How did Movie Star Lady choose him?

  Because they didn’t know who else to call. There were legitimate, bonded companies that did this. He had friends who did such work. At a quasi-legal minimum, it required lots of paper from the document men down at MacArthur Park.

  So why him? Because they needed him. His price clicked upward two notches. They needed him because he was a stupid, opinionless gardener, used to taking orders, grateful for crumbs. “I work seven days, missus,” said Bernardo, establishing his fundamental bargaining step.

  Movie Star Lady looked at TV Judge, nodded. TV Judge shrugged, uneasy.

  Something w
as indeed up. “I also work nights,” lied Bernardo, dolefully, enlarging his fee, “but if you need I make arrangements.” Now, how much should he charge? After all, they needed him. He wanted a hundred dollars a night. “Two hundred dollars? Two hundred dollars?”

  “Two hundred a night?” Movie Star Lady seemed a little taken aback.

  “I have friends maybe help you for one hundred,” said Bernardo, with sadness. “But they are borrachos.”

  Harry looked at his wife. He had reached the ragged perimeter of his Spanish with dinero adicional. “What are borrachos? Outlaws?”

  “No. Drunks.”

  Goddamnit. He should have learned Spanish like he always promised himself he would. He studied Ellen, shrugged. “Well, we don’t need any drunks.”

  “Okay,” said Ellen, nodding at Bernardo. “Two hundred a night.”

  Bernardo, expressionless, restrained his glee. He’d have done it for seventy-five. For fifty. Fifty was good money for sleeping on the couch, watching TV, eating the fine foods in the refrigerator, lifting a cheek and farting aloud when sufficient pressure had accumulated.

  “I just watch house, solamente?”

  “What is solamente?” Harry could read Spanish. He knew generally what they were talking about. But not exactly what they were saying.

  “Only.”

  Harry looked at his wife. “How do we, uh . . .” He took Ellen by the wrist. “Excuse us, Bernardo, I need a word with my wife.”

  Ellen shook off his hand, followed him to the den. “Jesus, Harry. Now he knows something’s up.”

  Harry put a finger over his lips. “Since you’re thinking like a Girl Scout, let me think for you. What I want to know is how—”

  “—how we make sure he stays out of the walk-in freezer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t knock the Girl Scouts, Harry.”

  “Fine. Look. If we warn him to stay out of the freezer, that’s exactly where’s he going to go first.”

  “Of course.”

  “So what do we tell him?”

  “We tell him there are cameras all over the place and not to go into the freezer.”

  “Then he goes directly to the freezer.”

  Ellen thought, then it came to her. “We scare him. The illegals are all superstitious peasants. We scare the shit out of him.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  TV Judge and Movie Star Lady came back into the kitchen. Now they would lie to him. Okay. He was going to get two hundred dollars a night.

  “Bernardo,” began Movie Star Lady, “there’s a special reason we’re going to pay you two hundred dollars a night. Comprende?”

  Comprendo, white woman.

  “We know you are a strong man. Un hombre fuerte.”

  What kind of silly bullshit was this? Bernardo nodded solemnly. He had spoken English all his life. Good English. In Oaxaca, he had earned a degree in architecture. But up here gardening paid better. Because, for political reasons, his certificate didn’t transfer.

  “That’s why we chose you. There’s a ghost in the house. Uno fanstasmo.”

  You mean, una fantasma. But he was supposed to be scared, obviously. He widened his eyes, fashioned his mouth into an O. “Fantasma,” he whispered.

  Just a superstitious peasant, thought Glidden. He may as well have a bone through his nose.

  Ellen continued. “There is an evil ghost in the house. Don’t open any doors you don’t need to. No abra el puerto. Necessito.”

  You mean no abra las puertas. He widened his eyes a little larger.

  “Don’t open any doors, cabinets, closets. Eat what’s in the refrigerator, and keep your eyes open. I’ll leave you my phone number. Comprende?”

  Oh, I understand, you idiot. There’s something in the house. Something I’m not supposed to see. Something my presence will prevent others from seeing. “Sí. Comprendo.” Now would be a good time to make the sign of the cross, so he did. Then he sighted another opportunity. “Maybe job not for me, missus. I do not want to die.”

  “You won’t die, Bernardo,” said TV Judge. “Don’t worry.”

  Bernardo shook his head, rose to his feet, and moaned. “No job, missus. I do not want to die.”

  “Bernardo, please,” said Movie Star Lady.

  Bernardo, shaking with fear, made the sign of the cross again and backed out of the kitchen, mumbling.

  “Bernardo,” said TV Judge, “we’ll pay you two-fifty.” Shit. They’d talked him into it and right out the other side. He’d have to offer the monkey-eating, fruit-picking savage more money.

  Bernardo stopped in his tracks. And settled for two seventy-five.

  Now Bernardo studied the walk-in freezers. He had already examined the house from top to bottom. Of course there were no fantasmas. Then, standing in just the right place in the kitchen, he had discovered broad scuff marks on the floor, leading from the kitchen door all the way to the left-hand walk-in freezer. Something had been dragged in. Something heavy.

  What would you drag to a walk-in freezer? For the first time he felt a chill. Fantasma. This was the door. The door he had been encouraged not to open. He grasped the stainless-steel hasp and pulled, the rollers rolled, he felt the rush of frigid air.

  He immediately saw what he had not been meant to see. There was a large figure laying on the floor under a frosty, light blue blanket. The man was dead. Had to be. Bernardo approached with caution in any case. He pulled back the blanket.

  “Hello, white man.” The man was old and had died unshaven and disheveled. There were no obvious signs of foul play. Maybe he’d been sick. But why had no one called the police? The man had been in here a while. Bernardo tugged an arm. Stiff as a statue. Tieso. Frozen solid. Deep-chilled.

  Deep-chilled was what frozen turkeys were called when sold for fresh at Thanksgiving to gullible Americans. Could no one do the math? How do you provide a hundred million fresh turkeys for a single holiday? You froze them. Tieso.

  Then Bernardo heard the clatter of falling keys. From the entryway. Panic rose into his throat. He yanked the blanket over the dead face and ran out of the freezer.

  Two men were waiting for him. He found he had lost the ability to breathe. “Soy jardinero,” he croaked. Then something hit him and everything went dark.

  Twenty dollars’ worth of quarters in a knotted gym sock. Worked every time. It conformed to the shape of the head, conferred maximum concussive power. Like a dead-blow hammer. “What did he say?” I asked.

  Rojas looked down on the unconscious man. “He said he was a gardener.”

  Art Lewis was stiff as a board, unshaven. Blue drugstore slippers. If this man was Art Lewis. Of course he was. My plan would work.

  I searched through the kitchen drawers. For the right job it’s best to have the right tool. But, typically, in the modern home, there is no meat saw.

  Ahhh. But here was a Ginsu knife.

  I rolled down PCH with Rojas. Mission accomplished. He sparked his chronic, squinted at me.

  “So you’re Dick-Dave.”

  “I guess so.”

  He shook his head, looked out the window, turned back. “You know, I never done what you just done.”

  I looked down at the small tupperware box on the seat between us. “I never done’d it before, either.”

  “It don’t bother you? You know, that day, when the dead come to life and shit, he’s gonna be pissed.”

  “Mr. Lewis or Jesus?”

  “Maybe both of them.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Infarction

  The call had come in at 7:49 in the morning, shattering his dream and chilling his blood. He had been dreaming of Art Lewis. Alive, hale, and hearty. Reports of my death? Exaggerated, laughed the big man. Glidden had been filled with measureless relief. He was still Harry Glidden! The good guy!

  Then the phone rang, he sat up, there was Ellen, snoring and oblivious. Thank God Art was still—but, no, he wasn’t. The enormous weight was back. H
e felt a pain in his chest. He picked up the phone, fumbled it. Dial tone.

  It rang again as he was making coffee. It was Bernardo. He was quitting. No explanation.

  An hour later he served Ellen breakfast. He was trying to be cheery. But he was no actor. He was a clueless stooge who’d been lucky enough to play himself on TV. For twenty-six grand a week. Until it all disappeared.

  Ellen looked at him like she had a toothache. “What’s wrong now?” she had asked.

  “You had a call.”

  “Who?”

  “Bernardo. Bernardo the incurious. He quit.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He just said he was quitting.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Almost all.”

  “What the fuck did he say, Harry?”

  “He said fantasmas.”

  Ellen shot out of her seat, threw her plate across the room. “And you just let me sleep?”

  “He’s a superstitious peasant. Who else sees ghosts?”

  “He’s been in that fucking freezer.” She grabbed her car keys, ran out. Thirty seconds later he heard the screech of tires and she was gone.

  He sat there in the silence. For the first time in his life he seriously considered suicide. He had the means. Right upstairs in the closet.

  He would open the gun safe, pick up the gun, heavy and cold. He would chamber a shell. Then he would raise the barrel to his temple. Wait a second. He had children. What example would that set? Even if they were adults. Did suicide confer absolution like it used to? In the days of honor and honorable gentlemen?

  What was death? Would he be stepping into nothingness? Or stepping through a shroud into the afterlife he had always been promised? Where a loving God would greet him. Where a vindictive God would greet him, fire in his eye, questioning him about Art Lewis. Christ, there was no clean exit for him. If there was an afterlife, he would have to make ready. He would have to confess, perform heartfelt absolution.

  That’s why Ellen was unmoved. She didn’t believe in anything. She was hollow.