True love is as big as the imagination, limitless. I walked out of Nedra’s house, my heart in splinters, my imagination smashed. I walked into a smaller world, bereft of hope and wonder.
A biblical seven-day deluge commenced as I reached my car. I drove home shivering. But still on fire.
Cinders. I had believed, soul deep, albeit without examination, that love would trump race when they met in the alley. But no. Race kicked love’s ass. What other icebergs had I missed?
Johnnie Cochran passed on to his great reward. I hope, for his sake, for my sake, for our sake, that race means nothing up there. That there is no race. But the afterlife will be populated by the same fools that prate and prattle down here. I’m not optimistic.
That’s how Nedra and I were destroyed. And this wouldn’t be on my mind except for this morning’s call from Robert Patrick.
Patrick assured me that further misunderstandings concerning Ms. Scott’s fundamental right to live where she pleased would never see the light of day. However, continued Patrick, Azure Gardens would go up one way or the other. Civic momentum, once engaged, could not be stopped. Bledsoe was doomed, done for.
But, perhaps, since I knew Nedra Scott, he reasoned, I could talk sense to her. Her property might be worth a hundred grand viewed through rose-colored glasses. He had a pair. His top offer might conceivably reach five hundred thousand. A pleasing percentage would be paid me if I could convince her to do the right thing.
Obviously, Mr. Patrick did not know of what he asked, but I said I would give it a try.
Someone said most men do not marry the woman in their lives whom they love the most. Maybe, like magnetism, love is both attractive and repulsive. So it’s not that you don’t, you can’t. I had been banished from heaven. But, like a chess piece across the field of time and distance, Georgette came forward one square at a time. The rest was history.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ed Huff
Two full days had passed. Ellen looked down at Art. He was ready to entertain. He lay pliable, arms spread wide on the kitchen floor.
At the kitchen table, red-eyed and sobbing, Eileen was making her big moment as big as possible. Ellen looked over from the sink. Eileen’s tears dredged up the long-held desire to slap the piss out of her. In this case, however, Eileen was performing as ordered. Cry, bitch, cry.
In the library, Harry Glidden resisted the impulse to watch the Lakers. Then the doorbell rang.
Ellen beat him to the front door, opened up. A small, balding man with a receding chin held a black bag. This would be asshole Ed Huff.
The man stuck his hand out. “I’m Ed Huff,” he said. “And I’m so sorry.”
Ellen stepped forward, pulled Huff’s head into her perfumed bosom. “Oh, Dr. Huff, thank you so much for coming.” She let loose a few tears, finally let him up for air.
Huff met with Judge Glidden in the library.
“What we want here, Ed, is privacy. You can see Eileen is heartbroken.” Well, you could hear it. “We don’t need a CSI investigation, microscopes up Art’s ass. We want dignity. Dignity for a great man, cut down at his moment of supreme happiness.”
Huff nodded. “I understand completely. And I agree completely. But, as far as the certificate—”
“I can sign, Ed. As an officer of the court. If that’s good enough for you.”
“Oh. Fine. That would be fine with me.”
“Great.”
Judge Glidden reached into his jacket pocket, removed his checkbook, opened it. Carefully he detached a check to Dr. Ed Huff, $10,000. He handed it to Huff.
Huff looked at the check. “I can’t accept this.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the grief talking. It’s too much.” Ed held out the check in return.
But Glidden folded Huff’s fingers back around the check. “Take it, Ed. With my thanks and gratitude.” The check disappeared into Huff’s coat pocket.
Huff began his inspection. In med school he’d done some forensics but that was a while ago. Quite a while. The man was dead. That was certain. And he was cold. Maybe he should check internal temp. But that meant inserting a clean instrument up the dead man’s hairy ass. Shit, the man was dead.
He was acutely aware that Ellen Havertine was kneeling down across the body from him. Every time he looked up, it was into Ellen Havertine’s bosom. Which would be righteously classified as a rack. He could almost see a nipple.
“Is there a problem, Doctor?”
Huff wrenched his eyes northward. “Uhhh, no. I mean, he’s a little cold.”
Miss Havertine nodded. “You’d think he was dead.”
Huff open and shut his mouth like a fish. He’d almost laughed. Was she serious?
“I guess he came down for a sandwich.” The actress took a deep breath, straining the fabric.
He watched Miss Havertine’s eyes mist over. Eyes. If only he had chameleon eyes. So he could look at two things at once. Her chest and her face. Then maybe he would understand what she was saying. Someone had eaten a sandwich. He would eat a sandwich. Later. Meat loaf. If it hadn’t gone bad.
The judge watched Ellen hypnotize Huff with the community property, 36C. Art’s socks were never removed. And the doctor didn’t see the sugar ants that crawled out of Art’s hair and meandered down his forehead. Ellen had blown them off with a perfect theatrical sneeze. Which meant what, wondered Glidden, hundreds of them? Can’t tickle a dead man. Ants. Like soldiers moving through a dense forest. The judge squirmed, ran fingers through his hair.
Finally the procedure was complete, the body on its way to the brothers McKinley. Huff sat at the kitchen counter, signed a document, handed it to Judge Glidden. “Here we go, Harry. All taken care of.” He shook the judge’s hand. “I’m sincerely sorry about your—your brother-in-law?”
Glidden nodded sorrowfully. Brother-in-law was a paper relationship under the best of terms. And he was once removed. “Thank you, Ed.” He looked at the floor. He’d learned aspects of sorrow on Special Counsel. Knit your eyebrows and look down, shake your head a bit. He shook his head a bit.
He put a hand on Huff’s shoulder. “I knew you’d be here for me, Ed. And for Art Lewis. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You’ve been a true friend.”
Then Ellen had come up, bosomed him again, sprinkled a few more tears. “Some things are better kept in-house, so to speak,” said Huff. “Away from the vultures and hyenas.” The good doctor paused. “By the way, Harry. You playing in that tournament at Riviera?”
The Victims of Violent Crime Benefit. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. With Ted Sargent. You have time, Ed?”
“Time for what?” Incredulous Huff.
“A spot in the foursome?”
“Is there a spot?”
“For you there is, Ed.”
“Whoa. No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“Ted Sargent?”
“Ted Sargent. The one and only.”
“I’m in?”
“You’re in if you want, Ed-man.”
“Well—then I’m in.”
Glidden clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you there.”
Huff had departed. Ellen and Harry came back into the kitchen. Eileen was still sobbing.
Ellen looked at her sister. Enough was enough. “Eileen?”
Eileen stopped, mid-sob. “Y-y-yes?”
“Shut up.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Fame
Bobby do this. Bobby do that. Bobby clean up this. Bobby clean up that. It was all bullshit. Ellen’s perpetual incompetence. But for a million-dollar share—he’d put up with her.
He parked the Infiniti on Yucca, within sight of Ivar. He checked for the gun in his coat pocket. There it was. And it was loaded, he didn’t have go through that. He’d gone through it ten times back at the apartment.
Showtime.
But a hit first. Two hits. Okay, three. This was a serious mission. He slipped on the brown DHL jacket.
If Ivar wasn’t the steepest street in Los Angeles, it was in the top ten. And somewhere up there, on the left-hand side of the street, was 1863.
He’d knock. A man would open up. Are you Bernardo? he would ask. I have a package for him. As he handed the package to the man he’d pull out the gun and shoot Bernardo in the head. With a second bullet for the professional Luca Brasi finality of it all.
Or maybe he’d knock, ask the man if he were Bernardo, then ask another question. You cut off Art Lewis’s toe? Bernardo’s guilty mouth would fall open and he’d shoot him right between the eyes. Then he’d walk back down the hill. Two minutes later he’d be back in his apartment, where a big rock waited for him on top of that Coltrane CD. A Love Supreme. Yes, indeed. A man and his pipe. That was love, baby.
It had to be the steepest street in Los Angeles. Fuck Fargo Street. Finally he reached 1863. He paused to breathe. It hurt. His lungs were probably brittle with cocaine. What he needed was more cocaine. Showtime.
He had to admit, it was a ballsy move for a gardener. Maybe he’d used pruning shears. One little snip, then a call for a hundred thousand dollars. Except there’d been no call. The dude was playing it close to the chest. But why had he quit so suddenly? Why else. Because he was the Snipper.
Snipper, meet Sniper.
He knocked and after a bit the door drew back. If this were Bernardo he was a nice-looking man. An honest, square face, hazel eyes, a full head of curly black hair, and a ready smile with repairs in gold.
“Are you Bernardo Tavares?”
Before the man answered, a little girl, maybe four, came up and hid behind his leg, looking around at Bobby, smiling, then hiding again.
“Can I help you?” asked the man.
“You’re Bernardo?”
The man patted the little girl’s head. “Maybe I am Bernardo. Who are you?”
Suddenly the man recognized Bobby. Recognized him with delight. “You are Bobby Lebow! You are Bobby Lebow!” He turned to yell into the interior. “Lourdes, apúrate y salga! It’s Bobby Lebow!”
There was a shriek and a stampede of feet. Four children arrived with a good-looking woman bringing up the rear. The children would not have been more excited at the circus. The woman shrieked again. “Bobby Lebow! Bobby Lebow!”
Bernardo clapped him on the shoulder. “Me, Dad, and Me was my favorite show. But you the best. The best.” He turned to his wife. “Didn’t I always say that Bobby Lebow the best? Didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did! Yes, you always did! The very best. And I agreeeeee!”
The kids squirted out past Bobby to disseminate the news. The apartment next door was opened by another child. “Bobby Lebow is here!” screamed Bernardo Junior.
“Who is that?” returned the girl at the door.
“I don’t know,” said Bernardo Junior, “but he’s here!”
Two minutes later, Bobby and twenty-five residents of 1863 were crammed into Bernardo’s. Bernardo directed his wife to break out the special bottle of tequila he had been saving. Lourdes did as ordered and more tequila came from next door. All the men salted their thumbs, bit into their lemons, and drank tequila with Bobby Lebow. Bobby was only going to have one, but before he knew it he’d swallowed four. Someone thrust a guitar into his hands and he sang. And sang again. Digital cameras took pictures, printers printed them, Bobby signed them. Eventually, Bobby remembered what was waiting on top of A Love Supreme and extricated himself with handshakes, hugs, and promises to return.
Momentum carried him down the street. At the corner he ran. The Infiniti started right up.
Back at Bernardo’s the excitement slowly cooled from white-hot to red-hot to, now, a gentle, dull, satisfied crimson.
Bernardo scratched his head.
“What?” asked Lourdes, his wife.
“I forgot to ask something important to Mr. Bobby Lebow.”
“Ask him what?”
Bernardo finished off the dregs of the tequila. “I forgot to ask him why he come here.” Fuck Movie Star Lady and TV Judge. Who had their noses high in the air. Hiding their stiff in the freezer.
Bobby Lebow. Bobby Lebow was good people.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Side by Side
I dropped by Electric Avenue. Dennis had just about finished up my commission. I looked at the paintings side by side. As always, I couldn’t tell the difference. It was beautiful work and I told him so.
Honest praise lightened his load for a minute. “It is good work,” he agreed. He looked down at them. “I hope whoever is going to get it deserves it.”
You don’t know the half of it, my friend.
He told me his plans. He couldn’t stay here at Electric Avenue. Where was he going to go? He wasn’t sure. Maybe New Mexico.
Sante Fe is a nice place for artists.
Yeah, but it might be stuffy. Maybe Mexico.
Why Mexico? What do you know about Mexico?
Don’t know nothin’ about Mexico. That’s why I’m goin’.
He rolled up a fattie. Did I want a hit? No, thanks. He lit up, breathed deep.
That’s how I left him, wrapped in his dreams.
CHAPTER FORTY
Encopresis
The purpose of the toe, of course, was leverage. Physiognomically and in the matter at hand. To stop the circus by bringing attention to the strange death of Art Lewis. Someone, unless the fix were in, would question a body with a sawed-off toe. And that attention would eventually blow the posthumous marriage and the estate grab out of the water.
It was time for a paperwork harvest. The first crop to come in was a tax summary on the Gliddens’ Malibu Beach property. They were two years behind. Which meant they were broke. Which suggested a motive for the whole scam.
Then, through my informal downtown network, I received a fax copy of the death cert. I would send my best wishes and a honeybee to Brendy Salinas.
The cert was signed by Dr. Edward Huff. And Harry J. Glidden. Which was enough for the coroner to buy it off. The fix was in.
Which changed the value of the toe. Obviously, it had not called itself to the attention of Dr. Huff. It didn’t matter why. By intent or incompetence he was now at the heart of the matter. Forcing me to throw the toe into the gears of progress.
The weak link would be Dr. Huff, who wouldn’t know what was really on the line. I googled Huff and up came a picture of Huff and Glidden on a golf course and a piece of video on YouTube from Channel 9. In the photo, Huff basked in the reflected glory of the great Judge Glidden.
I looked up the conscientious Dr. Huff. He was an ear, nose, and throat man working out of Cedars-Sinai.
I called him up, told his assistant it was a dire emergency. A minute later he picked up.
“This is Dr. Huff. How can I help you?”
“This is Dr. Gruff.”
“Dr. Gruff?”
“I need to speak to Dr. Huff.”
“This is Dr. Huff.”
“This is Dr. Gruff.”
“This is Dr. Huff.”
“This is Dr. Gruff.”
“Is this some kind of game?”
“Like the game you played with Art Lewis?” I launched into business.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m looking at a death certificate with your name on it.”
“Who are you?”
“You’re Edward B. Huff?”
“Who is this?”
“Apparently, Mr. Huff, you didn’t notice Mr. Lewis was missing a toe.”
“Missing a toe?”
“The little toe. Sawed off at the metacarpal. Bone plainly exposed. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I believe you, Doctor. Because you didn’t look. Or you didn’t see. I smell money.”
“Who is this?”
“This is someone who’s going to fuck up your party big-time. Someone who’s going to drag you right into hell. Someone who knows, to the very minute, how
long Art Lewis had been dead.”
A hoarse whisper. “I don’t know anything about any of this.”
“Well, I do. Do you know what Mr. Lewis said when I cut off his toe?”
“You?” His voice quavered with fear.
“Answer me, Huff. What did Mr. Lewis say when I cut off his toe?”
“W-w-what did he say?”
“He didn’t say a word. Because he’d been dead for three days.” I let the horror sink in. If you weren’t used to dealing with threats, a threat would deeply frighten. “I’ll be calling you with instructions, Huff. Goodbye.” I hung up.
Huff set the phone in the cradle but did not have the strength to rise. His breath came shallow and weak, his brain didn’t work. His anus felt loose and he wondered if he’d soiled himself.
He put his hands on his desk, pulled himself out of his three-thousand-dollar brass-studded leather chair and shouted something at the top of his lungs. There was an unaccustomed warmness in his pants. Something was running down his leg. From med school, a word floated to consciousness. Encopresis. Involuntary shitting. Now he knew how it might come about.
Mrs. Ingram entered his office, alarm on her face. “Doctor, are you alright?”
“GET OUT!” he screamed.
Her mouth dropped open and out she went.
He sagged into his seat, felt his feces conform to his posture. Yuck. He rose back up instantly. His mind had started to return. Issues, issues, decisions. He must make decisions.
First, his pants.
In his private bathroom he cleaned up as best he could. The soiled underwear he would throw away. He looked at himself in the mirror. Come on, Ed. Come on. Take a deep breath. Straighten the spine. Think. Think.
As for Art Lewis, he hadn’t really checked a goddamn thing. Lewis was well beyond the Hippocratic oath. The man was dead, for chrissake. He’d taken Glidden’s word for everything, basically. Glidden was a goddamn judge! And his name was on the cert, too. Thank God! Another name. Had the mystery man called Glidden as well?
Tribulations of the Shortcut Man Page 15