What had Eileen Lewis said? Her husband must have come down from upstairs, rummaged around in the fridge, then fell back, hitting his head. Which killed him. Was that all bullshit? How could it be bullshit? Were they all lying? Ed Huff, chump of chumps?
He inhaled, exhaled raggedly. He checked his watch. Glidden would be downtown. He’d call his office.
“Judge Glidden’s office.”
“Yes, is Judge Glidden in?”
“I’m sorry, he’s in the courtroom. Could I leave him a message?”
“Yes, please. This is Ed Huff. Doctor Ed Huff. And this is a dire emergency. I need to speak to the judge as soon as possible. I can’t stress the urgency of this matter. This is of the utmost urgency.”
“Is this a medical emergency, Doctor?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then I’ll give him your message at break, Doctor. What’s your number?”
He’d given his number, hung up, and then the fear came back. He ran for the toilet.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The Second Mrs. Glidden
Not two minutes after I’d hung up with Huff there was a knock at my door. I looked through the side window. It was Ellen Glidden. Well, well, well. Monty Hall. Let’s make a deal.
I opened up. She smiled at me. A professional smile. I could tell the difference. “Hi, Dick-Dave. Can we talk?”
I stepped back, gestured her in. “The second Mrs. Glidden.”
She took a careful seat on the couch, looked around. “You rent, of course?”
“Why would that be your business?”
“Because I want to make sure you own.”
“Do you.”
“At least your house.”
“I don’t think there’s common ground between us.”
“There’s always common ground between people of reason.”
“Did you bring a big bag of money?”
“Is that what you want?”
She looked into my eyes like she was seeing my soul. Of course, it was technique. But her technique was flawless. That’s why she’d accomplished what she had accomplished. In three seconds she promised me love, devotion, and the best ball-cupping, perfumed hand, desperate, hungry blow job I’d ever get in this lifetime. I’d spew my seed across the sky.
She saw me receive her message. She smiled.
The consciousness of a human being is bicameral. The mind is one part, the body, the mind’s wordless equal, the second. Communication with another person is always both mind-to-mind and body-to-body. Unless this dualism is shocked into its ingredients, we operate in perfect, unknowing synchrony, never suspecting that we are two. But the Shortcut Man knew. The Shortcut Man had been torn asunder with fear . . . and with pleasure. Cock of iron, feet of clay.
I looked at her and felt my body twist in the wind of her desire and I thirsted.
She opened a button on her shirt, showed me a little cleavage. “You ever make love to a movie star, Dick?”
Every call Harry got was a fucking emergency. He looked at the yellow slip. There were no normal calls in his celebrity life. But Huff? Why now? Why a dire emergency? A shard of panic creased his mind. He hoped Huff wasn’t a cunt. But, of course, that was why he’d been pressed into service. Huff was a perfect cunt.
Arnelle put her head in. “Patricia on line seven.”
Arnelle had been around for the great marital changeover. To all outward appearances she was neutral. At the bottom he knew she rooted for Patricia. An anger at the world surged within him and he picked up the phone.
“Hi, Patricia.” Clipped. Businesslike.
“Did you talk with Monica?”
“Should I?”
“She needs a new car, Harry. Don’t you think you should help her out?”
“Since when did our children become helpless adults?”
“Her car was stolen and they wrecked it. She wasn’t prepared for this.”
“That’s why there’s a thing called insurance. For accidents, for thefts, for shit just like this.”
A pleased thread crept into her tone. “Did I catch you at a bad time, Harry?”
“What did you really call about?”
“Are you alright, Harry?”
“Goddamnit, I’m fine.”
“Are you taking your fish oil?”
“You did not call in the middle of my goddamn busy day to talk about fish oil.” It was the fear of the unknown, Huff’s emergency, that had ignited dark clouds of unease into anger. Point to Patricia. He consciously tried to tamp down his sudden hatred.
“Actually, dear, I called to inquire as to when I might expect my painting. The Kostadi?”
Fuck you, Patricia.
Her reminder was supposed to hurt but it didn’t. In fact, the reverse. The naked depth of her anger and hurt almost quenched his own with vicious satisfaction. Kostadi. She had mispronounced Kostabi’s name with purpose—to show how little she truly cared for the artist or the work she’d managed to wring out of him during the last minutes of their marriage. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, darling. And you’ll never have it, you bitch.
“Maybe a week, I’ll have it for you. A week or so. I know how you’ve always loved Kostadi.”
After a marriage of that length, you were never truly unmarried. Some rounds had less action than others, but the fight never ended until God threw in the towel. “Why don’t you let me just keep the goddamn thing, Patricia? You don’t give a shit about it.”
“Why don’t you truly ask me, Harry?” she rejoined. “With a little humility? With a little humanity?”
He was filled with a grinding frustration. He had pretty much spent his humanity as of late. He was a grabber, a grasper, a grifter, a felon in noble black robes. “Patricia . . .”—his voice quavered for a millisecond—“. . . Patricia, please give me my painting.”
Silence on the line. “Patricia? Patricia, are you there?”
“You really want it, Harry?” Her voice had grown soft, with that smoker’s graininess. From that surgically tightened throat. Wreathed in scarves and shawls.
“Give me the painting.”
Another pause.
“No, Harry. You can’t have it. And Feldman says you’ve got a week to deliver or he files.”
Then she hung up. He threw the phone, county-provided, across the room. But it didn’t break. The piece of shit would fall apart during an important call, but thrown at a fucking wall? In that circumstance it was solid as a stone. Life, baby. What had he heard about life? That was it: You’re born, things go bad for a while, then you die. Fuck it.
But first things first. He’d call Henry, the Shortcut Man, jerk his chain, check on delivery.
Then that twat, Huff.
There is a certain, definable moment in the accommodation of evil that requires tacit acceptance and approval. Seconds past that instant of decision the river Morpheus flows swiftly to the unconscious.
But I couldn’t do it. I could be bought. I’d been bought. But not outright, brazenly, on the barrelhead.
“Get the fuck out of here, Mrs. Glidden.”
Her sexiness dropped away like a sheet. Cold anger flooded into her beautiful, ugly face.
I was ready for Krakatoa but my phone rang. H. Glidden.
What a fine coincidence. I looked over at Ellen. The phone call had injected reality into our private world of desire and contempt. “I’m going to take this outside,” I told her.
I stepped out on the porch, answered. “This is Dick.”
“This is Judge Glidden.”
“What can I do for you, Judge?”
“I think you know.”
I ventured out on the ice. “The Kostabi is ready.”
“Good.”
I heard the evil satisfaction in his voice. Maybe he’d just talked to his ex.
“How did it come out, Mr. Henry?”
“Beautifully. I can’t tell the difference. Hope you can. Where do you want me to bring ’em?”
“Downtown?”
<
br /> “I can do that.”
“Today?”
“Ummm, three hours.”
“Good. I’ll have a check for ten.”
“This is a cash business.”
“My check isn’t any good?”
“No check is any good.”
A silence. “Alright. I’ll see you when you get here.”
“See you then.”
She was composed when I stepped back in. “Who was that?” she asked.
“None of your business. But it was your husband.”
“Fuck him and fuck you.”
“I think you’ve pushed the old horse a little too hard.”
“I think you should stay out of my business.”
“But you made it mine.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s a two-way street here, honey. Art Lewis’s money? It’s not up to me to protect it from thieves. Even if they wear diamonds and robes. But you killed a friend of mine. And for that, you pay.”
“I’ll deliver the killer.”
“Fine. You’ll deliver the killer and then you’ll walk away from the money.”
“I won’t walk away from the money.”
“I’ll make you walk.”
Then her phone rang. E. Huff. What the fuck did he want?
I pointed toward the front porch. “You can take it out there.”
Ed Huff was in meltdown. His fear was contagious and Harry felt like he’d swallowed a package of stool softeners.
“The guy threatened me,” whined Huff. “Said he’s going to fuck with my license. Said the body was missing a toe! That he’d been dead for three days! That true? Was Lewis missing a toe?”
On TV, when the bad guys were closing in, Hangin’ Harry’s voice dropped an octave and little old ladies all over the country clutched their fistful of Kleenex and settled in for some old-time justice. But now he was just Harry Glidden, an old man with a bad back, an enlarged prostate, liver spots he hadn’t lasered away, papilloma hanging from his perineum, an alienated family, some European cars he couldn’t afford, and a sinkhole of debt on the beach. In poker terms, a handful of shit.
Who would call Huff? Fucking Bernardo, that’s who. Bernardo the Incurious. This was Ellen’s fault. Evil witch. “Look, Ed,” he said, in his TV-justice voice, “just settle down. Everything’s under control. You’re not going to lose your license. Everything you did was legal and aboveboard. Wasn’t it?”
“Uhh, yes. Of course it was.”
“Then don’t worry. There’re always toads under rocks.” Were toads found under rocks? Wouldn’t they get squished? “Meanwhile, I’ll get on the horn over here and I’ll tell you what. Call Ellen and tell her every detail you can remember.”
“Call your wife?”
Put that way, thought Glidden, it sounded like he’d punted. “Not to make a report, Ed. Tell her the details because someone called her, too. Get it?”
“Someone called her, too?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
He was going to play with his pud, that’s what. “Ed, get a hold of yourself. Don’t ask me what I’m going to do. Just rest assured I’m going to do it.” He’d play with his pud with both hands. “Now, go call Ellen.”
He hung up.
Something bubbled in his colon and he got up and hurried for the can.
“Ellen?” said Huff. “This is Ed Huff.”
“Well, hi, Ed.” She tapped her foot, looking around. She’d never liked Laurel Canyon. That bullshit hippie granola peace vibe. “What can I do for you?”
“Uhh, actually I’m having some trouble and Harry said you were having some, too.”
What kind of shit had Harry dumped her way? “This is very thoughtful of you, Ed. Harry’s having trouble getting it up. Are you having that kind of problem, too?”
“Getting it, uh, uh, what did you say?”
“Never mind, Ed. Tell me what’s up.”
“I assure you I’m perfectly well.”
“I’m glad for you. Why did you call?”
“A man called me up, threatened me. About Art Lewis.”
Fucking Bernardo. This was a problem. “What kind of man?”
“I don’t know. Mean, vicious. A criminal. A blackmailer. Said he cut a toe off the corpse.”
“What kind of man was he, Ed. Did he speak with an accent?”
“No.”
“And when did he call?”
“Forty minutes ago.”
Did that mean it wasn’t Bernardo? What had Bobby done? Was Bobby running a side game? How would he get Huff’s number? But numbers could be had. She’d gotten Dick Henry’s address easily enough. “This is important, Ed. Tell me every word you can remember he said.”
Stressed-out Huff couldn’t remember a thing. She had him go over it several times. Then a quote popped out. “I asked him who he was and he said, ‘This is someone who’s going to fuck up your party big-time.’”
Fuck up your party big-time. Where had she heard those exact words?
Then she remembered. At the church. Where the wrong woman had been commended to the arms of the Lord. Who said those words?
Dick Henry.
“I’ll talk to you later, Ed. Thank you.” Rage rolled over her skin like an electrical charge. Then horror. Bobby had been sent to see Bernardo. She dialed Bobby. Bobby wasn’t picking up.
She threw open the door, stalked inside.
The murderess didn’t look good. “Bad call?”
“I just talked to Ed Huff.”
“How is Ed?”
“You should know.”
“Should I?”
“You didn’t just call him?”
“Who’s Ed Huff?”
“Don’t play fucking games with me, Dick Henry. You’re the one who cut Art Lewis’s toe off.”
“What?” I summoned all my acting skills.
“The gasman always rings twice, Dick-Dave. I should have known.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do, you stupid fuck.” She laughed, victorious. “My sister would like you.”
“Your sister’s married.”
“Not anymore, Dick-Dave.” She picked up her purse. “And you can shove that toe up your ass for all the good it will do you now. You think your word, with your record, will stand up against Harry Glidden’s? Or Ed Huff’s? The death cert will stand. A missing toe? That must have happened when you cut it off at the funeral home.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “Maybe someone will find it in your freezer. Which would be a Class A felony. Hope you don’t end up in front of Hangin’ Harry.”
“You must think that toe was my only card,” I bluffed. “You’re not going to get away with this.”
“It’s over, Dick.” Her laugh was cruel and hard, a double handful of silver dollars rolling down marble steps. “And you could’ve just shut up and got paid. And got laid, too. But, no. You get caught the way all chiselers do—trying to go straight. Stupid motherfucker.”
With that, she left. My tabloid moment with a movie star had concluded. The fact that there was another woman smarter than Dick Henry didn’t surprise me. They were everywhere.
There was a bright side. Though it felt tarnished in the moment. I would go collect ten thousand dollars from her husband. But only after I dealt with Art Lewis’s fifth anterior digit.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Big Red Lollipop
She was driving like a maniac, she knew that. What had Bobby done to Bernardo? The same thing he had done to Violet Brown? She parked her Mercedes behind Musso & Frank’s, got a ticket from the smirking Mexicans. She restrained the urge to run. There was no reason to run. He had or he hadn’t.
Bobby let her in and, immediately, here came questions about Bernardo. He wasn’t in a mood to be badgered, for chrissake. “I don’t talk about shit like that on a cell phone, bitch.” He pointed toward the couch. “Sit down and shut up. I thought you told me he was th
e man.”
“Bobby, what did you do?”
He held up the vial, examined it. “Can’t you see I’m working here?”
Now he looked over at her. “I thought you told me Bernardo was the guy. Didn’t you tell me that?”
“Yes.”
“DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THAT?”
“Yes.”
“And you asked me to scare the shit out of him, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“But now you think he’s innocent. GREAT.” Bobby troweled off two pipes, slid one across the table. “Well, there’s nothing for guilt like good crack cocaine.” He slid a lighter over.
“What happened with Bernardo?”
Bobby lit up, exhaled the exquisite purpleness. “Bernardo’s alright. I left him in the arms of his wife and children.”
“He’s safe?”
“Besides living in a rat-infested firetrap, he is.”
“You son of a bitch, Bobby.” Cool relief ran through her veins.
“Just light up your crack pipe, Mrs. Glidden.”
She felt her face twisting into a smile. She inhaled slowly, perfectly.
“So you fucked Dick Henry, right?”
“Dick Henry cut off Art Lewis’s toe. And no, I didn’t fuck him. Not that it’s your business.”
“Where’s the funeral going to be held?”
“Blessed Sacrament.”
Bobby nodded. “Right across from Sunset Sound.” Where the Doors had recorded their first album.
“Didn’t you do some stuff there?”
“Yeah. Couple of things.” Not “Crystal Ship” or “Soul Kitchen” quality, of course. But “Big Red Lollipop” wasn’t meant for the same audience. Too bad he had compromised with that witless producer on “Black Candy.” A string section! It would have been a surefire hit. Oh, well. Jim Morrison did his thing, Bobby Lebow had done his. Who was laughing now? He lit up, exhaled.
“Bobby?”
“I know that tone of voice. Don’t ruin my buzz.”
“There’s one more loose end.”
Of course. Of fucking course.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Bambi Service
The toe was a relatively simple matter. Though I didn’t have the Tarantino-Keitel African-American Disposal Service at my beck and call.
Tribulations of the Shortcut Man Page 16