I did have Bambi.
Bambi was a stone alcoholic and my next-door neighbor. One day, after a party, I saw her in my backyard. She was knocking over beer cans and licking up the beer. Pretty soon she was staggering around and then she fell asleep on the grass.
Did I mention Bambi was a poodle?
Well, half a poodle. The other half was Labrador. Which made her a Labradoodle. That detestable appellation alone demanded alcohol or a bullet. But, not possessing opposable thumbs, therefore incapable of pulling a trigger, Bambi, festooned with wilted, greasy ribbons, drank out of wretched embarrassment.
I filled one side of a double doggie-dish with Budweiser, Bambi’s favorite, and called her over the fence. “Come here, girl,” I said in friendly fashion. She wagged her tail, looked down, sidled right over. You always sidle for your enabler. I rubbed her head.
In the other side was Art Lewis’s microwaved toe and part of an Angus burger from McDonald’s. Don’t read Upton Sinclair.
With alacrity and gratitude Bambi lapped up the beer, then lay down to gnaw on the toe in the sun. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn she winked at me as I left.
I picked up the paintings from Dennis, put them back to back in a cardboard flat, and drove downtown. The judge’s secretary, Arnelle, met me downstairs and ushered me along the back way to Glidden’s office.
“Hello, Mr. Henry.” The judge stuck out his hand, we shook. Every inch an officer of the court.
“How’ve you been, Judge? How goes justice?”
“I’ve been fine. And justice is the fruit of vigilance. We work at it every day.” He flashed his veneers at me.
I felt that tingle in my fist.
“Any difficulties in your mission, Mr. Henry?”
“None.” Carefully I removed one of the paintings, showed it to him front and back, set it on the black leather couch. Then I took the other one out, did the same.
Glidden came close, studied them, shook his head.
“Which is which?”
I laughed. “You’re the expert, Judge.”
He looked sharply at me. “You do know?”
“Of course.”
The judge peered at them again. Rubbed his thumb over a corner. Then over the corner of the other. But Dennis Donnelly was a textural genius.
“It’s money time, Judge.”
He nodded, went to his desk, removed a white envelope, handed it to me. I counted out a hundred hundreds. Ten stacks of ten.
“Thanks, Judge.”
“Thank you, Mr. Henry.” He looked again at his pictures. “I can’t tell the difference. You do know?”
“I do know.” And, of course, the judge knew, too.
For the third time he studied the paintings. Then he pointed to the one I’d first put on the couch. “This is the one.”
I nodded. “That’s it. You got it. But how did you know?”
“You really can’t tell?”
“Not by looking. There’s a piece of tape on the back.”
Glidden turned it over, thumbed the mark he had put there before giving it to me. Dennis Donnelly and I had inspected the work thoroughly. “This an accident here?” asked Dennis, pointing to a screwdriver dent in the framing.
“There are no accidents in the world,” was my reply.
I watched the judge study the canvas. I don’t know if he looked older or younger. But his face softened as he stared at it.
“How did you know, Judge?”
Glidden looked at Henry, the Shortcut Man. What was it to be insensitive to art? How did one walk through the halls of life? Through relentless fields of the ordinary, the prosaic, and the profane. The shallow Shortcut Man probably didn’t read books, either. Probably read “graphic novels.” Which were fucking comic books, come on. Comic books and gum, his mother’s anathema.
“How do I know what’s real? It’s a feeling I get, Mr. Henry.” He indicated his choice. “This moves me. Almost to tears. Above and beyond its visual beauty. It moves me somehow. But this one”—he pointed to the second—“this one leaves me cold. I don’t feel anything.”
I nodded, chastened.
He persisted. “You don’t feel anything? Nothing?”
I looked at both, shook my head. Nothing. I felt nothing. “To me, they’re exactly identical, Judge.”
He smiled, sorry for me.
I left him with his treasures.
Minus ten thousand dollars.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Erin Secures Her Due
The more she thought about it, the more Erin Halle was angry. Which was a little too polite. She was pissed. She had been deprived of a husband, and that had been a very important part of a big deal.
True, she had not been imprisoned for what really should not be considered a crime, but the marriage to rich Arthur, which she surely could have turned to her advantage, had not taken place. Certainly, if she had backed out, they would have been furious.
There had been a time when no one could resist her charm. And when the prime of her physical beauty had passed, she had her formidable skills as an actress to rely on. She still had those skills.
And those skills would be there the day her infatuation with cocaine came to its natural conclusion. Because everything had a natural conclusion. But she wasn’t ready yet. Not quite yet. She took a second hit on the pipe. It was mostly residue but she could no longer afford the profligacy she had once enjoyed.
She had called Ellen Havertine and lodged her complaint about dead Arthur. Rich, dead Arthur. Yes, avoiding jail was a blessing, of course it was, but their were other benefits she had every right to expect. No, this wasn’t blackmail, it was a statement of fact. Taking a moment to compare and contrast. In any case, in the least case, she deserved a little more than a handshake and a fuck-off. She had been more than ready to uphold her end of the bargain.
And finally Ellen, who was really shit as an actress, saw sense. Would Erin accept forty thousand dollars? Forty? She was hoping for six figures. Well, said Ellen, six figures was a possibility down the line. But forty was today money.
She had settled for today money. Because it wasn’t a dream. It was money today. A messenger. Bobby who? Bobby Lebow? That Bobby Lebow, really. Okay, then. And she hoped she hadn’t been too forward in making this call. It was just if a person had rights, they had rights. Thank you, Ellen, you’re a darling. And I’ve always loved your work. Inspiring work. Goodbye.
She looked down into the small, carved wooden box where she kept her shit. If she didn’t know better, someone was stealing from her. Here in her own house! Down to her last gram. She broke off a big, celebratory hunk, stuffed it into the pipe.
An anticipatory gust of pleasure and well-being rolled over her body as she stared out the window down on Los Angeles. How bad could things be? She was free, she lived high above the city, she was in mid-career, today was money day, and soon she would renounce the cool hand of sweet cousin cocaine. As the Stones had put it. Loved the Stones.
A banging gradually resolved into a knock at the door. Already? She looked at clock. Had two hours passed since she talked to the judge-marrying shrew? It had.
She opened the door and immediately recognized Bobby Lebow.
“Hi, Erin,” said Bobby.
“Hi, Bobby.” Bobby wasn’t much of actor. He had survived on personality. But it took all kinds. “Come in.” Now she remembered. He’d been caught explaining cunnilingus to a producer’s fourteen-year-old daughter in his trailer. The girl was head of his fan club. Or something. A little knob-doctor.
She led Bobby back to the breakfast nook, where they sat.
“We did a few things together, didn’t we?” Bobby smiled his trademark smirk.
“We did,” said Erin. “I played your aunt who came to visit and had to play bass in your band for a night.”
“The show must go on.”
“We lip-synched to a dreadful little tune.”
“You have a really good memory.”
> “And I remember the song. ‘Black Candy.’ Wow. Do you remember that song? It was awful.” She sang a bit of it, “Black ca-a-a-andy.”
“Of course I remember it. I wrote it.”
Erin burst out laughing. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.” He sang the chorus in its entirety.
A silence followed.
Ellen felt color rise into her face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It sucked.” Then they both laughed.
“Did you bring me something, Bobby?”
He smiled. “I brought you two things.” From his jacket he brought out a thick envelope. “Forty Gs, in hundreds.” He slid the envelope across the table.
She reached forward, took possession of the envelope, brought it slowly back across the table. Relief. Now it was hers. Now she could pay Mr. Rigrod. Uhh, well, she’d give him a taste. At an ounce of cocaine a week, she had a six-month run in front of her. Glorious. “What else do you have?”
He pulled a leather case out of another pocket. He unzipped it. Inside was a plastic Ziploc. Inside the Ziploc were two liquor-spout pipes and a little bag of white rocks.
Oh, good Lord. She could taste it already.
He grinned, loaded the pipes. “I’m told we share a vice or two.”
She looked down at the rocks. “I guess we do.”
He slipped one of the pipes across the table. “Bon appetit.”
Her hand closed on the pipe. “And bon appetit, to you, too, sir.”
Yesss. The taste was wonderful and clean. She exhaled and the pleasure wave hit her. She nodded at Bobby. “This tastes really good. Really good.”
“It is really good,” he replied. “Let me refill you.” He did so. “I love the taste, too. To me, it tastes purple. Does it taste purple to you?”
She nodded. Purple. In fact, that’s exactly what it tasted like . . . almost. “I would say lavender. Lavender.”
He reached for her pipe. In his leather case was another, smaller bag of rocks. He broke off a chunk, pushed it into the end of her pipe. He refilled his from the little pile on the table. He slid Erin’s across the table to her. “Bon voyage.”
She took the pipe. How useful it would be to know Bobby Lebow. “Thanks, Bobby. How good to see you again.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, raising his pipe in salute.
She returned the gesture, then lit up. Something struck her immediately. It wasn’t purple. “Funny taste,” she said, looking at Bobby.
Bobby inhaled the purple. The violet. The lavender. The indigo.
He watched Erin Halle. She was in distress. The poison had crossed the blood-brain barrier as quickly as the cocaine would have. Already she had lost the ability to breathe, now her eyes started to bug out. She leaned back, arching slowly but desperately in her chair, eyes on the ceiling, the muscles in her throat standing out like cords.
Then it was over. She was dead. Frozen.
Bobby picked up the money envelope, got his shit together, checked around one more time.
He walked to the sink, got a sponge, wet it, wiped down the side of the table where he’d been sitting. Finished, he tossed the sponge across the room into the sink.
Using the sleeve of his jacket, he opened Erin’s front door, walked out into the night.
Want a job done right, do it yourself.
PART THREE
Public Property
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sometimes the Bad Guys Win
I was feeling low that night. Though the triumph of evil was not unprecedented, it remained depressing. The Glidden plan seemed destined to succeed. Somewhere, in a pile of shit, was what remained of Lewis’s toe.
Then Rojas knocked at the door. The Mayan prince always cheered me up. He studied my face, found it lacking. “Fuck you,” he said, sparking his chronic.
I discussed the Art Lewis situation with him. He shook his head. “Dude. If the bad guys don’t win sometimes, when the good guys win it wouldn’t be shit.” He took a deep draft. “Don’t take things so personal.” He exhaled and a thought struck him. “You could always lean on the judge. That could be a payday.”
“But that makes me a partner.” I couldn’t get Violet Brown out of my mind. She was not collateral damage.
“Well, you could stand up at the funeral and tell the story,” said Rojas, “get arrested and shit, spend the night in the can.”
I didn’t want to spend the night in the can. What I needed was Art Lewis to tell his own story.
I drank a reflective beer as the prince banked a couple more thoughtful tokes, leaned back into the couch. Then he had a request. “Tell me, again, about the border guard and the smuggler dude.”
I guess.
“Come on, Dick-Dave, tell me.” Rojas snorted. “Dick-Dave.”
The story, which I loved, seemed to illustrate some facet of human behavior. It went like this.
Every day, at the border, a man came across on a bicycle carrying a small box of sand. This went on for twenty-five years. Finally, it was the border guard’s last day on the job. He had sifted the sand every single day, found nothing. So he made a request of the bicyclist. “Look. I know you’re smuggling something. I know it. Now, today is my last day. I retire tomorrow. I’ll never tell anyone. I don’t care. But I’ve got to know. Tell me what you’re smuggling.”
The bicyclist tipped his hat. “Bicycles,” he said.
“Bicycles,” said Rojas weakly, laughing, hands on his belly, shaking his head in wonder and gratification.
Then, bingo, it hit me. The last-chance idea to bring down the Gliddens.
It was preposterous. It was ridiculous. It was ludicrous. But it just might work.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Operation Lazarus
Art Lewis’s funeral had been scheduled for one o’clock Saturday afternoon at Blessed Sacrament Church on Sunset. Bill Hadderson, senior driver for McKinley Brothers, rolled out in the 2008 Cadillac hearse at 10:45 for an 11:30 delivery at the church. As senior driver he had pick of the services. Today there would be a three-figure tip. Maybe four. In the rearview mirror, he adjusted his face from its natural crafty avarice into one of solemn compassion. Then some asshole cut in front of him on Union Street and he had to slam on his brakes to avoid a collision. Adding insult to injury, at the stoplight the interloper was sitting through a red light.
Hadderson laid on the horn. Come on, asshole.
But asshole didn’t come on. In fact, asshole got out of his car and walked back toward him. He was a stocky Hispanic man in Wayfarers and a black leather porkpie hat. Hadderson didn’t take shit as a matter of course. He rolled down his window. “What the fuck, buddy?”
Then he noticed Porkpie had a gun.
“Slide on over, tio,” said Rojas, “and you won’t get hurt.”
Hadderson found his tongue, the acerbic, saberlike delight of the Clown Room, strangely thick and incapable of speech. Then another man got in on the passenger side.
“This is Señor Tavo Gonzalez,” said Porkpie, formally. “If you behave, Señor Gonzalez will release you and give you five of these,” he showed Hadderson some hundred-dollar bills, “for your trouble. Neither you, your vehicle, or your passenger will be hurt in any way. Do you understand?”
Ideas of valor passed jerkily through Hadderson’s mind but didn’t add up to a plan of action. To fight for the dead increasingly seemed a labored cause, far from the immediacy of life. His bladder was full. “I understand,” said Hadderson.
“Good,” said Porkpie, handing him a blindfold. “Put this on.”
Blessed Sacrament Church had a capacity of fourteen hundred souls, including the side chapel and the children’s room. About eight hundred souls were in attendance for the Art Lewis ceremony. The hearse had arrived twenty minutes late, and it seemed an older model than the death of an important man might suggest.
In fact, thought Harry Glidden, th
at thing isn’t even a Cadillac. It’s a fucking Pontiac! Who the fuck ordered a Pontiac? An old Pontiac? You didn’t want your final journey in economy class. When you died with an extra fifty mil in your back pocket, you wanted Cadillac. He would raise hell with McKinley later.
The casket was A-1, however. Bronze, shiny, and guaranteed to withstand the pressure of six feet of heavy earth. It was laden thickly with roses and accompanied by a double brace of Hispanics. Hispanics added a nice slice of native solemnity. The leader seemed to be a stocky man in black suit wearing very dark Wayfarers. Was he going to wear those sunglasses inside the church?
Apparently, he was.
In the choir loft, under a wide expanse of stained glass, Clifford Spence, the best funeral organist in Los Angeles, presided over an Allen “Elite,” the finest of all domestically produced organs. He and the Allen had played for the Pontiff on the supreme prelate’s last visit to the United States. Maybe he would be invited to the Vatican. Let his fingers do the walking. Clifford Spence at the Vatican. One night only. He leaned into Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”
As the sequences rose and fell beneath his fingers, Spence turned to study his lone companion in the loft, a man looking down on the congregation. Though the man wore a black suit with Roman collar, his vibe was not ecclesiastical. Spence couldn’t put a finger on it.
The organist was looking at me. I smiled, raised a hand, blessed him: In nomine Patri, et filii, et spiritus sancti. Something like that.
Showtime.
An audible wave ran through the throng as the flowered casket was rolled up the central aisle, four men of honor on each side. From the floor, toward the rear, Rojas turned, signaled up to me.
I nodded in reply. All was in order.
At the stroke of one, bells tolled and a young priest mounted the pulpit. The congregation hushed by degrees, finally a few coughs, then silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, His Honor, Harold J. Glidden.”
I watched Harry Glidden, murderer, make his way from the first pew on the left to the pulpit. The judge cleared his throat, looked out over his audience, then began to speak in his famous baritone.
Tribulations of the Shortcut Man Page 17