“That’s fucked up, man,” Charlie said.
“Tell me about it!” I said. I glanced over at him. He looked scared. “Relax, man,” I said. “I’m just going to talk to the girl. And it’ll be quick. I’m leaving for Chicago on the red eye.”
“I shouldn’t have told you,” Charlie said.
“No, man. You did the right thing. This is exactly what I needed—something to shake me up. This shit’s been eating away at me forever, and it’s got to stop. I want to get on with my fucking life. I’ve got to get this under control.”
“You should let the lawyers handle it.”
“Fuck the lawyers. You know what divorce lawyers are? They are the scum of the earth. Preying on people at their weakest and most vulnerable. I know. I’ve given those scumbags a million dollars already!”
“Maybe they owe you, then.”
“Fuck them,” I said. “I’m going to take care of this myself.”
We were at Bundy by then, where it meets San Vicente Boulevard. I jogged left for a few yards and made a quick right to get back on Bundy. We passed the light at Montana and I slowed near Nicole’s place. I kept going, though. I took a right on Dorothy and an immediate right into the alley behind her condo, and I pulled a few yards past it and parked on the far left, near a chain-link fence. I cut the engine and looked back toward the condo. It was so quiet it kind of spooked me. I looked at Charlie again. He seemed pretty glum.
“Which one’s her place?” he asked.
I pointed it out.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “Let’s go the fuck back to your house.”
“You worry too much.”
“What if she’s with someone?”
“She better not be,” I said. “Not with my kids in the house.”
I reached into the back seat for my blue wool cap and my gloves. I kept them there for those mornings when it was nippy on the golf course. I slipped into them.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Charlie said. “You look like a burglar.”
“Good.” I said. I reached under the seat for my knife. It was a very nice knife, a limited edition, and I kept it on hand for the crazies. Los Angeles is full of crazies. “Nice, huh?” I said, showing it to Charlie. “Check out that blade.”
“Put that shit back,” Charlie snapped. “You go in there and talk to the girl if you have to, but you’re not taking a goddamn knife with you.”
He snatched it out of my hand, pissed.
“You’ve got to learn to relax, Charlie,” I said, then I opened the door, got out of the Bronco, and stole across the alley.
Nicole’s condo was one of two units, both of them long and narrow, mirror images of each other, fused at the middle. They each had their own entry, on Bundy, and they each had a back gate, in the alley, but Nicole’s back gate was broken. The buzzer didn’t work properly, and the gate opened if you gave it a little push. I must have told her a million times—“Please get the goddamn gate fixed!”—but the woman never listened. I slipped past the gate, into the narrow courtyard, and moved toward the front door, and right away I noticed lights flickering in the windows. I moved past the front door to take a closer look. There were candles burning inside, and I could hear faint music playing. It was obvious that Nicole was expecting company. I wondered who the fuck it was this time. I wondered if maybe Faye was coming over with some of her boy-toys so that they could all get wild and dirty while my kids were sleeping upstairs.
Just as I was beginning to get seriously steamed, the back gate squeaked open. A guy came walking through like he owned the fucking place. He saw me and froze. He was young and good-looking, with a thick head of black hair, and I tried to place him, but I’d never seen him before. I didn’t even know his name: Ron Goldman.
“Who the fuck are you?” I said.
“I, uh—I just came by to return a pair of glasses,” he replied, stammering.
“Really? A pair of glasses, huh?”
“Yes,” he said. He was carrying an envelope. “Judy left them at the restaurant. I’m a waiter at Mezzaluna.”
“So it’s Judy, is it? You’re on a first name basis with Judy.”
At that moment, the gate behind Goldman squeaked again. Charlie walked into the narrow space. He was carrying the knife. “Everything cool here?” he asked. “I saw this guy walking through the gate, and I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t going to be any trouble.”
“This motherfucker wants me to believe that he’s here dropping off a pair of Judy’s glasses,” I said.
“I am,” Goldman said, appearing increasingly nervous. He held up an envelope. “Look for yourself.”
“And then what?” I said. “You were going back to the restaurant?”
“No,” he said. “My shift’s over. I’m just leaving these here and going home.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t expect anything,” he said. “I’m telling you the truth.”
“You’re a fucking liar!” I shouted.
“I’m not. I swear to God.”
“She’s got candles burning inside. Fucking music playing. Probably a nice bottle of red wine breathing on the counter, waiting for you.”
“Not for me,” Goldman protested.
“Fuck you, man! You think I’m fucking stupid or something?!”
Suddenly the front door opened. Nicole came outside. She was wearing a slinky little cocktail dress, black, with probably not much on underneath. Her mouth fell open in shock. She looked at me, and she looked at Goldman, and she looked at Charlie, just beyond. Goldman was pretty well trapped. Charlie stood between him and the rear gate, and I was barring his way to the front.
“O.J., what the fuck is going on?”
I turned to look at Nicole. “That’s what I want to know,” I said.
Kato, the dog, came wandering out of the house. He saw me and wagged his tail, then he saw Goldman and also wagged his tail. I looked at Goldman, steamed, and Charlie moved closer, the knife still in his hand. I think he sensed that things were about to get out of control, because I was very close to losing it.
“I’m listening, motherfucker!” I said to Goldman.
“O.J.!” Nicole hollered. “Leave him the fuck alone! What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to Chicago.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“Hey, man,” Goldman said. “That’s not necessary.”
Charlie piped in. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here, O.J.”
“I asked you a question, motherfucker. What are you doing here? You delivering drugs?”
“Leave him alone, O.J.!” Nicole shouted.
“I hear half you assholes are dealing on the side,” I said.
Nicole came at me, swinging. “Get the fuck out of here!” she said. “This is my house and I can do what I want!”
“Not in front of my kids, you can’t!”
“Fuck you!”
“No, fuck you. I gave you everything you could ask for, and you fucked it all up.”
She came at me like a banshee, all arms and legs, flailing, and I ducked and she lost her balance and fell against the stoop. She fell hard on her right side—I could hear the back of her head hitting the ground—and she lay there for a moment, not moving.
“Jesus Christ, O.J., let’s get the fuck out of here!” Charlie said, his voice cracking.
I looked over at Goldman, and I was fuming. I guess he thought I was going to hit him, because he got into his little karate stance. “What the fuck is that?” I said. “You think you can take me with your karate shit?” He started circling me, bobbing and weaving, and if I hadn’t been so fucking angry I would have laughed in his face.
“O.J., come on!” It was Charlie again, pleading.
Nicole moaned, regaining consciousness. She stirred on the ground and opened her eyes and looked at me, but it didn’t seem like anything was registering.
Charlie walked over and planted himself in front of me, blockin
g my view. “We are fucking done here, man—let’s go!”
I noticed the knife in Charlie’s hand, and in one deft move I removed my right glove and snatched it up. “We’re not going anywhere,” I said, turning to face Goldman. Goldman was still circling me, bobbing and weaving, but I didn’t feel like laughing anymore.
“You think you’re tough, motherfucker?” I said.
I could hear Charlie just behind me, saying something, urging me to get the fuck out of there, and at one point he even reached for me and tried to drag me away, but I shook him off, hard, and moved toward Goldman. “Okay, motherfucker!” I said. “Show me how tough you are!”
Then something went horribly wrong, and I know what happened, but I can’t tell you exactly how. I was still standing in Nicole’s courtyard, of course, but for a few moments I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there, when I’d arrived, or even why I was there. Then it came back to me, very slowly: The recital—with little Sydney up on stage, dancing her little heart out; me, chipping balls into my neighbor’s yard; Paula, angry, not answering her phone; Charlie, stopping by the house to tell me some more ugly shit about Nicole’s behavior. Then what? The short, quick drive from Rockingham to the Bundy condo.
And now? Now I was standing in Nicole’s courtyard, in the dark, listening to the loud, rhythmic, accelerated beating of my own heart. I put my left hand to my heart and my shirt felt strangely wet. I looked down at myself. For several moments, I couldn’t get my mind around what I was seeing. The whole front of me was covered in blood, but it didn’t compute. Is this really blood? I wondered. And whose blood is it? Is it mine? Am I hurt?
I was more confused than ever. What the hell had happened here? Then I remembered that Goldman guy coming through the back gate, with Judy’s glasses, and I remembered hollering at him, and I remembered how our shouts had brought Nicole to the door …
Nicole. Jesus.
I looked down and saw her on the ground in front of me, curled up in a fetal position at the base of the stairs, not moving. Goldman was only a few feet away, slumped against the bars of the fence. He wasn’t moving either. Both he and Nicole were lying in giant pools of blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn’t seem real, and none of it computed. What the fuck happened here? Who had done this? And why? And where the fuck was I when this shit went down?
It was like part of my life was missing—like there was some weird gap in my existence. But how could that be? I was standing right there. That was me, right?
I again looked down at myself, at my blood-soaked clothes, and noticed the knife in my hand. The knife was covered in blood, as were my hand and wrist and half of my right forearm. That didn’t compute either. I wondered how I had gotten blood all over my knife, and I again asked myself whose blood it might be, when suddenly it all made perfect sense: This was just a bad dream. A very bad dream. Any moment now, I would wake up, at home, in my own bed, and start going about my day.
Then I heard a sound behind me and turned, startled. Charlie was standing in the shadows, a few feet away, his mouth hanging open, his breathing short and ragged. He was looking beyond me, at the bodies.
“Charlie?” I called out. He didn’t answer. “Charlie?” Still nothing.
I went over and stood in front of him and asked him the same question I’d just asked myself. “Charlie, what the fuck happened here?”
He looked up and met my eyes, but for several moments it was as if he didn’t really see me. “Are you listening to me?” I said. “I asked you what happened here.”
Charlie shook his head from side to side, his mouth still hanging open, his breathing still short, ragged, and in a voice that was no more than a frightened whisper, said, “Jesus Christ, O.J.—what have you done?”
“Me?”
What the hell was he talking about? I hadn’t done anything.
I jumped at a sound behind me—a high-pitched, almost human wail. It was Kato, the dog, circling Nicole’s body, his big paws leaving prints in the wet blood. He lifted his snout and let out another wail, and it sent chills up and down my spine. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.
I hurried toward the rear gate, and moved through it, with Charlie close behind, but I stopped myself before I crossed into the alley. Charlie bumped into me and jumped back, startled. “What?” he said.
I didn’t answer. I was thinking about the shape I was in—I was thinking of all the blood. My shirt and pants were sticking to my skin. Even my shoes were covered in blood.
I turned and looked behind me, beyond Charlie, and saw a track of bloody, telltale prints. “I’ve got to get rid of these fucking clothes,” I said.
Without even thinking about it, I kicked off my shoes and began to strip. I took off my pants and shirt, dropped the knife and shoes into the center of the pile, and wrapped the whole thing into a tight bundle. I left my socks on, though. I don’t know why, but I didn’t see any blood on them, so I had no reason to remove them. As I stood, with the bundle grasped in my left hand, I realized that I’d left my keys and my wallet in my pants. I fell to a crouch and dug for them and noticed that my hands were shaking.
Charlie stood there all the while, mumbling. “Jesus Christ, O.J. Jesus Christ.” He just kept repeating himself, like he’d lost his goddamn mind or something.
“Will you shut the fuck up?!” I snapped. I found my keys and my wallet, and rewrapped the bundle, then I stood and hurried across the dark alley. Charlie followed, still mumbling. I got behind the wheel and Charlie climbed into the passenger seat. “Jesus Christ, O.J.” he said. “Jesus Christ.”
“WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Charlie recoiled, startled, and shut up. I started the Bronco and pulled out, the tires squealing, and raced through the curved alley toward Montana Avenue. When I reached the end of the alley, I made a left onto Montana and an immediate right at the corner, onto Gretna Green. San Vicente was a block away, and I made a left there and took it all the way to Bristol, then hung a right to Sunset and made a left there, toward home.
I glanced at Charlie. He was hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands.
“What happened back there, Charlie?” I said.
Charlie sat up. His cheeks were wet with tears. He shook his head from side to side and shrugged.
I thought back to that horrific scene at the courtyard, and to all the blood. I had never seen so much blood in my life. It didn’t seem possible. It didn’t seem real.
“Charlie?”
He still didn’t answer, but what the hell—this wasn’t really happening. That hadn’t been me back there. I’d imagined the whole thing. I was imagining it then. In actual fact I was home in bed, asleep, having one of those crazy crime-of-passion dreams, but I was going to wake up any second now. Yeah—that was it!
Only I didn’t wake up.
We were still on Sunset, and I passed the light on Burlingame and made a sharp right onto Rockingham, tearing up the winding hill, toward the house. As I approached the gate, I saw a limo moving toward the Rockingham gate, from Ashford Street, and remembered that I had a flight to catch.
I drove past my house, and past the moving limo, and in the side-view mirror I saw its taillights flare as it pulled to a stop in front of my gate. The driver had probably been waiting on Ashford, out of sight, and I wondered if he’d already called the house. I had no idea what time it was. I looked down at the Bronco’s clock and saw it was 10:37. Fuck! I was supposed to be in that limo in eight minutes.
I pulled into Ashford and kept going, hanging a right on Bristol, and I parked in the shadows beyond the home of Eric Watts. There was another neighbor on Rockingham who was closer, but his property ran parallel to mine, and I couldn’t get inside without running the risk of being spotted by the limo driver. I was going to have to steal onto my property through the Watts’ place, and I knew just how to do it.
I looked down at my lap, at the bloody bundle, then over at Charlie. “You’re going to have
to help me out here, man,” I said.
Charlie turned to look at me. His mouth was hanging open a bit, and he was breathing kind of funny, and he couldn’t stop shaking his head. It looked like he was slipping into shock or something.
“Charlie, are you listening to me?”
He stopped shaking his head for a moment, and nodded once, and I began to tell him what I needed from him. “I’ve got to get into my house,” I said. “You’re going to have to wait here until I’m in the limo, understand? When the limo’s gone—”
Charlie looked away, into the darkness beyond his own window, clearly not listening to me. I reached over and slammed his left shoulder into his seat, hard, and he whipped around to face me, more frightened than ever.
“I need you to fucking listen to me, man!” I shouted. “Are you fucking listening to me?”
Charlie nodded. He looked scared to death.
“Say it! Tell me you’re listening.”
“I’m listening,” he mumbled.
“Let me spell it out for you, and you better fucking pay attention. Are you paying attention?”
Charlie nodded.
“Say it, goddamn it!”
“I’m—I’m paying attention,” Charlie said.
“I’m going to sneak back into my house. I’m going to take a shower, and get dressed, and grab my bags, and I’m going to get into that goddamn limo we just passed. Did you see the limo?”
“No,” Charlie said.
“Well, there’s a fucking limo parked in front of the Rockingham gate, and I’m supposed to be in it, on my way to the airport.”
“A limo,” Charlie repeated. His mouth was still hanging open, and I wasn’t sure any of this was really registering, but I didn’t have a choice.
If I Did It Page 18