Roger eased toward me and asked, “What happened to your face, Jack? It’s red and looks as though”—he eased closer, squinting his eyes—“there’s a hand print on your cheek.”
“I was having some quality time with my shrink earlier today.”
“Oh?”
“Why no answer, Rog?”
“No answer for what?”
“You haven’t picked up your phone for three days.”
“I’ve been away.” Roger grinned like a teenage boy eager to share a stash of porn. “I took your advice, my friend. I’ve been with Lena. We went to Mexico on Friday and just came home this afternoon. She speaks fluent Spanish and we had a grand time. I’ve never had someone like her.”
Lena posted herself at the edge of the kitchen on a barstool. She had lost the bath towel and sat nude. Her long, dark hair spilled down her shoulders and back: Lady Godiva gone Brunette. In her hand was a glass of red vino and in her face was a fuck you aimed my way. I shifted my eyes toward Roger. “I couldn’t figure out where you were, Rog.”
“I appreciate your concern, my friend, but since when did you become my keeper? You don’t look yourself; is everything okay?”
“Did Lena bring anything with her when you went to Mexico?”
“Just a handbag.”
“What was in the handbag?”
“Why, Jack? Why this peculiar greeting and inquiry? I sense something wrong with you today.”
“I’m fine, Rog, really.”
“Her handbag contained only her personals. After all the shopping we did, she came back with a bag full. It was mostly a sexual experience; she’s even made me rethink some things.”
I glanced at her.
“Did Lena have a scar anywhere on her body?”
“A scar?”
“Yes, probably on her lower back.”
“How do you know of this?”
“Was it a cross?”
Roger nodded. “Have you been with her, Jack?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how would you know of this scar?”
“Just a hunch.”
Roger bent toward me. “She also shaves herself,” he said in a heavy whisper. “You know...down there.” Roger pointed toward his groin, then did a Groucho Marx with bobbing eyebrows. “A delightful smoothness is there, excitedly pubescent, too, I must say.” More eyebrows.
I stood. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, Rog.”
“Never should you be sorry for visiting me, my friend. You’re never an intrusion.”
“Are you ending your date today?”
“Of course. We both have work tomorrow.” Lena reclaimed the bath towel and began pacing through the house, sipping her wine.
“Do me a favor, Rog. After Lena leaves, I want you to strip your clothes and examine yourself. If you find any bloodied scratch marks that appear to have been done by fingernails anywhere on your body, let me know, will you?”
Roger leaned close to me and said, “She is a wild and rough lover, I must admit, but bloody scratch marks? Really, Jack? Are you feeling ill?” He pressed his hand against my forehead.
“I’m not sick, Rog,” I pushed his hand away. “Promise you’ll call if you find the marks. All right?”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
I began toward the front door. After a couple steps, Roger took my arm and motioned me around. “Have you looked at the other renderings and blueprints I’ve sent you regarding your land? I’m dying to know what you think.”
I looked at my friend closely and had to ask, “How well do you know Conrad Turner, Rog?”
He winced. “Who?”
“Our county supervisor Turner.”
“Oh, Conrad Turner...yes, we’ve crossed paths. Why Jack?” A liable gaze seized my friend’s face.
“How about James Falsetto? Do you know him?”
“There’s a familiarity to that name.” Roger’s eyes shifted in sporadic directions. “Why, Jack? Perhaps I’ve done business with him. Perhaps we both have. Why, Jack...why, Jack?” The parrot-like refrain in his voice was painfully obvious.
“I’ll tell you later.” I looked at Lena and decided that two high-ranking chess pieces were in tactical position. “You and Lena have a great time.”
“Okay, Jack...so long.”
When I got to the door, Roger had slipped off to his bedroom. Normally he would see me off. But he was hiding something, and his telling retreat was obvious.
Lena approached me at the door and kissed me lightly on the lips. Her lips were as cold as a snake, although I’ve never been kissed a snake, not until now, anyway.
“Goodbye, Jack,” she said. “It was sweet of you to come by and see about your friend.” The look on her face was baiting, sporting, more of the fuck you. I wanted to rip her throat out before it was too late, before any other hapless horn-dogs got nailed in this harbor, but instead I opened the door and stepped out. She followed. We stood at the entrance. She dropped the towel, exposing her perky, nicely shaped breasts and lithe shape with shaven flower. Her ashen, nude figure resembled a cold cadaver in the sunlight.
“I’ll make sure Roger calls you this evening after he returns me home,” she said. “After all, Jack, you did find that trunk in your house stuffed with all our toys. What more could I possibly do to the sweet bloke?” A leering grin cut black lines in her face. For a second I could’ve sworn her blue eyes had turned black. I walked toward my car, feeling miserably unprepared for all this.
37
Sunday, the following morning. I drove my Porsche along a thoroughfare called Newport Coast Road that snaked through the canyons. I had the top down, enjoying the silky currents of balmy air whipsawing my clammy epidermis. I had some time to kill before my midday appointment with the Arizona widow, and so this route made for a nice diversion.
Tall stands of Oak and Eucalyptus trees and other assorted flora lined the thoroughfare, and there was, for a suburban neighborhood, enough wild sage, honeysuckle, and jasmine in the air to hopefully buoy a sick romantic like myself from thoughts of guilt and oblivion.
Even though the serene ambiance compelled me to cruise the road at a leisurely speed, I decided to shift my silver bird into high gear and give in to that gnawing, inner voice I’ve had since my act of statutory rape with Angela. I needed to shove back at something, and commandeering a frenzied run along this winding road on a pleasant summer’s day seemed a proper act of rage.
I turned hard onto a twist of pavement called Pelican Hill Rd. An uncharacteristic name, really. Pelicans don’t live in hills, they live on rocks, docks, and piers where they roost obtusely, shitting on fishing boats and million-dollar yachts. But I suppose the moniker’s meaning, Pelican Hill, had more to do with its alliteration than any natural fact. And truth be told, flying formations of pelicans cruising overhead in this area were sometimes seen, along with the intermittent turd sorties that splattered many a windshield.
As I tore along the scenic lane, the John Denver song, “Country Roads”, crooned in my head. After moaning out a couple measures of the song’s forlorn tone and melody, I nixed my songbird routine and powered into a curve. The engine screamed and the tires held tight against the vehicle’s centrifugal force. I pushed the gas, causing my finely balanced machine to excel through the turn easily. We then climbed an incline, my silver bird and I, accelerating past a slow moving car. So much for my Sunday drive.
To my left and behind I heard the whine of a certain kind of engine, Ferrari, bellowing out its unique Italian tenor. I then saw its Crimson red patina and sleek, low profile in my rear-view mirror: Hello, Victor.
The car passed me, then swung quickly across my lane, causing me to veer toward the center median. I steered back to the road and punched the gas and yelled, “Damn it, Victor—what the hell?”
I followed the Ferrari around a sharp right turn onto another road called Pelican Circle. Because this neighborhood was located in one of the wealthiest zip codes in the world, there was the mandatory
gated entrance manned by gatekeepers who kept watch on any nonresidents, tourists, or anyone not driving a four-wheeled emblem of success. By chance the gate was open, and the gatekeeper, apparently asleep at his post, sat slouched in the guardhouse. We blew right by.
Like two high-strung adolescents tantalized by the need for speed, Victor and I had raced each other before, toying the streets and highways, showing off our magnificently engineered and insanely priced coupes with bouts of novice racing skill—but never unplanned like this.
I moved in on him. We were now side-by-side, and I wanted to see Victor’s face as I gestured my single-fingered salute and pantomime of F-bombs. But the Ferrari’s darkly tinted windows made me blind to the driver.
The road narrowed, causing me to fall back and tail the Ferrari closely. Only two lanes trailed through this suburban canyon, a canyon we were traveling through psychotically faster than the law allowed.
A slight grin lined my face. This road was risky for these kinds of runs, but if Victor wants it... I used the sound of my engine to govern the shift of gears, listening, feeling, its vibrancy. I was one with my machine, one badass speed demon.
We came to the end of Pelican Circle and again the gate was open, and so without regard to oncoming traffic or to any low-flying pelicans, Victor and I blew past the guardhouse, then through the stop sign where we made a hard right turn back on Pelican Hill Rd.
With a wider thoroughfare and more pavement to maneuver on, I eased the Porsche across the road, drawing both vehicles closer to the edge. I knew the red devil would block me.
I veered quickly to the right, causing the Ferrari to jut rapidly in the same direction. I then tried to power past the momentary pause of the Ferrari’s inertia, but the Ferrari cut sharply to the left, clipping its front bumper against the rear of my car, causing me to swerve wildly for a moment until I commandeered the Porsche into the lead. “Ha, ha, Gotcha, ass-wipe!”
Ahead was a straightaway, one narrow lane, wide open. I thought about the damage to my car and just what in the hell had gotten into my friend’s head. Was this a showdown to see who would be the alpha-male whore of the harbor? Was my Jamaican amigo possessed by some voodoo spell from an earlier age that induced its victims to kill at some random time, like now?
I hit the approaching turn hard, dropping down to second gear, powering the 3600 cc’s to almost redline on the tachometer. The engine bawled, sheering the quiet canyon with an offensive sound. But not the Ferrari, its twelve-cylinder 6000 cc, 512 horses roared back roundly and smoothly like a lion honing in on its prey, and with my top down I could hear it all frightfully.
Ahead was a straightaway. I floored the gas. My sleek, low-to-the-ground silver bird flew torturously ahead of the Ferrari, veering to the left, then the right, trying to keep the chasing devil behind me. But the speed of both cars was 100 mph with neither a wheeze nor a gasp from the Ferrari’s superior engine.
More wide turns, 100 mph, 90 mph... The speed at these maneuvers proved beyond my Porsche’s stability, causing me to fishtail almost out of control. The Ferrari’s power traction and wider wheel base, however, only toyed with the speed, and Victor was no longer racing but taunting me, pushing me faster, refusing to pass.
He began tailgating me, connecting his front bumper against the rear of my car. “Goddamn it, Victor!” I saw in my rear-view mirror a bright glare of sunlight on the Ferrari’s windshield, making it impossible to see the villain behind the wheel. It couldn’t be Victor! I screamed in my head. The man was severely possessive about his car and let no one drive it—ever. What the hell’s going on?
The Ferrari stayed on my tail, ramming me this time, nearly pushing my Porsche into a spin out. I pounded my hands against the steering wheel—“Get off my ass, goddamn it!” I caught a glimpse of my scared shitless eyes in the rearview mirror—you really do need that long boat ride to Australia, Jack.
The road became straightaway again, and I pushed the engine to top end. The Ferrari fell back, becoming small in my rear view. I downshifted, slowing the Porsche to 100, then 90, until I hovered inside the speed limit. The Ferrari turned off the road and vanished.
I checked my wristwatch, gauging the few minutes that had just passed. I then released a sequence of slow breaths as I throttled down both my silver bird and my hammering heart. I glanced in the mirror again at my disheveled hair and dazed eyes. A barrage of questions pinged in my head, but one question stood out—did my friend just try to kill me?
38
I tried calling Victor’s cell phone to rip into him, but all I got was his voice mail. After a ten-minute cruise along the PCH, I approached Laguna Beach. The highway climbed with nothing but ocean to the west and an open range of wheat-brown rolling hills to the east.
The sound of rotors whipped the air above me; I noticed a helicopter pacing me. The chopper silhouetted the sun and I couldn’t tell if it was a sightseeing cruiser or law enforcement seeking to nail speeders.
Then I heard that damn sound again, that unmistakable whine of a Ferrari in the distance. I noticed the red devil in my rearview mirror moving in on me like an angry hornet. Round two.
Two large panel trucks also raced up behind me, one along my left flank and the other on my tail. The deafening sound of their engines exploded inside my open cockpit. I tapped my brakes, gesturing for the asshole on my tail to back off. But it didn’t work; he continued to ride me.
What the hell; was everyone inflicted today with lunar madness? Did a hallucinogenic get into the water supply, causing otherwise civil people to become maniacs?
The Ferrari sped past the butt fucker behind me, then passed quickly between me and the truck to my side and then swerved in front of me. At that same moment another panel truck was barreling downhill and in the wrong lane—my lane—headed straight for the Ferrari.
The oncoming truck driver reacted by steering hard to his left, causing the truck to veer uncontrollably. The Ferrari darted out of the lane, avoiding a collision, but the oncoming truck fishtailed toward me with nightmarish speed.
I veered hard to my left into the next lane to avoid a collision but felt instead the solid impact of the panel truck to my side, causing me to careen forward, just missing the oncoming truck. With part skill, and what could only be attributed to the hand of God, I steered my coupe through a series of dizzying 360-degree turns that eventually settled me inside a cloud of dust along the shoulder of the highway.
I found myself facing backward, watching the fate of the oncoming truck fly off the highway and over the cliff until it plummeted toward the coastline.
I sprung from my car and ran to the edge of road, watching the now burning truck lay mangled on the rocky shore below.
I cast my sight up the highway to where the two panel trucks and the Ferrari all roared away. I peered up at the low-flying helicopter that flew rapidly out of sight over the hills.
The sound and smell of screeching brakes and burning tire rubber filled the air as other motorists came to immediate stops along the highway.
My eyes panned the road, the steepness of the hill, then fixed on the nearby shoulder of the highway where the truck made its swan dive. I noticed for several feet the absence of any guardrail and how it appeared to have been recently removed.
39
After I’d made an anonymous 911 phone call about a burning, mangled panel truck at the base of a cliff off Pacific Coast Highway, I continued toward my original destination regarding a wealthy widow in need of both a beachside property and the company of an escort. Call it an omen or just plain fear, I decided the best thing to do was to get back on track and pretend my recent grand prix with the grim reaper was just a crazy mishap.
The encounter ended early. I had met the Jane, a widowed Jessica Howard, in a designated place, a hotel restaurant a few miles south in Laguna Beach at a coastal resort. She was your classic trophy wife, verifying her shallow status with a protruding set of silicone breasts and a pair of plump and pouty collagen lips. The seat of
her jeans had the well-placed symmetry of a Palliates-toned ass; her hair and makeup were flawless; her clothes and accessories by Chanel.
After our brief encounter four days ago at the Le café Rouge, we decided to meet here at the bar in the lobby of the hotel. I knew the moment I saw her that it wouldn’t work. Her eyes had filled with tears and her forced smile showed regret.
I’d seen this first-encounter look before, and my cavalier/charming manner was usually suffice to use the woman’s apprehension as part of the game. A degree of insolence had to be in the mix or the occasion would turn moral and thoughts would begin on children and family, and when guilt finally set in, there was no more reason for any of it.
I decided to end it. My mind was crowded with the accident on the highway earlier and how it all seemed beyond coincidence.
“I’m sorry,” she told me. We now stood outside the hotel in the parking lot. She had decided to leave that evening for her home in Arizona. After her husband’s death she was determined to find a new beginning and shop for a second home on the West coast: a tri-level beach house with a fine view of the sea. But now she had both buyer’s remorse and a frigid sex drive.
“Don’t be,” I said. I escorted her to her car.
“I don’t know what got in to me to do this,” she said. “It’s too soon, I think, and it feels wrong.” She sniffled some more, pressing a handkerchief against her nose and eyes.
“Most everything we do is wrong,” I said.
We stopped at the car. I opened the door for her and watched her nicely shaped derriere caress the seat.
“Take care,” I said.
As her car backed into the parking lot and pulled away, a curious glitch chimed in my head. This woman from Arizona was either driving a high-end rental car—a silver Mercedes convertible coup—the likes of which I’ve never seen for a rental, or she drove her own stylish ride all the way from Phoenix, which wouldn’t jive with her flight into John Wayne airport four days ago. Something was out of place.
The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd Page 23