Lomita For Ever

by Trevor Eve

  His pondering had run its course.

  ‘I will have…’

  A slight pause followed, as if something monumental was about to be said.

  ‘I will have the Wagyu burger and some fries. Medium rare.’

  Was the summation that followed the pause and he had nothing to say to her attack or defence, whichever way you took it. She looked around for the waiter who was no more than six feet away and asked Ever with the most charming deference,

  ‘Would you mind ordering, my sweet? And I would adore another martini.’

  She poured another mouthful down her ruche-bloused throat.

  He was now in the authoritative position of commanding both food and drink and concluded the order with two requests of his own.

  ‘A glass of cabernet, I would be happy if you would make the choice. Full bodied but soft, rounded, please.’

  He felt he was describing a physical desire, so moved on.

  ‘And some San Pellegrino, if sparkling water is your preference?’

  ‘Fine, my sweet, I won’t be drinking too much water, but the bubbles are fun. Thank you. Oh and—’

  She called the waiter back.

  ‘The dressing on the side, please. Thank you.’

  She turned back to Ever.

  ‘You see in my life, and I have already promised not to talk about the past – but in my experience the shit people have both saved me and destroyed me.’

  Ever somehow felt that to ask for qualification on that topic was inappropriate, so he stored it as the third point in his memory bank. She continued.

  ‘I came here, to LA, I mean, in 1960. My God what a time ago, and in all life, I mean, it depends on who you meet first, or who you know, as to how it all pans out for you. I mean, you come here and get picked up by Billy Wilder or whoever it is now, I don’t know.’

  He expected her to say Spielberg but that was too obvious for her.

  ‘By—’

  She continued.

  ‘Darren Aronofsky or a Tarantino and your life path is immediately on an exciting and positive track. You meet some exploitative little scumbag who wants to fuck you, please excuse my language, it’s the martini, and make some cash out of you and the next thing you know you’re in glamour magazines wearing very little, with a nice enough place to live, admittedly, but your track is pretty much set from there. And let me tell you, my sweet, it may have some pearls on the way and may put some diamonds on your fingers, but you are heading on the track downhill. Full speed, well, depending on how long you hold out physically. You know, not strength-wise but looks-wise. You are, wherever you are, a commodity, a tube of toothpaste, you just hope they keep liking your flavour.’

  Ever decided that it was again inappropriate to ask her to elaborate on this topic and instead allowed his mind to rest on the two things that had occurred to him while she was talking.

  Firstly that ‘my sweet’ seemed to be her term of endearment and he hoped it wasn’t a general one she used for everyone, that it was reserved for him alone; the other was that when she started talking she liked to carry on. She got fired up and didn’t stop. He reflected on both these observations and regarded them as qualities that he liked. As he prepared to slice the burger in half he considered asking for ketchup and mayonnaise, but they arrived as the request was on his lips.

  And he toasted her for the second time that evening with a glass of his Grgich Hills cabernet.

  ‘Here’s to—’

  Before he could finish, she interrupted, or rather completed, the toast with,

  ‘Health.’

  A definitive and unquestionable affirmation of the most important thing in the world.

  ‘Health, my sweet.’

  She reiterated. She seemed to eat small mouthfuls of her salad, pouring on globule amounts of the creamy dressing, a dollop at a time, and pushing the chicken to the side of the plate. Essentially she was eating iceberg lettuce, but at a cost.

  Polo Lounge cost.

  But the martini was taking a hit.

  It was her decision that the time had come to leave; she opened her purse and pushed a bunch of notes into his hand, hidden from view, under the table.

  ‘The check I think, don’t you? When you’re ready, otherwise I’ll be forced to have another martini and then that Sultan is going to get it in the neck.’

  She gave a gentle laugh; he realised it was the first time he had heard the guttural sound come up from the depth of her throat. Somehow, it had always stayed on the surface. He thought that if it was louder it could be a really expansive, joyous, infectious laugh. A laugh of pure fun, of not caring, of freedom. He thought he loved it. He knew he loved it. She was a person who most definitely knew how to have a good time.

  And he, at that moment, wanted to be the one to share those good times. He found himself laughing too, he turned and thanked her for the most deliciously entertaining evening. He thought of the times in life he had said those words; he felt a pure satisfaction that tonight he really meant them.

  They departed down the red carpet, he had the three points locked in his memory bank, unsure why they were there or what relevance they had, and anyway the points had been wined and dined.

  They’d be gone in the morning.

  As they opened the big brown door she asked if he would be kind enough to escort her to her room.

  They walked, as was the established custom; she grasped his arm and at the door of the bedroom, she said, in an inconsequential way,

  ‘Please hold me tight as you say goodnight, my sweet.’

  He did, whispering the word in her ear as a definite two.

  ‘Good.’

  Pause.

  ‘Night.’

  They held their closeness for what seemed a time, a long time; he took in the feel of hair against his cheek and his hands remained politely just below her shoulders. He allowed himself the luxury of breathing in her exquisite air and was captured by the closeness in a halo of light that glowed around them, it seemed as a protection from anything the world might throw at them.

  A glow.

  Then they moved apart with a momentary look into each other’s eyes, as if acknowledging the aura they had created. He walked to the door that would take him, rather light-headed, to his waiting warm and murmuring car.

  A car that would transport him hopefully to his destination. Lomita was saying, thank you and goodnight, he sensed her warm smile, knew she was still looking at him during his traverse across the room, he didn’t turn around, he couldn’t, but closed the front door, and climbing into his car his hand went to his erection.

  Just an adjustment.

  He had had an erection while he held her, was she aware and had the thank you, which he sensed was spoken with a smile, been an acknowledgement of the fact? The fact of the erection, his mind fixed on that being the only possibility or, the thought poleaxed him, was it just plain embarrassing?

  *

  He drove with the desire to masturbate the fantasy of Lomita out of his brain.

  He drove, and he would be home soon, masturbating. Lust returning.

  Lomita Nairn.

  He had pressed his body into hers and felt his penis hard against the hardness of her right hip, just as the bone gives way to the flesh. He could feel the fragility now, and felt that he could have snapped her in two. He wondered what she was wearing underneath the feel of the chiffon trouser material. Silk or cotton. Something with delicacy, he didn’t sense the unevenness that lace lends to skin. She didn’t seem to move, he didn’t know if it was his imagination, but hadn’t she pressed in harder and did she not shift her body ever so slightly to receive his hardness closer to her abdomen?

  Closer.

  He wanted to be inside her. Who would ever have thought? Think. Present or past. Lomita Nairn.

  They had agreed to meet the day after the next day, which, one guesses, in sober language is two days’ time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The firing range.

&nb
sp; Did not require ear defenders with the Maxim 9, as there was truly very little noise. But they hung around his neck and he fired the first two shots with them, then the tall, bulky bearded man with dead eyes had suggested he take them off.

  ‘You see, barely any sound at all.’

  Well, there still was, Ever thought, for him at least, a hell of a sound, just less than the normal.

  Now came the technological lecture.

  ‘The suppressor assembly at the front of the pistol uses a series of baffles and expansion chambers to allow the propellant gases to expand, decelerate, and cool; this reduces the velocity and noise made by the gases as they leave the barrel. That’s why you get that sound, it’s the block baffles structure, cumbersome, I think, for me, I don’t like it, but it takes down that bang. So less bang more buck.’

  This made the bearded man laugh, at least.

  Ever understood the words but was baffled – the choice of word made Ever chuckle to himself. First one then the other, one laugh apiece.

  ‘It will just be good for my ears, you know, less noise on a firing range, and well you know, and hunting.’

  ‘You’d have to be one hell of a shot to hunt anything with that unless it was right in front of you, big, and not moving.’

  He laughed again, his eyes stayed the same. Ever didn’t know if he had convinced.

  ‘Well, she’s going to take a lot more work to get her. Fingerprints and photo ID, the manufacturers are trying to make it easier, but we can’t co-operate just yet, so you’re not going to be able to walk out of here today with her, it could take you months.’

  It came out as a real slur of a: ‘takeya’.

  ‘Months?’

  Ever hoped he hadn’t shown too much desperation.

  ‘The ATF, the governing, regulating body, whatever the fuck you want to call them, I call them assholes, make our fucking life hell, excuse me, it has to verify all purchases and that takes some time.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Alcohol, tobacco, firearms, and explosives, strange mixture of stuff, but they can all kill you. I guess. So, there you go.’

  He laughed again.

  ‘You want something now, that you can walk out of here with, with the basic tests and verification, and you want 9 mm?’

  Ever supposed this was a question and grunted.

  ‘Uh uh.’

  It sounded knowledgeable and manly.

  ‘You can’t do better than a Glock 17. Police just went back to them. Packs a noise though. Cheaper, at around $550. You want to give her a go?’

  This time the ear protectors were a necessity and it was with a sense of disappointment that he said,

  ‘I’ll take this one then.’

  The only consolation was that Ever was relieved he had hit the target. Then came the inevitable ‘where you from originally?’ Ever was surprised the question had taken so long.

  ‘LA and then moved to England, for a while.’

  Was his customary reply to all comers.

  ‘Don’t need to know what you want her for, but she’s nice isn’t she?’

  Except the isn’t she came out as ‘inshe’, and he assumed the man with dead eyes was talking about the gun.

  ‘Yes, very nice.’

  But Ever had nothing to compare it to, except a .177 air rifle he had attempted to kill a sparrow with when he was eleven years old. He hit the sparrow, but it didn’t die, so he had, in a panic, got a shovel and bashed it until it was dead. That was the unpleasant part, the bashing, not the firing.

  So that was him and guns.

  ‘She’s great.’

  He felt an idiot feminising the weapon.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Magazine maximum is ten, State law. Want a box of twenty-five or fifty of the 9 mm babies?’

  Now infantilising, but this was a question.

  ‘Just twenty-five is fine, thank you.’

  He certainly defied convention by refusing to say ‘I will take her’. It just didn’t seem right. But he supposed if it is seen, as some perceive, as a penis extension, it could work. He then had to take the written FSC, and produce documents to prove in the thinnest context, his sanity and existence, and soon he would be walking out into the Van Nuys sunlight with a gun capable of killing.

  But not quietly.

  ‘Get caught carrying in this state, it’s a felony. Well, put it like this, you’ll have a long and expensive old time trying to prove otherwise, if you’re with me. So don’t fuck around.’

  A little strong, hold on there, cowboy, thought Ever.

  ‘Straight home, self-defence on property, unless you want to drive to Texas and have some fun.’

  He was laughing, Ever imagined, at the idea of either just having fun in Texas with a gun, or the idea of Ever being in Texas with a gun. It didn’t matter which. No fun was going to be had with this baby. A purely practical purchase. Then the thank yous and the pleasure doing business with you sir, another strange American tradition.

  Obviously the military carried over into the civilian. But why not just drop it?

  He was walking into that sunlight.

  Back in his car, he switched on Waze, he had missed Kate, and found himself relating the events at the LA Gun Store, and told her to be nice now, I’m carrying.

  ‘I don’t want no trouble from you.’

  He was tempted with this change in personality to add the word ‘Bitch’.

  But he wasn’t sure if she was getting the joke.

  So he gave up and just said,

  ‘Get me home, Kate. Make it quick or else.’

  He was packing heat now.

  *

  It had been an exercise in physical necessity.

  On his return from Lomita. His balls were killing him, and he needed the ejaculation to bring him the gradual delight of diminishing pain, so that thought and sanity could return to the once-horny male.

  He poured some post-ejaculation Patrón Silver, adopted his porch-equivalent position, to stare at the stars and once again be defeated by his lack of knowledge of the universe, wondering repetitively why he’d never learnt or remembered what goes round what or how many light years away the stars were, and the fact that they had already burnt out when we were still able to see them.

  Is that why stars on earth are called stars – not because they shine but because they are already on the way to burning out the moment they start to burn with a light that gets them noticed?

  They, that are sacrificed on our earth, for our pleasure. Reward them while we want them and then just let them burn out. They will always be replaced, grains of sand and all that, they keep coming.

  They always will.

  His thoughts went then with an agony of mind to Jacob. He decided to FaceTime.

  He wondered what they would be doing, whether it was a good time or not, which he couldn’t work out, the time difference was defeating him, would she mind, whatever time it was anyway, oh Jesus: who cared, another tequila and he most certainly wouldn’t.

  *

  The picture eventually came to life on his phone.

  Just as he was giving up hope.

  It was his wife, she was still his wife, he was surprised in the moment of seeing her face that she had answered his call.

  ‘Hi.’

  Was her calm response to what was a greater invasion than just the regular old phone call.

  ‘How is everything? How’s Jacob? Is he there, can I see him?’

  ‘He’s here, Jacob baby it’s—’

  There was a long, long, gap of brain time thought and then,

  ‘It’s Ever.’

  The word, his name in that context, stabbed him, like the cliché, straight through the heart. Not Dad.

  ‘What am I called now?’

  The tequila said.

  ‘Oh God, I don’t know, babes.’

  Oh, how he hated that word, ‘babes’.

  ‘Just let me see Jacob please, on the phone, please.’

&nbs
p; A scuffle, off camera, and he was looking at his adorable, yes, he would still say it, with pride, son.

  ‘Hi, my darling.’

  The words came out of Jacob’s mouth that produced a spontaneous inhaled grab from Ever.

  ‘Dada! Dada! Mama, Dada.’

  ‘How are you my baby?’

  ‘Dada… Billy and Pete where are they? Dada are they not good? Are they dead?’

  He was puzzled at Jacob’s understanding of the word ‘dead’ and wondered in that moment if that’s what his mother had told Jacob about his own absence.

  ‘I love you so much, they are fine my darling, just on a little holiday with Mr Magee and Rosie, they’ll be back.’

  He didn’t know when.

  But then in typical child fashion, boredom came over Jacob and he started to mumble goodbyes, going now mama, why has the television, the word taking eight syllables, gone quiet and he was gone.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ever said.

  ‘That’s OK, next time just use the audio, I look like shit. It’s early.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Bye.’

  And then another.

  ‘Bye.’

  Spoken at the same time, they were gone and that was done.

  He and the tequila had done it. Once again, the internal shower washed him clean. He wondered what was happening to his life.

  What was he doing and going to do.

  With all that to live for.

  And Lomita Nairn.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Good morning.’

  He said, still three feet away, approaching the solitary female.

  ‘I wanted to inquire about an artist whose work I couldn’t find on your website, and wondered if you knew of him, or had carried any of his work. Which I believe you did at one time.’

  Ever was speaking, a bit ramblingly, to a rather exquisitely tasteful woman of about thirty-five, who was sitting behind a Calacatta marble desk with a backdrop of Carrara marble that covered an expanse of wall that must have emptied an Italian quarry. She removed the black frames with clear glass from the bridge of her nose, they could have been tortoiseshell, and asked, understandably, for the name and period of the artist. She was English but in her correct, aloof and professional manner made no comment on his compatriotism.