He smiled back. “You motherfucker. How’s Rojas, by the way?”
“He’s fine.”
“He’s a good man.”
“Yes, he is.”
Rojas, on my recommendation, had done a little work for Ravenich. It had involved a chapel crier. The smallish, brown-haired man would show up and wail during a service. But wail to such a degree that his suffering eclipsed the pain of the truly bereaved. What the crier wanted was to be paid to go away. Ravenich had paid him a small sum but the crier had grown greedy and returned to grieve again. This time, the instant he set his mournful brown shoes in the chapel he encountered Rojas. Before he knew it he’d been led to the back room.
“What’s the meaning of this?” inquired the chapel crier, irate. He knew his rights.
Rojas smashed a hard overhand right directly into the crier’s chest. “Do I have your attention?” he asked.
From his position on the floor, against the wall, the man nodded, painfully, that he did.
Rojas smiled in ice. “You know what double booking is?”
The crier shook his head. It couldn’t be good.
“That’s where two assholes are buried in one box.” Rojas picked up the crier with one arm and threw him into an empty budget coffin. “But officially,” Rojas continued, “only the guy on top counts. See what I mean?”
In fact, Morton Cockley had instantaneously seen the error of his ways and was hastening to apologize but the next thing he knew was absolute blackness as Rojas slammed the lid shut. Of course, budget coffins have no interior release mechanisms.
An hour and a half later, after the longish service had concluded out front, Rojas opened up the casket. Cockley the chapel crier was a damp and changed man.
“You know what double booking is?”
“Yes.”
“If you ever come here again, you’re going to get double-booked for real. Understand me?”
Cockley went out the back door and was never seen again.
* * *
Ravenich grinned. “What’d Rojas say to that guy?”
“I dunno. Something about civic responsibility and respect for the dead.”
“Well, whatever he said, it worked.” Then Ravenich leaned forward. “So why are you here?”
“I need to file an obituary in the Times.”
“And you want me to say the body’s here.”
“Are you offering?”
“What’d I tell you last time?”
“Never darken your door again.” I paused. “Or words to that effect.”
Ravenich nodded. “Or words to that effect.”
“You’re the only one who can help me.”
“Bullshit. Ed Lake at Forest Lawn, Jim Harkins at Rosemont-Ross, there’s—”
“I mean you’re the only one who might help me.”
“Where’s the body?”
“That’s the easy part.”
“So where’s it at?”
“There isn’t one.”
A sour weariness crept across Ravenich’s face. “Why do I still know you? Why don’t I tell you to get screwed right now?”
“Because I introduced you to Rojas. And this.” I pulled an envelope from my pocket. “Here’s a grand for your trouble.” I put the envelope on the desk between us.
Ravenich looked askance at the packet. “You’re asking me to violate a good portion of the civil code.” He scratched his chin as if considering the statutes. “And you’re also asking me to compromise my own moral principles.”
He looked at me. I nodded. Then I reached back into my pocket and pulled out the second envelope. “Here’s another fifteen hundred for your trouble.”
Ravenich’s gloom evaporated like a hooker’s admiration after the deed was done. The envelopes disappeared into his desk.
I spread my hands. “Death is a good business.”
Ravenich shrugged. “It’s the family business.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
An Obituary
I rolled down to the Canyon Country Store on Friday morning and bought the Times. I took a deep breath. At least one thing had gone right. I decided I’d sit outside, drink coffee, watch the traffic go by, watch the pretty Canyon girls go in and out of the market.
The Times, like all urban newspapers, was in steep decline, like an old friend with cancer. Robust and healthy one day, sixty pounds the next. The big, fat, heavy newspaper of my youth was gone. Now it reminded me of the miserly fish wrapper I had delivered when I’d been thirteen, the Citizen News.
It had been my first job. The enticement of easy money, riding my bicycle, had paled quickly. Like any job, it was work. The readership of the paper had not been inspiring, either. Composed entirely of the aged and irritable, there was nary a tip or a smile. Every day at school I basted in increasing dread of my rounds, and every day I set out a little later to accomplish them.
My tardiness dovetailed perfectly with the anxiety of my ancient clients, thirsting the whole day long for whatever excitement the Citizen News provided. As I would throw the paper in the general direction of the front door, I would see them, peeking through the curtains, sucking their dentures, glaring at me.
I don’t remember quitting. The job just wore away. Like a bar of soap. One day it was down the drain. Which was okay by me. Even the spaz in the thick glasses who delivered the Herald-Examiner from a three-wheeled tip-over-proof motorbike looked down on me and the Citizen News.
I turned to page A-20. There was my notice.
Obituaries/Funeral Announcements
SALT, Thomas Alva O’Halloran Mortuary
I added it all up. Fifteen grand for the investigation with no name. Five for the name. Fifty for the killing.
Seventy. There were worse prices for one’s integrity. If I could just put the matter to rest. I called Benjamin, told him to buy the paper. He already had. He’d send Arnuldo over.
I called Ravenich, thanked him. He told me to fuck off. I asked him if he was putting the old screw to Mrs. Grimble. He hung up.
I went home, dozed off to Dylan’s Modern Times, was dreaming of Nettie Moore when I heard a heavy knock.
Arnuldo pushed an eight-by-eleven manila envelope at me.
“From Mr. B,” he said, eyes narrowed and baleful.
Suddenly I felt that not only did Arnuldo dislike me, his God-given right, and none of my business, but also he bore me a very personal animosity, which was very much my business.
Why the animus?
Our first meeting, the green hat initiative, seemed almost benevolent in comparison. Nothing there.
Our next meeting. At the party, where I learned that Judy and Lynette were the same person. Had he read my face when I dropped the drink?
If yes— Let’s say definitely yes. He read my billboard face and intuited . . . what? That Lynette and I had history of some kind. So what?
Then he witnesses the expanding contract between me and his boss. If he sees the whole thing as a sham, is he angry on behalf of his boss? On behalf of Benjamin’s money?
Or angry on behalf of himself.
And there it was. Plain as day, dark as night. Arnuldo had a thing for Lynette, platonic or otherwise. No wonder he hated me. And, by extension, hated Benjamin, boss and rival. What a happy household over on Rexford.
Arnuldo was staring at me. Looking back into his eyes, I knew he’d seen that I had figured him out. In the very second that I had. But to acknowledge the source of his rage would be to validate it.
I decided to irritate his secret injury. “You don’t look good, Arnuldo. Someone squeezing your balls?”
Arnuldo, with visible effort, swallowed his feelings. “I’m fine, Henry.” He could barely choke the words out. “How about you?”
“I’m fine, too. I think I might go out dancing, that’s how fine I am.”
“You wanna know the future, Henry?” A whisper was all he could control.
“You’re a gypsy?”
“My mother was a gypsy.” A pause
. “One day . . . I’m going to kill you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
Again he swallowed. “Why won’t I?”
“Why?” Here came the salt. “Because you’re Mr. Benjamin’s boy . . . and Daddy hasn’t given you his permission.”
That was all Arnuldo could take. He stood there, pulsating, then turned on his heel.
I heard a door slam hard. After a bit a blue Mercedes rolled soundlessly down the street.
I shut the door, tossed the envelope onto my coffee table. Thought I’d better open it.
Two sheaves of a hundred hundreds and fifty more rubber-banded. I put it back in the envelope.
I had set an enemy loose in the world. A wave of fatigue rolled over me. I refused to let it in. To anticipate pain and horror and strife is to embrace those conditions prematurely. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
With a wave of terrible longing, I wished to be in the company of my children, their little arms around my neck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A Perfect Harmony
After dealing with some small matters, I managed to wheedle my way in at Arden. Georgette was in a good mood. I wrote her a nice check for some kitchen renovations, but she was in a good mood anyway. So I gave her an extra grand to get a new dress.
She took it calmly. “Why do you want to buy me a new dress? It won’t get you anyplace.”
“I’ve been every place, darling,” I said with a wink. “Not that I’m tired of the scenery.” How was that for slick? “But,” I continued, “thinking as an artist, as I often do, seeing you in a new dress would make this world a better place. And I live in this world.”
“Then certainly, thinking as an artist,” she said, coolly returning the ball, “you’ve thought about shoes.”
I laughed aloud. It was almost like old times. I reached into my pocket, sorted out five honeybees. I handed them over. “I insist you buy shoes.”
She took the money, looked at me seriously. “Did you get rich?”
See? See? She loved me. Believed in me. Ha! “One day I will be, darling. But not today. But I am flush.”
Randy and Martine watched this artful ballet.
“I want a new dress,” said Martine, getting with the program.
“And you shall have one,” I replied. I turned to my son. “Would you like a new dress, too?”
Martine shrieked with laughter. “Boys don’t wear dresses! They wear pants!”
I held up a finger to disagree. “Except on certain sections of Santa Monica Boulevard.”
This confused the children, bringing a frown to Georgette’s face. “Dick,” she warned.
I shrugged happily.
“I want a new baseball glove,” said Randy. “And I would never wear a dress.”
I nodded at him. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to. And I’ll make sure you have a new glove.”
Dinner was wonderful. Basic. Wonderful. Hamburgers, green beans, and mashed potatoes with Georgette’s good gravy.
We talked easily about nothing, Georgette poured me another cup of coffee, then Randy introduced a topic of significance.
“We’re learning about sex at school.”
I exchanged a glance with Georgette.
“Eggs and seeds and stuff,” continued my son. “I know all about it. I would never do it.”
“Good,” I agreed. “It’s messy.”
“You guys did it?” Randy appraised us both.
“Did what?” inquired Martine.
I nodded. “Occasionally.”
Georgette smiled a horrible smile. “We had to.”
I held up two fingers. “But only twice.”
“Will I have to?” Randy looked a little nervous.
“No, darling,” said Georgette.
“Will I?” asked Martine. Her expression communicated the worry that, whatever it was, it probably had to be accomplished at the doctor’s office in the presence of isopropyl alcohol. “Will I have to?” she asked again.
On this point Georgette and I achieved a perfect harmony. “Never,” we said at the same time.
Then my phone rang.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Flowers for a Dead Cuban
Santa Monica. As fast as I could go. And Nilene’s was as far as you could go. On Ocean Avenue. Across the street the cliffs, the highway, the sea.
I thought I was through with Benjamin. But, no, this thing went on and on. Shades of Michael Corleone.
Mr. Henry? Artie Benjamin here. A pause. I’d like to see the body. I could imagine Arnuldo quietly nodding, smiling.
I was as close to fucked as I’d ever been. I’d been unable to reach Ravenich, but maybe it was because he was onstage with his phone off.
I left the Caddy with the valet and hurried in. The joint was dark and the band was on break but I spied Louie the harp player near the bandstand.
Louie was a very nice man and a fine, fine musician but took twenty minutes to tie his shoes, button his shirt, or say hello. Glad as I was to see him, I cut him off as he drew breath.
“Sorry, Lou. I’m in a real hurry, here. Where’s Ravenich?”
Louie winked. Slowly. “Go check out back, my brother. I believe some of the peoples be smokin’ that pot reefer.” He talked in an exaggerated hipster patois for the pleasure of his audience.
I grasped his hand, shook it, ran for the back.
I spotted Ravenich leaning against the rear wall of the club. He was taking a hit of the mean green. I was up beside him before he knew it, startling him.
“Jesus Christ, where did you come from?”
“I need to talk to you, Billy. It’s urgent.”
Ravenich held up a finger. “But it’ll wait. I need another poke.”
Impatiently I watched him draw a connoisseur’s appreciative toke. It must have been good. Cheeks puffed, he passed it in my direction. I waved him off. He shrugged, exhaled.
“Thanks for coming down, dude. What’s up? Need a woman?”
“A woman? I would come to you for that? Why would I need a woman?”
“Because every man needs a woman. To ease his aches and pains. And I got one for you.”
I looked around. “I don’t have time for this, Billy.”
Ravenich looked at me like I was stupid, then laid the punch line on me. “You don’t have time for Elizabeth Grimble?”
Even I had to choke out a pained laugh. But Ravenich really cracked himself up. Then he started coughing. After a bit, he wiped away tears. “Now, what the fuck are you really here for?” An ancillary thought struck him. “Some hot Grimble pussy?”
Hot Grimble pussy. Now there was a piss-cutter. A piss-cutter was humor barely capable of rousing a chuckle. But Ravenich had cracked himself up again. Finally he stopped laughing. “Okay. What’s up?” Another giggle escaped him.
“What’s up is I need a body.”
That cleared his mind a little. “A body? You think I carry bodies around in the trunk?”
“Billy, I’m dead serious. I’m in deep shit. I need a body to go along with the obituary.”
“That makes you special? Every obituary needs a body. And vice versa.”
“Billy, I’m in real trouble. I’m about to get fucked.”
He sobered a bit. “I knew that was trouble. I knew it.”
“I’ll tell you when there’s trouble. If my client gets to the mortuary and there’s no body, then there’s trouble.”
The arrow of reason sailed through sensimilla space, plunked into his cerebellum. “You’re sending him to my place?”
“Where else?”
Louie appeared on the scene. “Five minutes, my brothers.”
Ravenich stared at me. “Well, you’ve ruined my buzz.”
“I’ll give you two grand to lay out someone appropriate.”
“No, motherfucker, you’ll give me five grand.”
“Fine.” Five had been my target figure.
“I take it your client thinks you whacked Mr.
Salt?”
“Yes, he does.”
“And how did you kill him?”
“Doesn’t matter. Either blatant or sneaky. Whatever you got.” I made quotation marks with my fingers. “Natural causes.”
Ravenich shook his head. “This is it, by the way. Don’t ask me to do another thing for you in this life.”
There was only one detail left.
“Just one more thing, Billy.”
“Fuck you.”
“The bereaved”—I checked my watch—“will arrive, uh, soon.”
“Soon? How soon?”
“Forty minutes.”
“Forty minutes?” I could hear Ravenich’s teeth grind. “MOTHERFUCKER,” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He fished for his keys.
I had mine in my hand. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I ducked back into Nilene’s and was halfway through the crowd when someone put a foot out and I went down hard.
I got up, caught Chuckie Gregory’s fist high on my forehead, and went back down. I heard his voice, gloating. “Well, well, well. If it ain’t Dick Henry.” I defended my face from a shoe.
He let me up in order to knock me down with his friends watching. I faked confusion and just avoided a couple of haymakers. Then I feinted with a left and delivered a straight hard right to the solar plexus. It seemed as slow as the Foreman punch that knocked out Moorer. Down went Chuckie Gregory. I split immediately. I didn’t have time to humiliate him.
I raced up Pico, made a left at Cloverfield, got on the 10 East, and floored it.
I was late to O’Halloran’s. I was walking up just as Benjamin, Arnuldo, and Ravenich made their exit. I brushed my hair back, took a deep breath.
“Gentlemen.”
There was a silence.
Benjamin stared coldly into my eyes. “Natural causes?”
I spread my hands. “Trade lingo.”
Benjamin noticed my lumps and bruises. “You look a little lumpy.”
My eye was feeling fat. “It’s the humidity.” Something had gone down funny, I could feel it. “Everything all right?”
“I didn’t know Mr. Salt was so old, Mr. Henry.”
Behind Benjamin and Arnuldo, Ravenich lifted his shoulders minutely.
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