“He’s a butt pirate, Dick,” said Bobby, elbowing Lenny.
“A butt pirate for Christ,” summed Lenny, in paroxysms.
“Live and let live,” I counseled, “more pussy for the rest of us.” I paid them and they left.
Once these boys had lived a little longer, they might appreciate the concept of whatever-gets-you-through-the-night. Life was a bitch, from everyone you loved you’d be separated, and then you died. So, whatever distractions you found, as long as they didn’t hurt children, they were okay with me.
But you paid for those distractions. Like I had paid. On those long, empty nights when I had sought the additional comforts of floozies, I had surrendered the company of Georgette.
Supposedly, there was a place where you could have your cake and eat it, too. Europe. But that was a long way from Los Angeles, the most modern city in the world, stuffed, from ocean shore to mountaintop, with sanctimonious charlatans. And so, from Aimee Semple McPherson in the 1920s to contemporary TV evangelists smoking meth and screwing Boy Scouts, human nature broke out, relentlessly, as soon as the sun went down.
It brought me a certain pleasure to think that the next tawdry headline event had already taken place. Anxious parties were scurrying this minute to cover it up.
But the cover-up won’t work and the ugly boil will burst and the talking heads will soon be frothing with grateful indignation, declaiming the death of all things decent.
Deep down I’m skeptical of Europe, too. Because it’s populated by human beings and human beings everywhere are jealous, spiteful, ungrateful, and envious. Also loving and lovely and caring and generous.
It’s all a mess. Which is why they need the Shortcut Man every so often. To sort things out.
On Saturday night at midnight, Lenny and Bobby called from the vicinity of Circus Liquor. Linscomb had just checked in to the Barracks.
Perfect. I rolled down from Laurel Canyon, parked on Vista above Hollywood. It wasn’t his vices I objected to. It was the fact that vices cost money, that they were possibly untenable on a church salary. I entered his apartment with no trouble, started looking around.
Linscomb was neat as a pin, a place for everything. And, no doubt, his mind was equally compartmentalized. That would be the way he would excuse certain behaviors.
In his antique rolltop desk, in one of the pigeonhole drawers, I found some bindled white powder and some fragrant green. Then, neatly stowed in one of the six narrow vertical slots, reminiscent of the fabled purloined letter, I found what I was looking for. A manila envelope labeled “The Ballad of Franklin Tillman.”
Not only did I find copies of the letters I had read at the Farmers Market but I also found a brief outline for a piece of fiction about a growing relationship between a lonely old man and the woman he corresponds with—except the woman is really a lonely young man in disguise. There was some question as to its final form. A play? A screenplay? A book? And the ending had not been entirely worked out. Research was in progress. But it would be poignant and emotional.
I wiped away a tear. Little did the author know that right this moment, as he chambered a fat cock in NoHo, I, Dick Henry, the Shortcut Man, the unlikeliest of authors, had fashioned the ending for him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jerry Plays His Cards
Jerry Shunk looked at himself in the mirror. Sheila, of the big knockers, had been right. Salon Seven Seven had been the place to go. What had that black girl called this hair color? Montana something . . . that was it, Montana Smoke.
Yes, he looked fifty-five. But a cool fifty-five. A fighting fifty-five. Through the evidence of time, which lent some character, others age, he still could make out the young man with ideals. Of course, ideals had been thrown in the fire a long time ago. Ideals were like the clothes he’d worn at Cornell, now way too small and seriously out of fashion. Corduroys and wide belts and suede boots, thinking that one man could change the world.
One man could make a difference, of course, but a lot of ducks had to be in a row at the exact moment your hand found the gun, aimed, and fired. The synchrony of those phenomena was a statistical nightmare. And then you had to hit something. There was one man who could reliably make a difference. Dad. Your dad. Your rich dad. Shunk’s father was a pharmacist. Pharmacists didn’t make shit.
Mr. Rutledge was the first man whose will Shunk had rewritten posthumously. Rutledge had no living relatives, all his assets would have gone to the government. A stupid, criminal waste. The government paid thousands of dollars for toilet seats, hundreds for a nail.
So what had he done? In realistic parlance, he had redistributed capital. As it trickled down. Where had it gone? To the public. Employing others, providing a modicum of pleasure for himself as it passed through his fingers. Like the story of the dying Irishman asking his dearest friend to pour a bottle of whiskey over his grave. The dear friend agreed but asked if he might strain it through his kidneys first.
Shunk had married twice and divorced twice, always disappointed with the women behind the makeup. But not as disappointed as they were with him. Bitches. Blind to the realities of life. Blind to the fact that a man had to provide in a world where conscience was a hindrance. So off they went, Judith and Devorah, reclaiming their innocence and freedom—except with alimony sufficient to maintain a reasonable quality of life.
He had specialized in family law, then geriatric family law. Every so often, though not enough to establish pattern or arouse suspicion, a grateful oldster, unencumbered by grasping relatives, would leave him everything.
And very, very, very rarely, of which the überancient Mrs. Cutler at Fairfax Convalescent might be the best example, he would speed them gently on their way, cutting short their pointless misery. That time with a Chinese duck-down pillow.
He spritzed on some Armani cologne. Seventy-five dollars for a hundred milliliters. Devorah had called him an Aqua Velva man. Fuck her.
Shunk had known Artie Benjamin since college. Seen him through a couple of divorces and half a dozen abortions. Then his sudden success in porn. Buffalo Bill in Hollywood. And some asshole called it art.
Which led to Benjamin’s third marriage, to that Vegas pole dancer. Judy had called Shunk up a couple of years after the honeymoon and told him to buy her some lunch. He did as ordered. She’d probably scratched Artie’s Rolls.
There was a nice little bistro on Hillhurst near Franklin. After twenty minutes of her company, he hated Benjamin. Because he envied him so completely. Judy’s mouth would’ve shamed a sailor, but she was rescued by an intoxicating insouciance. He had never desired anything quite as much as this woman.
When lunch was over she had him drive up into Griffith Park. They sparked up a joint and watched the merry-go-round. Just a few kids and their dark nannies. But then she surprised him.
She started unbuttoning her blouse. It took a while because her blouse seemed to have eighty-five buttons. Then she opened it up and showed him her rack. She didn’t need a bra and wasn’t wearing one. Those little brown, upturned nipples were the most incendiary things he’d ever seen. She thumbed a nipple, and it stiffened as he watched.
“Suck my titties,” said Judy, offering them.
Oh, good Lord, he had.
Then she reached between his legs and, unbelievably, set him free. Looking into his eyes, she licked her lips, then leaned down and placed her luscious mouth over his cock.
Sixty timeless seconds later he experienced the most intense orgasm of his life. When he opened his eyes he was surprised he still had a spine.
She was looking at him, grinning. “Hasn’t anyone ever sucked your cock before, Jerry?”
No. Not even. Not like that. “What do you want?” he whispered, shuddering to breathe.
She laughed. “I need your help.”
“With what?”
“With Artie’s will.”
“It sounds like you have a plan already.”
“I do.”
He smiled at himself in the
mirror. Bloodthirsty bitch. And not once since that sixty seconds in heaven had that bitch laid even a finger on him.
Well, today might be the day. He had information that would change her life. He swallowed a Cialis.
This time they met for lunch downtown at Cafe Merlot. She was late, but late was the province of beautiful women. Then she arrived. He saw heads turn, and he read their jealous little minds.
Look at her! Good God! What a woman! Look at the rack on that girl! And who’s that guy with her? Why, I believe that’s Jerry Shunk! It can’t be Jerry Shunk. What happened to Jerry Shunk? It is Jerry Shunk! What’s Jerry Shunk doing with a girl like that? Shunk must have game! Shunk’s got game!
He rose to embrace her and felt her chest crush against his own. He pulled out her chair, and she sat.
She ordered expensive appetizers and picked. Which rankled his natural frugality, but, Jesus, she was so unbelievably gorgeous.
And that goddam Cialis was kicking in early. It was the wrong time for a raging five-hour hard-on. Well, it was early. He wouldn’t be able to get up without two copies of the L.A. Times. But he wouldn’t call his physician, either. He’d fuck Judy, half a dozen waitresses, then an eggplant or two. Christ, he had a rocket in his pocket. And he’d learned something new. You couldn’t talk yourself into a hard-on when you needed one, and the inverse, you couldn’t talk yourself out of one if it wasn’t the time. If that wasn’t life in a nutshell, nothing was. The tragedy of life.
“You all right, Jerry?” she asked. Shitbird in his blue hair was working something out in his head.
“Fine, darling.” Her rack sucked his eyes in. If he were any closer his eyes would be crossed. He had to focus over her shoulder. Where that sparrow was playing with . . . a fucking condom! The sparrow was playing with a used condom in the ficus tree. Jesus Christ. Filthy birds. They’d pick up anything.
Judy looked cross. She pushed her appetizers away. “Jerry. Tell me what was so important that we had to come here.”
Bitch. Beautiful bitch.
Jerry looked deep into Judy’s green eyes and lied, unspooling the first careful strands of the narrative he had created. “I had a call from Artie. He wants to start proceedings.”
“That’s bad, right?”
“That’s bad.”
“When does that prenup stuff turn real?”
“When it’s filed with the court. And you’ll get your two hundred fifty thousand.” A pittance. “But remember.” This was the sweet part. “A prenup only kicks in when you’re getting divorced. If he should have an accident while the marriage is extant . . .”
And there it lay.
The calm, chill waters of the temptatious Rubicon. The clatter of silverware and raucous bray of conversation receded into nothingness. After a small eternity, she spoke. “How long do we have?”
We. Jerry looked into her perfect face. Bloodthirsty, greedy bitch. How perfectly convenient. And he could have her, too, if he played his cards right. “An accident after the filing won’t look good.”
He shrugged. But, yes. If Artie should have an accident while the marriage was extant . . . only the will would remain. Only the will. And he had carefully, subtly rewritten the will.
Judy reached for his hands. She was crying. They should have invented tear-proof mascara by now. Except tears were a weapon. You don’t give away weapons.
She dabbed at her eyes with the white linen napkin. “Sometimes I’m so afraid, Jerry.”
The way she enunciated his name was like a tongue on the tip of his cock. “Don’t worry, doll. It’s taken care of.”
Yes, Judy, dear, Artie’s will is all taken care of. No matter who came and went, the winner would be Jerry Shunk. Side-bet Jerry Shunk. Never too greedy, never too needy, always a winner.
“We’ll share everything, won’t we, Jerry?”
“Yes, doll. We will.” If you’re not convicted of murder.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A Star in His Own Movie
This time I parked on Sierra Bonita. Lenny had called. Linscomb was back at the Barracks.
At two-fifteen I heard his feet on the stairs, then the key in the door. He stepped into the quiet darkness, flipped on the entry light, a small Tiffany lamp with a candlestand base. Into the candlestand he dropped his keys. He engaged the chain lock. A tired sigh escaped him. He’d taken three steps toward the kitchen when he realized someone was sitting at the round oak table in the shadows.
“Jesus Christ!” he gasped.
“Sit down, Mr. Linscomb.”
He stood stock-still, frozen between fight and flight.
“Don’t run, Mr. Linscomb. Because I’ll catch you. Have a seat.”
Flight, an instantaneous reaction, had been eschewed by nonaction. Maybe he would come at me.
No, he would not come at me. Fright had him paralyzed.
“I’m—I’m going to let you walk out of here,” said Linscomb. “Like this never happened.”
I just stared at him.
“I’m letting you walk out of here,” he amended. Moving from future to present. “If you go right now.”
I looked at him. “Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll talk. And then I’ll decide what I want to do. ’Cause maybe I want to fuck you up.”
His hands were shaking.
He came forward, pulled out a chair across the table from me, sat slowly. “Do I know you?” He studied me. “I do know you.”
“Reverend Jenkins said you were a writer.”
“I do know you. I can find out your name. Your soul was in peril.”
“Yes. And now your ass is in peril. My name is Dick Henry.”
Linscomb spread his hands. “Look, man. I don’t understand where our lives intersect. I think you must have some bad information.”
“The point of intersection is Franklin Tillman.”
This was a hard left to the gut. He stopped breathing for a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and—”
“Don’t insult me with bullshit, Francie. You’ve been writing to Tillman, wheedling away his money. That’s why I’m here. I represent Mr. Tillman’s interest. I’m not the police, and I don’t give a shit about your rights.”
The stone-cold, tactile silence of 2:30 A.M. filled the room.
I slid the sheaf of letters over in front of him. “So tell me, fuckstick. What made you think you could screw Franklin Tillman and get away with it?”
He licked his lips, swallowed. Breathed. Whispered. “I don’t know.”
“I do. You think you’re smarter than everyone else and don’t have to play by the rules.”
Linscomb’s head sank into his hands.
“If you start sobbing, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”
Linscomb pulled himself back from the brink, his eyes full.
“You got any of his money left?”
“Uh, I, uh—”
“Don’t say What money? How much of his fourteen grand do you have left?”
“Uh . . . nothing. A few hundred. I used it as I went along.”
“How are you going to make it up to him?”
Another silence. Far away, down on Sunset probably, a siren started to whine.
“How are you going to make it up to him, fuckstick?”
A whisper. “I don’t know. What do I do?”
“First we put an end to this.”
“Okay. It’s over.”
“Not quite that easy. You’re going to write one more letter.”
“Okay.”
“From Francie’s brother. He’s going to write to Franklin and explain how she died.”
“Died?”
“With Franklin’s name on her lips.”
For the next five minutes that’s what we did. As he wrote, he told me that writing is mostly rewriting and was segueing into a scholarly disquisition but I wasn’t having it. “Shut the fuck up and write.” Finally the letter was complete.
“When do you deliver Franklin’s letters?�
�
“When the packet comes from Manila.”
“When will that happen?”
“Next Tuesday, thereabouts.”
“How does he get his letters?”
“I call him. He comes by.”
“Fine. You’ll make sure he gets this letter, and then you’ll resign your position as of that day and you’ll say your good-byes on Sunday.”
“That’s not much notice. That’s not going to sit well with Reverend Jenkins.”
“Maybe I should talk to the reverend.”
He sat there for a second. “No.”
How do you deal with a spider in church? You step on it.
But Linscomb was feeling confessional. “You know I never meant this to go where it did. It just happened.”
“Nothing just happens. Show me the picture that started all this.”
He looked at me, surprised. “How did you know?”
“Just show me the goddam picture.”
“Okay.” He rose, went to his desk, opened a drawer, returned with a photograph, eight by ten, handed it to me.
Seven people waved from the front door of a three-story building in the sun. A cross, slightly askew, hung over the door.
“Which one is Francie?”
He pointed at a cheerful looking Filipina, late forties.
Part of me smiled. All right, Franklin. Going after that young stuff.
There was a formula for the proper age difference between men and women. Though I was unsure where it came from, I had no doubt of its masculine origin.
Half a man’s age plus seven.
Which meant Lynette was perfect for me. And for Franklin, let’s see, uh, seventy-eight, thirty-nine, uh, forty-six. Francie could have been forty-six. All right, Franklin. “What’s her real name?”
“I’m not sure. I think it’s Josie.” He paused. “I never did anything like this before.”
Bullshit.
“You know, in one way he owes me.”
Disgust is ameliorated by exposure. Over the time I’d been in his company I’d started to feel a little sorry for him. But Linscomb’s last pronouncement reversed the process. I felt a tingle in my fist. “In one way he owes you?”
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