Shortcut Man

by p. g. sturges

  “Sure he does. I made him the star in his own movie. Franklin Tillman, Adventure in Manila. I’ve given the man his last thrill.”

  I thought of Tillman a little differently. Korean War vet, couple of Purple Hearts. A family man, a mechanical engineer at Aerojet, an individual with a conscience who suffered the slings and arrows of being a good man in a shitty world. And then, in church, in his final years, he runs into Michael Linscomb.

  It was karma time.

  I struck like a serpent, pinned the guy’s right wrist to the table with my left hand. Then, with my right, I bent his thumb all the way back to his wrist. He could have been double-jointed, but he wasn’t. There was a sharp, bright-sounding crack accompanied by a scream.

  He snatched his hand back, high in the air. His thumb depended oddly, and it seemed he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “My thumb. My thumb. It’s broken. You broke my thumb.”

  “Yes, I did. But don’t worry. My friend Dr. Clarke would call this a simple diaphyseal fracture. Anyway, you’re ambidextrous; you can write with your other hand.”

  I snapped my fingers. “And maybe you can put this in a movie, too. The sequel to Adventure in Manila. You can call it Tillman’s Revenge.”

  I got up, looked down at him. “If you’re not out of here on Sunday, fuckstick, things will go poorly for you. Maybe you’ll be one of those guys who learns to write with his feet.”

  I walked out before I skinned him alive.

  Reverend Jenkins had been briefly awakened that night by what he thought may have been a scream. But it couldn’t have been. Not in this neighborhood. He turned back over. He needed all the sleep he could get. Tomorrow morning, like every morning, he would celebrate five-thirty Mass.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

  I’d imagined it would have gone like this. Because it had to be done, no way around it.

  It would be late, maybe one in the morning. There’d be a knock. A knock I’d recognize as hers. I’d open up and there she’d be, tragically beautiful, tragically flawed. With that smile on her face. She’d walk right in like she owned the place. “What’s up, Dick Henry?”

  I’d have to smile but that smile would have shadows and she’d pick that up.

  What’s wrong?

  Nothing’s wrong.

  Something’s wrong.

  And then, unlike most real instances in my life, I would just tell the woman the truth.

  Look. You know it and I know it. It’s just not working. Between us. We should close the book on this one.

  Her expression would ratify the truth of my words.

  Break up?

  I think so. Shit. I’d have to do better than I think so.

  Break up?

  Yes.

  She’d flop down on the couch, toss her purse on the coffee table, lean back, shut her eyes.

  She’d open her eyes, they’d be moist. You’re right, you’re right, she’d say.

  It’s better this way.

  I know it is.

  Then would come statements of mutual respect and admiration. Then further statements of ameliorative fallacy.

  Maybe I’ll see you around.

  Yeah. You never know.

  In a perfect world, she would pick up her stuff, walk toward the door. I’d get there first, open it. We’d both step out onto the porch. Since this was my fantasy, I let a misty rain fall softly, hissing into the foliage.

  She’d turn and look at me. Except for her green eyes, this would be a Willie Nelson “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” moment.

  Then we’d kiss. A deep, soulful kiss, unhurried and salutary. Carrying memories and echoes of faded love, offering hints and glints of vistas never to be seen.

  We’d separate, look into each other’s eyes.

  Good-bye, Dick.

  Good-bye, What’s-Your-Name.

  Of course, I wouldn’t say that.

  Good-bye, Lynette.

  She would turn, descend the three steps from the porch to the walkway, and walk to the gate. Never looking back, she’d open the gate, step through, let it fall shut behind her.

  I would never see her again.

  Our breakup would preface my meteoric rise to success and renown. Mutual friends would sadly describe her, bereft and alone, doggedly compiling a scrapbook of my accomplishments.

  Eventually she would die in Paris. I mean, expire . . . expire in Paris.

  Her knock came at two-fifteen. I had just finished a Preston Sturges DVD, my favorite among them, Unfaithfully Yours. His one Fox picture. Rex Harrison, Linda Darnell, Rudy Vallee. And the Sturges gang with Al Bridge.

  I opened up and she breezed right in, a half-smoked joint dead between her fingers. Unfaithfully mine. “What’s up, Dick Henry?”

  I smiled. We kissed lightly. She tossed her purse onto the coffee table. Then she tipped her head, looked at me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  Breaking up in real life is much harder than in the rehearsal. You are assailed by doubts about your own feelings, you are filled with sudden sympathy for the partner about to be sundered, sudden fears concerning consequence. What if this is the last straw between her and suicide? Between suicide and blowing your fucking head off with the small-caliber pistol you never knew she carried in her purse? Because you never know what’s in a woman’s purse.

  “Look,” I began, “you and I know this is not working.”

  “What’s not working?”

  “You know what’s not working. Maybe we should close the book on this one.”

  “What book?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “You want to break up with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, fuck you, Dick.”

  And then she leapt into my arms, grabbed me by the head, and kissed me deep and long. My intellect persevered for a few seconds then folded its tent, disappeared. I carried her straight to the bedroom, and we set right in.

  Every act of love is an act of communication. Most times not profound, simply serving to remind partners that something very personal, something beyond words does exist. It beats arguing. We made love slowly and deeply, almost sadly, then it was finished.

  We lay there in the half-light and the quiet, breathing. A couple of Japanese motorcycles snarled up the canyon. She turned over, touched my arm. “It’s over, isn’t it, Dick?”

  “Yeah.”

  The word rolled right out, like a marble from a jar, a single syllable, irretrievable, irrevocable. Shocking. What part of me had answered that question?

  I made some coffee, we sat in the kitchen. Words were a physical effort.

  She made a sound that resembled a laugh. “Well, you did all right on this one, Dick.”

  “What are you talking about? I did all right how?”

  “Money-wise.”

  “Money-wise?”

  Ojai entered and formed in her mind. That clean, square Craftsman house and the children she would never have and the impossibility, futility, stupidity, insanity, inanity, foolishness, and laughability of everything. Had she really thought she loved this man? This two-bit player? This scratch hitter? This rambler? This wanderer? This refugee? This foot soldier? Had she allowed herself to believe in something other than the real? Other than the present? Other than the factual? The manifest? The tactile? The smelly? That which will rot? Had she invested in that hilarious fiction, love? When she knew better? Knew better? Love was nothing but a stupid fantasy, a wish, a prayer, a petition into a mirror.

  Well, she had come back to her senses. The target was Artie. “Yeah, you did all right, Dick.” She rubbed thumb and forefinger. “Creating Tom Salt. Killing Tom Salt. Fucking brilliant. Accepting Artie’s money for killing a person who didn’t exist. Yeah, you did all right.”

  “How did you know about Tom Salt?”

  “And your fifty grand? It doesn’t matter how
I know.”

  “Oh, yes it does.”

  “Then I’ll let you figure it out.” She got to her feet, picked up her purse, walked out of the kitchen, through the little hallway toward the front door. “Good-bye, Dick.”

  She walked outside. Toward the gate.

  “Where’re you going?”

  She paused, looked over her shoulder at me. “Back. Back to the real world.”

  Pearly King kept running through my head. Pearly King and the Temple Thieves. Pearly, E.G. Houston, Byrd Sancious, Osvado Oquendo. The tune was called “Ghost of a Ghost.”

  I fell asleep

  You were in my head

  Woke up soakin’ wet

  You were in my bed

  Ghost of a ghost of a ghost

  But you won’t fade away

  Rain of the rain of the rain come down every day

  A car rolls by in the street

  Your perfume it lingers so sweet

  I don’t have the will to pretend

  Baby yes I’m drinkin’ again

  But Lynette had tipped her hand. And there it was, the classic case of the Inside Man. When she’d mentioned Artie’s fifty grand, all the relationships solidified.

  She shouldn’t have known that figure. Artie wouldn’t have told her that figure, would he? And who else would know . . . except Arnuldo. Love struck Arnuldo.

  Lynette was too smart for her own good. She was in the center of the circle, and around her danced the marionettes, to be drawn close as necessary. Artie, Arnuldo, Jerry Shunk.

  And Dick Henry.

  But Dick Henry didn’t care anymore.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The Inside Man

  Well after midnight the clouds broke, releasing the beneficence of a distant god to his multitudes in the canyons, the arroyos, and the flats. My back window was open, and I listened to it come down.

  I couldn’t sleep.

  Then, through the pounding of the rain, I became aware of another sound. Someone at the door.

  Through the side window I saw it was Arnuldo. He was holding another eight-by-eleven manila envelope.

  I opened the door. “What?”

  His hatred was still smoldered, banked down. He held up the envelope. “From Mr. B.”

  “Come in.”

  He entered, a few steps’ worth, handed me the envelope.

  “What is this?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “For what?”

  “Mr. B’s serious.”

  “Serious about what?”

  “Come tomorrow at nine P.M. Talk to Mr. B. Forty more.”

  “Why doesn’t he just call me?”

  “I do everything for Mr. B.”

  “What do you do for Mrs. B?”

  A finger jutted toward my chest. His voice was thick. “Stay away from her.”

  “You think she loves you, Arnuldo?”

  His eyes widened in outrage. “Fuck you, Henry. Stay away from her.”

  He spun, walked out into the rain. He still hadn’t figured it out. Maybe he never would. Lynette didn’t love anyone. She didn’t know how. It wasn’t even her fault.

  If you’re not loved early enough, you’re incapable of loving. You just don’t understand what it is, you don’t know what you’re missing, nor can you conceive that you’re missing anything.

  I didn’t know Lynette’s history. Her real history. Maybe she didn’t even know. But Mom and Dad, or whoever, had gone missing. She may have been treated kindly, but kindness is no substitute for love.

  I hefted the envelope. Fifty was murder money. Artie wanted me to off Lynette. What else could it be?

  I’d make the nine o’clock appointment. To return the ten and finally tell Artie to fuck off.

  PART THREE

  The Business at Hand

  CHAPTER FORTY

  An Alibi Created

  At a central table in Ruth’s Chris Steak House, Judy Benjamin held court, surrounded by a coterie of her favorite acquaintances. She was dressed in a crimson, strapless gown that defied gravity. It was a jovial assemblage, well lubricated by preprandial cocaine and expensive dinner wine.

  The fine steaks had been served but not all that much eating was being done. Which was fine with her. She pulled out her phone and fooled with it. It worked fine. But she didn’t want a traceable call on her account. She tapped Vicky, in the next seat. Vicky was a producer with no credits. Which meant she was a caterer interrupted.

  “What a great party,” enthused Vicky, mindful of her situation and her hostess. Artie Benjamin wanted to help her, in more ways than one, so she was weighing her options, seeing where advantage lay.

  “I need to borrow your phone for a second,” said Judy. “My piece of shit isn’t working.”

  Vicky handed over her phone, and Judy excused herself. In the ladies’ lounge she dialed Jerry Shunk. He answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Jerry. It’s me.” She could feel his heart leap half a mile up the street. Tiresome old fool. But some fools wrote wills.

  “Judy? What is it?”

  “Jerry.” Pain and fright crept into her voice. “Something terrible has happened.”

  “What? What?”

  “Artie’s just given me papers.”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “I don’t know what kind of papers. But he laughed about them. They don’t look funny.”

  “He can’t give you any papers. I haven’t written any.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jerry, he put some fucking papers in my hand. Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll take a look at them.” He’d better take a look at them. Had Artie hired outside help? Nosy lawyers could be dangerous.

  “You at Nate ’n Al’s?”

  “Like every Friday night.”

  “Can I send Arnuldo over?”

  “Fine. I’ll be finished in ten minutes.”

  Her voice sank into the softness of relief. “Thanks, Jerry. You’re a lifesaver.”

  She clicked off. Bingo.

  She dialed another number.

  Arnuldo answered. “Yes.”

  “You ready?”

  “Ready.”

  The line went dead. Good. Arnuldo was ready.

  Which was another problem. Fucking Arnuldo was always ready. Always needy. She’d created another pest in her own home.

  She futzed with her lipstick, went back to her guests.

  “Thanks, hon.” She gave Vicky her phone back. “How’s your steak?”

  “It’s wonderful. Melts in your mouth almost.”

  Vicky pointed to Judy’s untouched filet mignon. “What about yours? They forgot to cook it.”

  Lynette looked at the meat as if for the first time. “You’re right.” It was very rare. But she hadn’t ordered it to eat it.

  How do you want your steak? the waiter had asked, pulling a black enamel pen from his blue apron.

  She had smiled. Blood rare.

  That’s very rare, ma’am.

  And that’s what I want. Slap it on the ass and run it through the kitchen.

  Edgardo had shrugged. Maybe it was the full moon. But he had delivered the steak as ordered. Slap it on the ass and run it through the kitchen. Let’s see you eat it.

  The woman hadn’t even tasted her steak. But lots of wine had gone down, and the bill would be significant. The wine was horse piss of Sardinian extraction that fell off the truck every Tuesday night between two and three with a French label around its neck. It moved briskly at sixty-four dollars a bottle. Bueno. Wine snobs. They’d praise Gallo if the bottle was nice.

  Lynette looked around. At least the wine was good. The apex of the dinner hour had been reached. The dining room was full, people were waiting. The clattering, chattering din of happy, busy diners filled the air. She took a deep breath. Showtime.

  She craned her head around, looking for her waiter, Egbardo or whatever his name was. Finally she caught his eye.

&nbs
p; Over he came. “Yes, ma’am?”

  She pointed at her steak. “Look at this steak.”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Certainly she wasn’t going to complain about the way it had been cooked.

  “This isn’t what I ordered,” she said in a loud voice. Other tablemates, hearing the timbre of confrontation, turned to see.

  “It’s rare, ma’am, like you wanted it,” said Edgardo.

  “This isn’t how I wanted it at all.” A flat definitive. And loud.

  Other patrons turned to eye the lady in the red dress and her table of celebrants.

  Edgardo had taken a lot of shit in his life. At this exact moment he was close to full up. “If I remember, ma’am”—you stupid white Westside cow—“you said ‘Slap it on the ass and run it through the kitchen.’”

  “Listen here, Pancho, I said nothing of the fucking kind.”

  She now commanded the complete attention of all the other patrons.

  “My name is not Pancho, ma’am. My name is—”

  “I don’t fucking care what your name is—I want some goddam service around here. Get the manager.”

  Edgardo, red-faced, furious, retreated, met the manager coming across the dining room.

  Walt Faulkner, new manager, hurried to table number 13. Obviously, there was a problem. As he arrived, the woman in the red dress got to her feet, tipping over her chair.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “Are you the fucking manager?”

  “I’m the manager.” There was a difference. “Can I help you?”

  Judy pointed to the steak. “See that thing?”

  Faulkner looked down on an extremely rare cut of fine, marbled beef. “I see rare beef.”

  “Is that all you see, motherfucker?” demanded the woman.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t tone it down, I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “Ask me to leave?” shouted Judy. “You’re going to ask me to leave? My question is this.”

  The restaurant was utterly silent.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re really going to have—”

  She cut him off like a Hummer would a Subaru at a four-way stop. “My question is this, meat whistle. Why can’t a girl get good beef in Beverly Hills?”