Angel’s Gate

by p. g. sturges

  Paulita exited.

  Good. Maybe he could fix things. He could. He would. He remembered something he had heard in his twenties. Most men never marry the woman they love the most. Why is that, he recalled thinking. Now he knew. The hard surfaces of life pushed emotion to the periphery, where it conformed to available space. Gott in Himmel. How he loved Paulita.

  Now what the fuck was this basket about. Hmmm. From Liquor Locker.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Impervious

  Devi pulled into the parking lot behind City National. The City National Tower was the last structure on the north side of Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood before Beverly Hills began. Across the street was Hamburger Hamlet, her destination. She stopped, put the Lexus in park, handed her car over to the illegal immigrant in the red jacket. “Treat my baby, right, eh?” She smiled.

  “Yes, missus.” He handed her a ticket. Carlos never displayed humor with white people. He never knew exactly what they were talking about. Or their intentions. “How long gon’ be, missus?”

  “That’s none of your business. Just park the car.”

  Devi crossed the street, looked back at her car. She hadn’t meant to be rude to Pablo or whatever his name was. The Lexus rolled into the garage, disappeared. But this particular City National valet service, or at least this location, had an amusing story associated with it.

  It the mid-nineties, some enterprising criminals had hatched a good and simple idea. When the white people valeted their expensive cars here, appropriate cars would be immediately rolled out the rear exit to commit felonies. Armed robbery, house invasion, drug delivery. No one suspected a Porsche Carrera or a Lamborghini coming to call. Hence the innocuous question, how long gon’ be, missus? In other words, how long do we have to use your vehicle in a criminal enterprise before you return?

  Devi entered the cool of the Hamlet. She hadn’t met Heather Hill but she knew what the woman would look like. All Hogue girls looked the same.

  There she was. Blond, ten feet tall, gazongas the size of basketballs. Devi extended her hand. “Heather?”

  Heather stood up, reached for the woman’s hand.

  They both ordered salad. After a bit, conversation was the only alternative. “So what brought you to Hollywood, Heather?”

  Her love for the theater.

  How was the campaign going?

  What campaign?

  I meant your career. How were things going?

  Well, she got thrown off Gumshoe the other day.

  Really.

  She was really messed up about it. But then realized God only shuts one door in order to open another.

  I see. Would that second door be the Ivanhoe Special Talent Program?

  Yes. She was so excited.

  That’s wonderful.

  She couldn’t wait to meet Howard Hogue.

  I’m sure he feels the same way.

  She’d asked Melvin a question the other day. He never answered.

  What did you ask him?

  Could her boyfriend get in the program, too? If he auditioned?

  That would be some audition. Devi would pay to see that. The program is usually for girls, Heather.

  Could there be an exception? In an exceptional case?

  Uh, maybe. Though Devi couldn’t imagine Howard performing the Rusty Trombone.

  She took dancing lessons when she was younger.

  Oh. Excellent. We’ll build from there.

  Melvin was right. The girl was amazing. She’d left her brains with the orthodontist, back in Lewiston, Pennsylvania. She had perfect white teeth. Suddenly Devi didn’t feel like playing the game any longer.

  “Heather. Can I ask you a question?”

  “I wish you would. The answer is Pretty Woman.”

  “What was the question?” Now Devi was puzzled.

  “What made me decide to become an actress.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “Oh. Well, go ahead. Ask away.”

  “What’s your opinion of anal sex?”

  “Anal sex? Do you mean—”

  “I mean Howard Hogue’s dick up your ass. How would you feel about that?”

  The girl’s eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. “You’re disgusting!” But then her expression slowly changed. She tipped her head to one side, studied Devi. “You’re just testing me. Trying to freak me out. That’s what you’re doing, aren’t you? Well, I can’t be freaked out that easy. I want into the program. I want in.”

  Devi threw up her hands. The girl was impervious. Devi reached across the table, hand outstretched. Heather took it. “Welcome to the program, Heather. You’re in.”

  Heather whooped. Other patrons of the Hamlet turned to see. “Thank you, girlfriend,” said Heather, “thank you!”

  “Now, listen. Howard will visit from time to time. He’ll want to dance with you.”

  “To see how my lessons are going, right?”

  “Uh . . . yes. And you’ll also have to dress up the way he likes.”

  “Checking my style sense?”

  “Uh . . . yes. He’ll want to see you in a little black dress and green silk panties.”

  “Oh.” Now Heather understood. “He likes to play Las Vegas. Like Michelle Pfeiffer in the The Fabulous Baker Boys.” Heather smiled. “I can play piano, too.”

  How about the skin flute? Devi gave up. Heather was a force of nature. A veggie-force. But a force nevertheless.

  FIFTY-SIX

  The Presence of God

  From your friends at the San Pedro Film Company

  Wolf didn’t remember any friends there. In fact, he’d never heard of them. But he hadn’t heard of a lot of people. He opened the envelope.

  From the desk of Jack Ireland

  Dear Dr. Wolf,

  Hope this finds you well. We’re interested in your thoughts on this script. From a medical point of view, we’d love to have you as part of what we think will be a great team. Thank you for considering this.

  Jack

  Wolf opened the script. San Pedro. A. Davis.

  His phone rang. Melvin Shea. He’d forgotten to call the bastard back. “This is Dr. Wolf.”

  “Hi, Doc. This is Melvin.”

  “What can I do for you, Melvin?”

  “Nice day, today. Really nice day.”

  “Yes?”

  “Fantastic day.”

  “Yes?”

  “Such a good day that I thought, hey, I’ll call up my old pal, Wolfie, and see what’s up.”

  “Nothing is up.” Did Melvin think that he was now his friend?

  “What I was thinking was that we might take the old boat out for a spin. On the bay. Whaddaya say?”

  Take the boat out? For the slimy pimp? “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Melvin. Don’t call again except for business. Goodbye.” Was that emphatic enough? Good Gott. He settled into the screenplay.

  • • •

  Ten minutes later his reading creaked to a stop. He was ill. This was no screenplay. This was blackmail. His heart felt weak and pulpy in his chest. He wandered away from the pool, suddenly chundered his breakfast into the cactus garden.

  His life . . . was falling apart. Piece by piece. What to do? What to do?

  He had to think. He had to think. This strike at him—wasn’t it also a strike at Hogue? Of course, it was. Had to be. In fact, it was aimed at Hogue, through him. He would call Hogue, lay it at his feet. Fucking Hogue. That’s why he did what he did. Because Hogue, fucking Hogue, had asked.

  He looked around. He couldn’t stay here. Not here. Not right now. He needed to think. Where thinking was possible. Cabrillo. He’d have Paulita come down. That’s what he’d do. Hush, My Baby was oceanworthy. Maybe a jaunt down to Ensenada.

  He went back in the house. Paulita was in the kitchen. “Come to the library. I need to talk to you.”

  In the library, after the door was quietly closed, he again grabbed her arms. “What I want you to do now, right now, is take the rest of t
he day off, with pay, and get in your car and drive down to Cabrillo and wait for me. I have to make a few calls, but I’ll be right behind you. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, who?”

  “Yes, sir.

  “Don’t call me sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Christ. “Look. Get your car and go to Cabrillo. Right this second.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “Forget about her. You go to Cabrillo. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  “Okay.”

  His heart soared with her two syllables and he kissed her. “Go.”

  He opened the door, she stepped through, he shut the door.

  One thing at a time. One thing at a time.

  Hogue. He had to call Hogue.

  • • •

  Hogue put down the phone slowly. Montgomery and now Wolf. What did it mean? Bottom line, of course, was the bottom line. Money. Sooner or later, someone would stand up and present a bill. Montgomery and Wolf were affluent, true, but he was resplendent. Thus, these missiles were meant for him.

  And where did Hames fit in? Maybe he had trusted the man too soon. All the trouble had begun after his employment.

  Betty Ann. He remembered her as if it were yesterday. They had briefly stood side by side at his party long ago. Each had taken a flute of champagne from the gorgeous boy with the tray. She had looked from him to Montgomery, climbing the stairs, and back. “So . . . you’re the man behind the man,” she purred.

  “That’s me,” he had agreed.

  He was. Hale Montgomery was tall, and wonderfully handsome. Black hair. White teeth. His voice low, with an appealing gruffness. Women tottered when he smiled, melted when he laughed. The natural inclination was to add intelligence to his visible qualities. But that addition would be erroneous. Montgomery wasn’t a moron. He was a twenty-watt bulb. Like Elvis, he would have made a fine truck driver or a janitor. A contented janitor. A cheerful trucker with a ready joke. But fate had decreed differently.

  He had watched Betty Ann follow the Big Cluck up the stairs. From the landing she had winked at him. And he had winked back.

  Then the horrifying revelation. Naked Montgomery, bloody hands raised in the air. How lucky he had been to clear the party as quickly as he had. Then Davis Algren walking in on him. As he stood with the doctor, looking down on the ruined Betty Ann.

  But what did one do? Ruin the lives and livelihoods of many in exchange for the ruined life of one? So he had acted like the leader he was.

  Leaders made decisions. Right or wrong. They made decisions. That’s what made them leaders. You did your best and things played out from there.

  The girl hadn’t suffered. Not any more than she had already suffered. Slowly, very slowly, as the drug entered her bloodstream, the soft lights went dimmer and dimmer. Then there was no light.

  Maybe she entered the presence of God.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  All the Way to the Bing

  At St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica, Odell Wallis waited at the back steps with the wheelchair. This was the celebrity entrance. Soon he’d be wheeling some rich lunatic motherfucker to the bing. Exhaustion.

  Hi. I’m Smokin’ Jack Wilton and I’ve been sober for fifteen minutes.

  That had been the last one. Just yesterday. Except Wilton had been huffin’ and puffin’ in the limousine and had arrived blazingly high. Didn’t matter. The two-week miracle cure began with wheels on premises. Odell helped Smokin’ Jack into the wheelchair and rolled him right into the elevator, up the tower, and directly into the bing. Exhaustion.

  CLANG went the steel door. Another sponge in recovery.

  Ten minutes later, on his union break, out by the Dumpsters, Odell had called the Hollywood TattleTale and made a clean hundred bucks. Every job had its perks. And then there was LaShauna in Ultrasound. Who needed the Odell-stick every now and again. Craved it.

  • • •

  Now another limousine approached. Two or three every day. On average. Who would it be this time? All exhausted and shit. The limousine rolled to a stop. The driver exited, came around to open the door.

  God damn. God damn. It was Stash Rockland. Well, it looked like Stash Rockland. ’Cept this dude was crying. Oh, no . . . Stash wasn’t a pussy, was he?

  Pussy sobbed all the way to the bing.

  CLANG.

  Ten minutes later Odell was another hundred dollars richer.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Negative Buoyancy

  The pace of the 405 South did nothing for his BP. His conversation with Hogue had lasted longer than he’d anticipated. He was thirty-five minutes behind Paulita.

  Hogue was sending someone to pick up the script. He’d arranged to have it collected from his mailbox. He’d had a feeling Hogue wasn’t as surprised as he pretended. Maybe Hale Montgomery had received a similar script.

  Hale looked like a senator now. With the brains of a mailman.

  Melvin should have been a mailman. Bitter and stupid, crouching under a sack, puling about sick pay. How odd, his phone call. Wanting to go on the boat. What could he have possibly been thinking? Wait a second. Wolf’s heart went pulpy again. Maybe Melvin needed to go out on the boat.

  What had he done to deserve this?

  Like it was five minutes ago, he felt the resistance of the syringe’s plunger as he pushed the morphine into the black girl’s left arm. Blood made its complete circuit of the body in one minute. She’d been dead thirty seconds when Davis Algren walked in. It had been the only humane thing to do. Hadn’t it?

  He redialed Melvin.

  “Hey, Doc,” said Melvin, full of cheer. “Whazzup? I knew you’d call me back.”

  “Melvin. Why do you want to go out on the boat?”

  “Doc! You cagey sumbitchy. Have I actually managed to get your attention?”

  “Why do you want to go out on the boat God damn it?”

  “Because we need to, Doc. We need to.”

  Wolf felt his colon gurgle. “We need to take the boat out.” More dead people? “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “This is your fault, Doc.”

  “What is my fault?”

  “You hired those two Mexicans. They called me. They wanted money.”

  “God damn it, Melvin. Who called you?”

  “Luis and Ernesto.”

  “Luis?”

  “Yeah. Luis and Ernesto. They were worried about Rhonda. They wanted to establish a health fund for her. They suggested cash.”

  “Cash?”

  “That’s what they wanted. That’s why they’re waiting on your boat.”

  “Waiting on my boat?” He was suddenly in the grip of a klong.

  “Yeah, Doc. They’re waiting on your boat. But don’t worry. They’re very patient. Real patient, in fact. Get it?”

  A klong was a sudden rush of shit to the heart. Horns blared as Wolf drifted across the lane marker. He was having trouble catching his breath.

  “So, like I said, call me back later. When you’ve got a time figured out. Best late at night. Like the other night.”

  The pimp clicked off.

  Silence.

  A driver in a red, boxy vehicle passed him, flipped him the bird.

  Good God. Paulita would arrive at Cabrillo—in fifteen minutes. And if the hatch wasn’t locked, she’d discover two dead countrymen in the salon. Which would go over big.

  He couldn’t let her do that. See that. He fast-dialed her.

  “Hello?”

  Jesus. Her voice sounded horrible. Maybe she’d already seen the slaughter.

  “Darling, it’s Ulli. Are you alright?”

  “What darling are you talking to, Ulli?” said Gretchen, acid dripping from her tongue. Her faithless asshole husband hadn’t been using that Cialis with her. Not that she cared. Been there, done that. “Paulita quit. Left her phone here on the counter.”

  No
. No. No. Nooooo. He’d called his wife? What could he say? Jesus, what could he say? Whatever it might be, he couldn’t think of it now. He hung up.

  Drive, baby, drive.

  • • •

  Paulita finally fought her way to Cabrillo. She’d been crying the whole time. She parked too fast and scraped the bottom of her Toyota on the concrete parking bar. She looked in the rearview mirror. A smeary-eyed stranger with a bulging forehead stared back at her.

  She hurried down the floating walkway to the boat. A group of people were standing around. The boat was gone.

  • • •

  The Harbor Freeway ended at Gaffey Street. He was two minutes away from the dock. His phone rang. It would be Paulita, staring at the dead men. “Hello?”

  “Is this Dr. Wolf?” asked an unknown voice.

  “Who’s this?”

  “This is Dr. Wolf?”

  “Yes. Now who’s this?”

  “This is John Elston. Dockmaster at Cabrillo Marina.”

  Christ. They’d found bodies. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’ve got bad news, doctor.”

  Bodies. Police. Listeners. Recorders. He’d have to act surprised. “What kind of bad news?”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor. Your boat has sunk at the pier.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  Glastonbury

  Perry Atwater had journeyed eighteen hundred miles from Chicago to Los Angeles. Once in Los Angeles, he rented office space in the old Desmond’s building. Exactly beneath the offices of Nevil Jonson. I could hear Jonson’s tasseled loafers above me as Atwater ushered me in.

  Perry bore no resemblance to his brother Rutland. He was tall as a telephone pole, thin as a rail. Then there was the cologne. Undoubtedly he bathed in it. From a discount vat at a Rite Aid desert warehouse. It occurred to me the scent might also be efficacious as moth repellant. No holes in Perry Atwater’s wool.

  But he was immensely likable and bubbled over with good cheer. The weather had driven him west. At a certain point, you just couldn’t take those Chicago winters. He thanked me profoundly for the change in his brother Rutland. A miracle turnaround. What had I said to him?