Because things with Devi seemed to be reaching a natural conclusion. Like my relationships with friends on my submarine so many years ago. Some relationships stood on their own. They were rare. Most stood in their juxtaposition to work and duty. And when those exigencies faded, so did the friendship. Devi’s vivid sense of danger from Melvin and Nazarian had paled when nothing had materialized.
Caring for Hogue’s girls had looked stupid and frivolous for a while. But passing time had restored the allure of thirty-two fifty a week. Heather Hill had been brought into the fold.
And I knew she’d been going back to her house more and more. Feed the cat, et cetera. Relax in a known environment; you knew where the scissors were, there was a jar to put your pocket change, another for pens and pencils, your station on the radio.
But Melvin was still serious bad news. I counseled her not to put herself in a vulnerable position with him. But my cautions were wearing thin. Human nature at work.
So, at this moment, I was rolling toward Santa Monica and the Galley on Main Street. Georgette’s choice.
The Galley was small and dark, with ropes and chains in a nautical theme. Surf ’n’ turf, good drinks. Georgette and I had always used the place for conversations of substance. That was another reason I knew she wanted to get back together.
My mood lifted when I saw her. She was a big, good-looking woman. Big arms, big legs, big ass—not too big—big boobs. Big.
“You’re lookin’ good tonight, Georgie.”
She smiled, pleased. “Thank you, Dick.”
Yeah. She wanted me back. I leaned back, stretched, sipped my Bloody Mary. “There’s a lot less of you,” I lied, pleasantly.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve lost ten pounds.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Five pounds. I can see it.” Ten pounds had been overdoing it a bit.
“Actually, Dick, I’ve gained seven.”
The unwritten, ironclad rules of war dictated a man never acknowledge a woman’s claim of gained weight. There was no conceivable benefit to such acquiescence. I shook my head, spread my hands, seven pounds?
We settled in to a good meal. Again I found myself wondering what I really liked, lobster or butter. But I was feeling good, it didn’t matter. She put down her fork, asked me if I had an extra six hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars.
“That’s a highly specific sum. Looking at a new house?”
“No. You remember Francine?”
Of course I remembered her. Platonically, thank you very much. Again, the rules were ironclad. “Francine? Francine who?”
“My friend Francine. She married Carl?”
“Parents of Randy’s best friend in first grade.”
Georgette nodded. “Remember she had a little girl, Teresa?”
“Something was wrong with her?”
“Well, they’ve found out what it is. Refractory epilepsy.”
“What’s that?”
“Seizures in one hemisphere of the brain are transmitted to the other hemisphere, causing massive seizures. That’s the refractory part, the one side to the other. Poor little thing passes out on her feet, falls, smashes her head.”
“So, buy her a helmet.”
Georgette’s eyes flashed and her fork stopped in midair. “That’s not funny, Dick.”
“Sorry.” It wasn’t funny. “What do they do for her?”
“There’s an operation. A corpus callosotomy,” she said carefully, emphasis on the third syllable.
“When are they going to do it?”
“When Francine can come up with—”
“Six hundred thirty-nine thousand dollars.”
“Jesus, Dick. I feel so bad for her.”
“The insurance companies—”
“Consider it experimental surgery.”
“Assholes. What’s the operation? What do they do?”
“They go into the brain, cut most of the fiber bundle that connects each side of the brain to the other.”
“Sounds radical.”
“It is radical. But it cuts the seizure rate by ninety percent. And cuts the severity.”
“What about side effects?”
“It does weird stuff. You recognize objects but you can’t name them. Stuff like that. But Teresa is still young.”
“And her brain could rewire.”
“It could. And anything’s better than what’s happening.”
Christ. That was one thing kids could never understand. Until they became parents themselves. A child in the world meant you never slept again. Because you always had one eye open. Praying, hoping, trying to believe that the accidents that happened to others would never happen to yours.
Seizures. Watching your child overwhelmed by some malignant mystery force. Occluding their beauty, their potential for greatness. Knowing you had long since squandered your own potential, trading it for transitory pleasures.
Christ. Seizures so horrific you grasped at the opportunity to cut your child’s brain in half. Solomonic. And then the insurance companies pointing to a subchapter in their defrauding manuals, telling you they couldn’t help. You were on your own. Sorry.
God damn them all. Pearly’s “If There Is No God” rolled through my mind.
if there is no god who will forgive me? if there is no god who will believe me? if there is no god who’s gonna save me?
I looked at Georgie. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t have six hundred and thirty-nine thousand.” I finished off my Bloody Mary.
Why had she suggested dinner this evening? Not for this . . . utter tragedy.
“Dick,” said Georgette, “I wanted to talk to you tonight.”
At last. Our conversation lurched around the corner. To the future. Getting back together. I had to admit, she’d maneuvered things very nicely. Francine’s tribulations pointed up the value of family. I surrendered, prepared myself for meat loaf and lima beans. “What’s up, Georgie?”
“It’s about something serious.”
“Let’s have it.” I slipped on my devil-may-care grin. Here came bologna and deviled eggs, mac and cheese.
“Dick. I’m seeing someone.”
“You’re seeing—what did you say?”
“I’ve met someone.”
“Met someone?” The first requirement of communication is common language.
“His name is Hartley Marvel.”
“Hartley Marvel?” The second requirement of communication is the desire to understand.
“He’s a CPA over at Paramount.”
My hemispheres were miscommunicating. “Wait a second,” I demanded. “Anyone named Harvey Marvel’s gotta be gay.” I hadn’t meant to talk so loudly. And as far as sexual orientation went, whatever gets you through the night. But that name, Hartley Marvel.
Georgette’s eyes glinted in cold triumph. Over the small man who had been her husband. “Hartley’s not gay, Dick, believe me. He’s a CPA. Over at Paramount.”
The restaurant had grown very quiet. Everyone seemed to be eying me. Our nice waitress, now stony, floated out of the darkness. “Check, please,” I said, scraping together my dignity.
In the public parking lot behind the Galley, where my ’69 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible awaited me, Georgette pulled up next to me in her new, white Mustang. The window whispered down.
“You’ll like Harvey when you meet him, Dick.”
“Sure, I will.” Fat chance.
“You know what he fixed for me?”
It’d better be the garbage disposal. “What did he fix?”
“He reinstalled Windows and put in Quicken.”
“Chicken? He baked a chicken?” My hearing was good, is good.
“Quicken. It’s an accounting program.”
“Sounds like a handy guy.”
“You’ll like him.”
“Sure.”
The hazel eyes that once looked into my soul now looked me over. “Goodbye, Dick.”
Off she drove
.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Whirlwind
Devi was in Beachwood Market when the call came. She was in the act of purchasing twenty cans of Friskies cat food, Felonius Monk’s favorite. Ten cans/five bucks. Felonius had rejected her last offering, raking his orange paw over a house brand from Ralphs that claimed a relationship to liver pâté. The relationship had not fooled the careful cat.
She slid her card through the slot. Cash back? The phone rang. Sylvette W.
“Hello?”
“Devi? It’s Sylvette.”
Sylvette didn’t sound good. “Hi, Syl. You alright?”
“I’m over in West Hollywood. In Bambi’s old place. Melvin’s letting me move in. But I found something. You have to come over.”
Melvin had moved Sylvette? News to her. “What did you find?”
“I can’t tell you. Not over the phone.” Sylvette sounded agonized. “Please come. Please, please come.” Sylvette drew breath. “Please.”
The last emergency call had been Rhonda. Dick thought Rhonda was dead. But maybe she was back in Florida. Slinging mojitos at the beach. Well, slinging them after she got better. Slinging them after she got her face fixed. Slinging mojitos from under a paper bag.
“Okay. I’ll be right over.”
“Thank you. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Thank you, Devi.”
What could Sylvette had found? She’d just heard a macabre, frightening report on the radio. Two fetuses, wrapped in yellowed newspaper from the 1930s, had been found in a closet, in a box, in an apartment near MacArthur Park. Two tiny souls who hadn’t made it. Maybe they haunted the park.
Devi found a rare parking place on Fountain, walked a block, turned up Harper Avenue. She looked up at Bambi’s place. It was dark.
• • •
I rolled into my driveway. I’d grown a little tired of Pearly and had just listened to David Lindley’s Win This Record, in its entirety. One of the best albums ever made. Great musicians, great songs, great arrangements.
Lindley deserved his place in the pantheon. Hopefully on a pedestal. God had blessed him with many gifts, but height was not one of them. Maybe genius only needed a small package.
My phone rang. It was Devi. She didn’t sound right.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m at 1350 North Harper Avenue. In West Hollywood. Apartment 3C.”
I instinctively wrote down the address. “Why are you there?”
“I’m here with someone.”
“Who?”
“Hold on.”
A new voice came on the line. “Mr. Henry?”
“Who is this?”
“This is Melvin Shea. You have something I want.” He paused. “I want Nazarian’s golden gun, Mr. Henry. And Devi here says you got it. If you don’t bring it over, right now, I’m gonna kill her. That simple. You know I don’t bluff, right?”
“How do I know you won’t kill her anyway?”
“You don’t. You take your chances. But don’t bring it and she’s dead. Bring me the gun.”
Melvin seemed to have all the cards. “Okay. I’ll bring it.”
“Now, you haven’t disturbed the gun, have you?”
“If you mean, did I clean the blood and shit off it, no, I didn’t.”
“Good. See you very soon.”
• • •
I thought about the situation I was about to walk into. Where a desperate man held a gun to a woman’s head. A man who had reasons to want me dead.
And the golden gun. Obviously to blackmail Nazarian.
All in all, I realized, it was Melvin’s big day. The gun, the girl who set him up for the knockout, the man who threw the punch. The trifecta.
Then, a furthering skein of thought played though my mind; why not, at least for the sake of efficiency, why wouldn’t Melvin conclude his all his business all at once? Michael Corleone at the baptism.
Kill Devi and me, blame Nazarian.
Devi and I would be shot with the golden gun.
Why didn’t I let Devi fend for herself in a situation that she had created by her own actions? Why didn’t I call the authorities? With their armored trucks, armored vests, bullhorns, snipers, and flash bombs? Why? Because I’m the Shortcut Man and a woman I knew was in there with a stone killer. Because I’m the Shortcut Man and didn’t want to go to a funeral and hear somebody say that God called our sister, Devi, home early. Because He loved her. While I sat there. Behind yellow tape. Because I’m the Shortcut Man and Devi, playing her last card, had bet on the Shortcut Man.
I had a plan. Not much of one. Everything would have to go my way. He wanted something I had and that gave me a tiny advantage. It was all I had.
I crossed Sunset at Laurel, at the Comedy Store. Bob Saget was marqueed. On Fountain I turned right. In the second block I saw a copper Lexus. Looked like Devi’s. There were no parking spaces. Fine. I backed in, backed up, pushed a silver Acura back into a red zone by a hydrant. I got my briefcase, walked toward Harper. I called Devi.
“Hello?” Her voice weak and shallow.
“Tell him I’m here.”
I heard her tell him. He took the phone. “Be careful, man. Be real careful.” He snapped off.
1350 was one of the nice older places in West Hollywood. I rang 3C, got buzzed in, walked up to the third floor, stood in front of 3C. I took a deep breath. There was no room for error.
I tapped quietly at the door.
The door clicked open in front of me. Into darkness. I heard a voice from inside. “Shut the door behind you, Mr. Henry.”
I shut the door behind me, felt something tied around the handle. The place was very dark, my adrenaline surged, my skin crawled. Around the handle was a string. The door had been pulled open. From some distance away.
“Come forward,” said Melvin, from far darkness.
“Prove she’s alive, man.”
I heard him talk to her. “Prove you’re alive, Devi.”
“I’m . . . I’m alive, Dick.”
“Sing, Devi.”
“S-sing?”
“Sing.”
“What the fuck?” said Melvin.
“As long as I hear her, I know she’s alright, Melvin. Devi, where’s his gun right now?”
“R-right at my head.”
“Good. Start singing. And as long as that gun is at your head you’re alright—keep singing.”
“W-what shall I s-sing?”
“Let’s get the fuck on with this.” Melvin’s voice was rabbity, showing stress.
“Sing me some David Lindley.”
Devi started humming. I recognized it. “Turning Point.” Good.
“You understand our bargain, Melvin?”
“What are you talking about?”
“If she stops singing I’m going to shoot you.”
“Then she’s dead, Mr. Henry.”
“Then, for both our sakes, keep her singing.” A silence opened up. I stepped in. “Okay, Melvin. What next?”
“Come forward. Through the kitchen, into the living room. I’m at the far end on the right.”
“Forward, through the kitchen, into the living room.”
“You got it. And hold what you’re bringing me in front of you.”
“Hold the gun out in front of me,” I repeated.
“Hold it out, with both hands, and move real slow. And hold it smart.”
My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. I was standing in the open section of the kitchen. I set my briefcase on a counter.
“What was that?” asked Melvin.
“Just set down my briefcase. With the gun in it. I don’t have the case.” I unzipped the case, removed the weapon. I didn’t have the case but I did have the suppressor, attached. Everything was contained in a clear plastic vegetable bag from the supermarket. Now I held the gun, through the bag, in my right hand.
“Nice and slow,” said Melvin, from the living room. Ahead of me, in deep shadow.
Devi’s singing was going weak. “Keep singi
ng, Devi.” She sounded hurt, tremulous.
“I hope she’s alright, Melvin.”
“Oh, she’s alright. A little fucked up. Didn’t really want to help me. But we came to an agreement.”
“Keep singing, girl,” I said.
Devi kept singing.
“You fuck up, Mr. Henry, I kill her. Got it?”
Oh, I got it, friend. “Got it.” I stepped into the living room, turned to the right. There were low shadows at the end of the room. Light rolled across the ceiling from the cars navigating Harper. Or turning at De Longpre.
Devi was tied to a kitchen chair. One eye was swollen shut. Her nose was bleeding. Her shirt was open. Grinning Melvin knelt beside her, pistol to her temple.
“I only had to burn her once, Mr. Henry. She didn’t want to call you. She wanted to protect you.” His eyes moved over the golden gun, held perpendicular to our lines of vision, my index finger, right hand, through the bag, on the trigger. The suppressor lay across my open left palm. “That thing loaded?” he asked.
“How bad you want to find out?”
“Put the gun down on the ground, Henry. Then I’ll take mine down from her head.”
“No. Put yours down first.” My life and Devi’s life teetered on a 300 millisecond reaction-time advantage. His or mine.
We paused, breathed. At the brink. At the precipice. I needed milliseconds. Needed to distract him.
Anger might work. Sting his pride, tweak his masculinity. Three hundred milliseconds. “Come on, cocksucker, put the gun down, let’s get on with it.”
His eyes narrowed, the gun sagged minutely from her temple. There it was.
I pulled the trigger, put a bullet right between his eyes. He dropped like a puppet with his strings cut, his gun by Devi’s feet.
The suppressor had rendered the shot a cough. I cut Devi loose. “Jesus, Dick. Jesus.”
Melvin was leaking badly in crimson.
Devi buttoned up, grabbed her purse. “We better hurry. Nazarian is on his way. Melvin called him right after he buzzed you up.”
“Put your purse in the kitchen, help me move Melvin.”
Devi was starting to freak out. “What are you thinking, Dick?”
“Stop thinking, Devi. Just do what I tell you.”
We dragged Melvin into a bedroom, set him down. A dead body is always heavier than it looks. His lolling head banged the floor. Maybe I’d separated his corpus callosum. Which meant his hemispheres wouldn’t be communicating properly. An amateur callosotomy. Or whatever it was.
Angel’s Gate Page 27