Angel’s Gate
Page 29
“Yeah. Ellen Arden. What of it?”
• • •
Nothing of it. Except she was the girl—who started everything. It took me a while to put the pieces together, but finally they fell into place.
And I had to laugh. Ellen Arden’s prints all over the place. It made perfect sense.
Ellen Arden. Of course, I’d always known her as Devi.
Epilogues
Epilogue One
Rutland Atwater was filled with great peace of mind. He’d done Dick Henry a true solid. Introducing him to Perry and Evan, his brothers. And Dick had put them promptly to work. Though he couldn’t quite see what Evan would have done for him.
Evan could scribe in the direct penmanship of George Washington. Or Bill Clinton. Or anybody else. He could look, twirl his hand around, and out would come whoever you paid to see.
Adding to Rutland’s sense of well-being was his new, black Ford 150. Could carry one helluva payload. And the new truck would drive him to his new apartment out on Hillhurst Avenue near Franklin. Where he could walk to Yuca’s Hut. Some of the best Mexican food in Los Angeles. Mexican food had to be cheap. To experience a sixteen-dollar enchilada, like at Pancho’s in Manhattan Beach, was to invite a raping of both wallet and gullet.
Rutland exited the hardware store with his purchases. Parked next to his 150 was an older truck, a Toyota. In the back of the truck was a lovely ficus tree in a very large, very yellow pot. Something like that would go well on his patio. His patio overlooking the city. But . . . next paycheck.
The driver of the Toyota nodded at him in friendly fashion. “Buenos dias, señor,” said the man.
“I like your tree.” Rutland smiled.
Well, well, thought Herman Mantillo, will wonders never cease. He got out of his truck, approached the large gringo. “Allow me, señor, to make you a present of this tree.” It stank to high heaven, the cats had attacked it, Velma would be home tomorrow, and it was a long drive to the unincorporated section of Los Angeles county where he had planned to roll it out and drive away.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” said Rutland.
“Oh, yes, you could,” said Herman.
Epilogue Two
Hannah met me at the Sunset Denny’s near the 101. Of course she was wearing her ring. “You know, Dick, I never took the ring off so I never saw what he’d put in there. Hope. I love it. How did you know?”
“Remember the key around his neck?”
“The weird brass key. He called it the key to the future.” She tipped her head, studied me. “Was it a real key?”
“Very real. A key to a safe deposit box.”
Too many of Hannah’s hopes had been crushed flat. She had no optimism left. She looked up at me, almost cringing.
“It took two things to get into the box, dear. A key and a combination. The combination was in your ring.”
“H-O-P-E?”
“That’s what it was.” I slid an envelope across the table. “And this was what was in there.”
She opened the envelope with shaking hands. In it was a deposit slip. She read the figure almost uncomprehendingly. “Twenty-seven thousand dollars?”
“Twenty-seven thousand three hundred and twenty. Dave wanted you to have that.”
Her head slowly bent toward the tabletop, she took a ragged breath. “Ohhhhh,” she said, “ohhhhh.” Then she dissolved.
I drank my coffee, looked over at Meineke, across the street. Remembered Bukowski’s episode packing brake shoes. Regular, jumbo, or superior. Something like that.
She was back to herself after a while. She looked up at me. “I can’t really believe this is really happening. To me. To me.”
“Well, it is happening. But you need to get your act together. Not that getting it together is a prerequisite. The money’s yours under any conditions.” I slid a card across the table. It had Devi’s name and number. “This lady can help you out. Get things straight. Because this is your good fortune. Share it with everybody, everybody will have nothing. And Dave didn’t give it to everybody. He gave it to you. But you do what you want.”
She reached for my hands across the table. “How do I thank you, Dick?”
“You don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything. You take care of yourself. And get on with things.”
She nodded.
Then I took another envelope from my pocket, slid it across the table.
“What’s this?”
“A letter from Dave.”
She drew it slowly toward her.
“You don’t have to read it now, Hannah.”
She didn’t.
A Letter
Darling Girl,
Loving you was the best thing I ever did. The best thing I ever could have done. You were the light in my darkness, the rain on my thirsty soul, the breeze that cooled me when I was on fire. Looking into your green green eyes was perfect happiness. I’m looking down on you now, right now. And I can see your future. You’re going to be happy. You’re going to laugh, really laugh. Many wonderful days lie ahead for you, many wonderful days. Find someone and love him like you loved me. And when the wild stars are blowing around heaven and your heart is joy . . . think of me.
Dave
Yeah. The Shortcut Man wrote that.
Don’t read anything into it.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Andrew C. Rigrod, Esq., Paul and Polly Pompian, Ryan Harbage, Tom Sturges, and Colin Harrison: thank you all for your support and encouragement.
If There Is No God
if there is no god
who will forgive me
if there is no god
who will receive me
if there is no god
who will laugh with me
if there is no god
who will believe me
if there is no god
who will I wait for
if there is no god
who will defend me
if there is no god
who will speak for me
if there is no god
who’s gonna save me
if there is no god I say
feed the children anyway
keep the water blue
don’t look to the stars
the old gods are dead
who are the new gods
we are
if there is no god
who will cry murder
if there is no god
who will roll thunder
if there is no god
who gets the money
if there is no god
willya still love me
Words and music by Pearly King (www.pearlykingmusic.com)
© PAUL LIM
p. g. sturges was born in Hollywood, California. Punctuated by fitful intervals of school, he has subsequently occupied himself as a submarine sailor, a Christmas tree farmer, a dimensional and optical metrologist, a writer, and a musician. His first novel, The Shortcut Man, was the winner of the 2012 Shamus Award for a first novel from the Private Eye Writers of America.
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ALSO BY P.G. STURGES
Shortcut Man
Tribulations of the Shortcut Man
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ISBN 978-1-4767-1297-0
ISBN 978-1-4767-1465-3 (ebook)