“Not a chance. We catch all the murders. If you got information you better talk to Detective Sullivan, he’s the officer in charge of that case. What’s your name?”
It seemed so much simpler to hang up rather than answer. So I did. Then I rang the switchboard again and asked for Ryan in minor vice. The extension rang for a long time before it was picked up.
“Yeah?”
“Ryan?”
“Not in. Try tomorrow.”
“Ryan’s like this fat guy with black hair, right? Takes heart pills.”
“Yeah, that’s him. Who’s calling?”
“I’ve got some info on that case he’s working. The murder in Palisades Park.”
“Murder?” The man laughed. “You got the wrong guy.”
“I’m sure it was Ryan.”
“Not unless it happened in a porno store. Try homicide.”
I didn’t have to hang up this time, the guy beat me to it.
I stood in the booth for a while trying to decide whether I should be relieved or frightened. I hadn’t heard from anyone called Sullivan, and he’d had plenty of time to show up. So I figured the police department as a whole didn’t have a handle on me. That was cool, but what did it leave? A psycho like Ryan gone rogue with me as the focus of his obsession? Had I become his independent pet project?
I got back in the car and headed home. I needed a shower and some sleep.
On the ocean side of Lincoln Boulevard that morning Venice had a dusty feel, like a reluctantly reinhabited ghost town. Maybe when I first moved there it held some kind of mystery or romance for me. But that had changed. What had not been gradually eroded during my time with Karen had now, I found, been finished off in the incinerating flash of last night’s sex and this morning’s epiphany. Now it was hollow and untenanted, a place to pass through, to move away from.
I’d caught a radio rundown of the latest news on the way back from the hills. Mel Gibson was getting twenty-five million for Ransom, Macaulay Culkin was hanging out for his eighteenth birthday when he’d get his hands on sixty of the same, and Michael Jackson was estimated to be personally worth two hundred and fifty.
The sums of money jammed my head. When I was younger I used to play the game of deciding what I’d do with ten million dollars, certain that one day I’d have at least that much. I’d plan in infinitesimal detail the exact steps I’d take, the order of my purchases, the choices between the unlimited alternatives so much money would open up. But now, at a failed thirty, those kind of hyperrealistic imaginings brought with them a depression too exhausting to bear. Along with the news about Ryan, the reports of other people’s wealth fucked my mood completely.
I took two Seconals and climbed into bed. A shower would have to wait.
Chapter Nine
It was dark when I woke. I lay for a while watching the colored washes of light that the cars down in the street threw across my ceiling like opening Japanese fans. My head was clear. I ran my hands over my body. It felt ready for action.
Time to motivate.
Shit, shower, teeth, shave. A can of cold Pepsi and two cigarettes in the warm night air by the window, silent TV alight in the corner of the room. People moving outside. I imagined how they felt—suntanned skin smooth and dry after daylong beaching, frictionless under freshly washed denim and soft cotton, happily heading for bars and movies.
I ate some food in front of the open fridge and thought about Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp and Tom Cruise. How much more keenly they must be feeling this same night air that lay against my skin. Their senses would be more finely attuned to it than mine, undulled by the exhaustions that plague the poor—food, rent, taxes, tires for the car … And if anything like that did make it into their world, they had maids and personal assistants to deal with it.
I got kind of caught up with those thoughts for a while and it was pretty late by the time I left the apartment and started the game of looking for Karen’s killer.
I didn’t know any of Karen’s friends well enough to have their phone numbers, but from the early days, when she and I were still attempting the charade of a shared existence, I had an idea where I might connect with one or two of them. Karen had been part of a loosely knit group that hung out in the same places, listened to the same music, and shared similar interests—drugs, money, leather clothes … Unless what was hip had changed since we terminated our joint socializing, I figured a tour of certain bars ought to turn up someone who knew her. And if I found someone who knew her, then maybe I’d get a pointer to the kidney man.
The first couple of places didn’t work—an espresso bar on Harper Avenue, where I was a little reckless with caffeine, and a live music joint near Paramount where I did what I could to antidote myself with vodka. Third time lucky, though. At a place on Detroit Street, not far from the drag.
The club didn’t make much of a fuss about its entrance, just a door between two businesses, propped open with a chair, giving onto a flight of steps that led below street-level. It wasn’t mentioned in the entertainment listings, and it wasn’t at the cutting edge of any musical trend, but it nevertheless had its attractions for a certain kind of person. Because, along with an almost nonexistent policy against substance abuse, it had a gimmick that was just so terribly wild, man—it was cool to jerk off there. Or jerk someone else off. Or get jerked off. And you didn’t have to hide in a toilet stall either.
At the bottom of the steps I got frisked for weapons, paid the twenty dollar entrance fee, and pushed through a set of padded double doors. Simultaneous high-volume sound and low-power lighting—so low, in fact, it took a couple of seconds for my eyes to adjust. The music was pretty much industrial and it made a jagged atmosphere that I figured was designed to get people so tense they had to beat off for relief.
Small and dingy, everything black. The dance floor held about eight and the top of the bar looked like it had been cut from the side of a Russian freighter. The air stank of fish. I bought vodka and watched some girl in latex pump spunk out of a guy, into a glass that already looked a quarter full. Then I checked out the crowd. It was hard to make out faces, so I concentrated on haircuts. I found two I recognized sitting together in one of the booths that ran down a wall.
Jimmy and Steve were rock star wannabes who’d come over from England a few years back only to find that California already had about a million unemployed musicians of its own. They’d adapted pretty well, though, and moved swiftly on to an area in which they excelled—taking smack. Mid-twenties, leather head to toe, dyed-black hair.
Their faces went blank and guarded through a moment of image search when I walked up. But after I said Karen’s name they remembered who I was and let me sit down. The first thing they asked was if I had any gear. It wasn’t a particularly safe assumption, but I took it to mean they didn’t know about her yet. On the junk front I didn’t disappoint them. I’d scored a quarter gram at the beginning of the evening for just such an ice-breaking opportunity. Even in that place cooking up in public would have been a bit much, so we had to duck our heads below the table and snort it through a bill. After that we were friends, mates, buddies—longtime acquaintances chewing the fat about this and that.
Half an hour later, when a chick in the next booth had finished screwing herself with a bottle of Rolling Rock, I started in on the real business of the evening.
“How long since you guys seen Karen, then?”
The smack had taken hold and their responses were pretty relaxed. Steve looked as though he’d done a tad too much to continue active communication, but Jimmy was functioning reasonably effectively.
“Dunno. When’d we last see her, Steve?”
Steve managed a shrug.
“I dunno. A while.”
“Yeah, be a while now. How is she?”
“I haven’t seen her for a month.”
“A month? You split up or something?”
“Not that I know. I thought she was on a job.”
“Long job.”
&n
bsp; “Yeah, I’m getting worried. You haven’t seen her?”
“Nah. Hey, Steve, you know where Karen’s at?”
“Huh?”
“Karen. D’you know where she is?”
“Haven’t got a clue.”
Jimmy lifted his hands and let them fall.
“Sorry, pal.”
“She was going on about this plan she had. I don’t know if it’s got anything to do with anything.”
“No offense, man, but she’s always fuckin’ on about one scam or another. They’re bullshit. Never happen.”
“This was, like, about kidneys or something.”
Jimmy laughed and slapped the table.
“Oh, fuck, not the kidney thing! Man, she was hot for that one. No offense, but she’s a mad cunt sometimes.”
Jimmy’s reaction jerked Steve out of his stupor. He opened his eyes and scratched his forearms.
“I know someone who did it.”
“What are you talking about, you dumb cunt? Go back to sleep.”
“Nah, you know him too. That geezer who used to score off us. What was his name? The fuckwit with all the earrings.”
“Joey.”
“Yeah, Joey. That’s how he said he got his bar.”
“Bullshit.”
“He showed me his scar.”
“And that makes it gospel.”
“I’m only telling you what he said.”
“He was shitting you, for fucksake.”
Jimmy shook his head and got up to go watch a circle of guys who were starting to group around a girl.
I asked Steve how much Joey was supposed to have been paid for his kidney. When he said thirty grand it seemed smart to ask for the guy’s address as well.
“I don’t know where he lives, but his bar’s on Pico. It’s got all this bullshit Egyptian stuff on the front. Look for a little guy with a goatee. And lotsa earrings.”
Chapter Ten
Dead beat. Late night back at the apartment. Head still swaddled in smack. The place looked worse than ever, dingy under light from a naked bulb. Even the furniture was unpleasant to look at. One piece in particular, because Ryan was sitting in it. Flabby body sagging into cracks between cushions. Same black suit, a clean white shirt, hair slick and gleaming, flat against his head.
“What the fuck—”
“Hiya, Jackie. Where you been? I was out in the car, but you took so long I thought I’d come in and make myself at home.”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, touch base, look the place over … Where were you?”
“Out.”
“Put a bit more effort into it.”
“I was with friends.”
“So soon after Karen’s death? My, my. Got a drink?”
“What?”
“A drink. Liquor, booze, firewater.”
“It’s like three o’clock.”
“So we’ll have a three o’clock drink.”
Arguing obviously wasn’t going to make things any easier, so I got Southern Comfort, ice, and glasses from the kitchenette, poured a couple of drinks, and sat down on the bed, opposite him.
“Is this going to take long? I’m tired.”
Ryan ignored me and scanned the room.
“Not much to show for a life, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“You should have tried harder, Jackie, given her something better. I would have.”
He drifted off then for a couple of seconds, like he was remembering something. When he came back he wasn’t any better. He knocked back his drink and screwed up his face like it was painful going down.
“I heard they make this stuff from orange peel.”
He poured himself another and looked at me speculatively.
“Know what I used to think about when I was fucking her? I used to think what it’d be like having her all the time, like you did.”
“It was less fun than you might imagine.”
“Yeah, she said your relationship wasn’t too hot. But that sort of thing don’t mean shit after fifty. You get someone her age who ain’t hideous and you’re ahead of the game. It makes it like you haven’t got old. Feels good just walking down the street like that, believe me.”
“How interesting.”
Ryan moved surprisingly quickly for a fat man, lunged forward and dragged me upright. His fingernails scratched my chest. The back of my head hit a wall.
“Don’t ever think I don’t matter. I spent thirty years shoveling shit in this town and at the end of next year I’ll get a pension for it that’ll rent a two-room dump and buy a piece of secondrate ass once a month. Facing that, Jackie, I won’t take attitude off some waster fuck like you.”
If we’d gone head to head I would have come out on top, easy. But he was a cop and he had a gun. So I stood there and let him breathe heavily into my face. A few seconds later he went back to the couch and sat down abruptly, rubbing his chest.
“Get me some water.”
I brought him a glass. He took a few sips then put a pill under his tongue. His face looked congested.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Pour me a drink.”
“You think that’s wise?”
“Yeah, it’s wise. Pour me a fucking drink.”
I splashed out Southern, trying to figure if his dying in the apartment would be a good thing or a bad thing. Ryan held it up to the light.
“I gotta cut back on this shit.”
“You get the results from my sample yet?”
“Maybe …”
“Or maybe you never put it in to be checked.”
“Oooo, now what does that mean?”
“I called your station. You’re not on the case. You don’t even work homicide.”
“Jackie … That wasn’t very smart. That wasn’t very smart at all.”
“I didn’t say anything to them, but I mean, shit, you work porn or something.”
“If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll kill you.”
“I want to know what the fuck’s going on.”
Ryan sucked in a breath and held it for a moment. He let it out slowly.
“So you can understand, so you can appreciate the potential for something very bad happening to you, I’ll outline the situation. I knew Karen, I already told you. I see some crime-scene photos on a desk and I find out she’s dead and that no one can get a handle on who she is. I not only know who she is, but I know plenty about her background. Probably more than you, Jackie. I know she’s married ’cause she told me, and I know where she lives because I followed her home one time after I’d fucked her. Call it idle curiosity. I know other things too, but I’m not homicide, I’m minor vice. So I got a choice. Let the murder guys have what I know and hope they don’t fuck it up. Or go out on my own and make sure things get done properly.”
“But why? So you knew her. Big deal. I don’t see the motivation.”
“Well that’s something you’ll have to puzzle over, ain’t it? And while you’re puzzling, it’d be smart to remember that me not being hooked up with the department on this one don’t have too many advantages for you. I don’t have to worry about all those pesky regulations and codes of practice, get my meaning?”
“I figured that when you made me wank in the car.”
“I needed a sample. Don’t worry, it didn’t go to waste. I might be operating unofficially, but I got people who owe me favors.”
“Then you know it wasn’t my spunk in Karen. You check my alibi too?”
“Yeah, I spoke to the guy. You got lucky both times.”
“Then why are you still hassling me?”
“’Cause things are never as simple as they seem. Time of death can be thrown off by a lot of things, maybe you kept her in the fridge a few days before you dumped her. And your come? You could have had an accomplice and it was his. Doesn’t stop you being involved. You know something, Jackie, and I’m going to keep turning up and turning up till I find out what it is.”
&
nbsp; “This is insane. I could call your station right now and get you seriously fucked up.”
“But you won’t. One, you’d have too much explaining to do—like why you didn’t report her missing, like why you lied about her tattoo, like why the whole thing seems to mean nothing to you. And two, because I’d kill you. You think things are insane now? Wait till I really get pissed.”
He pushed himself to his feet, but he must have done it too fast because he had to bend at the waist and take a few deep breaths. He straightened after a while and blinked rapidly a couple of times.
“Fuck, I must be getting old. Got any coke?”
“I wouldn’t give you the steam off my shit.”
He laughed at that, then ran his hands over his hair and pushed his way through the door.
Look out world, asshole reentering.
I slept and the night rolled over into day like a dog. Another postmeridian awakening—sunshine on empty bottles, tangled clothes. I dozed while the temperature rose.
Sometime around one Royston phoned and whined about his money. I told him I had it and to come around tomorrow morning. He sounded pleased and tried to act like we were buddies again. I hung up on him, then dialed the number of a house clearance company.
Sucking cathode. Lucky people on the screen, going back to their trailers after each take to be pampered, to rally the army of friends and associates necessary for the movie-star night ahead. Or to hold conversations on their cell phones that would shift large amounts of money and equipment around the world, conversations that would affect the lives of other men.
I burned up an hour with longing. I dreamed I was one of them. But after a while it got too painful.
To distract myself I bagged up Karen’s stuff and took it down to the garbage drum at the back of the building. I heaved the bags over the steel side and looked in after them. One of them had split and spilt its contents across a previously dumped family of cats. The animals were rotting and badly torn. I stood there watching maggots crawl over panties, cheap cosmetics, Kotex … Then I got in the car and caught a movie at a multiplex on Third Street.
The clearance team turned up at the end of the afternoon, some cowboy outfit that worked off hours and didn’t ask questions as long as they made a profit. I put the stuff I wanted to keep in the closet and told them to take everything else. They offered me four hundred and seventy-five bucks, not a huge sum for the contents of an apartment, but it didn’t seem too bad to me, considering none of the stuff was mine.
High Life Page 9