Point Doom

by Fante, Dan

  I knew not to hesitate. “In my jacket pocket,” I said. “Over there on the chair. I’ll get them for you.” Then I started to get up.

  “Sit tight, no problem. Archer’ll do that. Sit where you are.”

  I had no choice. I sat back down.

  Archer walked to the chair, stuck his hand in the left-side jacket pocket and came up with my keys. He held them up. “These the ones?”

  “Correct, Detective,” I said, trying not to expel the air I’d been holding in my chest. “Outstanding police work.”

  “You’re a smart-mouthed little prick, Fiorella. You’re starting to piss me off. I’m beginning to dislike you.”

  “Look, guys, like I said, I’m late for work. I’d like to go now?”

  Archer walked to my front door, located its key on my ring, stuck it in the lock, then flipped the tumbler. “Yeah, asshole,” he said, “you can go to work now.”

  AFTER THEY’D GONE I stood with my back to the closed door. I’d just dodged a bullet. Stupid. I’d been very stupid. And careless. Leaving Woody’s keys in my jacket pocket had almost cost me my ass. And I hated that buried, dead cock. Enough was enough!

  I went back down to the garden, dug up Woody’s penis, brought it upstairs, then flushed the damned thing down my toilet.

  I ARRIVED AT Sherman Toyota just as the big showroom wall clock clicked to 8:10. I was forty minutes late.

  Fernando and Vikki and the other three new salespeople, Walter and Benny and Sheeba Perry, a tall, pretty black woman with a shaved head and hoop earrings, were collecting their paperwork at their cubicles and getting ready to head toward Max’s office for the daily sales meeting. All carrying coffee cups. Three days earlier I had been the one to give Sheeba the tour of the car lot and then spent two hours showing her how to do the Sherman Toyota paperwork. We’d had lunch together at Jack in the Box and gotten along okay. She was a nice woman with a pretty smile and a spunky attitude. About thirty-five. I’d figured her for ex-civil service somewhere, but decided not to ask about anything personal.

  As Sheeba passed by my desk she stuck out her hand. “Mornin’, JD,” she said with a sincere smile. “Hey, I sold one after you went home the other day. Third day on the job. You gave me some good tips. Not too bad for the token Negro at a Santa Monica car dealership, right?”

  I had to smile back. “You’re smart and you’ve got style. I’m a believer,” I said.

  In the coffee room, before going in to the meeting, I grabbed a quick cup, spilled some when my fingers wouldn’t cooperate, then headed for Max’s office, having forgotten to go back to my desk and pick up my call-back sales tracking notebook.

  As I walked into the room the other salespeople nodded good morning. The air was still chilled outside and Vikki and Sheeba hadn’t taken off their coats. Vikki didn’t look up. Her eyes were fixed on her own fat sales folder.

  Max set his cup down on his desk. “You folks go over your call-backs with each other for a few minutes,” he said. “I need to meet with Mr. Fiorella, privately.”

  Outside Max’s office he closed the door, then turned to me. “Sorry, Max,” I said. “Sorry for being late, too. I had something I had to take care of. Jesus, and I forgot my tracking book again, too.”

  His expression was strained—nervous and tentative. “I assume that you heard about Woody,” he said.

  The bad news had traveled fast. I looked down at my shoes before I answered. “Yeah,” I said, “I did.”

  “A terrible thing. A shit deal. A goddamn tragedy. O’Rourke was a good man. It was all over the news last night and this morning. They found his body. I know you guys were good friends.”

  “Yeah, we were. And yeah, it was a lousy deal.”

  Then Max’s face darkened. “So, you lied to me,” he said.

  “What?” I said, not knowing what turn the conversation had taken. “Are you talking about Woody?”

  “No, not Woody. Woody’s gone. God bless the poor son of a bitch. I’m talking about your arrest record, Fiorella. Apparently, you were once charged with murder and assault. Tell me something, why was that information not on your job application?”

  I hadn’t been ready for the curve ball. “I don’t understand,” I said. “That was a long time ago. It was thrown out. Dismissed.”

  “Yes or no? Have you or have you not been arrested and charged with numerous felonies?”

  “Yes, is the answer. I was. But being charged with lame bullshit is one thing—a lot of people who do what I used to do get charged with things. Call it the cost of doing business. Being charged and being convicted are two very different computer screens.”

  Max sneered. “Then, it’s a no-brainer. You’re fired, Mr. Fiorella. Effective immediately. You can pick up your paycheck tomorrow. I’ll have someone drive you home.”

  “Did that arrest come out in my background check?”

  “A lie is a lie, sir, especially on an official job application. Go clean out your demo and your desk. We’re done.”

  “Answer my question, Max.”

  “You have twenty minutes to get off this property.”

  HALF AN HOUR later, my belongings from the trunk of my Corolla demo and from my desk were in a cardboard box. Vikki walked up to me wearing a tight gray sweater and matching skirt. She was flipping her key ring in her hand. She wasn’t smiling. “I guess I’m your designated chauffeur,” she said. “Shall we go?”

  “Swell,” I said. “Exactly perfect.”

  WHEN MY STUFF was in her trunk, including the DNA samples from under my demo’s hood that I’d transferred to a box in my backseat and we were on our way toward the freeway on Lincoln Boulevard, she turned to me. “Look, JD,” she said, “I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Because I got fired?”

  “No, not that. I came off like a double-barreled bitch last night at my place. You didn’t deserve to have me jump your case like that. Then, this morning, when I came in to work, I heard that Woody was . . . dead. Jesus! Did you know?”

  “Yeah, I knew,” I said. “It was a bad knock. I didn’t take it very well and I didn’t want to bring it up last night.” I had no intention of telling this girl that I had been there and found the body.

  “Woody and I were good friends,” I said to end the subject. “But hey, about last night, I was probably over the line. So, forget it. You owe me zip. Drive the car.”

  Vikki wasn’t smiling. “Listen to me, okay? After you left I realized that I was treating you like I talk to my ex. Call it a conditioned reflex or something. I mean, for sure, you were pushy, but I completely overreacted. So I’m really sorry. Okay?”

  I smiled for the first time that day. “You mean you really will have my baby?”

  Vikki rolled her eyes. “You’ve got balls, Fiorella. I’ll give you that.”

  Now she looked away and said the next few words to her windshield. “Can we try again?” She half whispered. “Maybe a real date or a reasonable facsimile?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. A very nice plan.”

  Then I realized I needed to make a stop. “Hey,” I said, “can you do me a favor. I have to stop off at FedEx in the Marina. It’s on the way. Just keep going on Lincoln.”

  “Sure, I know where it is. Behind the IHOP. FedEx, here we come. What’s so important?”

  “Just an errand.”

  “JD Fiorella, man of mystery.”

  “That’s me, lady.”

  STOPPING AT THE next red light, she turned toward me again. “So, what happened back there with you and Max? It looked to be fairly quick and deadly.”

  “I was arrested in New York City years ago. But, trust me, I’ve never been convicted of anything important.”

  “You? What did you do?”

  “I used to be a private detective. In that line of work, well, you know—things happen. You take your lumps. I was popped for somethin
g that didn’t stick.”

  Now she was staring. “You were a detective? For real? I mean—who are you, Fiorella? Some kind of bad-boy tough guy?”

  I shook my head as the light changed to green. “It all depends on your definition of the word “bad,” as one former president might say. I’ve made my share of mistakes and stupid decisions. But that was before I met you, blondie.”

  Vikki gave me her hundred-dollar grin. “Gee-zus! What else have you done?”

  “Me? A telemarketer; a high-end car rental agency owner in the Marina; a poet, and you know the rest; a newly shit-canned car salesman with a dead friend.”

  “A poet! Really? Geez, I’m a big reader—at least a couple of books a week. I hate TV. What kind of stuff do you write?”

  “I don’t write anymore. It was just a phase.”

  “C’mon, Fiorella!”

  “Okay, I did write a book of poems.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Just a weak-ass collection of nonsense.”

  Vikki was smiling again—a strobe-light Hollywood-movie-premiere smile that filled her car. “Hey, look,” she said, “I’d really like to read something of yours. Really.”

  “I guess that could be arranged. But what I’m interested in right now is that tight sweater you’re wearing. Is it okay to say that, now that we’re friends again?”

  The pretty girl shook her head. “Jesus,” she whispered. Then: “So, what’s happening with FedEx?”

  “Something’s come up that I need to deal with.”

  “Something about Woody?”

  “Why would it be something about Woody?”

  “Just a guess. You guys were friends and now you’re telling me you were a detective.”

  “You read too much Michael Connelly, kid.”

  WE HAD REACHED Washington Boulevard. Vikki caught the light and turned left, then made a quick right at the next block two hundred yards from FedEx.

  She pulled up in front of the building.

  “I’ll be right out,” I said.

  “I’ll be right here, boss, just as I said; at your service. Oh, FYI: I told Max I had a dentist appointment. I’m off for the next four hours.”

  INSIDE FEDEX I used my credit cards for the last time. After this my plan was to go completely off the radar.

  Five minutes later, back beside Vikki in her demo, after telling the pretty girl, Thanks for waiting, I decided to go back to the subject of Max. “Hey,” I said, “you know that conversation with Max is still bugging me.”

  Vikki rolled her eyes. “Really? Why?”

  “No one at Sherman Toyota could have known about my arrest record. It was not public knowledge and it’s only available on a restricted database.”

  “Did you ask Max how he knew?”

  “Sure. But Max is a bitch. Too many years as a car business yes-man. He can’t make up his mind if he’s a goddamn vampire or a game-show host. His head’s so far up Rhett’s ass that he’ll never see daylight again. Max was no help.”

  “Oh, so now it’s Detective Fiorella again. Hey, you don’t think somebody actually killed Woody? The TV just talked about finding his body.”

  We were on our way up Washington Boulevard toward Centinela. My place was a five-minute drive from FedEx.

  “It’s the blues’ job now,” I said. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  A knowing smile crossed her face. “So tell me, mister jack-of-all-trades, out of curiosity, what does a man like you—a man with so many varied skills—do best?”

  I had to smile again. “You may be on your way to finding out.”

  I TOLD THE blonde girl where to turn and we pulled into the driveway at my apartment house on Short. I knew that at this time of day there would be almost no cars in the parking area. I directed Vikki to slip her demo car in under the building’s overhang garage. It was three-sided and private.

  “Well, here we are,” she said, smiling, popping the gear shift into park. “Door-to-door service.”

  Without saying anything I leaned over and kissed her. It quickly turned into a deep kiss—all tongue. She didn’t pull away.

  Half a minute later my hand was under her sweater, unhitching her bra. Then she pulled back. “Is that what you want?” she breathed.

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s a start.”

  “Okay, then, let’s try doing what you want—but, shouldn’t we go to my place? I have a king-size bed with pretty pillows.”

  “I like cars,” I said. “I like doing things in cars.”

  Vikki smiled. “You sure?”

  “I like it right here just fine.”

  “Sooo . . . what do you want us to do?” she breathed. “Tell me.”

  My tongue went from her mouth to her exposed tits. “Pull down your slacks. Then pull down your panties.”

  She leaned back from me then looked me in the eyes. “Here?”

  “Right here,” I said. “Right now.”

  Her dress slacks came down, revealing frilly pink bikini panties. She looked at me, breathing hard. “Do you like these? I like wearing sexy underwear,” she whispered.

  “Let me see what’s behind ’em. Pull ’em down,” I said.

  I watched as Vikki removed her heels, then she slid her slacks off, then the panties. Her monkey was cleanly shaved.

  I tossed the clothes into the back seat.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go to my place? This would be more fun there,” she breathed.

  I smiled at her. “Here’s just fine.”

  I picked up her hand then selected her two middle fingers. “Wet these in your mouth,” I said.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “You’ll see.”

  She put her fingers to her lips.

  “All the way in,” I said.

  After she’d finished wetting the fingers, I reached down and across and spread her legs. “Put them inside. All the way inside,” I said.

  I watched as she worked her fingers into her pussy. Deep inside. She began breathing hard. “What now?” she wanted to know.

  “Take ’em out.”

  Vikki slowly removed her fingers.

  “Now, stick them inside my mouth,” I said.

  I watched her eyes as I sucked the juice from her fingers.

  “You like that, don’t you?” she whispered. “Does that make you happy?”

  “Yeah, I like it. I like it a lot.”

  “C’mon, let’s go to my place. For real. I want to do this right.”

  “No. We’re doing fine right here.”

  “Hey, you’re smiling. You hardly ever smile. I’m making you smile, aren’t I, Fiorella?”

  I reached down between her legs and located the seat’s adjustment lever, then pushed hers all the way back. “Turn around, with your ass toward me,” I whispered.

  “Whatever you say, Fiorella. Whatever you say.”

  AFTER VIKKI WAS gone, after cashing my final paycheck and buying a pack of Lights, a D-Coke, and three Pop-Tarts at the corner bodega, I picked up my cardboard salesman’s box from Vikki’s trunk that I’d hidden in my parking space and carried it inside the apartment.

  Once I’d locked the door I opened all the widows to let in the cool air coming off the Pacific. It had all been too easy, me and Vikki. First the turn-down, then the submissive slut act. Something was off: the body language. Something wasn’t right.

  FIFTEEN

  I downed the tarts with swigs from the Coke. Then I punched in Carr’s number. One ring.

  “Whaz up, JD?”

  “Someone—I don’t know who—has probably been running me through NCIC and the other state and fed databases. Somehow I was made on an old arrest. It so happens that arrest was squared long ago and only shows up in one place I know of. I need to find out who’s been
requesting information on me. I need ID, e-mail—the package, and I need to know how whoever it was managed to access an off-limits database.”

  “That’ll take time. That’s not what we do here. I’ll have to shake the bushes, make some calls.”

  “My car was torched the other day and I’ve been tagged by someone—probably someone with computer smarts. There might be a connection to what I’m working here.”

  “Forty-eight hours. It’s a deuce up front now, plastic only. And another deuce on the back end.”

  “I can’t use my plastic. I’m hot. I’m off the grid. Help me out, Carr.”

  “This ain’t charity, Slick!”

  “Give me a day and I’ll wire you the money.”

  “Done.”

  I gave Carr the e-mail address I never use. It could only be accessed through the New York Botanical Gardens website.

  “Sit tight,” he said. “I’m on it.” Then he hung up.

  AFTER I’D CLICKED off my cell phone it immediately rang again. I clicked it on. “Forget something?” I barked into the receiver.

  “Fiorella?” a clip-toned voice asked.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Detective Archer.”

  “Jesus, Archer, what now? You guys are way too far up my ass.”

  Archer began working me. Clearly, he didn’t like me and I didn’t like him. “More details, is all. Cop stuff,” he said. “Just take a few minutes.”

  “The way you guys go over details ends up with me feeling more and more like your chump. For instance, you searched my apartment with no probable cause. A bullshit toss, Archer. So just leave me out of this from now on. You’ll get dick when you dial this number.”

  “Calm down, hothead! Me and Taboo are just doing our job—trying to put the pieces together.”

  “Fine. If you’ve got a question for me, then ask it. I’m not your bitch and I don’t deserve the heat. Quit dancing with me.”

  “That’s the problem. You pretend like you’re cooperating but you give us zip. Your answers to questions are always nonanswers.”