Purgatory Gardens

by Peter Lefcourt

  “Jesus,” Sammy exhaled. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Perfectly. Maybe you’ll make some progress if I’m not present. So when you are ready to make amends, call me, and I’ll get up to witness it. Then we can all have breakfast together to celebrate.”

  With that, she pulled Klaus’s cushion in front of the door. He hopped on it, looked up at her expectantly.

  “Klaus, Vorbereitungsmodus!” she commanded. Then, she turned to her two captives and said, “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  She walked into the bedroom, closed the door behind her, and removed her Jimmy Choos mere minutes before blisters would form. Then she lay down on her bed, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

  Neither of them said anything for a while. They remained side-by-side on the couch like a feuding married couple, their arms folded stiffly. Finally, Sammy said, “You think if I got up and sat over there, the dog would attack?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe this whole dog thing is a bluff.”

  “Why don’t you try, and we’ll find out?”

  “That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? The dog does me, you’d have a clear shot at her.”

  More silence. Klaus sat there, keeping his eyes on both of them. Didier yawned. Sammy belched. The air conditioner cycled back on.

  “Okay, what I want to know,” said Sammy, “is how you got to these guys?”

  “The same way you did, apparently.”

  “The movie producer?”

  “Of course.”

  “You asked him to recommend someone?”

  “No. I overheard you talking. As you know, he keeps his windows open.”

  “So you called them?”

  “As you know, you must write to them. And then play golf.”

  “So that’s why you borrowed my golf clubs.”

  “There is no other way to do with business with them.”

  “How much they charge you?”

  “The same amount that they charged you, I would imagine.”

  “Five grand?” Sammy lied.

  “Yes,” Didier lied back.

  “So when they did my patio, didn’t you figure out that I had made a deal with them, too?”

  “When they did your patio, I had not spoken with them yet.”

  “But after you did . . . ?”

  “It occurred to me, yes. But it seemed too much of a coincidence.”

  “Jesus, I’m thirsty,” Sammy said. “You think if I just went to the kitchen and not near the door, he would attack?”

  “As I have said, I have no idea.”

  “You’re not thirsty?”

  “No.”

  “Right. You’re probably used to it out there in the desert, where you’re from.”

  “I am from Côte d’Ivoire, where there is no desert.”

  Sammy stretched his neck, keeping an eye on the dog.

  “So, what are we going to do about this?”

  Didier shrugged the classic Gallic shrug that he had acquired from the French—their insincerely polite way of saying, Whatever gave you the idea that I would possibly know the answer to that question? Or, for that matter, give a shit?

  “You want to sit here for the rest of your life?” Sammy muttered.

  “All right. What if we just said we were sorry, had a quick embrace, and got on with things.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I see. What are you talking about?”

  “We need to figure out what to do about Walt and Biff.”

  “Perhaps we should go to them, together, and tell them that we do not want to kill each other anymore.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to fly. The contract is irrevocable. They’re going to come after us, one way or the other.”

  “They are going to come after one of us.”

  “Maybe they’ll only bother killing one of us, but they’re going to come after both of us for the rest of the money. That’s why they went to the trouble of redoing the fucking patio decks and getting the contract co-signed. You want them to come after Marcy?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because they’ll do it. These guys are ruthless.”

  “Perhaps we should go to the authorities.”

  “No good,” Sammy shook his head. “They got a clean cover. And if it doesn’t work, they’ll really be pissed. They’ll do both of us, just out of spite.”

  “Maybe you can go back to . . . Italy?”

  “For the last time, Diddly Shit, I am not Italian.”

  “Samee, come on, let us at least, how do you say, level with each other.”

  “What about you? You really from the Côte Whatever?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  “Who gives a shit? You can be Nelson Mandela, if you want.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “That won’t stop you. Look, whether we like it or not, I think we have to cooperate here. It’s the only way.”

  Didier nodded, as reluctantly as he possibly could.

  “If we don’t figure out how to deal with this, we’re both fucked.”

  “What do you propose?”

  Sammy took a deep breath, stifled a yawn. He was exhausted and bewildered. He really didn’t know what to do, but at this hour, he was open to just about anything to get off the couch and go home.

  “I think we got to go after them,” he said finally.

  “Go after? You mean, have them killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I know a guy.”

  “Another contract killer?”

  “Yeah. He’s in LA.”

  “How much do we have to pay him?”

  “Ten grand.”

  “I don’t have ten thousand.”

  “Yeah, but I bet you have five thousand.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Didier, what about the final payment on the hit?”

  “That is only three thousand.”

  “Okay. Cards on the table. I know that the hit on me cost ten. And I know that it was five up front, and five on the back end. Right?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Don’t fucking perhaps me. We need to get down to business here. If we each have five pending, and we pooled it, we could afford my guy.”

  “Then we have nothing.”

  “But we’ll be alive. That’s something.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “I’ll see if I can get my guy down to seven.”

  “I need to think about this.”

  “No, you don’t. If you think about it too much, you won’t do it. And one of us will be dead soon. It’s Russian roulette with only two chambers. You can’t like those odds.”

  “What do we do about Marcee?”

  “First, we kiss and make up. Then we figure out how to do this.”

  “Do we tell her what we are thinking of doing?”

  “No. We have to protect her in case things go south.”

  “Go . . . south?”

  “Jesus, how long have you been in this goddamn country? Look, Deedeeyay, these guys are very good at what they do. Which is kill people. If they think we’re dicking around with them, there’s no reason to believe that they won’t do both of us. And if they find out Marcy knows what went down, they could go after her, too.”

  “Marcee, too?”

  “You bet. These guys are equal-opportunity killers.”

  Didier flexed his shoulder muscles, cramped from having sat on the couch for several hours. It was an unconscious gesture he adopted when confronted with two undesirable alternatives.

  “Now are you ready to do the kissy-face shit?” Sammy pressed.

  “I suppose so.”

  “I’m not any more thrilled about it than you are. So let’s get it over with.”

  Then Sammy cupped his hands and shouted, “Marcy! We’re ready!”

  It took almost ten minutes for Marcy to emerge from the bedroom. She had combed
her hair and slapped on a little mascara, just enough so that her eyes didn’t look as groggy as she felt.

  She sat down on a kitchen stool and said, like a director on a movie set, “Action.”

  They looked at her blankly. “Just kidding,” she said. “Movie joke.”

  “Is Klaus back on the leash?” Sammy asked, glancing at the dog, who had perked up again at his mistress’s entrance.

  “Oh, he would never hurt a fly.” Marcy smiled.

  “You made up the whole attack dog shit?”

  “Uh-huh. He’s a good actor, isn’t he? I taught him how to growl. It wasn’t easy. He’s a sweetheart.” She giggled her lovely, non-damaged giggle, and called to the dog, “Klaus, kommen hier.” The dachshund waddled over and put his snout in her lap.

  “Okay guys, let’s see a hug.”

  The embrace was as minimal as it could be and still be called an embrace. Marcy understood that this was about as good as it was going to get. A step in the right direction, at least.

  “Okay, so now what, guys?”

  “I could use a little sleep.”

  “It’s Christmas Day, Sammy.”

  “You and I are Jewish, Marcy. And I don’t know what he is,” Sammy said, indicating Didier, who was slumped on the couch half-asleep.

  “I was educated by the Jesuits,” Didier murmured, eyes lidded.

  “Jew persecutors . . .”

  “Come on! No more sniping at each other. You’ve made amends. You’ve embraced. We need to move forward with positive energy.”

  They nodded, still checking to make sure that the other one was nodding, too. It was clearly a fragile peace.

  Marcy let her eyes rest on each of them for a few seconds, then said, “Okay, I am going to assume that you will deal with your joint problem together.”

  “We shall do that,” Didier assured her.

  “I don’t want to know the details.”

  Sammy put on his best cement-salesman manner and said, “Marcy, consider it taken care of. And you’re right—the less you know, the better. It’s safer for you.”

  “That’s very considerate of you. Both of you.”

  “Le moindre des choses,” Didier said with a gallant bow.

  “You’re in America. Speak English,” Sammy snapped.

  She flashed Sammy a look, and he relented. “Sorry.”

  “All right. I’ll let you guys get some sleep. You look like you need it.” Then she turned to the dachshund and said, “Klaus, Rührt!” When the two men froze, she broke into the smile that they both loved and said, “Just kidding.”

  They headed for the door gratefully. As they turned to wave goodbye, she said, “Guys, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  When they were gone, Marcy plopped down on the couch, still warm from their bodies, and slowly exhaled. Wow.

  What a performance! Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity. It was time for a remake. She was a little old for the role, but she could make it work. She’d go on a serious diet and do another little lift—nothing drastic, just tone up the flesh around her neck, and maybe a little tuck in the butt. Right after the New Year, she’d call Artie Reman, put it on the freeway, and see if it got run over.

  Both men slept through Christmas, in spite of the boisterous holiday party hosted by Chris and Edie. The tequila flowed. There was carol singing and a spontaneous conga dance around the pool. The two swingers tried to get Marcy to go skinny-dipping with them.

  “What do you say, doll?”

  “Maybe ten years ago,” she demurred.

  “You kidding?” Chris said. “You are one foxy lady.”

  Marcy sought refuge with Charlie Berns, who was on a recliner at the other end of the pool.

  “Merry Christmas, Charlie,” she said, sitting down beside the movie producer.

  “Back at you.”

  She leaned back on her recliner, sucked in her stomach, took a sip of her watery margarita, and said, “You ever see Double Indemnity?”

  “1944. Paramount. Barbara Stanwyck, Fred MacMurray, Edward G. Robinson. Billy Wilder directed from a script by Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain.”

  “Wow. You know all that stuff.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “Has there ever been a remake?”

  “Universal fucked it up in 1973. Richard Crenna, Lee J. Cobb, Samantha Eggar. Crashed and burned on the runway.”

  She took a moment, in an attempt at some sort of disinterested interest.

  “You think it’s time for one more?”

  “You’d have to make it as a period piece. The insurance companies discontinued double indemnity clauses years ago.”

  “What if you kind of just . . . I don’t know, took the title? And changed the story.”

  He looked at her, puzzled, but not without interest. “How?”

  “I was thinking of a story about a woman . . . caught between two men, both of whom are in love with her. And these two guys are both, like, mysterious characters. She doesn’t know whether she can trust either of them. So she hires a private eye, but it’s a woman detective, to investigate them, and she finds out that both of them are trying to kill the other one. Over her.”

  “Not bad,” Charlie mused. “So what happens?”

  “Here’s the twist. They both hire the same hit man. A kind of offbeat killer type—Johnny Depp, or maybe . . . Daniel Craig, or someone.”

  “And?”

  “I haven’t figured out the ending.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s why writers were invented, right?”

  “Great role for a woman.”

  “Yeah. I was thinking it would be better with a . . . mature woman.”

  “Fortyish?”

  “I’d go even higher. Fifty. You know, older women are an underserved demo. They love to go to the movies, but they’re not interested in Jennifer Lawrence foraging for food. No, they want to see women they can identify with, mature, vibrant women, women who run with the wolves . . .” She stole a quick glance at him, then said, “Don’t you think?”

  “Intriguing,” he agreed, nodding.

  Marcy decided to leave it there, let it percolate in his brain. Never oversell, Artie Reman always told her. In the meantime, she could look for a writer who could flesh out the story, solve the ending. Or maybe the ending would magically reveal itself. Art imitating life. Or was it the other way around?

  By the time Sammy Dee was up, the party was winding down. He cracked the blinds, peeked outside, and saw Edie and Chris in the pool, naked, and Ethel Esmitz yelling at them that indecency was against the CC&Rs.

  Sammy took a long shower to clear out the cobwebs and figure out what the fuck to do about the new mess he was now in. Doing nothing was not an option. Walt and Biff might decide to come after him first and leave Diddly Shit to make a separate peace. Then the African would wind up with the prize. Insult to injury.

  He could try to get the hits called off, offer them another grand or two and see if it flew. Maybe this extreme prejudice bullshit was just some sort of bluff. Like Klaus. Right?

  Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t want to find out. No, there was only one way of dealing with Acme. It was clean, surgical, and final. It would solve the problem once and for all.

  Sammy shaved, dressed, and made himself some coffee. He would have to bring Diddly Shit in on the deal. He would need his money, and he wanted his complicity. Spread the risk. Eliminate the possibility of Sammy taking the rap, going up to maximum security alone, and leaving the African free to move in with Marcy. Besides, he could use a caddie.

  It was dark when Sammy knocked on Didier’s door. The African answered it in one of his colored robes.

  “We need to talk.”

  He walked in without waiting to be invited. The place was dark with the weird African shit everywhere. It smelled of strange vegetables and olive oil. There was a large aquarium with nothing in it but murky water, and an empty birdcage.

  “This place so
undproofed?”

  “I do not know. But there is only Charlie Berns on one side and the old man who does not hear on the other. Why?”

  “Sit down,” Sammy said, as if he were the host.

  “You would not care for a glass of papaya juice?”

  Sammy shook his head and waited for Didier to sit down on some sort of carved mahogany stool.

  “This an Ashanti chief’s stool.”

  “Fantastic. Listen, we need to deal with this. And we need to do it right away.”

  “Are you proposing . . . ?”

  “Yes. My guy.”

  “I don’t know, Samee . . .”

  “Yes, you do. We talked about this last night. We don’t have a choice. It’s self-defense—them or us.”

  “Still, arranging a murder . . .”

  “You didn’t have any problem arranging to murder me.”

  “That was for . . . love.”

  “Well, this is for survival. Look, Deedeeyay, these guys are scumbags. They’re evil. The world will be a better place without them. We would be doing the moral thing here.”

  Didier kept looking at the door, as if he could somehow walk away from the whole problem by walking out of his condo.

  “Have you spoken with him?” he asked finally.

  “Not yet. First, we got to get these guys someplace where my guy can do them. Unless you happen to know where they live.”

  Didier shook his head.

  “Okay, so I contact them. I explain that it is urgent that I speak to them, set up the golf bullshit. Then both of us show up.”

  “They will be suspicious.”

  “Of course they will. But this way they’ll know the jig’s up. And, better, you and I will be in the clear. We’ll have an alibi.”

  Didier pondered this for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I see. We shall be present when they are killed.”

  “No, my guy does ignitions. But we’ll have our names on the tee register as playing in a foursome with them when their car blows.”

  “But they will not be in it?”

  “Yes, they will. My guy will wire the car while we’re playing golf. We walk them to their car, shake hands, step away. By the time they turn the key, we’ll be out of range. Then we call 911. Help! Someone just killed our golf buddies. How could we have set the ignition bomb if we were playing golf with them when their car was being wired?”