Innocent Little Crimes

by C. S. Lakin

  On the screen, Lila seemed distant, although, in the back of Dick’s head warning lights went off. Was he really free? Or would she reappear again and cause him more grief? He had to believe it was over; how else could he get on with his life? Somewhere, deep in his gut, he felt pity for Lila. And that made him feel even freer.

  Dick turned off the set. Seeing Lila made him lose all interest in watching TV. He let his mind wander back to that fateful weekend. The events blurred in his head. That garish castle. His so-called school buddies. The booze. That terrifying game of Wolves. He would never, as long as he lived, forget the sight of Davis going under that wave. He hoped the visions would fade away forever. An ineffable sense of sadness suddenly engulfed him and didn’t know why. Quickly, he put on his jacket and left the house. A walk would clear his head.

  Olympia, Washington

  Millie kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the sofa. She propped her stockinged feet on the coffee table and smiled. Being her own boss took a lot of hard work, but it was paying off. Sales were up this week, the third week in a row. Her clothing boutique, situated across from the Rainbow Cafe, drew in more customers each day. Three months ago, when she signed the lease agreement and gave notice at her job, she worried night and day. Owning a shop was a risky venture, even though there would be Dick’s alimony and child support. But Millie knew better than to count on Dick. Her duties were little different from her last job—purchasing merchandise, going to trade shows to view new lines, keeping the books. The sense of accomplishment boosted her confidence. In fact, she had already lost twenty pounds and indulged herself with a new wardrobe. Funny, Lila was the one who gave her the idea to open a store. But she did it on her own, without anyone’s help.

  “Hi, Mom. You’re home late,” Sally said, with Debby trailing behind her. The two girls climbed onto the couch and cuddled with their mother.

  Millie hugged them. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. But things are going great. You should be proud of your old mom.”

  Debby giggled. “You’re not old, Mommy.”

  “You look great, Mom,” Sally added. “Your diet’s working.”

  Millie nodded. “Thanks to you guys. You never let me eat anything but carrot sticks. I’m going to turn into a rabbit.”

  Debby giggled again. “It’s not a school night so can we stay up as late as we like?”

  Millie shrugged. “Sure. Get into your jammies.”

  “Okay,” Sally said, as both girls bounded out of the room. Millie yelled after them. “And put your clothes in the hamper and brush your teeth.”

  She listened to the sounds of the girls running around upstairs. She compared the way she felt now to when Dick lived in the house. What a difference. The tension was gone. No more criticism and guilt. If the house was a mess, so what? If she didn’t want to fix dinner, so what? The girls were easy, and even though they missed their father, they were all much more relaxed without his fury filling the house. In fact, ever since the separation, Dick seemed kinder and more considerate to his daughters. Maybe it was all for the best. In time, she would deal with the loneliness that crept into her heart. She had her friends, and many of them were divorced women. She would make it work.

  Millie picked up the remote and turned on the television. She was startled to see Lila’s face filling the screen. Curious, she turned up the volume. I’ll just watch for a few minutes. Since that weekend in March, Millie had pushed the image of Lila far from her mind. She didn’t want to relive the terrible things that happened. She thought about Della, wondered how she was. The thought of phoning her flit through her mind, but she dismissed it. She was on a positive streak now and Della’s depressed personality would only drag her down. And Davis—poor, beautiful Davis. What a tragic waste. Would she ever forgive herself for her part in Davis’s death? The guilt sat heavy in her gut.

  She studied Lila’s manner on the screen. Lila strutted back and forth across the stage. Millie was surprised she felt so detached. Lila was just another actress, a superstar who had nothing to do with her world. Millie watched Lila play to the packed auditorium. But in a few minutes her eyes began to close. Such a long day . . .

  Beverly Hills, California

  Jonathan Levin parked his precious Mercedes in the breezeway space provided him by the landlord. He hated not having a real garage. The car was the only thing left of his former life. And he didn’t want the grime and soot to ruin the paint job.

  He ambled up the concrete back stairs to his second-story apartment. Lucky he’d found this place in the flats of Beverly Hills. It was in the section south of Wilshire that had once housed famous stars, but that was decades ago. These old, ratty apartments should have been torn. What mattered to Jonathan was the cheap rent and having a Beverly Hills postmark. He looked around cautiously. L.A. wasn’t the place it used to be. No neighborhood was safe anymore.

  As he scoured the refrigerator looking for something to eat, he thought about the week’s taping. What a bore. Directing Daytime was the pits, but it brought in steady money. His show was a tired old soap, a TV staple for over thirty years, churning out the same old “drek.” The plots were tired and the actors more so. But at least it was a job. He was squirreling away every cent for the day he could start the move up again. When he got done paying off all his debts he would buy another house. Prices were at an all-time low; everyone was leaving L. A. ever since the last earthquake. Maybe he could find something in the hills. A foreclosure. A lot of smart-ass show biz folk were in over their heads now. There must be thousands of houses for sale. He couldn’t ride up a street without seeing those signs, one after another. He could make a killing. And this time, he’d be careful. No living way over his head.

  He thought back to the day he had called his old agent, Evans, on the phone. He forced out an apology over his bad behavior and asked Evans if he would consider being his agent again. He really needed a job and promised not to act like an asshole. Evans, miraculously, knew of a job, but it was Daytime. Jonathan remembered the tone of Evans’s voice. You better not refuse this one, Jonny.

  After a futile search for something to eat, Jonathan pulled out a beer and popped the top. He would rather be at Spago’s with a gorgeous young thing, sipping vintage wine. But, at the moment, the only action in his life came from what he garnered vicariously across the street. Thinking about it, he felt a tug of arousal. He walked over to the window and pulled up the blinds. He picked up the binoculars and positioned himself. After a few moments, he heaved a sigh. The lights were out.

  The past few weeks he got off to watching a couple going at it in the bedroom with the shades up. It gave him the most amazing rush. Not even going to porn movies in the afternoon turned him on like this. He found himself driving home, looking in the windows of buildings as he passed by. Imagining buildings full of people having sex. He dreaded the weekend. If only he could find a woman, any woman, as background music for his loneliness.

  He put down the binoculars and drank his beer, looking around him with distaste. A boring apartment with boring furnishings. It killed him to sell his house with all those antiques. And his wine cellar, too. He finished the beer and ate a piece of moldy cheese.

  Jonathan checked the messages on the machine with a mixture of hope and apprehension. Maybe someone would call with a better job offer. Oh, how he’d love to break his contract. Or maybe it would be Evans, telling him he lost out on a big one, again. His stomach knotted. Maybe he should just switch careers altogether, leave this depressing town. No messages except for a recorded spiel for a time-share in Palm Springs.

  Jonathan flicked on the television. He put on the Preview Guide and scanned the titles. One show caught his eye. “Lila Carmichael—An HBO Exclusive.” He grunted with rage. That was one show he was going to miss. Anxiety raced over his entire body, ready to twist him into knots. Lila! The curse of his life. Where would he be today if she hadn’t interfered, no, destroyed his life? When he thought about the damage she did to hi
s career, he wanted to smash his fist through a wall.

  Impulsively, he turned to HBO. I’ll just watch for a few minutes. He wanted to see if her act was slipping. He knew her TV “Q” still went through the roof, even though she stopped doing her cable series. Boy, what a bombshell when she walked out on her show. She even had a network deal pending, but he heard she blew that off, too. It was right after the weekend. Losing her precious Davis must have freaked her out. Yet every magazine cover still had her ugly face plastered on it. He read that her fans sent mail everyday to the studio, begging her to bring her show back.

  That cursed weekend. Why the hell had he gone? He knew well why. He went to show off and play big shot—the only one of the group who made it to Hollywood. He should have turned back when that dumb broad, Melodie, walked off down the highway. It was an omen. His life turned to garbage because of Lila. She should have died instead of pathetic, old Davis. He never felt so close to committing murder as he had that weekend. She unleashed emotions in him he never wanted to feel again. But to hell with her. He’d pull himself up again and someday when he was on top . . . he’d get even. The sight of Lila up on the screen made him queasy. He turned off the set, grabbed his car keys, and left the apartment.

  Cruising the dark streets calmed him. Maybe he’d take in a late movie.

  Suddenly, he felt a bump behind him. Through his rearview mirror he saw a beat-up old car. Too close. A guy got out and went to examine the damage. Great! That putz rear-ended him. He shut the motor off, palmed the keys, and stormed out of the car, fists clenched. Then he saw trouble. The guy was big. As his panic grew, the other car door opened and another big S.O.B. got out with a gun tucked in his belt. Jonathan’s stomach roiled.

  The first man outstretched his hand. “Hand it over, man.”

  Jonathan’s knees went weak. He’d read somewhere, if this happened, you were supposed to take a subservient stance. Don’t look them in the eye. Don’t look at their faces. If they thought you could identify them, you were dead meat. Don’t make them have to shoot. He lifted his hands above his head.

  “Okay guys. Take it easy.”

  “Your wallet.”

  He slowly removed his wallet. The man snapped it from his grip. Great! He’d gone to the bank today and had five hundred in cash. And the credit cards. Oy vey! The phone calls he would have to make. As long as they didn’t hurt him.

  “Can I go now?”

  Cars were passing in both directions, but nobody stopped. Not that he blamed them. He wouldn’t stop either. He only hoped one of them would call the cops.

  “The keys, asshole.”

  “Keys?” Oh, please, no . . .

  “The car, jerk.”

  “No, please. Not my car . . .”

  The second guy walked over, grabbed the keys out of his trembling hand, then smashed him in the nose. Jonathan covered his throbbing face. At the same moment, a knee jolted his groin. Jonathan groaned and fell to the ground.

  He didn’t look up as he heard his beautiful car start up.

  One of them called out to him. “Have a nice evening, buddy.”

  Then both cars were gone.

  South Fallsburg, New York

  Della Roman made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Isn’t this beautiful, kids?” All around her, the maple trees flamed in crimson and gold. The woods of the Catskill Mountains filled her with great pleasure, reminding her of so many summers and falls from earlier years. Years when her life was still ahead of her, filled with dreams.

  Behind her, a group of seven children jumped in piles of leaves and grabbed at her arms.

  “Della, how much longer?” one girl asked.

  “Not much.” Della turned and looked at her hikers. They were panting and tired. The air was warm, with an edge of crispness. Every Friday, before she went back to her Aunt Evvie’s house, she took the children on a long walk. She well knew the grounds of the Concord Hotel, the place she first attended a dazzling stage show, an event that shaped her life to come. How odd to be working there again, free of the idealistic hopes of her youth. Now she was content overseeing the day camp. Working with children satisfied her more than acting ever did. The adoration of these smaller fans seemed more genuine than the accolades from fickle adult crowds.

  As she approached the door to the main building, she gathered her charges around her.

  “Now, come close and listen. I’m going to show you something special. Little kids aren’t allowed in here, but we’ll just sneak in and be real quiet, okay?”

  One boy started squirming with excitement. “Where’re you taking us?”

  Della put her finger to her lips. She creaked opened the heavy door and led the children through a narrow hallway. A few more turns and she ushered them into a dark room. Bright lights shone down on the stage, and in the plush interior of the huge auditorium were rows of velvet-covered chairs, and small lights running along the aisles. The children stood in awe. Della motioned with her hand for them to follow her to the side of the theatre.

  They stared at the stage with rapt attention.

  An elaborate set was erected, colorful city scenery. Actors recited dialogue from an old play Della recognized. Wish You Were Here.

  The girl next to Della leaned over and whispered, “Is this where you used to be on stage, Della?”

  Della smiled and took her hand. “I’ll tell you all about it another time.” As she watched the actors, she fought the urge to walk onto the stage and soak in the lights, a painful mix of excitement and anxiety. Maybe someday.

  Later that night, after fixing dinner, she settled on the couch to brush out her aunt’s hair. It was part of their nightly ritual. Della told her aunt all the day’s happenings, even though she knew Aunt Evvie could understand little. Occasionally, her aunt would make a comment or smile, but Della knew her being there soothed her aunt. Her brother Edward had even come from Brooklyn to visit and complimented Della. That was a first. She was still outlawed from visiting the rest of her family, but figured, in time, that would change. She was seeing a real therapist now and paying her own bills. Fortunately, her therapist knew enough to recognize her history of depression. He sent her to a doctor who prescribed a regimen of pills. The last thing she wanted was to take more pills, but these really worked. She fantasized tracking down Daniel, her former “shrink,” and confronting him with his corrupt, reprehensible behavior, but thought better of it. It was smarter to just erase the whole past, put it in the trash where it belonged.

  After tucking Aunt Evvie into bed, Della stacked dishes and settled comfortably on the couch with Cupcake, her new white Persian cat. After a day of boisterous children, she relished the peacefulness. Della stroked her cat and smiled, realizing that she felt content—a familiar feeling these days. She glanced at the scars on her wrist, hard-pressed to remember the former feelings of hopelessness. Now, so many simple things made her happy. She still fantasized owning a house in the Caribbean, soaking up the sun and feasting on tropical fruit. But, she would get there someday. On her own.

  She pulled her cigarettes from her purse and reached for an ashtray. She never smoked around her aunt. One day she would try to quit, but this vice was hard to let go of. One thing at a time, Della. She resisted the urge to pour herself a drink. Instead, she drew hard on her cigarette and turned on the television.

  She flicked through the channels, then stopped. That face from her past stared at her. Lila standing on a vast stage, looking ridiculous. Fat, worn, tired. Della emitted a sigh and, without hesitation, changed the channels until she found a classic Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers musical.

  Her sense of ease vanished. The sight of Lila brought back the weekend with a rush. Seeing herself strung out. Sick in heart and soul. Seeing the gang from college and how shocked they’d been at her fall from grace. But the weekend, as awful as it had been, was the reason she was here, now. Lila, by destroying her illusions, actually set her free. She should be grateful to the cow, but she wasn’t. No cripple ever t
hanks her crutch.

  And Davis, the golden boy. He had everything to live for. He died and all the losers got to live.

  A peculiar thought came to her. Davis died for their sins.

  Ridiculous. Her imagination was in overdrive.

  She concentrated on Fred and Ginger as they danced their way to love and happiness.

  Sausalito, California

  Cynthia stirred her Shirley Temple as she stared out the large picture window of the Foothills Country Club. The view of the boat harbor, lit up under a canopy of stars, took her breath away. The bar buzzed with boisterous voices—the Friday evening crowd. She looked around for her date and saw him speaking on his cell phone by the door. He caught her eye and winked, motioning with his hand that he’d be done momentarily. Jason was on the Board of Directors of one of her charity youth groups. He was pushing forty, divorced, with two teenaged sons. Nice boys, honor students. Cynthia was impressed with Jason’s parenting skills. A nice looking man—with a big heart. She enjoyed the way he talked about the kids; his enthusiasm inspired her.

  Yet, she felt uncomfortable at the club. The last time she was there was with Davis. It seemed so long ago. Yet, only six months. The memory of their engagement party ran through her mind, creating a twinge of fresh pain. What was she doing on a date already? She chastised herself. This was not a date. They were here to talk business. Budgeting. Jason understood.

  Cynthia had made it clear earlier that day that she wasn’t ready for any entangled relationships. Sure, she had her whole life spread out ahead of her. Her twentieth birthday fast approached. But, she still cried herself to sleep most nights.

  And the nightmares kept replaying. Turbulent water and Davis’s drowning. The worst were the ones in which she kept reaching for his hand and his fingers slipped her grasp. She blamed Davis, she blamed Lila, and she especially blamed herself. The guilt wore her out.