by R. J. Kaiser
“Well, is the reason good or bad?” she’d asked.
“Oh, definitely good.”
“Why is it good?”
He had a hard time answering her. “I think because you make me think of happier times.”
“Like your childhood?”
“Yes.”
“God, that was the most miserable part of my life. I hated being a kid.”
“But you like being an adult.”
“Sometimes I’m not sure I do,” she replied with an embarrassed grin.
After more conversation they’d decided that maybe Jade was only now coming to terms with her inner child, while Mac was lamenting the loss of his.
“We’re a pathetic pair,” she’d said, but Mac didn’t agree at all.
He couldn’t tell her what he was thinking, which was that he felt they made a pretty interesting couple—unlikely, but interesting. Jade, he could tell, was skittish and had little or no conscious interest in being anything more than friends.
Mac remained grounded enough that he wouldn’t allow himself to be carried away by the fun of their friendship, though. He knew nothing of consequence was likely to come of it, though the titillation was nice. For them both, as best he could tell. But he couldn’t muse about her all day. In an attempt to find some semblance of normalcy, he busied himself with routine tasks, going over the P&Ls, reviewing job lists.
It was while he was going over the list of new contracts that he noticed a familiar address in Brentwood—Stella and Aubrey’s old place. Seeing it, his stomach dropped.
Mac picked up the phone and got hold of Walt Matthews, who ran the construction operation. “Where’d we pick up this job in Brentwood?” he asked.
“Let me check with sales, Mac. I’ll get back to you.”
Mac waited, drumming his fingers on the huge mahogany executive desk, getting up and going to the window, pacing until the phone rang. It was Bev.
“Your wife’s on line three. You want to talk to her?”
He was tempted to have Bev tell Stella he’d call her back, but he didn’t want her to think he was giving her the runaround. These days Stella’s state of mind was as important as just about everything else he had going. “I’ll take it.” Mac punched the button. “What’s up?”
“Mac, there’s been a very serious development. We need to talk.”
He considered that. “Can you give me a hint what you’re talking about?”
“No, I’d like to discuss it with you face-to-face. Believe me, you’d prefer it that way, if you knew.”
“Stella, if it’s hand-holding you want, then—”
“It’s not hand-holding,” she snapped.
“Then what?”
“All right, if you must know, Jaime Caldron came by the house yesterday and we need to discuss it. Satisfied?”
Mac knew that was all he’d get. “Okay, this evening okay?”
“How about meeting for lunch?”
He took a quick look at his calendar. “I guess I can. Do you mind coming out here? I’ve got a full afternoon.”
“Fine. Shall I come to your office?”
“Okay, we can go someplace from here.”
“Noon?”
“Noon will work.”
“See you then, Mac.”
He hung up wondering what the hell Caldron had done. Judging by the edge to Stella’s voice, and her snappishness, he’d done something.
Not thirty seconds passed before his intercom line buzzed. Bev told him it was Walt Matthews. He punched the button.
“Yeah, Walt.”
“Johnny said it was a call-in. People named Kellerman. Job’s scheduled to begin next week.”
Mac, suspecting as much, thought for a second. “I’ll want to talk to you about that before you assign a crew, Walt. Flag that one.”
“Mind if I ask what’s up, boss?”
“I built the existing pool. One of my early jobs in the business. I’d like a firsthand look.”
“You got it, Mac.”
After hanging up, Mac put his head in his hands. A week. God, how was he going to get around this? Apparently Glamour Puss felt he’d been in the ground long enough. Mac had a sudden feeling of dread. He sensed that everything was coming to a head. He’d been bobbing and weaving, but he couldn’t avoid taking a few punches on the chin forever. Somebody was bound to connect, and it probably would be Jaime Caldron.
Santa Monica
Venita had decided to meet her destiny head-on. If that bloody mercenary who called himself a journalist had regained his memory and was prepared to accuse her, she might as well be there to do what she could to mitigate the damage, even if it was nothing more than buying enough time to get on the first plane out of the country.
There was no certainty she would be arrested and prosecuted, regardless of what Percy might say, because it would be her word against his. But the notoriety and hoopla would spell the end of her Hollywood venture. Troy and his supposed millions would hardly matter at that point.
Troy’s newfound self-assurance had come as almost as great a surprise as Percy rising from the dead. Over a few days, the boy had discovered his manhood. Even his sexuality had changed qualitatively.
She’d been washing her hair in the shower that morning when Troy entered the stall. At first he’d caressed her breasts and nibbled at her ears, his sex rising hard against her backside. But then with a sudden desire to overwhelm her, he’d forced her to bend over and, while she supported herself with her hands on the stool, he vigorously took her from behind, ramming into her with the angry urgency of a conqueror.
That, at times, was the male way. Venita knew from experience that it could be as instinctual as it was intentional. And if a woman was in the right mood, it could be powerfully erotic. But it always made a statement. And the statement was, “I’m in charge.”
Men needed to prove that the way they needed food and water, she supposed, considering how often she’d seen it. Sometimes the outburst came when a woman was at her strongest, sometimes at her weakest, but always when a man needed to feel his strength. In the case of a young man, it could be a rite of passage. But what they sometimes failed to learn was that with power came responsibility. Invariably the one who suffered most with such a failing was the woman.
The other key lesson Venita had learned was that a woman could surrender to a man’s power, but she could never cede her own. Her affair with Ramda Bol was the perfect example of why that was true.
When the limousine came to a stop at the entrance of St. John’s Hospital, she focused her thoughts on Percy. There was no way to know what she would find waiting for her. With any luck at all, he would be mentally deranged for the rest of his life, or at the very least, unable to recall that she’d shoved him over the wall. But obviously, she couldn’t count on either outcome. No, she had to be prepared for him to recover his memory, if he hadn’t already.
Inside, the receptionist told them that if they wished to see Percy, they’d have to speak with the attending physician, Dr. Yee. A guard from hospital security, a bald, potbellied man of fifty who was otherwise slim, accompanied them to the doctor’s office.
Yee was Asian, short of stature, with thick glasses and unruly spikes of black hair. He received them in his office wearing a starched lab coat that was a bit too large, making him look like a child in a snowsuit. After shaking their hands, he settled into his high-back brown leather desk chair.
“So, you think you may know the identity of our patient,” the doctor said.
“We saw the picture in the paper,” Venita replied. “There’s something of a resemblance to my cousin, Girish, though with the injuries, it was difficult to tell.”
“Your cousin is missing, is he?”
“He’s been living in Canada for several years. Two weeks ago he headed for the States and nobody’s heard from him. We thought your patient might be Girish.”
“I’ll take you to see him in a minute. A few words, first. I’d like to ask you to
let him react to you. If it is your cousin, you can tell me quietly. Don’t embrace him unless and until he recognizes you. The face of a family member is often the trigger that brings memory flooding back. Amnesiacs are in a fragile state, for the most part. Whatever we do, we’ll want to do gently. If the patient is not your cousin, you’ll be simply another of the many strange faces he’s seen the past few days. Do you have any questions?”
“Will I be able to speak with him?”
“We’ll see how he reacts to you. Even if he is not your cousin, he may show interest because you’re a countryman. We believe our patient is South Asian.”
“Has he recalled anything at all, Doctor?”
“Mostly vague impressions. We know he has strong ties with England, perhaps having lived there, judging by his speech and his comments. Is that consistent with your cousin’s background?”
“Yes, Girish attended university in Britain.”
“Perhaps we have our man, then.”
“I’m surprised the authorities haven’t been able to make an identification if the patient is here on holiday. Presumably he obtained a visa.”
“The police, I understand, are working with Customs and Immigration, but it’s been slow going. My immediate concern is the patient’s health, however,” the doctor said. “He’s obviously had a traumatic experience of some sort, something his mind is repressing. As I say, we’ll go in to see him together. Is the gentleman here also a possible relative?” Yee asked, indicating Jugnu.
“No, Mr. Singh is my employee.”
“I see. Well, perhaps you and I will see the patient alone, then. Shall we go?”
Venita and Jugnu went with the doctor. The security guard, who’d waited outside the office, went with them down the hallway. Yee asked Jugnu to wait in a small room and took Venita to the door of a patient room. The guard waited outside.
Her insides churned anxiously as Yee opened the door. She took a deep breath. Yee stepped aside to allow her to enter.
Percy lay in a hospital bed, his head and torso and arm heavily bandaged. She could only see him in profile as his head was turned toward the window.
“Hello,” Yee said, his voice chipper. “I’ve brought a visitor.”
Percy looked in their direction, only one eye appearing sufficiently open to see them well. His gaze was blank. There was no special reaction.
Venita slowly exhaled.
“What do you think?” Yee said to her under his breath.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t believe that’s Girish,” she whispered.
Yee went to the bed. He put his hand on Percy’s shoulder. “This lady came to say hello. Would you care to chat with her?”
“I don’t mind,” Percy replied.
Yee signaled for her to approach the bed. Venita moved closer. “Hello,” she said cheerily. “I read in the paper you were in hospital and thought I’d pop in to see how you’re doing.”
“Not so well, I’m afraid. Can’t recall a bloody thing. Not even my name.”
“I’m sure you’ll get better in due course.”
Percy looked at her carefully. Venita thought she saw twinges of recognition. If so, they were deep in the recesses of his mind. She could tell by the slight frown on his face he was struggling to grasp the elusive thread of recognition. She could imagine how frustrated he must be. But at the same time she was grateful. He could just as easily have flashed on the incident in her garden, his horror growing as it all came rushing back. But there was no agitation, no cursing, only a prickle of curiosity and struggle.
“You’re Indian, then,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who the bloody hell I am?”
“You look very much like my cousin,” she said. “But you aren’t Girish.”
“Girish,” Percy said. “No, that can’t be me.” He scrutinized her. “There’s something about you, as well…I can’t quite say what.”
“Perhaps you’d enjoy talking with the lady for a while,” Yee said. “Would you like that?”
“Yes,” Percy said. “I rather would.”
Yee addressed her. “Do you mind spending a few minutes with my patient?”
“Not at all. I’d enjoy it.”
“I’ll be back shortly, then,” Yee said. “Give you a little time to chat.” He brought a chair over for her. Smiling at them both, he left the room.
“Well, then,” Venita said, “I look somewhat familiar, do I?”
“Yes, a little. What’s your name?”
“Venita.”
Percy pondered that, grimacing slightly.
“It could be that we do know each other,” she said. “If I’m right, there’s not much that can be said until you recover your memory. Your recollections may not be the most pleasant, but don’t despair. The news won’t be all bad.” She reached into the pocket of her under blouse and removed a small envelope, which she handed to him.
“What’s this?”
“A message for you, when you recover your memory. It won’t mean anything to you now, but it will then. Be sure and read it before you do anything else.”
He had an uncertain look.
“But no need to worry,” Venita said. “Nothing urgent. Just relax. These people seem to be taking good care of you. I assure you there’s no hurry.”
Percy looked like he was struggling to pull a niggling thread from his memory. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
“Let’s just say time will answer that question. And now I must go. Rest well. And above all, don’t worry.”
As she got up, Dr. Yee stuck his head in the door. “How are we doing here?”
“We’ve had a nice little chat, Doctor,” Venita said. “The only thing that might have been better is if this had been my cousin, Girish.”
“I predict it won’t be much longer until he regains full memory,” Yee said with an approving smile.
Percy, for his part, looked perplexed, perhaps a bit bewildered. Venita was relieved. This could have been a disaster. As it was, she’d bought herself some time, maybe even gotten herself some much-needed insurance.
She shook hands with the doctor.
“Is there a way we can reach you?” he asked.
“Why don’t I call you, Doctor? I’ll want to check regularly to see how your patient is doing. Ta-ta!”
With that, she went off to find Jugnu.
Studio City
“A lady for you on line two, Mac,” Bev said on the intercom line.
“What lady?”
“She wouldn’t give her name, but said it was an urgent personal matter. Sounded young, if that means anything.”
Mac couldn’t imagine. “Okay, I’ll take it.” He pushed the button. “McGowan.”
“Mr. McGowan, I know what happened to Aubrey St. George in Brentwood in his pool house twenty years ago. I’m going to tell the police and the Los Angeles Times unless you’d like to convince me I shouldn’t.”
Mac stopped breathing. What the hell was this? Stella’s idea of a joke? No, she wouldn’t joke about Aubrey. “Who is this?”
“It doesn’t matter who it is. Are you interested in hearing how you can keep the story buried forever?”
His mind reeled. Who the hell…
“Mr. McGowan?”
“Yeah, sure. How?”
“Meet me on the upper-level observation deck at the Getty Center tomorrow at noon. The southeast corner over-looking Westwood. If you involve the police, my associates will release the story. Cooperate and the problem will go away. Do you understand, Mr. McGowan?”
“I hear what you’re saying.”
“Listen very carefully. I want you to be at the railing, looking at Westwood. I’ll come up next to you. Don’t look at me. Keep your eyes on the view. We’ll talk about solving your problem. If you look at me, it’s all over. Don’t fuck with me, Mr. McGowan. This is dead serious. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”
&nb
sp; The line went dead. Mac slipped the receiver back in the cradle. He rubbed his chin, staring out the window of his office as his heart thumped wildly. God, he decided, had a very strange sense of humor.
West Hollywood
Angel couldn’t decide if the bitch was inside or not. He’d been sitting there, a couple of doors up the street from her place, for an hour, and he hadn’t seen any sign of her. Maybe she’d gone before he got there, or maybe she was still inside. One thing for sure, he couldn’t sit around all day waiting for her. Somebody might notice him and get suspicious.
The car he had was stolen. The Chevy he’d been driving was too hot, especially with a million cops looking for him. Angel knew he ought to be in Mexico, but there was no point in going without money to live on. He sure as hell wasn’t going to spend the next ten years herding goats.
Everything now depended on Manuela and whether she could get the ten thousand out of those cocksuckers at the club. He’d called her from a pay phone, and when she answered she said, “You done what I asked yet?”
“No, but I’m working on it.”
“Do it,” she said.
“I will, I will. How’s it coming with the ten?”
“I don’t know nothing yet. I’ll know more tonight. I’ll call you later.” Then she hung up.
Angel wasn’t feeling so good about things. His fucking sister had him by the balls, but he couldn’t do anything about it but kiss her ass. Which really pissed him off. But he didn’t have no other choice. He could knock over a liquor store and that might be good for two or three hundred, but what was that going to get him? A few tanks of gas, a room for a night, a broad maybe and a couple of cases of beer. Then what?
Just then the front door of the bitch’s pad opened and out she came pushing a bike. A bike? She had on bike shorts, the helmet, the top, the whole number. What was this?
The next thing he knew, she out in the street and heading right toward him. Angel picked up the newspaper with the story about the cop he’d shot, hiding his face behind it as she zipped by. The bitch didn’t seem to notice. She was going up the street like she really meant business.
Angel got the car started, though it took a few seconds because he was out of practice with hot wiring. By the time he got the fucker going and turned around, the bitch cop was already two blocks up the street. He hurried after her, wondering if he could just run her down with his car, or if he was better off shooting her. Of course, if he ran her down, he could always get out and pump a couple of rounds in her, just to make sure.