by Rich Leder
“Not as funny as this—Omar, feed the fish,” Harvey said, laughing.
“Deep breath, Detective,” Omar said, also laughing, and he pushed Gary down until the front of his face broke the surface.
Gary managed half a breath and held it. He opened his eyes and with watery vision saw red-bellied piranha swimming madly around the tank. He saw rows of razor-sharp teeth. He saw the shoal, two hundred strong, considering him, taking some kind of communal and telepathic vote as to whether or not they should eat his fucking face off.
And then the shoal moved toward him with bad intent. Its teeth were hideous and terrifying and also, in a sick and twisted way, hilarious. Omar pulled Gary’s head out of the water one spilt second before there was blood in the tank. Gary spit and gasped and blinked the water out of his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “Much funnier than fingerprints.” He meant it too. Almost having his face shredded by a pawned shoal of piranha would definitely be part of his new act. Fallon will love it, he thought.
“‘Much funnier than fingerprints,’ I’m going to laugh about that for days,” Omar said, cracking up again.
“So your search continues, Detective. Your Lexus is somewhere, but it’s not here. Are we agreed? Before you answer, I should tell you that Omar knows worse ways to remove your face.”
“Blow torch, steak knife, vacuum cleaner,” Omar said, “just to start the conversation.”
Gary thought it was possible that these were the two craziest maniacs in the San Fernando Valley. He was a LAPD detective, for Pete’s sake, and they had just threatened him with death-by-piranha to quit his case. He couldn’t do that, of course, but he also didn’t want to be eaten by bloodthirsty fish—or lose his face by any of Omar’s techniques. How, he thought, can I stay close to them, nail them for the poodle toss, and keep writing my new act all at the same time?
“Agreed,” Gary said.
Omar stood him up, stepped them both down off the platform, and released Gary’s arms. Harvey handed the detective a handkerchief.
While Gary dried his face, he became conscious of the fact that his cop intuition was in conflict with his comic instincts. He knew these guys were guilty. He could walk to his car, call in a phalanx of officers, tear Pacoima Pawn and Loan to pieces, and nail the dwarf and the giant for the murder of Chachi, the possession of face-eating piranha, and probably a dozen other crimes. But how would that help his comedy career, his new routine? He weighed the options on his personal scales of justice and discovered, not surprisingly, that comedy was king.
Harvey stood on the platform. Gary gave him back the wet handkerchief. “You said you knew an agent.”
THAT’S WHY MY LIFE IS WORSE THAN YOURS
The problems were many and manifest, and Danny ran through them in his head. One: Mrs. Alemi had reclaimed the small yellow house, so all his personal possessions were now in his office. Two: he didn’t have an office because he couldn’t pay Harvey a thousand bucks a month and pay the rent, so the office had to go. Three: he had to move everything currently in his office to wherever it was he was going to move them. Four: he had nowhere to move them. Five: even if he had somewhere to move them, he would need a truck. Six: he didn’t have a truck. Seven: the only person he knew who had a truck was Paul the Pervert.
He called his clown client and arranged for Paul to meet him at the office and help him haul his things somewhere still to be determined. He had to get everything out of the office to avoid paying any more rent; that was priority one. Actually, that was priority two. Priority one was that Danny had an early afternoon appointment with his dentist to clean and whiten his teeth. He would ponder his next landing while his gums were bloodied, his plaque was excavated, and his enamel was invigorated, and then he would meet Paul, load the truck, and drive into his ethereal future with a sparkling smile.
When his teeth were gleaming, the hygienist stepped out of the room, and the dentist slid onto the stool beside the dental chair.
“How are you, Dan?” Dr. Greenburg said.
“I’ve been better, Doc,” Danny said.
“I know what you mean,” Greenburg said.
“My life’s lousy right now,” Danny said.
“Mine’s worse,” Greenburg said.
“Want to bet?” Danny said, only half-kidding.
“Twenty bucks,” Greenburg said, also kidding by half.
“You’re on,” Danny said.
“You go first,” Greenburg said, moving to the sink to wash his hands.
“My fourth horse lost by a nose, and then my mother died,” Danny said. It occurred to him as he told Greenburg the story of his bad bet and his mother dying and the snowball effect of losing his house and his office and having nowhere to go and how it almost didn’t matter because even if he had somewhere to go, the only way to get there was his pervert clown client…it occurred to him as he told the dentist his sad sack story that there might be some people in the world who thought he was shallow for equating a lost horse race with the death of his mother. He wondered if Greenburg was one of those people.
I’m not emotionally shallow, Danny thought. He’d had a moment in Linda’s hospital room, right after Mike had sworn his oath and their mother had died, while he was standing at the window and looking out into the night, where his eyes became damp with tears. It happened while his brother was weeping a bedside ocean. Like Mike, he had felt a wave of sadness in the pit of his stomach and continued to feel it as it climbed past his chest and into his throat. Like Mike, he expected the wave to wash through him like a tsunami, but only the last bit of saltwater foam came to his eyes.
That didn’t make him an unfeeling freak, which is what Mike had said he was as they’d left the hospital. He had deep feelings too. It was just that by the time they reached the surface he had reconciled them; that’s all. He was a quick study as far as his feelings went. He knew what he felt, and he felt it fast and was done with it and was ready for the next race, the next bet, the next client, and the next deal. His fourth horse had lost by a nose, and his mother had died, and a bad-luck chain of events had happened to him that sucked rocks to the point that his life was twenty bucks lousier than Greenburg’s. He had felt what he felt and that was as far as those feelings went. The point was that he had feelings too.
He looked over to the sink to see the dentist’s reaction. His first thought was, Two tens or a twenty, whatever’s easier for you, Doc. His second thought was, What the fuck? Greenburg was frozen at the sink, the water running and running, his face focused somewhere far away. Danny waited a full two minutes for Greenburg to turn off the water and say something, but Greenburg didn’t move a muscle.
“You okay, Dr. Greenburg?”
Nothing. Greenburg had left the building.
“Doc, you okay?”
Danny thought about getting out of the chair. Maybe the dentist was in the middle of some kind of standing stroke, if there was such a thing. Or maybe he had fallen asleep on his feet, like a cow. “Dr. Greenburg?”
Greenburg turned off the water. He didn’t move his mouth at all, yet words came out. “My dog, Chachi, was murdered.” He turned his head to face Danny. His eyes were clouded with pain and desperation.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you sure it was murder? Dogs don’t usually—”
“He was murdered, and my wife can’t live if he’s dead. I caught her hanging herself at high noon today.”
“Jesus, Doc. Your wife committed suicide today?”
“No. I caught her, literally.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s looking for Chachi.”
“But you said he was murdered.”
“I lied to her. I told her he was alive and lost and that she and her Dr. Seuss reading group friends would find him. I told her we would find him. Now, if we don’t find him, she’s going to keep killing herself until I’m not there to stop her.”
Danny decided to let the “Dr. Seuss reading group friends” part of the story go for now. “But y
ou won’t find him. He’s dead.”
Greenburg moved from the sink to the stool beside the dental chair, sat down, and put on latex gloves. “That’s why my life is worse than yours.” He grabbed a mirror and a miniature medieval torture blade off the tool tray and moved his hands into position. Danny opened his mouth, and the dentist checked the hygienist’s handiwork. “I’d pay any amount of money to bring him back.”
Danny closed his eyes for five seconds and then opened them and turned his head so that Greenburg had to take his tools out of Danny’s mouth. “You’re saying if someone could bring your dead dog back to life, if that sort of voodoo were possible, that you would pay that person?”
“Any amount.”
“Twenty thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Thirty thousand?”
“Where do I sign?”
“Fifty?”
“If they could bring back my dog.”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars?”
“I’d sell my soul to give Chachi life.”
Danny looked into Greenburg’s eyes. They were unfocused and red from stress and exhaustion, but he decided that the dentist had spoken the truth and at the same time made a mental note—while sitting up and getting out of the chair—not to let Greenburg put the sharp tools back in his mouth until the next appointment.
IT’S A LOVELY CASKET
The George Edwards Mortuary in Mission Hills was a massive, one-story, free-standing structure on Chatsworth near Sepulveda that looked a lot like an Olive Garden restaurant—and might as well have been one because when you were here, most likely you were family. The exterior walls were whitewashed brick, and a somber dark-green awning at the roofline encircled the entire building. Italian statuary of robed religious men flanked the front entrance. Marble fountains gurgled watery white noise to block out the sounds of traffic and put full focus on the recently deceased. A tall hedge acted as a fence to give privacy to those who had lost a loved one. A covered carport ran the length of the east side of the building. A hearse was parked there, waiting for the next parade of mourners to follow it to the cemetery.
Inside was a stately maze of large and small public and private rooms that were hushed and solemn like a library or a court of law. The floors were covered with thick burgundy carpeting. Each room was softly lit and furnished with dignified leather sofas and side chairs, oak tables with brass lamps, and framed pastoral paintings of, well, pastures that left little doubt as to the business at hand—embalming, arranging, and conducting funerals.
Mike stood with George Edwards in the display center, where a dozen caskets were showcased like Porsches in a dealership showroom, including pin spots on tracks, plush upholstered walls, custom oak shelving, and decorative informational plaques.
“I don’t know, George,” Mike said. “They all seem masculine to me, very handsome, very strong. I can’t picture my mother in any of them.”
“I understand,” George said.
It was what he always said. They were the two most important words in the funeral business, and he had been saying them, no matter the mortuary discussion, for thirty years. He was sixty-two, about six feet tall and trim, with impeccable ramrod posture. His full head of swept-back hair and manicured beard were gray. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. His suit was tailored. His shoes were shined. He wore a gold watch and a wedding band but no other jewelry. He was kind and courtly and formal, with a ceremonious air and a deep soothing voice that had calmed countless bereaved families.
“I want her to look as beautiful as she was,” Mike said.
“She will. There was minimal putrefaction. I’ll do the cosmetology myself. She’ll be beautiful and peaceful, I promise.”
“Thanks, George. You agree that a business suit is best?”
“I do. Your mother was a professional woman to the last moment. I think she’d be pleased to be interred in feminine yet classic business clothing.”
Mike nodded. It was Wednesday afternoon. He had said good-bye to Bonnie, his assistant, left Wasserman and Waddell with a box of his personal office possessions, and driven mindlessly around the Valley for…he didn’t know how long, trying unsuccessfully to make sense of his unexpected dismissal. Somewhere in Sylmar, he had called Marcy, his wife, who was visiting her parents in Paramus with their daughters, and given her the bad news, which she took badly. Then he had stopped for lunch at a taco joint (he couldn’t remember where, he was so distracted) and fallen asleep in the car in the taco joint parking lot like a homeless man. He awoke soaked with sweat after an unsettling dream and had driven to the Mission Hills mortuary to finalize the funeral arrangements with George. His mother was in the reposing room, waiting for hair, makeup, and wardrobe. The funeral was scheduled for Saturday.
“There’s a casket in the viewing room I’d like you to see,” George said. “I don’t have it on the display floor, but I can have one delivered before Saturday. It has soft rounded edges and a matte maple finish with a Rosetan interior. Thirty-three hundred. I think it would be perfect for Linda.”
They walked through the maze of carpeted hallways, turned a corner, and went through double doors into the huge viewing room. There were sofas and chairs and tables and lamps lining the perimeter walls, leaving a large center area that could accommodate one hundred folding chairs or more. At the far end, bathed in a gentle spotlight, plush curtains on either side, was an open casket.
As they crossed the long room, Mike heard George talking to him about the casket. He heard the mortician mention something about non-corrosive linings and something else about seals and gauges and something further about weights. But none of what George was saying sunk in because there was a dead woman in the casket.
Being around sick people was uncomfortable for Mike—he could hardly tolerate it. But being around dead people was another level of discomfort altogether. After he was done weeping in the hospital, he had been so edgy and anxious around Linda’s lifeless body that he couldn’t stay focused during the conversation of transporting her to the mortuary, couldn’t concentrate on the hospital paperwork. He had done it, of course, because he was the adult in the room, but he had been woozy and nauseous and weak-kneed until he’d left the hospital and went to Wasserman and Waddell, where he had been fired for no good reason.
They arrived at the casket. The dead woman’s eyes were closed. She was very old. Her cheeks were blushed. She was wearing lipstick. Her hair was done. It looked like she was sleeping. But she wasn’t.
“This is Mrs. Peterson. She was ninety-five. Your mother will look at least this good.” George said. “It’s a lovely casket.”
“Mr. Edwards,” said a calm and quiet mortuary woman in dark business attire. She had opened a viewing room side door and was leaning in around it. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Dana Thomson is on line two. She’s emotional and would like to speak with you.”
George nodded at the mortuary woman, and she shut the door and vanished. “Can you excuse me for five minutes? I’m sorry, but Ms. Thomson is in distress.”
“Of course,” Mike said, and George walked to the same side door and exited.
As soon as he was gone, Judd Martin stepped out from behind the curtains, pointed to Mrs. Peterson, and said to Mike, “One day soon, this is you.”
Mike was blown back as if shot with a cannon ball. He had already been out of sorts simply by standing so close to a dead body, and now his heart was racing, and his eyes were blinking, and his head was pounding, and his palms were sweating. “Jesus Christ, Judd. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Following you.”
“Following me?”
Even as Mike was asking the question, his brain was accessing the morning meeting at Wasserman and Waddell, where Stan and Ira had said that Judd was mentally ill, emotionally unstable, severely imbalanced, and dangerously volatile. He had been arrested for assault and battery five times and gone to psychiatric prison in Nevada and Colorado. What had Stan said? “He’s a serial s
talker, and it always ends with extreme violence perpetrated on whoever he’s stalking.” Right, that was it. The partners had blamed Judd’s bankruptcy on Mike so Judd wouldn’t stalk the firm, so that his anger and aggression would be pointed in Mike’s direction, so if he stalked anyone, it would be Mike. And now he was stalking Mike. What the fuck? What the fucking fuck?
Judd stepped into the light, away from the curtains, and walked toward the casket, toward Mike. “You killed me. I’m a dead man. I’m a zombie.”
He had the look of a zombie, Mike thought, backing away from him. He was a massive, barrel-chested man, and his red-ruddy complexion was on fire. His red-gray hair was wild, untamed. His eyes were crazed, the eyes of a man who hadn’t slept in weeks or months or ever. He hadn’t shaved, and he was filthy, as if he had rolled in the dirt at one of his bankrupt construction sites. He wore ragged blue jeans, heavy work boots, and a camo hunting vest with no shirt. He was a mad mess. “It wasn’t me,” Mike said.
“You took two mil from my account, and the banks called in the loans, and I lost everything. You’re a rogue accountant. That’s the word on the street.”
“That’s not the word on the street. There’s no word on the street. There is no street. I didn’t take two cents out of your account. What are you talking about?”
Mike backpedalled across the viewing room, which right now felt as big as a football field. Judd followed him, facing him, a few strides away. Mike wanted to make a run for it but knew he wasn’t fast enough or far enough away to get out of the room before Judd could grab him.
“I’m talking about putting you in that coffin,” Judd said, and he pulled a hunting knife from a leather sheath that was strapped to his leg. It was a huge, nasty Bowie knife, more than a foot long with a nine-inch blade, one side serrated, and a burl wood handle.
Mike’s eyes went wide when he saw the knife. Jesus Christ, he thought, where the hell is George? Dana Thomson, whoever she is, definitely isn’t in more distress than me. He realized all at once how much he had to lose here. He thought of his daughters, and his knees buckled. “Whoa, whoa, come on, calm down, Judd,” he said, trying to smile and maybe change the tone of the moment. “You can’t kill me in a funeral home, right? There’s too much irony in that.”