by Joe Ide
“Yes?”
“What do you know about Tyler?”
Bertrand frowned. “Didn’t like him, didn’t like him at all. He was a meddler and a troublemaker.”
“How so?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Bertrand replied. Isaiah was about to push back but didn’t.
“Did you see anything that night?”
Bertrand nodded emphatically. “I sure did.”
Janet returned. “I forgot to ask you—how do you want your eggs?”
“Scrambled,” Isaiah said. She left. “Go on, Bertrand. You were saying?”
Bertrand leaned forward. Isaiah did too. “You would not have believed it,” Bertrand said, confidentially. “Never saw anything like it, and I’ve seen a thing or two, believe me.” Suddenly his expression changed, his placid face contorting to disgust. “Oh, crap!”
“What’s the matter?” Isaiah said.
“The music,” he groaned. “Why do they have to play that junk?” The fifties classic “Maybellene” was playing. Bertrand waved at Janet. “Excuse me. Could you turn off the music?” She rolled her eyes and turned away. Bertrand huffed. “See if she gets a tip.” He sat there fuming and muttering until the song ended. “Well,” he breathed. “I’m glad that’s over.”
Isaiah wondered what that was all about but pressed on. “You were telling me what happened that night,” he said.
Bertrand was about to speak when Janet brought their goddamn fucking food. He was delighted. He stuck his face over the plate and breathed deeply. “Ahh, nothing like it.” He took a bite of what looked like deep-fried baseball mitt, a splotch of white gravy on it. “Oh, darn. It’s cold.” He waved his hand. “Oh, Janet—”
“Bertrand,” Isaiah said. “No more Janet, no more water, no more eating. Tell me what you saw that night.”
“All right already,” Bertrand said, a little miffed. “It wasn’t very pleasant, I can tell you. I was near the curtain, on the showroom side. I was flat on my back. Don’t ask me why, and Tyler was lying in front of me and he was, well, dead. Completely dead! I had blood all over me, it was really unpleasant. I heard someone in the workroom. I couldn’t see because of the curtain so I said, ‘Hey, what’s going on over there!’ Like that, you know? Really forceful.”
“And then?”
“And then I looked through the curtain and I saw someone running toward the back entrance.”
“What did he look like?” Isaiah said, getting excited.
“It was a she,” Bertrand said.
“A woman? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” Bertrand slipped in a quick bite of baseball mitt. “I’m not a stupid person, you know. I didn’t see her very well. She was facing the other way. She was really small, almost like a kid, and she was wearing black, head to toe, like one of those—what do you call them? Ninnies?”
“You mean ninjas?”
“I suppose. I don’t speak Chinese.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I got up and went after her,” Bertrand said. “And this is the crazy part. I come out of the rear door, I look up and the ninny woman was climbing up a rope! As you can imagine, I was very perturbed. Obviously, she had something to do with Tyler. I said, ‘What do you think you’re doing? Come down here right now!’ She ignored me.”
“Keep going,” Isaiah said.
“Well, now it gets confusing. You see, when there’s too much stress, the alters, including myself, get a little, what’s the word? Jumbled. We get together—in Christiana’s head, of course, and everybody starts talking and switching out really fast. Anyway, this was happening when I went back inside and I switched out. I don’t know what happened after that.”
“Anything else?” Isaiah asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not,” Bertrand said. “I’m going to finish my supper now. Jeez, I’m still thirsty.” He raised his water glass. “Janet? Over here?” Isaiah closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Here he was, beat to shit and his car was totaled and what had he learned? That the killer was a woman. Interesting but it made no material difference. Bertrand was still waving at Janet.
“Janet? Could I get some more water?” She gave him the finger. He reared his head back. “Well!”
Christiana switched out with Bertrand and caught a taxi home from Denny’s. She went into her room, ripped off Marlene’s clothes, and threw them in the hallway. “FUCK!” she screamed. She’d only heard parts of what that dolt had said. Maybe it helped, maybe it hurt, maybe it did both. Everything was out of control.
She retreated into the house, the one inside her head. It was a nice house. Very modern, everything clean and neat and bright. No loud colors, no clash of styles, nothing like the condo. She had no idea how it had come together. There was so much she didn’t know the how and why of. Her life was part-time. In the office at nine, clock out at nine thirty. In the office at eleven fifteen, clock out at a quarter after one. What happened the rest of the time was either hearsay, piecemeal or a total mystery. If it wasn’t for Gia she couldn’t function at all. It was unbearable. Dependent on someone you wanted to hurt in the worst way possible. Another thing she couldn’t deal with, another thing shunted off to the others.
She could hear them calling out and arguing and crying. They were no help. They only made things more confusing; a blaring cacophony while you were balanced with one foot on a pinhead. She was alone in spite of them. She was isolated in spite of them. She had no love because of them. She hated them as much as she hated herself. The situation was impossible, the definition of futility, a lingering death without actually dying.
She couldn’t help Isaiah, she only knew what she’d told him. Did he suspect what she suspected? That one of the others had plotted to kill Tyler? They had a reason and a good one too. Marlene? Possible. Jasper? Possible. Pearl? No—well, maybe. The crime was so egregious she might have been forced over the edge. Bertrand? Another maybe, but not by himself. He took his protecting duties seriously and he might have seen this in the same light. Could they have hired the killers? At one time or another, they’d all had access to Angus’s contacts. Some of them they’d met. Some of them were contract killers or knew them personally. It wouldn’t have been hard to convince them that they were acting on Angus’s behalf.
She was afraid when Isaiah talked to the others. What if one of them said something that exposed their guilt? Her only hope was that the case would lead Isaiah somewhere else. Another migraine was coming on, she could hear it rumbling like a faraway avalanche. It would be here soon, huge and enveloping. She welcomed it. The pain was real, it had substance and constancy; you knew what it was and what it was doing. It wasn’t some unpredictable, shape-shifting, parceled-out headfuck that came at you in flashes so horrifying you had to flee yourself and black out and let somebody else take the hit. There wasn’t room for all her hatred and so much of it was swallowed, choked down and hidden. Stay steady, she reminded herself. She had to think her way through this.
She took a shower and scrubbed off Marlene’s perfume. She thought about suicide. She’d tried it before but as soon as the thought entered her head, there was a chorus of complaints, admonitions and pleas. Kill herself and she killed them all. One voice rose above the rest but she couldn’t tell whose.
“Get us out of this, asshole. That’s your fucking job.”
She lay down on the bed as the migraine barged in, the pain punching holes through her skull, her eyeballs swelling, her mouth a rainless desert wash. Memories swirled and shrieked, the kind she couldn’t stand. She felt the wire coat hanger cutting into her wrists and smelled her own feces, the drunken laughter like a death knell. She groaned and thrashed and then, gratefully, she blacked out.
Chapter Eight
Starsky and Hutch
Isaiah was pissed. Marlene and Jasper refused to be tied down. It was ridiculous and frustrating. He thought about Grace. She was here in Long Beach, probably within walking distance and she still ha
dn’t called. He couldn’t wait anymore. He had to do something. He remembered Grace’s friend, Cherokee, the pale girl with collar tats, her hair shaved on one side of her head. An easy person to remember.
TK had sold him a five-year-old Kia on the cheap. He drove over to Ross Dress for Less and bought a hippie-looking handbag. He added to it a wallet, an old ring of keys, a couple of flyers, some makeup and some change. He went to the art store where he had first seen Cherokee talking with Grace. He knew what he was doing was stupid and underhanded, bordering on stalking, and he knew it was Grace’s choice whether to see him again. Amazing, he thought, what you could block out of your mind when you really wanted to. He knew love was powerful, but what he hadn’t understood was that it strung you out as well.
“How can I help you?” the guy at the counter said.
“I found this bag,” Isaiah said. “It belongs to someone named Cherokee.”
“Oh, sure, I know her. I can give it to her if you want.”
Isaiah ate lunch across the street at Carl’s Jr. He ate half the burger and stopped. Fast-food joints cooked the shit out of everything. He was feeling more and more ridiculous. He was about to leave when Cherokee showed up. She went into the store and two minutes later came out again, looking annoyed and talking on her cell. Isaiah followed her to a building on Kenmore, far enough away from his house that Grace wouldn’t run into him.
The rush of adrenaline blew his self-discipline and common sense right out of his head. He had to know what she was up to. He snuck into the parking garage and found Grace’s GTI. He used a slim jim and easily opened the nine-year-old car. The alarm went off but nobody paid attention to them anymore. In the backseat were a box of dog treats, two bottles of water, a roll of paper towels and a man’s white shirt, size large. There was paint on it so maybe she wore it when she worked. Or maybe it belonged to her boyfriend, a world-famous artist from Barcelona.
A shopping bag held new tubes of paint, a bundle of brushes, sunscreen, nail files and other miscellanea. The receipt for the art supplies was from a local store. It was dated two weeks ago. He was as hurt as he was mystified. Two weeks and she hadn’t called him. The glove box next. Her old address on the registration. A hairbrush, a tangle of USB cords and a broken pair of sunglasses, the same ones he’d seen her wearing. They were too big for her. Did she borrow them from Señor Barcelona?
Isaiah drove home, debating whether to call her. He decided it came down to his opening line. It had to be casual, breezy. Hey, saw you the other day. Thought I’d give you a call. No, that’s stupid. Maybe get right to it. Okay, so how come you haven’t called me? No, that’s more stupid. I’m hurt that you didn’t call me. No, extra stupid and now he was feeling bad for being a creep. You broke into her car, Isaiah? You violated her privacy? What’s wrong with you? Is this who you are? A guy who skulks around and rifles through a woman’s things like a perv?
He got resentful. He’d found her long-lost mother. He’d saved her life—well, she’d saved his too but that was beside the point. The point was, they’d been together, they’d been more than close—and that letter she’d sent. Kind and wonderful Isaiah my ass. She’d been here at least two weeks and not one word. “What a bitch,” he said aloud, the sentiment lasting about five or six seconds because that’s when he saw Grace sitting on his front stoop. He pulled into the driveway and got out of the car. He approached her slowly, like some rare bird that might flee at the slightest wrong move. As he drew closer, she stood up. My God, she’s beautiful, he thought, and then she smiled and the criteria for beautiful took a leap into the clouds. “Hi,” he said. He wondered how the moisture in his mouth could disappear so quickly. His tongue felt chapped.
“Hi,” she said.
“Come on in,” he said. She entered, Ruffin right behind her. Isaiah had been so overwhelmed he hadn’t noticed the dog. It gave its former master a couple of disinterested sniffs and lay down on his spot next to the bookshelves.
“How are you?” she said. Her mouth was dry too.
“Fine. You?”
“I’m okay.”
“Sit down. Want something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” Grace said. She sat on the edge of the couch. He stood with his hands in his front pockets. “The thing with Cherokee’s bag?” she said. “I knew it was you.”
He shrugged, embarrassed. “I saw you before, so—”
“I wasn’t avoiding you.”
“You’ve been here for two weeks,” he said. It just slipped out.
She frowned. “How do you know that?” Then she smiled and shook her head. “Never mind.” She took in a yoga breath and let it out slow. “I’ve been working up the nerve to see you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been such a wimp.”
“It’s okay,” he said, still thinking about Señor Barcelona. “I know you’re busy.”
“I didn’t forget you. I thought about you all the time. Every day.” The pale green eyes were as he remembered them. Wise and sorrowful and compelling. “Are you angry with me?” she asked.
“For what?” He shrugged. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Yes, I do. I owe you for all kinds of things.”
“Naah.” He shrugged again and hoped he sounded breezy. “It’s okay, really. I didn’t have any expectations. I’m just glad to see you.” Grace got up. He thought she was leaving but instead she came over, put her arms around him and kissed him.
They didn’t talk even after they made love. They spooned and breathed and held on tighter, sunlight through the window a golden comforter. He could hear sparrows twittering, the occasional car going by, and Mrs. Marquez gossiping with the mailman. It made him feel good, the world out there while they were here; enclosed, safe.
Eventually they got up and took a shower together, smiling the whole time. They dressed. She sat on the bed, drying her hair with a towel and looking at her painting on the opposite wall.
“It doesn’t scare me anymore. I don’t dream about it.”
“I’m glad.”
They sat on the back stoop, drinking Heinekens, Ruffin sleeping in the shade of the lemon tree. It was easy and right and perfect, Isaiah’s quiet excitement so profound he wanted to jump up and run around the yard.
“What brought you back?” he said.
“What brought me back?” She smiled and elbowed him. “You, of course. Are you seeing someone?” she asked.
He hesitated, fearful of fucking this up and afraid to tell the truth. “Yes, I am,” he said.
“I’ve been away for two years,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to wait for me and I didn’t mean to interrupt your life. You should keep seeing her.”
“I don’t want to see her,” he said. “Not anymore.”
“Is it serious?” she asked. He thought a moment.
“Not like you and me.”
“Really, Isaiah. It’s okay,” she went on. “You shouldn’t break up with her just because I randomly show up on your doorstep.”
He shook his head. “So I keep going out with her while I want to be with you?” he said. “No, that isn’t right for anybody. I have to break it off.” But not now, he thought, not before Stella’s big concert. Her first performance as a soloist. Her family’s proudest moment.
Stella was a wonderful person who deserved only the best. She would be hurt and he felt lousy about it. He hoped she wasn’t in love. Had he given her the idea that he was? He dreaded the thought. Stella was probably rehearsing now, completely wrapped up with the music she loved and the thrill of performing. The least he could do was not screw everything up.
Ruffin was lying on his back with his legs in the air, wriggling around, scratching himself on twigs and fallen leaves.
“I don’t think Ruffin recognizes me,” Isaiah said.
“Sure he does,” Grace said. “If he didn’t, he would have only sniffed you once.”
He told her about the case. Angus and Christiana and the threat against Stella. He told her about Beaumont, and Sidero an
d the Starks and their clubhouse called the Den.
“That’s unbelievable,” she said. “Angus sounds insane. Where is this Den?”
“On the way to the airport. I stopped at the cemetery to visit Marcus’s grave. I shouldn’t have. Made me cry.”
“That’s okay. Nothing wrong with that.”
He told her how he almost fainted and stopped in the park to eat an energy bar and how the Den was down a dirt road and hard to find. He said he should have taken the freeway because it would have been faster. He was surprised he went into such detail, but it made him feel better.
“Who do you think hired the killers?” she asked.
“I usually have a feeling about it, but I truly don’t know.”
“Can I help?”
“Absolutely not.”
She sipped her beer. “I’ve changed a lot,” she said, “but I’m not completely there yet. I’m still weird, you know? I get paranoid, and sometimes I’ll shut you out or be pissed off for no reason, or I might disappear for a while but it’s me, okay? My craziness, not yours. I don’t want you to think I’m all sweetness and light.”
“You mean like me?” he said, and they laughed. She said she had to go over to Cherokee’s and clean up.
“Can you keep the dog?” she asked.
“Sure. At least that way I’ll know you’ll come back.”
She kissed him and said, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Sal and Annie got a room at the Crest Motel on Long Beach Boulevard, the hovel being one short step above a prison cell. It smelled heavily of weed and perfume. Hookers used the rooms as their offices. The sheets may or may not have been changed.
Annie raised the corner of her lip. “Ugh,” she said.
“Did you see the soda machine?” Sal said. “There’s no soda in it and there’s a fucking anchor chain holding it down.”
Annie turned on the TV as soon as they closed the door. It was instinctive, a way to fill a room with something other than tension. She put a towel on the bed, lay back and watched The Real Housewives of Atlanta or Miami or Winnipeg or Jupiter. They were all the same. A bunch of spoiled, ridiculous women who didn’t do anything but eat lunch, bitch at each other and overdress.