Shares

by A. W. Gray

  “Frank’s the only one who’s mentioned Randolph Money. Not too much credibility there.” Tate pressed the play button, leaned back, and examined her makeup in a compact mirror. From her purse she produced a tube of pale pink lipstick.

  Turner leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, cocking one ear. Seen through clear plastic, tiny reels turned. “This came in at ten-oh-two,” Turner said.

  The tape ran silently for a few seconds, then a click sounded and Meg Carpenter’s soft, cultured voice said, “Hello?”

  Followed by a cautious, “Can you talk?” This in Frank White’s baritone.

  Tate dabbed lipstick on, then leaned forward with the tube in one hand and her compact in the other.

  On the tape, Meg said, “Frank? God, Frank, I…”

  “I can’t talk long.” Frank said. “Less than a minute, they might be tracing me “

  Turner’s look said, Aha, more guilty shit on old Frank, afraid of somebody tracking him down.

  Frank’s voice went on. “I saw you on television. Made me cry, to know you’re all right.”

  “Where are you, Frank?”

  “Not now. I’ve just got a couple of seconds. I just had to hear your voice. Listen…”

  “I’m listening, sweetheart,” Meg said.

  Frank’s tone took on a saddened edge. “You know it’s not me, don’t you? I didn’t have anything to do with…hey, you believe that, huh?”

  There were five beats of silence. Then Meg said, “You betchum I do, Red Ryder.”

  “I have to go,” Frank said.

  “Frank, I…”

  “They may be listening, Meg. I’ll call you later. I love you, babe.”

  “Say that again?”

  “I said,’I love you,’”

  “Yeah, me too, buster.”

  There was a click, then more blank tape running. Tate switched off the machine.

  Turner scratched his own shin. “Well, what do you think?”

  Tate leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “I think we’ve got the wrong guy.”

  Turner looked at her.

  “What’s his motive for making the call, Dave? They’ve already got the money and made their escape. The victim’s the last person in the world he should be wanting to talk to.”

  “Maybe he figures, keep her on the string, she might not testify against him.”

  “Didn’t you hear him?”

  “Yeah, the tape’s clearer than most.”

  “Not what he said, Dave. The way he said it. What I wouldn’t give for my husband to talk to me that way.”

  “Lot of hearts-and-flowers bullshit,” Turner said.

  “If you’d sent more flowers yourself,” Tate said, “then you might not be cooking your own beans for dinner. Have we alerted our West Coast office?”

  “An APB, the guy’s description, license number, all that.”

  Tate capped her lipstick, flopped a legal pad onto her desk, and began to write. “We need more. Twenty-four-hour watch on Darla Bern, as of fifteen seconds from now. A thirty-day history on this Randolph Money, where his sweet self has been and what he’s up to at the moment.” She tore the page from the pad and extended it in Turner’s direction. Her gaze softened. “Frank didn’t do it, Dave, and I’m afraid hers in danger now.” There was a hesitant rolling of her eyes, then she licked her lips and went on. “We’ve all got jobs to do, but I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anybody. The first time I prosecuted Frank White, on the police shooting? Frank had every right to kill the guy, and if it had been you, you would have pulled the trigger a whole lot quicker than he did. I won, hooray for me, but I wasn’t really enthusiastic. In fifteen years it’s the only case I’ve had where I was secretly pulling for the other side, and if I hear you’ve repeated that, you’re the biggest liar in the history of the Justice Department.”

  Turner sat up, his jaw slack.

  “Put the watch on Darla Bern, Dave,” Tate said. “And quit looking at me that way. We heard the same tape, only you’re just hearing words. I’m hearing feelings. If you want to know what I’m talking about, you should try really falling in love sometime.”

  32

  Frank hung up, stood back from the pay phone, and looked to the north. The tree-covered San Gabriel Mountains were surrounded by a bluish haze; the Griffith Park Observatory, miniature in the distance, stood out against a backdrop of green. On a mountainside to the west of the observatory, giant white letters spelled out “Hollywood.” visible over the flat roofs of apartments and low-slung office buildings. The air was cool and smelled faintly of soot.

  Frank rubbed the back of his neck, Jesus, stiff and sore from two hours of sleep in the rear of the Cherokee, parked on a side road north of I-10 near Indio. Later he’d paid a night’s rent at a run-down motel, only to shower and shave and be on his way. His eyelids felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds apiece. He checked the street signs at the corner, Western Avenue at Olympic Boulevard, watched two women in short cotton skirts enter a building through a glass-paneled door. The light changed; westbound traffic on Olympic came to a halt as cars and trucks on Western proceeded north and south.

  He pictured the night, Jesus, six years ago he supposed, Darla Bern naked on his bunk in a Pleasanton cell, shafts of moonlight highlighting her hair with tints of red, one bare leg draped over his thighs as she told him, “There’ll always be a way, a way for you to get in touch. Always.” The words had meant a lot to him then, a single guy doing time. Hadn’t signified a thing to Darla, of course, and he’d often wondered since then how many men in prison she’d told that, that there’d always be a way for them to find her.

  “You can get me through the Guild.” she’d said, as if any fool would know what the Guild was, and in case the fool didn’t happen to know, an important actress like Darla Bern didn’t have the time to explain. And Frank had to admit he’d been impressed at the time, never having met an actress before, but after thinking on the subject he’d realized that a really important actress wouldn’t have been turning tricks for favors from prison guards. The Guild it was, however, and it was the Guild he was going to try. He stepped back up to the phone. As he punched in the number for information, a smog warning siren wailed in the distance.

  Frank really didn’t expect the Screen Actors Guild to list Darla Bern at all, but the hip-talking young woman on the phone surprised him. She knew Darla personally, in fact, but also told him that it was outside Guild policy to give out addresses or numbers for the members. She did supply him with Darla’s agent’s name, which made Frank think, Are you kidding me? But then he supposed that just about everybody in Los Angeles had an agent, and his surprise drifted quickly away. He flattened a business card on the phone shelf and scribbled like crazy to write the number down; Vickie Warren, with an address on Avenue of the Stars in Century City. Frank wondered if Century City was really the name of a town or was just a section of Los Angeles where all the actors hung out. He spun a quarter into the slot, punched in the first three digits of Vickie Warren’s number, then replaced the receiver in its cradle and stepped back once again.

  He touched the hem of his wilted black crewneck shirt, the same one he’d worn along with dark blue Levi’s and black high-top Nikes for the past two days, the clothes he’d washed night before last at the laundromat near his Dallas motel. His outfit could stand another washing, but he supposed that people in grimy clothes showed up in agents’ offices all the time, looking for hobo parts. He trudged over to the curb where he’d left the Cherokee running, drove two blocks and located a convenience store. There he bought a Los Angeles area map on which he sketched out his route in ballpoint, then, peering occasionally at the map, proceeded north on Western Avenue.

  Frank didn’t see any celebrities walking around on the Avenue of the Stars, at least none he recognized. There were a lot of people who were trying to pass the
mselves off as stars, young women in spike heels and form-fitting slacks, Jesus, walking poodles, and guys hustling down the street in yellow or electric blue suits or sport coats, wearing sunglasses, guys who couldn’t possibly be in as much of a hurry as they were letting on. Frank decided that he’d rather be just a regular guy.

  The avenue was lined with trendy shops, upscale mirror-walled office buildings, big hotels with valet parking. Frank very nearly rear-ended two different cars—one BMW and one Range Rover—as he craned his neck looking for the address, and he finally parked in a pay lot and set off on foot.

  Vickie Warren’s office was in an old two-story building wedged in between two skyscrapers, as if the building’s owner had bowed his neck and said, I’m not moving no matter how much I’m offered. Through a door with glass inserts was a stairway leading up. Frank climbed the steps to the second floor, found the office, then went in and sat down on a couch beside a black girl who was reading a People magazine. There were audition notices thumbtacked to a bulletin board, and on the far wall were black-and-white photos of Michelle Pfeiffer, Demi Moore, and Dustin Hoffman. Frank wondered if Vickie Warren represented any of those people. He doubted it. He crossed his legs and waited.

  The receptionist wore big round, rose-tinted glasses. She was a puffy-cheeked woman, middle thirties, and was saying into the phone, “You bet, Stan. Of course. The one I have in mind is just the type. David Caruso personified, what’s the…?” She slid a pad over in front of her and wrote something down. “Four-thirty, right. Right. He’ll be there.” She hung up, said to the black girl, “Just a minute, Sandy, be right with you.” then said to Frank, “You ever done a cop?”

  Frank looked around, thinking someone he hadn’t noticed must be in the room. “I’m not an actor,” he finally said.

  “Too bad. Would you like to audition for a cop?”

  “Actually, what I’d like to do is see Vickie Warren,” Frank said, feeling uncomfortable.

  The receptionist stood. She wore a pale green skirt and a dark green jacket with padded shoulders. “Don’t move,” she said, then went quickly into the inner office.

  The black girl nudged Frank and laid her magazine aside. “They always think they’ve got you pegged,” she said, “in a certain slot.”

  Frank looked at her.

  “I can get work if I want,” she said. “I need to know two lines, they fit in any part I’m offered. ‘Hey, baby, you want a date?’ and ‘I’d do anything for some of those drugs, sugar.’ You need to learn, ‘I don’t like the way this is coming down.’ and, ‘You okay with that?’ You’re going to need both of them. Also, if you really want some consideration, put on the audition form that you’re willing to show your dick. It’s the latest thing.” She picked up and thumbed through the magazine.

  The receptionist returned and sat on her ankle behind her desk. “Okay, I’m Vickie,” she said.

  Frank blinked.

  “I get a live one like that,” she said, “maybe once a month. And once a month I don’t have anybody.”

  “I won’t take up your time. I’m looking for one of your clients.”

  “For what kind of part? Obviously, cops I don’t have right now.”

  “Darla Bern.” Frank said.

  Vickie Warren crossed her forearms and leaned on them. “Hookers I’ve got by the hatful.”

  The black girl testily rattled magazine pages.

  “I’m not looking to cast anything,” Frank said.

  “I suppose you’re a stalker, then,” Vickie Warren said. “I’ve got ‘em that would love to be stalked. Get their names in the newspapers.”

  “No, I’m…she’s a friend.”

  Vickie Warren opened a bottom drawer, thumbed through files, drew out one folder and laid it in front of her. “You on her list?”

  “I’m not sure. Good list, or bad list?” Frank looked at the black girl, hoping for a smile, received none, and decided that comedy wasn’t his thing.

  “The list my clients give me,” Vickie Warren said, “that tells me who I can give information to. If you’re not on it, you couldn’t sweat anything out of me.” She took a sheet of paper from the folder. “What’s your name?”

  Frank licked his lips. He wasn’t ready for this. He said quickly, “Randolph Money,” and prepared to bolt from the office in case Money was someone Vickie Warren happened to know.

  She smirked as she ran a red-nailed index finger down the page. “You have any money, Mr. Money?” She bent closer to squint through her glasses at the list. “Yeah, okay,” she said, then flipped to a fresh sheet on her notepad and began to write. Finished, she tore off the sheet and offered it to Frank. “You sure you couldn’t at least read for a cop? I need a warm body, don’t you know?”

  Frank called Darla’s number from a pay station across from the Century Plaza Hotel, and got her machine. He listened to the message for long enough to identify her voice, then hung up, walked up the street, and paid his parking. Then he steered the Cherokee a few blocks north, made a left, and followed his map west on Santa Monica Boulevard.

  He took the boulevard in stop-and-go traffic all the way to Santa Monica, and found Darla’s place around four in the afternoon. It was a small wooden house on the beach, with a screened-in porch and scraggly front yard, in a block of almost identical houses all facing a narrow asphalt street and backing up to the Pacific Ocean. Surf rolled two hundred yards to the west, foamy crests that broke at sea and battered the flotsam-strewn beach in an endless parade. Frank parked in front and made his way up the sidewalk, skirted a flower bed overgrown with weeds, and trotted around to the back. With the ocean behind him he peered in three different windows. He saw a bedroom featuring a king-size water bed and mirrored ceiling, a dining room with a breakfront cabinet, and a kitchen with a microwave and standup freezer. No one was home, all the lights off. He went around the south side of the house, past a vacant carport, and jogged up the driveway to the street. Then he backed the Cherokee up and stopped three houses away. The street was a cul-de-sac; he faced the lone entrance to the block. He killed the engine, rolled down the window, and listened to the ocean swish and hiss. Cool, salty wind blew on his cheek. His eyelids drooped— Jesus, two hours’ sleep in the past forty-eight. His chin lowered down to his chest. In seconds, he accompanied the ocean noises with a series of snores.

  A brilliant headlamp beam stabbed the interior of the Cherokee, touched Frank’s face for an instant, and then moved on. He started and opened his eyes. It was night; pinpoint stars twinkled in a blue-black sky, encircling a rind of moon. Lights shone in windows up and down the block. The surf continued to pound; somewhere a wailing guitar twanged, Willie Nelson singing the blues. In the driveways sat small cars and minivans, none of which had been there when he’d fallen asleep. The dashboard clock showed 10:42 Texas time, two hours earlier in California. Frank sat up and squinted toward Darla’s house. A light-colored convertible, likely a Chrysler LeBaron, was nestled in under the carport. On the screened-in porch, a desk lamp glowed. Frank reached for the door handle, then froze.

  The headlights which had awakened him drifted to the curb in front of Darla’s house, then went out. The vehicle was either black or dark blue, a goat-roper car of some kind, likely a Bronco. The driver’s door opened and a man got out, a big, square-shouldered form in the moonlight, and crossed the yard to knock on the screen. The light filtering out from the desk lamp showed a slightly jutted jaw, and shoulder-length straight blond hair. Frank couldn’t see too well in the semi-light but was pretty sure that he’d never laid eyes on the guy. The man wore western boots, jeans, a shirt with quilting at the shoulders, and he carried a Stetson in his hands. The screen door opened. As he stepped across the threshold, the man placed the hat on top of his head.

  Frank now dug the .38 police special he’d bought from Wilbur Dale from the glove compartment. He climbed cautiously out of the Cherokee and made his way up
the grassy corridor in between two houses toward the ocean. Suddenly he halted in his tracks as light from a side window on his left flooded over him, and held his breath as a woman inside the house—middle-aged, graying, wearing a lounging robe—turned a page in the book she was reading. She never looked up. Frank moved on as if walking on eggs, cleared the space between the houses, and tiptoed out onto the beach.

  He ran in heavy sand, his soles sinking a full three inches with every step, and crossed the distance to the back of Darla’s place in a count of five. Now he was in the walkway between her house and the one next door. Sand burrs pricked his ankles through his socks; he raised first one foot and then the other, pulled the burrs out, and tossed them away. He waited for his breathing to slow, then got down in a crouch and crept toward the street, halting at the corner where the screened porch connected on to the front of the house. He looked to his right. The Cherokee, ghost pale in the moonlight, sat at the curb fifty yards away. He’d been right about the car now parked directly in front; it was a Bronco, the big spare tire jutting out from the rear. Slowly, his pulse racing, Frank peered around the corner through the screen. About ten feet from his nose was Darla’s suntanned naked butt.

  Actually, only part of one cheek was visible. She wore ripped-look jean shorts, cut off an inch below her ass with a stitched opening halfway up the back, displaying a rectangle of flesh the color of butter rum. She was bent over in front of the big blond man, handing him a glass filled with ice and amber liquid. He was seated in a wicker chair. As he sipped, she backed up and sank down on a matching love seat. A round wicker hassock was directly in front of her. She extended perfectly formed legs, propped up her feet, and crossed her ankles.

  The blond guy said, “I don’t like it for shit.”

  To which Darla replied, “He said he’d be here, Gerald.” In addition to the cutoffs she wore a white tank top. She draped a slim arm over the back of the love seat.