Mack’s is a hipster bar. Self-consciously eclectic music mingles with red and blue lights and everyone inside is always cooler than the next guy. It was the kind of place you never went alone because no one but your own friends would ever speak to you. There were couches and cushions everywhere. Long drapes hung on the walls and down from the center of the room, creating small chambers of soft cloth, warm light, and just enough shadow to hide your lack of self-esteem. It was the essence of Los Angeles nightlife: snobby, snazzy, and completely self-absorbed.
We sat on a large cushion in a corner of the room. Morgan continued her assault on the cosmopolitan and I, not wanting to risk upsetting the delicate balance of the evening, stayed with gin and tonic. Morgan regaled me with stories of her various unsuccessful efforts to get kicked out of the elite prep school she attended. It was a litany of routine pranks, some more ballsy than others, but none particularly radical. She clearly enjoyed talking about herself and her exhibitionism. I kept wondering why someone with that kind of opportunity would try to sabotage or squander it.
But just when her behavior seemed to paint her into a stereotype I was well prepared to apply, she would do something like stare up at the mock frieze behind the bar and laugh as she read the words written in it. “They’ve mixed Latin and Italian,” she said in an almost derisive tone. “And worse, the dialects they’ve used are over a thousand years apart.” She shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows, doing her best impression of a cute, dumb blonde. “I guess it’s true what they say about LA — all style and no substance.” She laughed and leaned back into a massive pillow, slowly lifting her legs up and resting them across my knees. “But the atmosphere is absolutely faaaaabulous!”
I looked down at the curves of her legs. She wiggled her toes, having slipped off her shoes. I watched the red lights move across her face. She smiled, slumped back, almost supine, resting her drink on her chest between her breasts and peering around it.
I shifted toward her, turning slightly and resting a hand on her ankle. My heart was pounding as I felt her ankle move beneath my fingers, settling in, getting comfortable. She was fine with me touching her. She only sipped her cosmo and continued talking. My head swam. The music throbbed, lights pulsing, and my dry mouth seemed to require more and more of the fizzy drinks the waitress kept bringing.
Two hours later, after Morgan had told me all about her friends from college, her trips to Europe, and the crazy boyfriend she once had who she swore would be a famous writer one day but who didn’t pay enough attention to her for her to stay with; after she had laughed at something I had said and leaned forward to touch me on the shoulder for the twelfth time; and after I had managed to slide my hand up to the middle of her calf, just below the knee, and torture myself with distracting thoughts of what the rest of her must feel like; Morgan got up and went to the bathroom. When she returned, she stood in front of me and said, “I think I need something to eat. Where do people in LA go at midnight on a Monday? Take me somewhere local, some nasty place with greasy food.”
***
Pink’s is a hot dog stand on La Brea. Pink’s is also an institution, a landmark dedicated to late night consumption, and one of the few places in the world where hundreds of drunks, drug addicts, stars, and socialites will wait in line for over an hour at two o’clock in the morning to choke down a foot long Polish sausage smothered in chili and onions. But this was a weeknight, and there was virtually no wait.
“This is great. I love these things,” Morgan mumbled, almost incoherent, as she cocked her head to one side and bit off the end of a bratwurst. I watched her in her black dress and coat as she bounced and twirled around absent-mindedly on the wide sidewalk. The lights of La Brea extended away to the south behind her, slowly coming together in the distance, forming an elongated electric V that seemed to point to the heart of an infinite swarm of neon and night.
I handed the man behind the counter a twenty and took my change and my dog. I stood for a second, watching her drift south toward Melrose. The images of her movements came through like a series of snapshots of some other night, with some other people. It was hard for me to believe I was there, standing at the curb with my jacket flailing, one arm clutching a Coney dog and the other raised and waving at the passing cabs. Morgan leaned against me, bouncing from foot to foot, off balance and laughing at the dot of mustard on my nose.
Morgan lived in Beverly Hills, just off Pico and east of Beverly Drive where two story, four unit buildings, old growth palm trees, and decorative streetlights line the blocks. The cab stopped. We both got out with no discussion, no coy comments, no entendres, almost without thought of any kind. We went inside and up the narrow stairs to her second floor doorway.
“I’m subletting a place from a law student at USC who’s in San Francisco for the summer.” She tried three times before getting the key in the lock. “Oh, that won’t do.” She laughed and glanced up at me. “You’ve got to get it in the hole.” When she finally got the door open she walked in and flipped on the light, snorting as she laughed again. “Fuckin’ chick has no taste.” She spun around in the center of the room, slowly, with her arms out. “There’s no place like home!” She doubled over, laughing silently. “If I only had some red slippers!”
The room was done in a farmhouse motif. It was filled with kitschy painted ducks and cows, old tea kettles and glass bottles sat on shelves, and on the wall beside the entrance to the kitchen was a series of wooden hearts connected with bailing wire from which hung a sign in the shape of a sheep that read “Bless this Country Home.”
“Isn’t this just hideous?” She asked, after regaining her composure.
“It’s a bit of a shock. I thought I’d stumbled into a Willa Cather novel all of a sudden.”
Morgan went into the kitchen. I could hear the fridge open and bottles clinking together. She returned with two open Heinekens and handed one to me. We sat on the couch and there was silence for the first time that night — no music, no voices in the background, no conversation, no static from a car radio, no rushing noise of fries hitting a deep fryer, no lonely traffic on the wide midnight streets of a sleeping Hollywood. The beer felt good in my mouth and I filled my cheeks and swallowed it slowly, wondering what to do with the awkward quiet. My movements were impaired and exaggerated. I turned and smiled at her. She smiled back and moved toward me, whispering loudly.
“Hey! Guess what?” She was chuckling, her eyes narrow, almost closed. With one knee on the couch and one foot one the floor, she crawled toward me. “I liked that Pink’s place.”
“Good. I wasn’t sure you would.” I held my breath, afraid that any sudden movement or poor choice of words might kill the moment. I felt numb; my body tingled at its extremities.
“Why?” She brought her face close to mine, our noses nearly touching. “You don’t think a girl like me likes sausage?” I could feel her hand on the couch, between my legs and pressing up against me. I couldn’t believe she’d said it. And it was only at that moment that I knew it was really going to happen. I slouched down beneath her. The alcohol on her breath mixed with the perfume and the smell of the bars and cabs and streets. She was rubbing me. My hands slid down her back and pulled her black dress up over her hips, gripping her and pulling her down on me.
She groped behind me, up along the wall, her chest soft and warm in my face. She struggled to reach the switch on the wall and then collapsed on top of me as the room went dark. She slid her body forward to straddle me and I could see her above me, lit softly by the streetlamp outside.
She giggled in the dark and leaned forward to kiss me. Her breath was hot. “You ever fuck a girl in the ass?” She whispered, smiling as she bit lightly at my lips. I had no idea what to say. I could feel my face flush.
“Don’t get shy now.” She laughed, her head slowly swaying from side to side, her eyes glazed over and dull, her thoughts spinning wildly into the waning haze of the cosmos.
11
Twenty-six Dan Kellys and a terrible
hangover. That was my day, and it was miserable.
I’d awoken to blinding sunlight streaming in through a window I didn’t recognize. I squinted and raised my hand to block the light. Morgan was naked beside me. The blanket was pulled down to her waist and she was radiating heat. I reached out toward the light. I made wild, grasping motions in the air, trying to reach the curtain and throw it shut. My movement sent the bed rocking and Morgan stirred beside me. She rolled over toward me, trying to bring the blanket up to cover her bare chest, failing, and then giving up.
“What’s going on?” Her voice was sleepy, soft, and filled with pain. “Goddamn, shut that fuckin’ window.” She was almost begging for relief of any kind. I leaned off the bed and rested my weight on a chair beside the window. I made several more swipes at the curtain, missing horribly each time. Finally, I caught it and gave it a tug. It closed only part way, but it was enough to block the sunlight from our heads.
I collapsed back against the pillow, aching all over. The night before came through in snippets. Brief flashes from the fog, like movie scenes picked up from a cutting room floor and reassembled randomly. Had we been at Pink’s? I remembered knocking the coffee table over, the two of us tumbling loudly to the floor; Morgan on her knees in front of me, on her stomach bent over the couch, and beneath me sweating and grunting as we strained in drunken concentration, muscles tightening toward a final spasm and breathless, guttural moan, and then the wetness and the darkness and the final, fitful sleep.
“What is that fucking noise?” I called out.
“What noise? I don’t hear anything,” Morgan mumbled. I listened again. Maybe she was right. I listened closer, trying to concentrate. Good God, I thought, I’m still drunk. And then I remembered my meeting and sat up with a start. My head pounded and I went frightfully still. I was only two more foolish moves from vomiting. Nearly checkmated by my own hangover, I paused and planned my next motions with care. Already nine o’clock, it was doubtful I could get home, change, and get back downtown by ten.
I struggled to get dressed. Morgan sat up slowly, propping pillows behind her and holding her head — her bare breasts jostled slightly with her movements, but she was hardly self-conscious. She watched me with one eye as I wandered about, naked, finding most of my clothes on the living room floor. “What are you doing?” she finally asked.
“Oh God, I’ve got a meeting at ten. Christ, I think I might puke.”
“Is it a meeting you have to go to?”
“All I was told is that the partner wanted to get together at ten.” I was hopping into my pants, oblivious to my nudity. “I think if I hurry, I can make it home and still get to the office in time.”
Morgan had slumped over on her side. “I think that hot dog might have been a bad idea,” she mumbled. “I think it wants back out.”
In my one moment of clarity, I thought ahead enough to call the office when I made it to my apartment. I had a message from Reilly telling me something had come up and that Carver rescheduled for the afternoon. I took a thirty-minute shower to celebrate and struggled to stop sweating as I got dressed. I was in the office at eleven-thirty, too hung over to spend even a second feeling bad about what had happened.
I flipped through the three pages of Danny Kellys and their scant contact information. I figured calling each of them was about the only thing I could do in my condition. I picked up the phone and dialed, figuring I’d know what to say when the moment came.
A woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m trying to reach Danny Kelly.”
“I think you must have the wrong number.”
“Oh, sorry to bother you, ma’am.”
She hung up and I dialed again. A computerized voice told me that the number I’d dialed had been disconnected or was no longer in service and advised to me to check the number and dial again. The third number was answered by a man.
“I’m trying to reach Danny Kelly.”
“This is Dan,” the voice responded, with a hint of skepticism.
“Hi Dan, I’m a lawyer trying to find some information about Matt Bishop.”
“Who?”
“Matt Bishop? Do you know Mr. Bishop?”
“Never heard of him. I think you must have the wrong guy.”
“Oh, sorry to bother you.”
I had essentially the same series of interactions for two hours and slowly checked off the names and took notes about who had at least admitted to being a Dan Kelly. When it was over I’d reached five answering machines and left messages saying I wanted to talk about Matt Bishop and asking for Dan Kelly to call me back. Between calls I surfed the Internet and drank as much water as I could. I tried not to think about Morgan or Liz or the ramifications of what I’d done. But the images kept coming back to me. I could see her naked body in the streetlight, the image floating right in front of me when I closed my eyes. I would catch faint hints of her perfume wafting in from the hall, redolent, loaded with guilty, sweating images.
I imagined that nothing would come of it, that Liz would never find out and that Morgan would return to school and I’d never see her again. At least I wanted to believe that could happen, that somehow I could betray Liz, lie to her, cheat on her, and escape unscathed.
The phone rang. It was Liz. Perfect.
“Hey, how’d your meeting go?”
“Ah, shit, wouldn’t you know the partner cancelled on me so we’re having it this afternoon. Good thing. I’m still working on it.” My effort to speak in a lively tone betrayed me, it was too much.
“Are you okay? You sound like you’re sick.”
“Nah, I think I’m just tired. I was here late.” But what if she called? “Working in the library,” I added. “I didn’t sleep very well either.”
“Well, I was wondering if you wanted to go to a work thing tonight. A dinner at my boss’s. I can bring my significant other. So you’re it, if you feel up to it.”
Significant other . . . Christ. I wanted nothing more than to go home and die. “Geez, I dunno. I’m tired, but maybe. When do you need to know by?”
“Well, sometime before I need to be there would be good.” She sounded pissed. Was this just how we interacted now? The last thing I could handle was a fight.
“I’m not trying to be difficult. I just — I need to have this meeting with this guy and then I’ll know whether I can get out of here at a decent hour. Bastard had me here half the night last night.”
“I know, I know. I just thought it might be fun. It might be good for you to spend an evening around people who haven’t sold their souls yet.” She laughed, but there was a mild irritation and aggression beneath it.
“Now you’re really being mean.”
“Hey, I know they give you a good price for your soul, but you should at least see how people with a conscience live.”
“Man, I’m getting no slack here, am I?”
“None.”
I told her I’d call her after my meeting and hung up, relieved. Liz believed everything, and why shouldn’t she? There was no reason to suspect anything, and working late made perfect sense. I was beginning to enjoy using work as an excuse. It was, perhaps, the only benefit of the grueling hours.
At two o’clock, I had done almost no coherent thinking about the case and I gathered up my papers, along with what remained of my self-confidence, and trudged upstairs to Carver’s office. As I approached the door I began to sweat. Was it nerves? Was it the hangover? Did I smell like gin? I had no way of knowing. I rounded the corner to find the glass in Carver’s door dim. The lights were off. I knocked. Nothing. I pushed the door open. No response. I looked inside. Carver was nowhere in sight. The computer was off. There was no briefcase by the desk. He was gone.
“Mr. Carver has left for the day.” A voice said from behind me. I turned to see a secretary peering up at me from over the shelf in front of her desk. “Mr. Carver is out for the rest of the day. Would you like to leave him a message?”
I left a messa
ge, ensuring I got credit for showing up, and returned to my office to contemplate how early I could leave. When I got back there was an e-mail from Morgan. It read simply, “How you doing? I think I’m going to die.”
I was suddenly afraid to engage her. I’d managed to placate Liz with a believable excuse, but those excuses wouldn’t last forever. I told myself I could not go out with her again. Last night was a mistake. I had to brush Morgan off.
I typed, “Got lucky, my meeting was cancelled. I feel like shit. I have to go home and sleep.” I debated the use of the phrase “got lucky,” changed it to “I lucked out” and sent it. I hoped she wouldn’t respond. I hoped she would leave me alone. I wanted nothing more than to avoid the whole issue until, at the very least, my hangover was gone.
I checked my watch. I had to shake it to make sure it was still working. I wondered again how early I could slip out of the office without drawing attention to myself. What if someone called, what would my excuse be? Did anyone around this place really pay that much attention? I doubted it. So far, I’d come and gone as I pleased. I recalled the story of the law student who accepted jobs at four different law firms for the summer, worked one day a week at each and collected four paychecks all summer. I always wondered if the story was really true. From what I could tell, it was certainly possible.
By three-thirty I figured I was safe, that I could be home before the traffic got terribly bad and be sound asleep before anyone realized I was gone. I shut my computer down, having not yet received any response from Morgan. I picked up my briefcase, tucked my coat under my arm, turned off the light, and was halfway through the doorway when the phone rang. Shit. Almost free. I paused, turned back, and stood there looking at it. Shit, shit, shit. I’d forgotten Liz and I knew without answering that it was her. Compelled by guilt or weakness or simply because, at heart, I really was a nice guy, I crossed the room and answered.
“Hello.”
“Dude, what is your story? Did you forget about me or what?” Her voice was perturbed. I wondered if I could blame the job just one more time.
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