A Good-Looking Corpse

by Jeff Klima

  “Do you care about me?” I seethe. “If you do, you won’t make me do this.”

  She shakes her head, refusing to be mollified. “This is it, Tom. If I know you—and I do—this will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Harder than prison. In fact, I’m almost willing to bet that you’d dump me, throw me out in the street before you do this one thing. Is it that hard for you to be a human? To offer your own parents a second chance?”

  “They don’t deserve a second chance.”

  “You got one. More than one. And spin it any way you like, anything they’ve done to you is less horrible than what happened to Holly Kelly.”

  “Don’t you say that fucking name to me,” I explode finally, bursting rage out through my pores to flood the dead air of the room. “You have no idea how impossible it is for me to feel normal. How to feel at all, for that matter! I’ve spent the last ten years on autopilot because there is no way for me to be normal. How can I grieve for a girl I can’t remember? I don’t have some image of the scene flashing in my head to be erased, I was blacked out. I have nothing. That was what prison was supposed to be—my penance, my chunk of life rotted away, and I did it in a special wing with child molesters and crooked cops. When I got out of jail, I was supposed to be free. But there isn’t any freedom—not from that. Not ever. I can’t ever be normal again. And so I live in this bubble with my puddles of blood and what’s left of my life. Assholes like me don’t live long—in prison or out of it. And now you’ve come along to fuck with my everything. So you’re right! It would be easier to throw you the fuck out of my life. It would save me a whole fucking shitload of headaches to bounce you off the pavement, back where I found you. But I want to show you how little you know about me. I want to prove you wrong. So, I’ll do what you want.”

  I sit back down on the bed, heated, and stare at her, daring her to spew anger right back at me. Instead, it’s like her detached melancholia was all a fucking act. Leaping across the bed to hug-tackle me, she throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek. I hope it burns her lips. “Thank you,” Ivy coos. “And I think you just started on the path to being normal, even if you don’t know it yet.”

  I fight the urge to look at her, determined to stay furious.

  She slides her arm down to grab at the fabric of the slacks hugged around my crotch. “I also think you’ve started on the path to a blow job,” she tries, fiddling with my zipper. Still incensed, I push her off me and stalk out of the room. Somewhere near the front door I stop and realize she’s right. About everything. And though I want like hell for that to not be the case, being angry doesn’t seem logical anymore. It almost seems silly. I can’t believe I threatened to break up with her . . . over what? Having my parents tell me to fuck myself? Holly Kelly?

  Resignedly I march back into the bedroom, where she is still seated at the edge of the bed, as if waiting. As if she knew I’d come crawling back. I feel almost sheepish as I ask: “Is that blow job still on the table?”

  She smiles at me, sincere, loving. “Pull the fucker out.”

  Chapter 15

  I expect some indication from the Sureño Lowriders at the garage when I arrive on Thursday morning, but the parking lot is empty. No Ramen, no Mikey, no Coco. I even inspect the front locks on the door, seeking out evidence of tampering, but there is nothing.

  It’s a slow morning so far, and I almost wish there was some action to stir up the day. By 11:30 a.m., I’ve paid all the bills and done everything conducive to running a business. It’s actually pretty basic, I’ve learned in the last few months since I took over. Harold would moan and rub at his head when he was agonizing over invoices and and bookkeeping, but with the software he’d installed on the office computer before his murder, it is fairly self-sustaining. And with the glut of deaths in Los Angeles, accidental and otherwise, I wasn’t too worried about having the income for the business. If anything, I probably need to hire an employee, but considering the hostile nature of the workplace at present, with threats of gang violence and a murderous producer hanging over my head, a new hire would have to wait.

  My phone rings. Ivy. “What’s up, you?” I ask.

  “I ditched out on work to go dress shopping for the premiere. Don let me go with the caveat that it be a sexy dress and that he gets to see me in it. What are you going to wear?”

  “I dunno, some slacks, maybe a nonwork polo or something,” I say, giving the comment the vocal inflection of a shrug.

  “Oh, no you are not, mister. This is a big night for us—a date night—a real one. I’m determined to look amazing and the guy on my arm is going to look equally good. Or at least nearly as good.” It’s good to see she’s back to her old self.

  “I don’t even own a suit,” I whine.

  “Get one. And choose a color that isn’t black for once.”

  I sigh, putting the phone on the desk and staring at it, trying to will it to ring with a crime scene that will keep me busy all afternoon. Nope.

  Resigned to my fate, I close up shop and climb into the Charger, but Ramen’s Ferrari yanks into the lot behind me abruptly, and seeing that I’m about to leave, he blocks me in.

  “Crime scene?” he asks excitedly, climbing out of the car with a large envelope in his hand.

  “Worse,” I say killing my engine and climbing out as well. I’m weirdly feeling actually happy to see the man. “I gotta buy a suit.”

  “Suit shopping? I fucking love suit shopping. I’ll buy one too. What’s the occasion?”

  “Ivy says I have to look presentable for the movie premiere. I blame Mikey Echo for this one.”

  “Yeah, he’s the worst. Speaking of”— he hands me the envelope—“your invite. I’m supposed to be in meetings again today, but I used that as an excuse to escape. Where are you thinking of going?”

  “Does Walmart sell suits?” I ask.

  “That’s it,” Ramen announces. “We’re taking my car, I’m driving.”

  “Where to?”

  “Well, Pretty Woman, there’s only one place to shop in this town. A little street called Rodeo Drive.”

  “Is that still a place? I thought that was just an eighties thing.”

  “That’s the problem with young Hollywood, Tom. They’ve got no respect for heritage. They think they need to develop their own scene. They all wanna be photographed on West Third and Robertson. But Rodeo Drive has the history, the panache. Rodeo Drive is Beverly Hills, but it’s pure Hollywood, star watchers and all.”

  “This isn’t going to be a thing like your Sunset Boulevard tour, is it?”

  “Not with that attitude, it isn’t.” He grins.

  We park in front of the Gucci building, a giant gold-fronted facade that seems to sum up most of what I’ve already assumed about Beverly Hills: I can’t afford anything. Surprisingly, Ramen’s car doesn’t stand out on this street. Behind us is a canary-colored McLaren and Lamborghinis troll the street in both directions. Japanese tourists, their women wearing face shields to keep the sun from darkening their complexion, seem to populate the street along with sharply dressed Middle Eastern men, and seemingly everywhere I look there is someone stopping with their camera on a long metal pole to take a picture of themselves.

  “It’s something, huh?” Ramen volleys.

  “Not the word I’d use, but it’ll do until I think of that word,” I return.

  “I think we’ll start at Tom Ford and go from there,” Ramen insists. “Much more your style than Dolce and Gabbana.”

  “I can’t afford this,” I promise him. “Or at least don’t want to.”

  “I can afford it and I want to.” He smiles at me. “It’s my fault you’re wrapped up in this. Let’s call it an apology. And it will make your girl happy.”

  He’s not wrong about that, but more accurately it will make her jealous. I can already foresee an expensive return trip with her. I follow Ramen along the street as he walks out into traffic, oblivious or indifferent to the traffic.

  “Don’t we gotta f
eed a meter?” I ask.

  “Nah,” is all he says in return, not breaking his stride.

  “She doesn’t want me in black,” I remember as I catch up to him.

  “I promise, for you, Tom, funeral gray,” Ramen says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  My new friend apparently has in mind a specific style for me because he rejects suit after suit modeled by men with great cheekbones. I sit awkwardly beside him as he nitpicks the suits apart with great inconsistency. “Every guy should own at least one really great suit from a name fashion house,” he tells me. I grip my phone and hope for an opportunity to leave. Surely someone just died somewhere?

  Finally, at Ramen’s hands, my look for the premiere begins to come together—shoes from one store, a shirt from another, and finally a suit, appropriately gray with good stitching and stylish lapels is produced that Ramen approves of. “You don’t want to wear a tie,” Ramen informs me but I am not sure if it is a question or a directive.

  “Sure,” I agree.

  I am offered a variation of the suit to try on and then Ramen directs an effete older European tailor how it should be cut, with the man making chalk marks on the fabric as I stand there, arms outstretched like a Ken doll. “We want these alterations done today,” Ramen insists. “And leave a little room in the breast,” he adds, holding up his fingers shaped like a gun, which he points skyward. The man seems to understand completely. “Yes, sir.”

  I leave the store my address, which the clerk seems to acknowledge with a haughty sniff. “Further than we typically deliver to on short notice,” he says.

  “I will pay what it takes to have you walk the suit to his door,” Ramen warns the clerk. “You sell clothes to rich people because you are not rich. You’re basically a glorified Gap employee, so drop the attitude.”

  Attitude adjusted, the clerk assures us it will not be an issue.

  “What was that about?” I ask Ramen as we leave.

  “I apologize if that embarrassed you. There’s a demeanor that is cultivated from being around rich people too long. I hate when poor people forget they aren’t rich. Me included, but he was snotty about it.”

  “No, I meant the ‘finger pistol’ thing. Was that a threat?”

  “Tom,” Ramen says and turns to face me. “I don’t know what Mikey has planned for you at that premiere, but I know him well enough. I was telling the tailor to give you a ‘security cut’ on the jacket. It’s so the bulge of your gun won’t be visible.

  “Gun?”

  “Yeah, if you have a gun, I suggest you bring it. If you don’t, I can get you one.”

  I nod slowly. “I have a gun.”

  Chapter 16

  Ivy and I stand out on the curb, dressed fashionably out of place for the neighborhood—even on Halloween. The sun has long since set, and only the young trick-or-treaters are out—little kids guided by parents who give us envious side glances. Wherever we are going, they obviously think, must be far more glamorous than their evening plans. I refuse to wear my mask yet, though Ivy, in her red gown with long revealing slits seemingly up and down the front, back, and sides has donned hers, too excited to be demure.

  “Ooh, this is fucking crazy,” she titters, grabbing at my arm. A child dressed as a Ninja Turtle hops along behind us, guiding his parents. Ivy, guilty over not being home on Halloween, has left a bowl of tiny candy bars out in front of the apartment with explicit directions for the neighborhood kids to only take one.

  “Yeah, that’ll happen,” I’d snorted. “First kid to come along will just dump the whole bowl into his bag.” She, of course, bought a second giant bag of mini candy bars just for her.

  “Well then, the other kids will come along, see the empty bowl and reason that at least we tried.” She shrugs.

  Her next thought was that we could leave another note informing the jilted kids that they could come by for candy tomorrow, but I managed to talk her out of that one. “The children will survive,” I promised.

  Ivy is initially disheartened that it’s a masked party, but I remind her that at least she won’t have to be too embarrassed by having me on her arm.

  “If you become too embarrassing,” she warns me, “I’m going to hop over to Mikey Echo’s arm.”

  “Don’t expect me to come looking for you if he throws you off Mulholland and you disappear forever too,” I warn her right back.

  Our limo makes the curve on Pass Avenue and creeps up the block, searching. Considering we’re the only two people standing out on the curb looking like we’re going to a masked ball, it isn’t hard for the driver to spot us. He halts the limo, a stretch black Mercedes, in front of us, its row of black windows polished to reflect us. Ivy likes what she sees in the reflection and claps her hands excitedly.

  The driver, a Latino with a thick array of neck tattoos that continue on down below the fabric line of his suit and taper off at both wrists, admires Ivy’s tits, then her tattoos, then her masked face. Evidently he likes what he sees as well because he grins at her, ignoring me, and says, “Nice.” Another of Mikey’s ex-cons. I’m sure he will admire her ass too when he gets the chance.

  “Is Ramen or Mikey riding with us?” I ask when the man holds open the rear door.

  “Nah, he is already there.” The driver shrugs, not clarifying who “he” is. The limo is empty of other passengers and I help Ivy in, sure enough hearing our driver chuckle quietly as he admires the view of her bent frame. Why didn’t she wear underwear, I think, following her in. I put the privacy window up, separating us from the driver before he can climb in and protest. A large television screen adorns one wall with a full bar beneath, all premium-looking liquors. Mikey might not drink, but the riders in his limo apparently do.

  “Is this the nicest thing you’ve ever been in?” Ivy gushes, adjusting the fabric between the slits in her legs so it covers her crotch.

  I think of Ramen’s Ferrari. “Not even close.”

  Already dark, the sky outside is made blacker by the window tinting. As we drive, I look out at the kids looking back at us, the young ones all decorated up for Halloween. A couple older kids throw candy, cheap stuff without any real heft to it, and it bounces off the exterior, but others wave or yell things that I can’t understand from my insulated enclosure. The red carpet portion of the evening’s events has already begun, but Ramen assured me that we don’t want to be early for that. “That’s for executive producers and shit,” he explained. “The serious talent doesn’t show up until right before showtime.”

  Our ride is quick, a short trek down the 101 South and off onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Already I can see the enormous spotlights, four of them, scanning across the darkness. Ivy notices the lights as well and sings the theme from the old Batman TV series. “No,” I say, pointing up at the round orbs of light that seem flat against the sky. The lights have decals in them alright, but it’s pure Mikey Echo. “Not bats. Skulls.”

  “It’s weird to see the lights pointed up,” Ivy says, gripping a glass of soda water. “Usually it’s spotlights from a police helicopter pointed down.”

  “We’ve definitely come up,” I admit, enjoying the spectacle of luxury. “For tonight at least.”

  “Life is gonna suck tomorrow,” Ivy agrees. “We’ll have to buy some extra-fancy toilet paper for a while at least.”

  “Hundred-dollar bills,” I laugh and she does too, squeezing my thigh, pleased.

  I point to the bar. “Aren’t you gonna spice that soda up with some vodka at least?”

  “Nah, if you’re not drinking tonight, neither am I.”

  “Such a waste. I’m almost tempted to dive in.” I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since the incident, and though I won’t, it feels somehow appropriate. Behind me, I can see the Hollywood sign. “Holly would if she could,” I mutter.

  Ivy squeezes my thigh again, this time reassuring.

  The traffic on Santa Monica clues me in to the level of opulence we are in for. The westbound streets have been blocked off for all traf
fic except for limousines, with traffic cops guiding us in through lines of orange cones. As far ahead of me as I can see, limousines creep forward toward the blinding spectacle of mounted klieg lights.

  Ivy hands me my mask from the seat. “The instructions specifically said to wear our masks on the red carpet.”

  “We’ve got time,” I say shortly and return my mask to its place on the seat. I did like the thought of my anonymity though—if I didn’t have Ivy with me, I would have tried to avoid the red carpet altogether.

  As we approach, I realize that I have no idea what level the spectacle is going to be. Reams of fans, curious onlookers, the sort who flock around any public spectacle, be it crime scene or movie premiere, drawn like moths, have been cordoned off with crowd barriers that block the sidewalk leading to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Hands from the crowds extend upward, flashing pictures or recording videos of the arriving limos. The more serious paparazzi are farther in, their considerably more expensive cameras flashing strobe bulbs like bursts of lightning extending up from beyond the crowd.

  The red carpet begins at the street and runs the length of the entryway to the cemetery. The sign for the place, an unobtrusive square, is on the far side of the street, an infinity symbol at the top of the fixed sign, but this is only a small reminder of our locale. On the carpet, guests in ball gowns and tuxedos mingle somewhat morbidly for the location, all of them in masks, obscuring their identities. Some, down the carpet, wear more festive costumes, but these too are masking the identity of the wearer.