“That settles it. I’ll name the cat Willis. That way I can say, ‘What you mewin’ ’bout, Willis?’ ”
“I don’t understand what you just said.”
“I think it’s best that way.”
“All right. I’ll allow you one cat, but I’m going to up the deposit.
If I have to do extra cleaning around here, well . . .”
“Sold, Mrs. Little. Happy to be part of the family.”
Part of the family. He’d never really had one. His brother ripped away, his father killing himself, his mother never the same after that. Foster care in California, that was a pitiful substitute for family.
Now he was here in Verner and was going to be part of a family again, only this one wasn’t exactly the Brady Bunch. This was Eldon LaSalle and his religious ideas. Eldon LaSalle and his own little world.
But Johnny was here, and that thread was enough to keep Steve hoping that his past could get stitched up.
Maybe Eldon LaSalle wasn’t all that much of an issue. A bigot to be sure, but he was getting old. He couldn’t last forever, and Steve could work on Johnny to do things nice and legal.
He could save his brother.
That was it. That was the reason he was here. He couldn’t save his brother before, when he was taken. Now he could. If he played it just right, he could get his brother back for real.
Get himself back too.
At two in the afternoon he decided to walk into the middle of town and find himself a real, authentic Verner lunch establishment. Something with atmosphere and plain good eating.
He found it on the main drag.
Chip’s Cafeteria was a relic of a bygone era. It had a sixties look. Certainly the carpet seemed to have absorbed forty years of gravy and mashed peas and chocolate milk. The music over the system predated the looks. It was organ music, happily playing songs of the fifties.
Steve found out why as he entered. A display case offered several CDs, featuring a portly gentleman with curly white hair and a black moustache. He was sitting at an organ and smiling. Chip’s Favorites was the title of the CD.
He had wandered into a Verner celebrity hangout. Where he felt like he should be wearing polyester.
The average age of the munchers seemed to be about eighty. He wondered if Curls and Red ate here. And argued over what kind of Jell-O was being served.
Steve was about to approach the tray station when he looked right. At a table by the front window, nattily dressed and reading a newspaper, was Edward Hendrickson.
Steve slalomed through the tables of octogenarians.
“Mr. Hendrickson?”
The old man looked up with a smile. “Why yes — ” He stopped with a look of recognition.
“Steve Conroy’s my name. I met you at the Bruck Mortuary.”
“I remember.” Guarded.
“Great. How’s business? People dying to get in?”
Hendrickson looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”
“I have a friend, he’s a writer. When he dies he’s leaving his body to science fiction.”
Stone face. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“I heard the meatloaf was terrific.”
“It is, but that still doesn’t explain — ”
“May I?” Steve pulled out a chair and sat down.
“If you’d like to inquire about our services,” Hendrickson said, “I would ask you to come to the office during — ”
“No, I’m not planning on dying just yet,” Steve said. “And I hope I’m not there when it happens.”
Hendrickson blinked.
“You’re a long-time resident of this place,” Steve said.
“Yes.”
“Must know a lot of people, some of the old stories.”
“What old stories are you interested in? Do you mind?” Hendrickson indicated his plate. It had half a filet of sole on it, with some pearl onions and broccoli off to the side.
“Please,” Steve said.
Hendrickson took a bite. “Now. What stories?”
“I’m interested in finding out about a doctor, Phillips. You know him?”
Hendrickson stopped midchew. “Phillips?”
“Walker Phillips. I was told you knew him pretty well.”
“Who told you that?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yes, I knew Dr. Phillips, but he moved away.”
“I’m more interested in an autopsy he did back in 1983. Do you remember me coming and asking about that?”
Hendrickson took the napkin out of his lap and wiped his mouth. His hand was shaking. Like Parkinson’s. Or raw nerves.
“I don’t know anything about those days,” he said.
“But you did say you knew Dr. Phillips. I was wondering — ”
“He was a doctor in town. That’s all.”
“Mr. Hendrickson, if I told you that this was very important — ”
“I thought Sheriff Mott made it clear to you that there are channels. I suggest you take them.”
“Mott is a brick wall, and I think you know that.”
“Young man, I know I want to finish my lunch. That is all I have to say.”
“Something happened back there and you know about it.”
“That’s all I am going to say to you, sir. Please leave.”
His voice had risen above the organ music, and Steve was aware of several looks coming from even the hard of hearing.
Steve stood. “That autopsy was performed on my brother. At least that’s what they told us. But I think it was someone else. I want to know what happened. I need to know what happened.”
“It is best,” Hendrickson said, “to let the dead bury the dead.”
“I’ve heard that,” Steve said, “but I have no idea what that means, unless you’re Dracula.”
FORTY-FOUR
The next afternoon, Steve pulled into Ashley’s driveway with a rented trailer attached to the Ark.
Ashley opened the garage door from inside the house.
“You could have kept your stuff here longer,” she said.
“I got lucky and found an office right away. Thanks anyway.”
“Can I help you load?”
“No, I’ll do it myself. I’ve put you out enough.”
“Really, I – – ”
“I’ll tell you when I’m done.”
It took him a little more than an hour to get everything packed right. Then he was ready to do it, really do it. In Verner he’d be able to start afresh and be a small-town lawyer. He had a client with some deep pockets and he could build an actual practice. He wouldn’t have to scrape for misdemeanor assignments or conflict cases.
Maybe he could become what he never was in Canoga Park — a respected member of the community.
Steve said good-bye to Ashley at the front door. For a fleeting moment she seemed to show the slightest wisp of sadness. Or maybe it was just his imagination bucking for a promotion.
“So this is really it?” Ashley said. “You’re making a clean break?”
“Clean,” he said.
“I really hope it works out for you.”
“You never know. I might actually not muck this one up.”
“You’re a good lawyer, Steve. Don’t forget that. Don’t let anything get in the way of that.”
Steve smiled. “You’re the great lawyer in the fam . . . the best one I know.”
Ashley looked at the ground.
“So anyway,” he said, “I guess we won’t be seeing each other again.”
“Steve — ”
“No, it’s best that way. Time for me to leave you alone.”
“We know where to find each other,” Ashley said.
“At the corner of Bedlam and Squalor?”
“Drive safely, will you?”
“Hey, the Ark is — ”
The sound of tires squealing into the driveway stopped him. A silver Lexus convertible.
Steve turned back to Ashley. “The Ark is not
that car.”
In that car was a perfectly coiffed guy of about forty, who emerged with the strut and bearing of the Los Angeles superlawyer. Steve knew the look. It was as unmistakable as the downtown skyline.
The new arrival took off his shades as he approached, folded them, and held them in his left hand. He wore a white shirt with blue stripes and patterned blue tie.
“Steve,” Ashley said, “this is Ben Knight.”
Knight stuck out a hand and Steve caught a whiff of cologne. Steve shook the hand. Knight put the vice grip on it.
“How ya doin’?” he said.
“Great.” Not.
“That your Caddy? It’s a classic.”
“I could fit your car in my trunk.”
“No doubt.” To Ashley, Knight said, “I’m early. Can I pour us a drink?”
“Sure,” Ashley said.
Knight slapped Steve on the shoulder, the old frat-boy pat. “Nice to meet you finally.” He gave Ashley a kiss on the mouth and walked inside like he owned the place.
“Congratulations,” Steve said.
“We just started going out,” Ashley said.
“Oh? How many times? I don’t usually do the kiss-and-I’ll-fix-us-a-drink ’til the fifth date.”
“Steve — ”
“Are you up to fix-me-a-sandwich-and-take-off-your-clothes?”
“Don’t act this way.”
“Who’s he a partner with?”
“How do you know he’s a lawyer?”
“He almost tripped over his ego on the way in.”
“That’s not fair. You don’t know him. He’s a genuinely nice guy.”
“Unlike your former husband, right?”
“I’m not going to do this. We can be nice to each other, can’t we? You’ve said you’re changed, and I’m happy for you, and I hope you’ll meet someone who will make you happy too.”
“Let’s all be happy.”
“Yes.”
“Yeah. Well.” He didn’t know whether to shake her hand or give her a noncommittal hug or let her make the first move. They stood like topiary hedges, swaying a little in the breeze but fixed to the ground.
“Later,” Steve said finally. He walked past the Lexus with the black leather interior and out to his Ark with the coffee-stain interior and drove away.
FORTY-FIVE
After a Taco Bell dinner, Steve made a last stop at The Cue. A farewell to the old place. Bye to the ex-wife, bye to the pool hall. Bye to life as he knew it.
Only not bye to the thought of Ashley and Superlawyer thrashing around. It hadn’t taken her long. One thing about Ashley, she knew how to get the right things in life. He had been her only glitch, apparently.
Steve thought about it for only two seconds, then ordered a pitcher of Bud. He rented a rack and set up at the table in the back. He didn’t bother with a glass. Just drank from the pitcher and shot pool.
The balls on the table were the scattered remnants of his life. He made up a game. The harder he hit them, the better it would be. Every pocketed ball would kill a voice in his head.
Only the voices just seemed to get louder.
So he ordered another pitcher.
Somewhere along there a guy asked him if he wanted a game. Steve said sure and tried to roll the balls without rolling on the floor. Shots faded into other shots. The Cue got cut out with a saw and put on a slow-moving roller coaster. The green felt of the table got fuzzier. Time moved too fast or didn’t move at all.
And then, out of nowhere, this voice came into his ear. “A hundred you owe me,” it said.
“Mh?” Steve looked for the source and saw a guy who looked familiar, only he was moving back and forth in front of him, sometimes looking like two guys, twins, and big. He had a smell too, like sweat, like body odor. Or maybe, Steve thought, that’s me.
“A hundred,” the voice said. “We played for a hundred.”
“Hunnerd?”
“Yeah. Pay up.”
Pay up. That got his attention. “I din’n play for no hunnerd.”
“Yeah you did, and you pay me now.”
“Don’ got no hunnerd, why don’ I buy you a beer?”
The guy threw his cue on the table — Steve heard the sound of it, like thunder — then grabbed a hunk of Steve’s shirt and started dragging him toward the rear exit. The movement wasn’t a good thing for a stomach full of Taco Bell and beer and Steve thought he was going to lose it. Either way, he wasn’t in any condition to resist.
In a few seconds he was out in the back lot, then pushed up against the wall.
“Now you pay,” the guy said. He put his hand on Steve’s head and smashed it against the bricks.
Lights out.
Then swirls of light, and voices, and Steve feeling he was on his back and he knew he was inside The Cue again and a couple of guys were tending to him. And he smelled like . . . oh no, all over himself.
“You deserved it,” Gincy was saying.
Steve was lying on his sofa, head feeling like it was part of an Abe Lincoln rail-splitting contest. The guys at The Cue had made the call for him, and Gincy, loyal Gincy, had gathered him up.
Cleaned him up. Undressed him and threw his vomit-stained shirt and pants in the washer downstairs. Stuck him in the shower and gave him some oversized pajamas and made him lie down.
“I know,” Steve said. “What was I thinking?”
“You weren’t thinking, that’s the point. How much money did you have with you?”
“Huh? I don’t know.”
“He emptied you. At least he left your wallet and credit cards.”
“He cleaned me?”
“I put a couple of twenties in there for you, to tide you over.”
“Gincy, you didn’t have to. I’ve got some money in the bank.”
“Did you gamble with this guy?”
“I guess.”
“You were tanked up! What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about my frat brothers.”
“What?”
“My fraternity in college. Tappa Kegga Brew.”
“Very funny.”
Steve sat up. Abe put an axe through his head. He closed his eyes and groaned.
“Easy there, big fella,” Gincy said.
Steve rubbed his eyes, then his temples. The axe stayed in, chunked down through his brain and behind his eyes, and hit the water.
Steve cried into his hands. Couldn’t stop.
He felt Gincy next to him, then an arm around his shoulder, squeezing hard.
Steve fought to speak. “What . . . am I . . . gonna do?”
“Just be here,” Gincy said. “That’s all for now. That’s enough.”
For one night, it was. Gincy sat with him until Steve was cried out and finally fell asleep on the sofa.
Dreamless.
FORTY-SIX
Steve woke up at 4:00 a.m. and decided to slip out of town right then. Like an outlaw getting sprung from jail, wanting to leave under cover of darkness.
His head felt like Rocky Balboa’s punching bag. He made some coffee and left a note for Gincy, and got on the road.
It was a peaceful drive, actually. Seeing the sun come up as he approached the mountains was a good sign.
He got to his new office before most of Verner was awake. The labor of moving his stuff in helped clear his head. At eight he unhitched the trailer and drove to a real ham-and-eggs place and ate his fill.
So here he was. It was Saturday, and he was already weaving himself into the fabric of small-town life. Invigorated, he wanted to do something, get going. And then it occurred to him there was a call he needed to make.
The house wasn’t much to look at. Could have used a coat of paint. About twenty years ago. The yard was dirt and yellowing grass with a couple of old lawn chairs, bleached by the sun, sitting in the middle. But what was there to view from here? The front yards of some other houses were equally run-down.
Not a great place for a medical doctor to retire.
As Steve knocked on the front door, covered by a screen, he wondered if this could really be the right place.
It was late morning in Tehachapi, a high-desert town known primarily for its prison.
He knocked again. The guy who answered was not a medical-looking man. He wore a white T-shirt stretched out by an ample gut. Looked about forty, with brown hair worn long and stringy.
“Yeah?” he said through the screen.
“My name’s Steve Conroy. I’m looking for a Dr. Walker Phillips.”
“Why?”
Not who. Why. Steve had hit pay dirt. “I have an urgent need for some information from an old autopsy he did. It involves a family member. My brother.”
Long pause. Then a shake of the head. “I don’t think so.”
“Does he live here?”
“No.”
“But you know him.”
“So?”
“It’s really important. I’m a lawyer, and I’ve come all this way — ”
“Look, all I know is Dr. Phillips used to live here. I don’t know where he is now. He hasn’t been around for, oh, a year.”
“A year?”
“Give or take.”
“Any idea where he went?”
The guy shook his head. “He said something about back east, but that’s all I know.”
And all Steve knew was the feeling that this guy was not telling the truth. He took out his wallet, the one with Gincy’s twin twenties in it. “If it’ll help you remember,” Steve said, “I can make this a financial transaction.”
The door, which he’d almost shut, opened again. “What’re you saying?”
“How’s twenty bucks sound?”
“Insulting.”
“Forty?”
“No way.”
Steve shrugged and did the walk-away routine. He was two steps from the door when the guy said, “Okay.”
Back Steve came, fishing the bills out of his wallet. The guy opened the screen door and put his hand out.
“Information first,” Steve said.
“Out back,” he said.
“He lives here?”
The guy snatched the bills out of Steve’s hand. “Listen, he’s an old man who’s drinking himself to death, right? He’s got some sort of income and he pays me rent and just asks to be left alone. Every now and then I run some errand for him. I get him his food and his liquor. He doesn’t do anybody any dirt. He’s quiet. So don’t go getting him all upset, okay?”
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