The office was three steps below the floor level of the bathroom and water from the shower was beginning to run down into an area that caused Chuck great excitement.
"My God, Lars, we've hit the jackpot! Never mind teddy bears and Jerusalem Slim, we have all of Art and Estelle's business records. Quickly, before we get flooded, help me haul the papers downstairs. And don't forget the computer, fax and printer. And that television can come too."
The main stairway was indeed wet, water from the master bathroom spilling down its carpeted risers in a most artistic and soothing way. The pair splashed through the growing stream, carrying armfuls of old tax returns, purchase orders, invoices, computer disks, office machinery and an award to Art for playing eighteen holes of golf at a Palm Springs course without once falling into a sand trap.
All of this ended up in the laundry room where Chuck shoved the paper work down into the large washing machine. He poured an entire container of 'Mr. Sunshine' laundry detergent into the maw of the machine, closed the lid and turned it on.
There was no point, he thought, to put on hot water because all of that was now soaking the rugs and floor above them but he did have the consideration to pull out the drain screen before he turned on the water. This would allow the waterlogged, pulped contents to flow down into the sewer system with more ease and less chance of survival.
His next act was to open the dryer and in it he put Waterford crystal, silver bowls, the Lladro treasures, two steam irons, a heavy bowling trophy and an imitation marble head of the Virgin Mary. When Chuck turned on the drier, its rotation produced loud crashings, an atonal screeching of metal and irregular thumpings.
It was now growing late and the next order of business was to take all of the various possessions stacked by the doors outside to the pool area.
The Winrods had never used the pool, which had come with the house, and Pierre had fallen into it once and nearly drowned, so it was carefully fenced.
Down into the black depths of the dark pool slid telephones, books, a wedding dress, bronzed baby shoes, computers, faxes, toaster ovens, television sets, waffle irons, electric shoe brushes, two stereo sets, clocks, an antique armchair minus its legs, another statue of Jesus, a collection of spices and a portable barbecue. These objects, lowered carefully into the water lest the splashing alert the neighbors, vanished in streams of bubbles. Chuck broke into the pool house and immediately turned on the pool heater full force and added three fifty-pound sacks of fertilizer to the load in the pool along with a power lawnmower, electric hedge clippers and a dog blanket.
The laundry room was half-full of detergent suds as the final spin cycle was draining all of the records away. The interesting noises originally heard from inside the dryer had diminished to a series of irregular thumping noises that sounded like someone beating their wife with a ball bat. Chuck lifted the lid of the washer, noted the faint traces of gray sludge at the bottom of the still-rotating drum and then added all the family photo albums, old school year books full of signatures of dead and vanished friends, two boxes of greeting cards from holidays long past, diplomas that had been wrenched from their frames, a good conduct discharge certificate for Art, a flag that had covered his father's casket at a military funeral and a small china vase that had belonged to Estelle's grandmother.
'Mr. Sunshine' had nothing more to give so he dumped in a box of powdered bleach, some dishwashing soap and the contents of a bottle of beet juice.
When the machine was churning, he returned to the dining room where Lars was prying large pieces of wallboard off of the studs with his crowbar. Aside from the torn wallpaper, destroyed clock and rat-eaten portrait, the room now looked as if giants had been playing squash in it. The floor, covered with plaster dust, red dye, broken chair parts and the bent remains of the big clock would have given pause to the last dinner guests of the Winrods had they seen it.
There was a sudden loud, wet crash from the vicinity of the kitchen and the pair rushed to the door only to discover that the great weight of water in the office had finally soaked through the flooring and collapsed the ceiling below. Great streamers of white insulation hung down and sheets of water drenched the floor. They did not wish to explore the scenic marvel any closer because the stench of slowly roasting tapes and CDs in the electric oven made the air unbreathable.
Lars clapped his hands together in delight.
"Oh look, Chuck! It's just like Santa's cave at the North Pole! Little Doreen would really love to see that. She just loves Santa."
"Who's Doreen, Osvald? Another niece from hicksville? Do you stuff her stockings while wearing a Santa suit? You're so lovely to look at."
"You are really repulsive sometimes, Chuck, and I think there is about six inches of water in here now and we better go outside or we might be electrocuted."
"A good point there. Well, I think we have brought enough happiness into their lives for tonight, Lars. Outside you Norske prevert, and let's take a little break by the pool before we leave."
Chuck poured glue into all the outside door locks and a bucket full of rock salt all over Estelle's prize flower beds before sitting down on one of the pair of pool chairs he had carefully saved from destruction. They sat there for some time, resting from their efforts and Lars pointed to the ribbons of water flowing out from under the door next to the pool.
"I like that, Chuck. It reminds me of the stream on my grandfather's farm in Minnesota."
"You and your farm. I'll bet the stream you had in mind ran out from the cow barn and I can guarantee you wouldn't want to drink out of it."
"Why do you make fun of the farm, Chuck? I had a happy childhood on the farm. What kind of childhood did you have?"
Chuck drank another bottle of the last remnants of Art's imported beer and belched.
"I had a really rotten childhood, unlike yours what with you running around raping chickens and boning the occasional slow dog. My early childhood, I must say, was pleasant but it began to come apart somewhere along the line. We moved away from where I grew up and things became really bad. My dad died when I was fifteen and my mother humped anything with a fairly stiff pecker. She thought she was discreet but kids know more than adults think. I ran away when I was sixteen, trying to find the lost life and all I ever found were very nasty people. The only person I really loved when I was a kid was my grandfather but he died. Rats, I think, are better than people, Lars. And then I became a burglar but we can talk about that some other time."
The heated pool was now starting to steam and bubble and leaning back, Chuck could almost hear the chatter of monkeys in the mangy palm trees or the cries of jungle birds. Above them was the illuminated dome of smog that covered the city and asphyxiated small birds and those with weak lungs.
On the outside wall of the garage, the electric meter was spinning like a drunken roulette wheel as the water heater tried vainly to keep up with the demand.
Lars was staring down at the small box with his erotic tapes and smiling a secret, private smile.
"Chuck, can we find another house tonight? I really did enjoy myself here, I really did."
"Once a night is enough, as the fat man said to the dwarf. Now you see, you've got me talking like a degenerate. I think we ought to go now, Lars. The sun is going to come up very soon."
And a faint, rosy glow showed through the trees as the pair carefully closed the splintered gate behind them and walked quietly down the alley towards the next street.
"I ruined my shoes in there," Lars said as he squished towards the car.
Chuck, who was riffling through a thick stack of large denomination bills that a tax-dodging Art had hidden in a cheap statue of the Virgin Mary, sighed.
"I've wrecked mine too, Lars. Since we're still on vacation for the next couple of weeks, we can go out later today and buy us some new shoes, courtesy of Art and his wonderful wife."
On their way to the freeway, the car drove down streets that were empty except for the occasional whore returning from a nigh
t on the tiles.
Chuck turned on the car radio and found a classical music station.
"Do you like Bach, Lars? Do you like to listen to good music?"
"I like to watch, Chuck," he said, drooling into the box of tapes.
"Oh Osvald, what would little Doreen say about that nasty habit?"
"Fuck Doreen. I can watch these tapes whenever I want and I don't have to worry about Child Protective Services."
As they neared the freeway entrance, they suddenly ran over a screeching cat that was looking for love but found death instead.
"I do like Bach. So soothing but so stimulating. I recommend the Goldberg Variations when you've had a bad day. Today has been a good day, Lars, and I won't be needing to soothe my soul at all. And if you don't stop drooling into that box, you'll totally destroy your new love life."
And they left behind them a situation that eventually gave a great deal of gainful employment to the police, contractors, morticians and social workers.
Although they would never understand the concept, Art and Estelle would learn in good time that from the seeds of discontent they had sown, a great rainforest would soon grow.
Especially in the living room.
3.
During the two weeks before the Winrods were to return to their private showing of Chaos and Old Night, Chuck and sometimes-Lars entertained themselves by buying new clothes and shoes to replace the ones that were destroyed in the Great Redecoration project.
Neither one of the artists had the slightest intention of returning to the scene of their crime but a daily reading of the Los Angeles "Times" proved fruitless. Evidently the Winrod neighbors were not curious or the running water had flooded the interior of the first floor up to the level of the ceiling without escaping, which might have proven interesting when the front door was eventually opened by a returning Winrod family and, hopefully, dog.
Chuck mused on this aspect of his recent crime at some length.
"Just think, Lars, what would happen if old Art opened the front door and was washed down into the storm drains with all their luggage. Estelle would be standing by their car as Art shot past, not knowing what to do. I can just hear her shouting, 'Art, Art, toss me the keys!' as he disappeared down the drain."
"What if they went inside and drowned in the living room, Chuck? I don't think the water would get that high. I think the windows would break first."
"Well, the water has to go somewhere, doesn't it? It isn't just going to hold its mud for two weeks. Maybe it flooded the alley but then if it did, the neighbors would call someone. At least I think they should. What do you do with a river in the alley?"
In fact, the water poured out of the house, having broken the glass in the dining room doors, and after flooding the back yard, coursed out into the alley. After two days of a thick stream of water pouring past their garage, Myron Ginzburg, a neighbor, called the Los Angeles water department.
The dim-witted minority who took the call was too busy trying to set up a cocaine buy from her brother and forgot to report the presence of a brand-new trout stream complete with strange foreign objects such as lumps of reeking cow manure, pages from destroyed books, the contents of Estelle's late mother's sewing basket, small jars of spices and an occasional piece of a ripped and bleached garment.
A pine martin stole lay partially wrapped around one of his garbage cans for over two weeks because he thought it was just another cat that the neighbors had poisoned.
The rest of the flotsam from the house was eventually deposited on the street close to the Winrod disaster but was totally ignored by everyone. In Los Angeles, it was considered bad taste, and certainly dangerous, to meddle in other persons' businesses.
Last year, only two blocks away, a severed human head had lain, sightless, in the gutter for two days after a hostile ghetto bill collector had deposited it there late at night, before a friendly neighborhood German Shepherd dragged it home to eat at his pleasure on his very own front lawn. By the time anyone had noticed the grotesque scene, the relic was entirely unrecognizable and the first police officer on the scene suggested, only partially in fun, that the dog should be allowed to finish his meal and save him a good deal of time-consuming paper work.
On the day appointed for the return of their masters, the employees stood in a muted group in the parking lot behind the store. No one loved Art and Estelle but all of them enjoyed eating and rummaging for cheap but relatively respectable clothing in the local salvage shops.
The jewelry store was not known for its high pay scale and a year before, one of their salesmen was caught by the police passing out clothes to his waiting wife from inside a Goodwill cast-off clothing deposit box in a church parking lot.
Both Cyril, who preferred to be known to Chuck and Osvald, who preferred to be called anything but his given name or late to dinner, were standing at the back of the group of depressed workers.
Both were wearing new shoes and articles of clothing that did not look like they had come from a rummage sale at a mortuary. Over the past several days, they had given a good deal of mirthful thought to the state of mind of their employers when they waded into what by now must be an urban swamp complete with pond scum, rampant mould, alligators and floating furniture, but today they kept their merriment to themselves. Some things do not need to be shared with anyone, especially with vindictive and treacherous fellow employees.
The store was supposed to open at 9:30 a.m. for the staff so by 10, the sheep were bleating softly to each other while looking at the expensive watches that Art and Estelle insisted they purchase from the company for the purpose of advertisement.
By 10:30, an overweight and overwrought woman who had been voicing apprehensions that Art and Estelle had died of food poisoning in Las Vegas or had been killed and devoured by a minotaur, lumbered to a pay phone in the back of the neighboring shop that sold very expensive unisex leather undergarments to members of the clergy.
She returned several minutes later with the news that Art and Estelle were not answering their phone and that at least one of her Cassandra-like predictions must have come true.
By 11, all of the other employees had departed to wait in a coffee shop on the next block, leaving Chuck and Eric alone with their thoughts and Chuck's high quality lock pick set.
It took the best salesman only a minute to pick the lock and another minute to turn off the burglar alarm before it could alarm the police.
"I didn't know you could turn that thing off," said Eric as he closed the door behind them.
"I can do many mysterious things, friend, as you know. Art and Estelle probably got back about 11 last night, walked through the front door and drowned in the flood. By now, the neighbor's cocker spaniels are munching on their bloated corpses. If no one has come down here yet, I figure we have about twenty minutes to clean the place out and leave the others to take the blame."
And without further ado, he picked the lock into Art's office, located the combination to the huge walk-in safe in which anything of value was kept that clever Art hid on a small card cunningly taped on the inside of a desk drawer and five minutes later, he pulled open the gray steel doors to the amazement of his companion.
"Oh my, Chuck, look at all the nice things! I wish I knew something about jewelry so I would know what to pick out."
His crime partner pushed him to one side.
"Look, go stick your penis into a clock. You understand them, don't you? Let me clear out these trays and be a good man and bring me that big canvas bag Art keeps in his closet for deposits. I am about to make a major withdrawal."
Pulling open drawers full of jewelry, he tossed some pieces into the bag and ignored others. Watches, bracelets, necklaces, rings, brooches and gold coins began to fill out the flabby contours of the canvas bag while Eric, or sometimes Lars, was engaged in pilfering a drawer of Patek-Phillipe and Rolex watches, stuffing them into the pockets of his garish new sport coat.
"Hey, hey, compadre, that's all community
property. I know what that stuff is worth. Share and share alike, buddy. Didn't we split the money I found in Mamma Mary's statue?"
Lars was annoyed.
"Of course I'll share with you...oh my, look at the diamonds on this little jewel...but we need to get out of here. Someone walked by and I could see them peeking in through the window."
Chuck wheeled around but could not see the door.
"What are you talking about, turd head? You can't see the door from here."
"No, but if you look in the glass on that case, you can see a reflection."
"True. Look, I have just about everything in the bag. What do you want to do with the fake stuff?"
The Winrods kept a large selection of faux jewelry to sell to slipping movie personalities who had sold the real pieces years before but still liked to keep up appearances.
"Why not bring it too, Chuck? If we only take the good stuff, someone might think we knew what we were taking."
"Good point. Sorry I called you a turd head. Try to find a nice container that looks uncommitted and we can take everything else."
Chuck left behind a number of items and insisted on taking all of the jewelry cases with store's logo stamped into them.
"Why are you leaving some things behind? And wouldn't be easier to take the jewelry without the boxes?"
"I suppose you have a point, Lars," Chuck said as he closed the safe doors but did not lock them. "You see, I figure either the employees or especially the local cops, will take what is left when they discover the thefts and a few days later, I can dump all the boxes in a place that will do us the most good. Trust me, Lars, I know what I'm doing."
"Do you think the police will steal things, Chuck? I never knew they did things like that."
"Maybe not in Minnesota but they certainly steal in Los Angeles. And when they're not stealing, they're beating blacks, beaners and winos to death. At least in New York, they only stick broom handles up black's bungholes for fun. But mostly, they don't rob rich people who can make trouble. They rob drug dealers of their nice watches, cash and above all, Lars, they take the drugs so they can sell them later on. And if they see someone they don't like with a nice, expensive car, they can always stop the idiot for a broken taillight, hide some of their own coke under the seat and confiscate the car for personal use. They also take homes and other valuable things. Now up in San Francisco, the cops like to shoot people just for fun so I think the citizens of LA are not so bad off, as long as they are white and live in the right neighborhoods. Look, this is what we can do. We turn the sign in the door around to say 'OPEN', unlock the door and let anyone in who wants to spend their money with us. In the meantime, we go out the back, over to the next block and put all of this stuff in the trunk of my car."
Conversations With the Crow Page 68