by Rex Bolt
Something else too, which he kept forgetting: Stacy had masterfully engineered the fake painting, which closed the deal on the CraigsList guy. That situation could have gone a whole different direction without her efforts.
Chris said now, “What Sweetie?”
Stacy didn’t say anything, and Chris motioned her in, and he made her some tea, and she took a couple sips and said she heard from Ken, 11:30 this morning, that he was in trouble and what should he do.
“Okay whoa, here,” Chris said. “Heard from him how?”
“He texted me,” she said. “I texted him back, called him 5 minutes later too. I tried several more times. Finally his phone didn’t work.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“He didn’t say what kind.”
“Fine. But I’m asking you now -- what kind of trouble is he in?”
“I wish I knew. I don’t.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Chris said, surprising her, and himself a bit too. He held her gaze, but she didn’t avert her eyes, she seemed genuinely perplexed, not to mention scared.
“Okay that’s on me,” he said. “My fault, I didn’t mean to strongarm you.” He told her about the cops showing up.
Stacy started crying again and when she came up for air she said, “See, that’s the thing.”
“Meaning . . . you’re not surprised? The law enforcement aspect?”
“No,” she said, “I am surprised. Totally. I can’t imagine . . .” And some tears again, the voice a little raspier.
Chris debated opening a can of worms, but decided to bring up the Strand house stuff.
“I know all about it,” she said. “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I’m happy for him. He’s able to do his thing, he’s fulfilled.”
Chris might have put it a little differently, the last part, but forget that. “How about the Emma lady?” he said.
“Well . . . I don’t know about currently, but at one time they were screwing . . . Sorry to come out with it, Ken swore me to secrecy on that one.”
“That’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Chris said. He’d suspected that might have been the case, there were too many signs, in Chris’s view all of them instigated by Emma . . . the Mrs. Robinson syndrome he supposed, and Ken was a healthy human and she wore him down. At least that was the easiest way to look at it.
“Did it continue though,” Chris said, “I mean their . . . relationship . . . once he started . . . you know?”
“You mean doing the porno scenes? I’m not sure. That’s around when I moved up to Bakersfield for a while. I don’t think she cared for it though, his new line of work.”
“No, she probably wouldn’t,” Chris thinking that’s for sure, since a, Emma had him to herself every day in the library before that, and b, of all jobs he could have taken, he ends up in the one that centers on multiple female anatomy.
Chris said, “But you have no idea what their status has been lately? Say the last few weeks? I mean has he said anything, even something innocuous where maybe you can read between the lines? . . . When’s the last time you spoke to him . . . before he texted you this morning?”
Stacy shifted around and started to try to answer, and it was clear she didn’t know a whole lot more than she already said, and Jeez, why keep putting her through this, and Chris felt like a jerkell interrogator, like these guys who are always on their high horse in online discussion forums.
Chris said, “Let’s lay off it for a while, how about? . . . You’ve been through a lot, and you’re taking it hard. Which we all appreciate. I mean me and Kenny both . . . If I’ve never mentioned it, you have a good heart.”
This boosted her a little bit, and she half-smiled for the first time since she’d shown up, and Chris said how about they find a movie, and Stacy said thank you but she needed to go, and Chris didn’t take no for an answer and fired up the popcorn maker and melted some butter, and they sat on the couch with a bunch of napkins, and Chris flipped around Netflix and found a good one, Robert Robert in Jeremiah Johnson.
Admittedly some death and destruction in there, which he wanted to avoid, but it was set back in the old west and the landscape was so spectacular, especially the remastered high-def version, that it did the job . . . which was seem to settle Stacy down for the 120-or-so minutes it ran, though Chris wished he could say the same.
When it was over she was at the door pretty quick, and she thanked him and he made sure she didn’t need a ride, and she said she was good, that her friend Martin was waiting for her outside.
“Excuse me?” Chris said. “Recently? . . . I mean, you’re not saying . . .”
“Yes, he brought me. I told him I might be a few minutes, and he was fine with it.”
And she was gone, and Chris decided you can only scratch your head sometimes.
***
On a list of 100 things you could do the rest of the night, going back out would be last. But Chris got in the car and drove down to the Crow’s Nest.
Which was not quite accurate. Parking in this once quaint little beach town was getting really messed up. That was one reason, not the main one, but a factor, in why he moved out of San Francisco and down here in the first place.
Not that you could get anywhere in the Los Angeles area once you were here, that was a different animal, LA traffic, but you at least expected to put your vehicle remotely where you wanted it, in your own town on a late Sunday night in March.
But apparently not, and Chris ended up off Manhattan Beach Boulevard but way up there, near the elementary school, in fact three or four blocks beyond the police station where the Regan guy supposedly got dragged this morning.
At any rate . . . one or two familiar hands went up when Chris walked into the Nest, though no one exactly got up and greeted him or called him over, but still it was good to be recognized, and slowly but surely he was feeling like a local.
Ned was here, you caught that right away, holding court in his corner table spot, a couple of attractive women sitting opposite him at the moment actually . . . but whatever, at least he was here and Chris hadn’t wasted a trip.
You could have phoned Ned, saved the trek period, but like a lot things this past year it was questionable if that was the safest approach, meaning what kind of electronic residue you might leave. Chris had reminded himself pretty much from Day 1 of his business, after he got diagnosed, to treat all technology like it could remember you -- rational or not -- and he’d done a reasonable job of sticking to that. There had been various lapses, induced by fatigue, stupidity and plain old indifference on occasion -- but you could only control what you did going forward, and if you can see a guy in person without driving a thousand miles, you better do it that way.
Ned spotted Chris, and he did stand up, and he said something to the two women, and he motioned Chris over to the table.
“My brother,” he said. “What’s shaking? It’s good to see you tonight, wasn’t expecting you.”
Which was fair enough, Chris wasn’t much of a Sunday night person in here, it was typically Friday or Saturday, and maybe a week night that he stopped in, though there’d been exceptions. But Sunday nights he liked to watch 60 Minutes and then there was a British spy series on PBS, and by that point he typically figured don’t be a hero and go anywhere, save it for the fresh week.
Chris said, “Well, what can you do?” And Ned said, “Lydia and Margo, say hello to my good friend Chrissie -- you don’t mind if I call you that in public, do you?” Ned laughing about it, and the girls politely smiling as well.
And this little joke stemmed from when they went to the pro tennis matches at Indian Wells, Ned and Chris and a few others . . . and you could appreciate the skill level of the players but soon enough the points started to run together on you, not much variety or creativity out there, all of them pretty darn clone-like . . . and Ned and Chris started talking about other eras in tennis, and Chris Evert’s name came up, a 1970’s women’s champion, and Ned unfortunately used that as a springboa
rd to start calling him Chrissie.
But the guy meant well, Chris was pretty sure by now, and you kept coming back to that fact. Yeah Ned was still mysterious and probably a sleazebag, or worse, on some level -- except Chris kept on looking for that level, with his guard up, and hadn’t found it yet. And Ned had shown some character, let’s face it, in legitimately going to bat for Chris more than once.
And who knows, Ned probably pegged him the same way -- mysterious too, and probably a scumbag, but not able to pinpoint that yet himself, seeing as how they got along okay.
So it was what it was . . . and Chris said, “You see Kenny? I mean today, yesterday . . . anything?”
“I haven’t,” Ned said. “I actually gave him a little time off. You know, suggested it. Seemed like he needed it, they all do after a while, whether they admit to it or not.”
“Did he seem, like normal and everything?”
“No. He didn’t like it, and I went from suggesting it, to insisting . . . Which I can understand, no one wants to lose the income, but I told him give it ten days or so . . . In fact a buddy of mine, we have a connection, there’s a cruise ship, leaves from Long Beach, goes down to Baja. You come back refreshed.”
Here you go again. Ned didn’t spell it out but it was clear the cruise wasn’t going to cost Ken anything, that Ned was either forking over at least some of it, or otherwise making it work.
“But?” Chris said, and Ned gave him an irritated look, like what more do you want from me, and Ned paused and said excuse us a couple minutes to Margo and Lydia, and they didn’t say anything but seemed comfortable, and Ned with his head directed Chris into a back room to the left of the bar.
There was an old metal desk in there and some celebrity photos on the wall, signed, as well as a couple of gold records, in frames, Chris figured from when LA was still a recording studio hub, and there was other memorabilia up there as well, and it would have been interesting to examine the stuff, and see just who might be connected to whom around here . . . but some other time.
Chris said, “Those gals at your table, is that for . . . part of Ken’s business? The Strand stuff?” Chris couldn’t help it, he knew it wasn’t exactly like that -- necessarily -- but whenever he met one of Ken’s possible co-workers, he pictured them hooking up.
“Yes and no,” Ned said, and what the heck did that mean?
Chris said, “Ken’s gone AWOL I think.”
You could see Ned tossing it around, working the angles. He said, “Okay, that cruise deal, for starters, he didn’t take me up on it.”
“Was there, I don’t know, something building up that you noticed?”
“You mean some load he was carrying? The might have bubbled over?”
“Yeah?”
“No, not that I saw, not blatant anyway. He performed his tasks as directed, no discernable chinks in the armour -- always showed up on time, took his lunch, punched his timecard like everyone else. What can I tell you.”
“Jeez. You guys actually have time cards?”
“No, just an expression. Why are you sure he went Awol? Ask around, he’ll turn up. Ask Chandler in fact, he probably played tennis with him today.”
It was pretty clear by now that Ned didn’t know anything -- much less was involved himself with Ken in whatever this new situation was . . . and Ned seemed genuinely curious, though he wasn’t going to lose sleep over it.
Chris said, “At first, when the cops fired a few questions at me, my thought was y’all got pinched.”
“I’ll give you that,” Ned said. “You were applying common sense.”
“Playing the odds,” Chris said, waiting on a little more reaction from Ned, who naturally kept it light.
“That, you don’t have to worry about currently,” Ned said.
“Unh. New zoning commissioner, and all?”
“No, same one,” Ned said, leaving it right there, and on the one level you could tell Ned enjoyed playing with him, but on the other there were gray areas you probably didn’t want to stick your nose into.
Chris said, “So yeah, that crossed my mind first. But then cop number two asked if I knew Emma Klinheist.”
“Wait a sec -- the lady you used to hang out with?”
“Yep. Honestly, I didn’t know her last name, or else forgot it, until the cops brought it up.”
“Heck,” Ned said. “Out of left field. But could it be a different person?”
“Nah, they were friends. Don’t forget, she got him his gig stacking books in the basement of the library . . . Both of ‘em, disappeared from sight, apparently . . . That’s where I’m at.”
Ned was rubbing his cheek. He’d heard enough, you could tell he was ready to get back inside, but he was thinking.
“What?” Chris said.
“She might have picked him up at work a couple times, last month or so, now that I think about it.”
“So?”
“So nothing, I’m just saying . . . what’d you tell them?”
“Not much, it didn’t get to that. They took off when I suggested chatting by the pool instead of in the apartment.”
“Hmm . . . so they were looking for something. I thought Kenny wasn’t rooming with you much anymore.”
“He’s not. But maybe it’s a more stable address than anywhere else he’s been holing up . . . or maybe they were just fishing, checking everywhere. Getting a look at me in the process.”
“I didn’t want to point that out,” Ned said, and this was true, since a look at Chris could theoretically lead to a connection to Ned . . . but the cops taking off pretty quickly seemed to ease that concern for both of them.
“I won’t hold you up,” Chris said.
“No, it’s fine, I’m glad you brought this to my attention. It’ll straighten itself out, don’t lose any sleep . . . meanwhile, you say hi to Rose?”
“Rose? That’s where it’s at now?”
“Sure, why not.”
“Well I didn’t actually. Didn’t spot her.”
“She’s there, she’s found her comfort zone in here. The patrons love her.”
“I bet they do,” Chris said, letting it hang, waiting for something out of Ned, and finally a smile, and Ned reached out and ruffled Chris’s hair the way a playful uncle might do it with a nephew . . . and again, how ticked off at the guy could you actually be?
They went back inside and Chris found Rosie now, middle of the bar, seated between two guys, both pretty husky, her little frame apparently blocked out when Chris had first shown up tonight.
“What do we got,” he said, tapping her on the arm.
Rosie turned, her expression brightened, and she came off her stool and mumbled something friendly, gave Chris a wet kiss, sort of on the lips but not quite, and it seemed a bit alcohol-induced, but Chris figured, good enough, he’d take it tonight.
The two guys sandwiching her weren’t thrilled but weren’t going to interfere, and Chris was thinking maybe they take a walk up the block, he and Rosie, catch up a bit for old times’ sake, get a little more lowdown on how she’s adjusting to the southern California lifestyle -- but Rosie had swung back around and re-picked up whatever she had going with the two guys, and that was that.
Chapter 5
Chris went home, had a bowl of cereal, satisfied himself that for tonight anyhow, he was exhausted enough to block out the real world, and wouldn’t even need the recliner as a sleep-aid -- and lumbered down the hall to the bedroom and forgot to turn off the side light, but it didn’t matter, he was out like a shot.
Until about two-thirty in the morning when the phone rang.
Chris’s first thought, a weird one frankly, was I have to change the dumb marimba sound on that thing, if I can figure it out.
“You awake?” Ned said.
“No. Jesus.”
“Listen . . . on that deal you ran by me earlier tonight?”
This didn’t deserve an answer, what else had they talked about. Don’t be adding a Preface, not at this hour.
Ned said, “Your Emma friend, she tried to kill her husband.”
“Huh?”
“Over in Torrance. She used some kinda garden tool on him, they said.”
Chris was rubbing his eyes hard, trying to come-to in a hurry.
“You mean, attempted it? But it didn’t work?”
“That part’s unclear,” Ned said. “Just thought you’d want to know.”
“Yeah, dang . . . thanks,” Chris said, trying to put it together here, what the heck, and was this even the right information . . . though Ned got that kind of stuff right . . . especially when he went to the trouble of contacting you in the middle of the night, there was substance behind it.
And Chris realized he hadn’t asked anything more about Kenny, and he started to but Ned had hung up.
And some guys you’d call right back in that situation, but it was clear Ned told him what he wanted to, or what he knew, and it was up to Chris to interpret it.
He got up again, flipped around late night TV, settled on MLB Network where they were replaying spring training games at all hours, most of them from Florida, the Grapefruit League, but some from Arizona, the Cactus League as well, such as the Giants of all people right now in the 5th inning against the Colorado Rockies.
Chris took a minute and studied the screen, trying to figure out which team’s spring training park they were playing in, meaning did he recognize the Giants’ one. It was hard to tell, most of the wide shots of the stadium featured families in grassy areas along the foul lines more or less picnicking as the game proceeded, and they always seemed to be having a good old time.
What the devil was even the name of that guy, Jeez, the ballplayer Chris acted on, where the field maintenance machine happened to come in handy at the right time on a sleepy Sunday in January.
All of it a reminder that he hadn’t checked the Phoenix news for a while, and he better make sure there were no unforeseen developments that could keep him awake big-time.
