Double Solitaire

by Craig Nova

  “Why don’t you reach in there and get your money and get out of here,” Farrell said.

  “You think I won’t?” said Pavel.

  Having shot someone in the leg had given him a boost. Pavel reached to the back of the machine, put his hand up to the box where the bills landed when someone put a ten or twenty or a five into the machine. The raccoon bit him twice, and then went back into the dark. Pavel yanked his hand out. The web of flesh between his thumb and index finger had glistening red spots that began to bleed.

  They stood there while the raccoon went from one side of the machine to the other, slobbering a little now, and seeming to have gotten the same thing out of biting a hand that Pavel had gotten out of shooting someone in the leg. The tension in the room was like the air just before a thunderstorm.

  “If it’s rabid,” said Nikolay. “I’ve got to have the animal. They test it to see if it’s got the disease.”

  Pavel pointed the pistol at glass of the front of the machine.

  “No,” Farrell said. “Do you know how much one of these machines costs? No. Don’t shoot.”

  Bob moaned. Really, thought Farrell, it’s too bad about the motorcycle and the leg. He had been pretty good.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Farrell said.

  “Yeah?” said Pavel. “What are we going to do about this?”

  He held out the bite on his hand. A number of small marks, as though he had been cut with a saw, each one of them the color of a ruby.

  Rose Marie kept her eyes on Farrell’s, as though if he could just fix this, she’d know he wasn’t another fraud. And where the kids were concerned, the last thing she needed was fraud.

  “And what about him?” said Nikolay.

  He pointed to Bob.

  “All right, Bob,” Farrell said. “That’s enough.”

  He pinched Marshall’s pant leg, pulled it up, and showed the wooden leg, which had a neat hole in the ash that it was made out of, the same wood that baseball bats were made of.

  “Thank god,” said Pavel.

  “That’s the first part,” Farrell said.

  “What’s next?” said Nikolay.

  “You wait here for thirty minutes, and I’ll fix it,” Farrell said.

  “My hand is beginning to hurt,” said Pavel.

  Rose Marie and Farrell went out and got into his car. She was visible in the light of streetlamp, and she trembled and glanced over at Farrell. They drove to Sunset and then up Laurel Canyon.

  “You could have asked first,” she said. “About Scooter.”

  “All right,” he said. “Can I borrow him for about an hour?”

  The hedge in front of the houses was lighted into a golden green, like a movie set. He parked, and then they went into her house, got the glass habitat, and put it in the back seat of the Camry.

  “He’s hungry,” said Rose Marie. “I haven’t fed him in a while.”

  The coils of the creature looked like an enormous inner tube that had been patched with camouflage-colored material. As they adjusted the glass tank, the coils of the python contracted, the movement of them smooth, like something from another world where there were no wheels or gears . . . the pile of it became not smaller but a little higher, and in the background the head rose, and the tongue began to move back and forth.

  “You know what he’s doing?” said Rose Marie. “With his tongue? He’s smelling things.”

  As they drove, Rose Marie put her hand into the back seat to steady the habitat when they went around a turn, but she kept her eyes straight ahead.

  “Maybe you can tell my kids about this,” she said.

  “That depends,” Farrell said. “On how it works out.”

  She glanced over.

  “Maybe I should wait in the car,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Maybe that’s a good idea. But you won’t.”

  Her fingers, open like a fan, trembled.

  “It will be over soon,” he said.

  “Is that a promise or a hope?” she said.

  Inside the building Nikolay and Pavel stood around the workbench. A paper towel, with a spot of blood on it, was wrapped around Pavel’s hand. It was clear that the pain from the bite was throbbing, although he was stoic.

  The habitat sat on the floor, the inside of the glass covered with a mist, like a cold drink on a hot day. Farrell guessed that Scooter made the inside cooler, or that the condensation came from his breath. Those green eyes lingered on him, as though it knew precisely who was going to cause trouble.

  “What’s that?” said Pavel.

  “Oh, no,” said Nikolay. “It’s a piton . . .”

  “I thought they only had them in Florida or Vietnam or some other hellhole.”

  “Well, what do you think this place is?” said Nikolay.

  The glass cover, like a windowpane, slid off the top of the habitat with a grating noise, not quite like fingernails on a blackboard, but not totally unlike it either. The coils, that pile of a patched inner tube, contracted, and the tongue moved more quickly. It knew something new was around.

  “You think it can smell us?” said Nikolay.

  The raccoon came to the front glass, beneath the chips, and kept its eyes on the habitat. Farrell had never seen a wild animal look afraid, and it had always been a comfort to him that there are creatures who live without fear, but this seemed to be the exception. The raccoon backed up, into the darkness of the machine.

  “Get one of those heavyweight construction trash bags,” he said to Bob. “Open it and hold it at the back of the machine.”

  “Me? Me?” he said.

  “Christ,” said Rose Marie. “Give it to me.”

  “No problem. You want to do it, fine by me.”

  The python’s skin wasn’t cool, or warm, or anything at all, and if Farrell had to judge by temperature, he’d say the thing was invisible. It was ominous and as Farrell picked it up, it began to wrap itself around his arm, and as it did, the coils moved, not tightening exactly, but not leaving any room for much movement. Of course, that’s the way a constrictor works. They don’t squeeze anything. They just wrap themselves around a creature and then wait for it to exhale. Then they take up the slack. And in that discomfort with the snake on Farrell’s arm, he thought that this is the way, or part of the way, that people like Terry Peregrine worked, moving from trouble to larger trouble, like the girl with the Goth tattoo.

  The python put its head at the entrance to the back of the machine, and then with a slow, mesmerizing uncoiling it flowed from his arm, like heavy oil, into the dark opening. The raccoon, in front of the machine, stood absolutely still, as though it was a photograph of itself. Its eyes turned to the back, where the python had begun to flow.

  “It knows something is coming,” Farrell said.

  “Yes,” said Rose Marie. She was at the back of the machine but she didn’t need to look.

  “It’s trying to decide whether it should get out or get eaten,” said Farrell.

  “Just like in Moscow, in the old days,” said Pavel.

  The raccoon ran to the side of the machine, where the moving, patched coil began to slither into the dark, and then the raccoon made a high-pitched, keening, almost musical cry, like a note that was dying away. It jumped over the coil, its head turned once over its shoulder and then it went, without a moment’s hesitation, into the black bag that Rose Marie held at the back panel. She pulled the blue drawstring tight, and with the bag heaving, she passed it over to Pavel, who took the thing, but held it at arm’s length.

  “When you tell the emergency room doctor that this is the animal that bit you, maybe you should have a story about how you caught it,” she said.

  The sheet metal box that held the bills was cool to the touch, a lot more cool than the python. Farrell reached in and picked up the bills. Then, on the workbench, next to the socket wrenches and cans of 3-in-One Oil, he counted out five hundred dollars.

  “Here,” he said.

  Nikolay picked it up. Then
he glanced at Bob, at Farrell, and Rose Marie, and said, “Where’s the closest emergency room?”

  “In Westwood,” said Rose Marie.

  “All right,” said Nikolay.

  They stood next to the machine, Pavel glancing down at the hole in the pant leg of Bob’s jeans, and then at Farrell.

  “Good luck getting the piton out of there . . .” said Pavel.

  “You want me to shoot it?” said Nikolay.

  “No,” said Rose Marie.

  Nikolay shrugged, and then they walked outside, where the moths were moving around the flood lamp like snowflakes in a storm. The Russians looked back, their faces having the same expression of someone who has been close to being run down by a freight train, but who somehow, through means they didn’t really understand, had gotten away with a raccoon in a bag. Then they disappeared.

  The python’s tail was that same non-temperature, and although it tugged a little or wrapped itself around a support, it let Farrell pull it out, hand over hand. Then it wrapped itself around his arm, and Rose Marie said, “You unwrap it by the head. Here.” Then she unwound the thing, put it back in the habitat, and slid the glass top over it.

  Bob said, “Don’t worry about my leg. I know a carpenter who can make a plug.”

  Back up in Laurel Canyon, they went through the privet hedge, like pistachio ice cream under a light, and stopped in front of Rose Marie’s house. The car was quiet, but Farrell thought he could hear or sense the uneasy movement of the snake.

  “So,” she said. “You don’t scare easily.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s take this thing upstairs.”

  They each took an end of the habitat, and with Farrell walking backward, they went in the door, up the stairs, and to the table where the tank usually sat. They put it down, and the snake raised its head.

  “Well, at least it was exciting,” Rose Marie said. “Gangsters, a rabid animal, a gunshot . . . is that the way it always is with you?”

  “It’s worse sometimes,” he said.

  A lot worse, he thought.

  “There are things . . .”

  “Like what?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “This town hits you like I don’t know what . . .”

  In her bedroom, with the window open, with the sweet, human scent of their skin, still sweaty, in the slight breeze that came in the window, harsh with the aroma of manzanita, and yet scented with the roses, she turned to Farrell and said, “So, what is it you really do?”

  Farrell put his hands behind his head. The ceiling was a blank white, the color of a piano key.

  “You have to know?” he said.

  “That’s right, buster,” she said.

  “I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “That’s what it comes down to.”

  She shrugged.

  “It’s up to you,” she said. “I’m patient, but it isn’t infinite.”

  15

  FARRELL KNEW, WHEN HE GAVE Braumberg bad news, when he dropped the bomb on him, that the most important thing would be to stop Braumberg from doing something stupid. As far as Farrell was concerned, stupidity was applied panic, and that meant getting drunk and talking about things that should be kept quiet. The smart thing, Farrell knew, was to say nothing and be patient. The essence of panic was not knowing there were times when you should do nothing.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” said Farrell.

  Braumberg turned to him with angry despair and said, “No jokes, huh?”

  “Maybe we should meet at Pink’s,” said Farrell. “In the back.”

  “What? With all the grease hounds? I’ve got cholesterol problems. It’s like getting a contact heart attack. No, right here is fine.”

  He touched the concrete bench at the fountain of the Hollywood Bowl.

  All right, thought Farrell. Here it comes. Farrell had a fleeting recognition of the hangman at the trap. Was there a little thrill just before the drop? Is that what lingered now as he began to speak?

  “There was another girl at Peregrine’s,” Farrell said. “A runaway.”

  “And?” said Braumberg.

  “No one seems to know where she is,” he said. “All I know is that she was from England.”

  “Maybe she caught the red-eye to England. Maybe she went home.”

  Farrell glanced from the greenish water in the fountain to Braumberg.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” said Braumberg.

  “She’s not in England,” Farrell said. “So what now?”

  “They’re in a bad spot,” Farrell said. “Peregrine and the girls.”

  “Tell me about that bad spot,” Braumberg said.

  “Well, they don’t want to go to the cops, since this other girl is making them worry.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?” said Braumberg. “Oh, shit, stop looking at me that way.”

  “There are some possibilities,” Farrell said.

  “Great,” said Braumberg. “You know, I think I should see a lawyer. What are we up to now? Conspiracy to obstruct justice? Accessories to some crime. . . ?”

  Braumberg’s sweat, the color of baby oil, ran along the side of his face.

  “You know what the problem with panic is,” said Farrell. “It’s doing something stupid.”

  “Is that right?” said Braumberg.

  “Yes, it is,” said Farrell.

  “So, where is this girl from England?” said Braumberg.

  Farrell thought of the dirt of the shoulder on Mulholland, the clutter of cigarette packages, foil, bindles, and the rest.

  “I wish I knew,” said Farrell.

  “Well, she’s a fucking runaway, the girl from England,” said Braumberg. “Isn’t that what you said? Isn’t that what they do?”

  “Yes, that’s what they do,” said Farrell.

  “England. What a fucked-up place. You know what they eat there? Pickled walnuts. What can you expect?”

  “I don’t think we are talking about pickled walnuts,” said Farrell.

  “Maybe the whole thing will blow over. If they don’t want to go to the cops, and Terry is making his morning calls, maybe we can just sit tight. You can give them some money . . .”

  “You are beginning to sound like a teenaged girl,” Farrell said. “It’s the lines. You have to understand that. Get the lines.”

  “All right. All right,” said Braumberg. “I’ll cut Profonde a deal for an extra point, but that is going to make him suspicious.”

  “This is a town of suspicion,” Farrell said. “And if you can’t get the lines with Profonde, then get them for some other production in town. Right?”

  Braumberg shrugged.

  “Right?” said Farrell.

  “All right, all right. Don’t get shirty.”

  “Just get the lines,” said Farrell.

  “And what are you going to do?” said Braumberg.

  “Look around for the girl,” Farrell said.

  “And if you find her?” said Braumberg.

  “That’s really the question,” Farrell said. “Isn’t it?”

  “Shit,” said Braumberg. “I’ve got a meeting. How do I look?”

  “Great,” Farrell said. “Calm, cool, collected. No one would try to pull a fast one on you. Those snakeskin boots are the best part.”

  “Have you got any Klonopin?” said Braumberg.

  He took out the pillbox with Botticelli’s Venus and opened it in the gurgling of the fountain so Braumberg could take a pill. Then the pillbox clicked shut, like finality itself.

  Braumberg swallowed the pill dry. He sat on the edge of the fountain and stared at the line of cars that came up Highland, as though they would never end.

  “Jesus, I don’t know how Terry does it. You know what the makeup people are doing to make him look like he isn’t all fucked out?”

  “He’s got great skin,” Farrell said.

  “Yeah, great skin,” said Braumberg.

  “You don’t want to do something st
upid,” said Farrell. “In fact, you want to do something smart.”

  “What’s that?” said Braumberg.

  “Give more to institutions. The Children’s Hospital at UCLA. It will do you a lot of good if this comes unglued.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Braumberg. “The unglued thing.” He bit his lip, then glanced at Farrell. “You look tired.”

  “That’s right,” said Farrell. “The girls are lying. The mother is lying. Terry is lying. There’s something wrong. I’m about ready to walk away . . .”

  “Don’t, don’t,” said Braumberg. “Don’t even think about walking away. If you have to find out, all right.”

  “Then what?” Farrell said.

  “Take care of it. Are you confused?”

  “Not anymore,” Farrell said.

  “All right,” Braumberg said. “Think about this. That hospital for kids seems important to you for some reason. Why is that?”

  Farrell shrugged.

  “Are you getting soft?”

  “No,” said Farrell.

  “All right. You take care of this for me, and I will donate a substantial amount. Not for a building. But for research.”

  “How much?”

  “A substantial amount. You want the fund in your name?”

  “Are you kidding?” Farrell said. “No. How much?”

  “Plenty. For tumor research. I got a fundraising pitch from them the other day and they are doing some good things with genetic sequencing, designer drugs for kids, you know, that work for each kid . . .”

  “It will do you good,” said Farrell.

  “On the condition that you take care of this. Think about it.”

  16

  The suspicion about why Farrell hadn’t been able to find the British girl came with a change in the way things appeared. In the afternoon he started with the habitual searching, the parking at the side of Mulholland, the repetitive climb into the brush, and his pushing at the toughness of the manzanita. The Australian perfume of the eucalyptus had appeared, in the usual method, as the evidence of frustration, but the instant he suspected what was wrong, the objects around him were oddly transformed. This change was similar to how a car morphed from something dependable to an item that couldn’t be trusted when, say, a flat tire was discovered. Same car, but somehow different.