by Matt Goldman
“It’s on Sixth Street between Alvarado and Lucas.”
“Is that walking distance?” I am helpless without him. Give him all the power.
“Yes, but I’d Lyft if I were you. It’s not the best neighborhood.”
I nodded, let my face fall and my shoulders droop. “Thanks. I’ve been up all night looking for him, so maybe I’ll just rest here a bit before I head over.” I was at his mercy like a young child to a parent. “And where’s the chapel? I need to find a little strength before I go to the police.”
I had respected his authority and shown gratitude for whatever mercy he bestowed upon me. And, by asking the location of the chapel, equated his power with the Almighty’s. At least in his mind. He didn’t have to fight the fight with me. The thin man with the rectangle wire-rims let his guard down.
His posture eased. His eyes smiled. He was vulnerable. “The chapel is just past the gift shop on the right.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” He smiled a self-satisfied smile. I said, “Jameson White. Six foot seven. African American. Big Afro and beard.”
The man behind the glass dropped his eyes, and I knew. He had seen Jameson. Los Angeles is a far more diverse city than Minneapolis, but there are only so many six-foot-seven black men with big Afros and beards. Most authoritative people crumble when they’re on the other side of it. That’s the card I played.
I said, “The FBI called in the last hour asking if Jameson White had been admitted to St. Vincent. You told them no.” He said nothing. “You lied to a federal law enforcement agency.”
“I did not. No one by that name has been admitted to this hospital.”
“But he’s here.”
“I don’t know that.”
“A man fitting his description is here. You told federal officials he isn’t.”
“They didn’t give me a description.” I pulled out my phone. He said, “What are you doing?”
“Calling my colleagues at the FBI to tell them what you did.”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “Wait. Just wait.” He picked up the phone then muted his microphone. I couldn’t hear what he said behind the bulletproof glass. He hung up the phone and turned on the microphone. “Please have a seat. Someone will be right with you.”
I took a seat and texted August and Ebben. If the man behind the glass had crossed me and called security, I’d need August and Ebben to threaten to call the FBI. But after waiting five minutes, I guessed the man hadn’t called security. Even the worst rent-a-cops would have tossed me out within five minutes. I stopped worrying about what would happen to me and started worrying about Jameson. How did hospital admissions know of him if they hadn’t admitted him? Had Jameson walked into the hospital, or had he been carried in? They don’t admit dead people to hospitals.
I felt sick. Whatever happened to Jameson happened on my watch. I invited him to Los Angeles. I encouraged him to play bodyguard for Ebben. I let him out of my sight.
“Did you find him?” The voice belonged to August. But I didn’t look at him.
My eyes were locked on a doctor walking toward me. A woman wearing a white coat, a stethoscope draped behind her neck. Chinese descent. Long hair pulled back and bunned behind her head. She had fierce cheekbones and an unreadable expression. My mouth felt like a sandlot. I could feel my heart beating.
The doctor said, “Are you the gentleman inquiring about Mr. White?” She spoke with a soft Chinese accent, as if it had faded to almost nothing.
Ebben and August stepped closer, standing on either side of me. Ebben put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.
I said, “Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Li. Would you please come with me?”
18
Dr. Li had a matter-of-factness about her I found disconcerting. I wanted to flat-out ask about Jameson, but sensed she’d say nothing so I stood and dropped my hands at my sides like a child about to receive his punishment.
She said, “This way.” She walked and I followed. Ebben and August started behind me, but Dr. Li stopped and turned toward them. “I’m sorry. Just this gentleman, please. You can wait here.” August and Ebben sat.
Dr. Li led me past the admissions desk where wire-rims avoided eye contact, down the corridor, and into an elevator. My throat was tight and my palms sweaty. I shivered but my face felt flush. Dr. Li said nothing. The elevator opened on the third floor, and I followed her past a nursing station and several hospital rooms and into a small waiting area. She sat and indicated for me to do the same.
I sat.
She said, “Your name, please.”
I swallowed. “Nils Shapiro.”
“May I please see some identification?”
I dug my wallet out of my jeans and showed Dr. Li my driver’s license. She looked at it too long, as if she was trying to memorize my address, then handed it back to me. She stared at me hard. “Jameson is in my office.”
“Is he—”
“Okay? No. But he’s safe.”
“Why did you leave him? What if—”
“I’ve known Jameson over twenty years. He won’t run off.”
Jameson had never mentioned Dr. Li, but Jameson had never mentioned anyone. Most of what I knew I’d learned from August in the last twenty-four hours. I said, “You might know Jameson for twenty years, but if you haven’t known him in the last year, then you don’t know him at all.”
“We’ve been in touch. The school shooting was all over the news. I had read the kids were brought to Jameson’s hospital, so I reached out to him. We’ve talked almost every day since.”
“Really? He never told me about you.”
“Jameson is a very private person. I know him well.”
“Maybe you used to. You haven’t seen him hopeless. Day after day. Month after month. The old Jameson is gone.”
“I don’t believe that is true. He is in there. He just needs time.”
“Time with you?”
“Yes.”
“There are a lot of people in Minnesota who love that man. How do you even know him?”
“I don’t need to prove myself to you. Or anyone else from Minnesota. Jameson values my friendship. That’s why he’s come to me.”
Dr. Li was fast becoming my least favorite doctor. I didn’t know if she and Jameson had a romantic relationship and I didn’t want to know. He was about two feet taller and two hundred pounds heavier than her. Yet she acted like she was in charge of him. And in charge of me, for that matter.
I said, “Did you know Jameson was visiting Los Angeles?”
“I did not. I was making my rounds when he texted that he was in the lobby. And that it was the anniversary of the shooting. He didn’t want to be alone.”
“He wasn’t alone. I didn’t leave him alone. He was working with me. Engaged in something. He was doing better. Then he just disappeared. You’re telling me you didn’t call him? Entice him away somehow?”
Dr. Li let my self-pity hang in the air. When it dissipated she said, “I’m going to take him to my house in an hour. He’s never met my son. We are both looking forward to that.” I must have made a face of some sort. Dr. Li said, “Jameson was afraid you’d pressure him to go back to you. We were discussing it when admissions called me to say someone was looking for a person who fit Jameson’s description. He doesn’t know you’re here.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Not your call, Doctor. You’re holding him without having admitted him to the hospital.”
“No. He is here on his own accord.”
“That’s not the story I’m going to tell. Now let me see him so I can decide for myself if he’s okay. You say no, and I’ll have LAPD and the FBI here in minutes. You think health insurance red tape is a pain in the ass, wait until you deal with law enforcement.” My threat was complete bullshit, but Dr. Li didn’t know that.
She stared at me, sighed, and said, “You may see him. For fi
ve minutes. No more.”
Dr. Li led me to a closed door. She paused then opened it. Jameson White sat at her desk. He’d disassembled a model of a baby in a uterus and was having a hell of a time getting it back together. I followed Dr. Li into her office. Jameson looked up and said, “I had a feeling you’d find me. Just didn’t think you’d start looking so fast. It’s like I owe you money or something, which I do not.”
I said, “You could have told us where you were going.”
“I would have if I’d known where I was going. Just needed a little space.” Jameson returned to assembling the baby in the uterus. “And I ended up here.”
I said, “You knew where you were going. And I know why you really came to Los Angeles. I don’t blame you. Nothing better than an old friend.” Jameson finished reassembling the model and looked up at me. I said, “I got to go back to Minnesota. You coming with me?”
Jameson shook his head. “I want to stay here for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
He shrugged.
“All right. Well, your ticket is fully changeable. I’ll text you the confirmation number and you can come home whenever you want.”
Jameson didn’t say a word. He looked at me with eyes of gratitude and sadness, as if his friendships with Dr. Li and me were mutually exclusive. I’d helped him through the last year, but now it felt like he was leaving me for her. I walked over and offered my hand. He took it. I said, “So this is where you want to be right now?”
He hesitated then nodded.
“Well, then this is where you should be.” He said nothing. I thought he might cry. “Take your time. Do what you got to do.”
He forced a smile. “Appreciate it.”
Jameson White dug into a pocket, pulled out his house keys, and handed them to me. “Here’s my condo keys. Take in my mail once in a while?”
“How long are you staying in L.A.?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t.”
I took the keys. “Should I let you know if you get any coupons for the big and tall man shop?”
Jameson forced a sad smile. “Yeah. Thanks, man. I’ll keep the rental car a day or two then return it, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, buddy.” I gave him a hug, turned away, and wondered when I’d see my friend again. I threw one last look at Dr. Li then left the room.
19
August, Ebben, and I walked to the parking ramp. August tried to recall Dr. Li from his days at UCLA, but came up with nothing.
Four o’clock and Ebben and I inched through traffic in the rental Land Rover. The setting sun gilded the hills and buildings of Los Angeles. I’d not seen sunlight so soft and golden—its warmth morphed the city into a place more kind and forgiving. Palm trees shot up like too tall telephone poles topped with bad haircuts. Buildings shined bright on one side and hid in shadow on the adjacent side, as if a grade-school art student had painted them. Ebben didn’t mention the change in light. He was used to it. But you notice things when you first see a place, whether they’re ugly or beautiful. Signage and clean cars and stucco-sided mini-malls and the battle between green and concrete.
I conference-called Gabriella and Ellegaard and filled them in on the short-term future of Jameson and that I’d never make it to LAX in time for the six-something flight so I’d catch the red-eye back to Minnesota.
We returned to Ebben’s. Bunion Brit waited for us in the living room. She wore black jeans and a vintage P.F. Flyer on her good foot and a T-shirt that said, If you’re not having fun you’re not doing it right. Her mouth had shrunk to a dash, and her eyebrows V’d like those of a child not getting her way. Apparently, she wasn’t doing it right. She said, “That freak beat him up.”
I said, “Which freak beat who up?”
“The Russian guy with the eye patch knocked on Thom’s door and punched Thom in the face. He’s a mess. There’s blood all over his front step. It soaked into the concrete. It’s fucking impossible to clean up.”
Ebben said, “Is Thom okay?”
“I think so. He’s upstairs resting. I cleaned him up and bought a few bags of instant cold packs. I’m making him move in here with us. And I’m not going anywhere without this.” She reached to the floor and removed a black canister from her purse, taller and thinner than a soda can but not by much.
I said, “Pepper spray?”
“Bear spray. I can blast the fucker from thirty feet away. They make you buy it when you hike in Yellowstone. Didn’t run into any grizzlies and I wasn’t sure what to do with it, but now I’m glad I have it.”
My instinct was to dissuade Brit from carrying bear spray. I guessed it was illegal to use on people, but it wasn’t a half bad idea. If it’s designed to stop a bear it would probably stop a person. And if it’s designed to not kill a bear, it probably wouldn’t kill a person.
Ebben said, “Did you take Thom to the hospital?”
“I wanted to but thought they might have to report it to the police, and I know you don’t want the police involved in anything having to do with the production.” She removed a pill bottle from her purse, opened it, and threw one in her mouth. “Ativan. Anyone want one?”
We didn’t. Her mouth grew back to its normal size and her eyebrows lifted like a drawbridge. “Oh! Guess what?! My fucking Twitter is blowing up over Ava St. Clair. I got like three hundred new followers. Plus Sebastiano called and said Disney offered me a rewrite on Momma Mia! The Lost Verse. I don’t even have to go in and pitch a take. Straight offer. Hey, where’s Jameson? We need him with us at all times.”
I said, “Jameson is no longer with us,” and headed up the stairs as Ebben clarified what I’d meant. I found Thom Burke in the bedroom Brit had slept in last night, laid out on the bed like a hospital patient, his back propped against the headboard with a few pillows, his right eye swollen shut, the lid purple and shiny. Both lips puffed, and cotton protruded from each nostril. A pair of butterfly bandages over a cut on his right cheek. A bottle of Perrier on the nightstand, a bendy straw sticking out of it. Bendy straws are a favorite of the infirm. A spent cold pack rested next to the Perrier. Bottles of herbal and homeopathic remedies on the other nightstand. I walked toward the bed, and he opened his good eye.
I said, “That cut on your cheek might leave a scar if you don’t get a few stitches.”
A crooked smile formed on the non-swollen portions of his lips. “I’ll take a scar. I could use more of a tough-guy reputation in this town.”
“Really? The sweaters tied over the shoulder aren’t earning it for you?”
He winced. Maybe from my joke. Maybe from pain.
“Tell me what happened.”
He sighed, reached over to the nightstand, grabbed his Perrier, and took a hit from the bendy straw. “I’m in my house. Doorbell rings. I open it and the guy with the eye patch is standing there. I ask if I can help him. He punches me right in the mouth. I said, ‘What the fuck was that for?’ Then he punched me right here.” Thom pointed to his cheek. “He told me to drop Kate Lennon from our movie or else. I wasn’t thinking too clearly at that point so I said, ‘Or else what?’ Then he socks me in the eye and says or else my other eye’s getting it. And my ribs. And my kidneys. And my throat. Then he turned around and walked to the street, got in his SUV, and drove away.”
“What did the SUV look like?”
“Gray. Boxy. I think it was a Mercedes.”
“What hand did he hit you with?”
“What?”
“Did he hit you with his left hand or right hand?”
Thom thought for a second. “His left hand.”
“Does your head hurt?”
“He hit me in the face three times. Yes, my head hurts. Nils, there’s nothing we can do about this.”
That was a weird thing to say. I wasn’t suggesting we do something about it. I just asked if his face hurt. Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly. That can happen after you take a few to the noggin. I bent down and removed a flashlight that was plugged
into an outlet. Every room in the house had one. They’d go on if the power failed. Earthquake preparedness, Ebben had told me. I said, “I’m going to check you for a concussion. Don’t close your eye.” I shined the light into Thom’s good eye. The pupil shrunk to a pinhole. The old dude could take a punch.
“You’re going to live. If you want to keep it that way, call the police. Press charges. The man who hit you is named Vasily Zaytzev. I have his address.”
Thom shook his swollen head. “Can’t do it. We’d have to disclose a police report to the insurance company. They might pull out of the movie. That would be a disaster.”
“I had lunch with Sebastiano. He said there’s no such thing as a disaster in show business. Worse thing that happens is a project gets pulled and it happens all the time. Isn’t your life more valuable than a movie? Isn’t Ebben’s life? And Brit’s?”
Thom responded by taking another sip from his bendy straw.
I went back downstairs to find Debra, the manager, her pretty face furious behind pink octagonal glasses, her dangly earrings swinging back and forth. She tried to melt me with her laser-beam eyes and said, “This bullshit has got to stop.”
I said, “Then please stop it.”
“I would like a minute of your time.”
“You want to drive me to the airport? You can have more than a minute.”
“The airport and back is three hours. I don’t have three hours. Call an Uber. Can we step out back?”
I used a loud exhale to think about that, then looked at Brit, who’d resumed her role as the petulant child. I said, “Did Thom tell you about his run-in with Vasily or did you see it?”
Brit pulled her knees into her chest like a Christmas ornament elf. “I was in Thom’s kitchen when the doorbell rang. I heard Vasily yelling. By the time I got out there, he’d already hit Thom twice. I saw Vasily hit Thom one more time and I saw the blood on the front step. Thom’s not making it up, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Which hand did Vasily use to hit Thom?”
“What?”
