“Jon, great to meet you. You’re everything Cranston said you would be.” He extended his hand. I reciprocated. “I’ll see you in New York.” With that, Vespucci disappeared out the double doors of the diner into the California sunshine, climbing into the black stretch limousine waiting for him.
Joey loomed over me, blocking my exit from the booth. With his left hand he reached across his chest, his hand disappearing inside his vest. Sweat appeared on my brow instantly. I tensed up. Joey’s hand reappeared with a business card on it, offering it to me. I took it, noticing a long scar in the center of his hand as I did so. Joey saw my look.
“Hunting accident,” he offered as an explanation.
He smiled for about one frame of film time, a flicker at best, and then it was gone. It was creepy. I wondered what he’d been hunting. Carefully, I took the proffered card. On the front, it said Vespucci Construction, Inc. with a New York address and exchange. On the back, in dark print was written two New York phone numbers. The first was Joey’s, the second Maggie’s. A plane ticket appeared on the table in front of me. I looked up at Joey.
“Tomorrow.”
I nodded, the sweat on my brow trickling down.
“Relax. Tony’s a great guy. You got nothing to be afraid of.”
With that little tidbit of positive speak, Joey turned and sauntered out of the diner. As the door closed behind his right foot, I exhaled, realizing only then I’d been holding my breath. I sat back in the booth, thoughts swirling in my head. I could not do to the Vespuccis what I had done to the Nickels. Nick Nickels Sr. was clearly upset, but so far I’d only received threats and, deep down, I didn’t believe it would go much further than that. Vespucci, on the other hand, would not threaten me. He would just make me disappear. What if his daughter didn’t like what I wrote? What if Marco Balducci didn’t like me? If everything I read was even only partially true, Marco was someone I needed to worry about as well. I dropped my head in my hands, exhausted just thinking about it. Tomorrow would only be the first trip. I would have to go back at least two more times before I gathered everything I needed. When working on a story, I found that three trips were necessary to get the whole picture. Some players involved, such as the friends of the family and distant relatives, needed to be interviewed only once, but because of scheduling conflicts, I was never able to complete all those interviews in one trip. I liked to interview the key players, the bride and groom and their immediate family, more than once. Plus, usually, I took Luci with me on at least one trip so he could get a feel for the couple. As my artistic designer, he put together the layout and gave the novella its look. He liked to meet the players and see where they came from. It influenced his decisions about the overall design. But Luci was in China until the end of the month, studying kung fu with his master. So I was alone on this one.
The logistics of it all were overwhelming, more than I could handle, given my emotional state that first week in September. I would have to tell Sara I was leaving town. Not that she’d care. My home life with her was becoming untenable. I just wanted it to go back to the way it used to be. The changes had rolled in during the summer, subtle at first, but more obvious as time passed. It started with small, minor inconveniences of love. The kisses before she left for work disappeared, replaced with a silent wave at the door. Hugs before bed became a rare item, given with a Spartan reluctance when I was upset about something, and only then in a patronizing, placating manner. Her lack of attention got so bad that sometimes I pretended to be upset just to get some human touch from her.
Ironically enough, I’d met Sara on business about two and half years before as the best friend of a bride-to-be. Little did I know when Sienna and Jeff hired me to write their love story how much it would change my life. A friend of a friend had told Sienna about my services, and she and Jeff hired me over the phone without a formal interview. I discovered after sitting with them for only minutes that Sienna and Jeff were one of the Chosen Couples, as I’d grown accustomed to labeling their kind, who made the Art of Relationship appear simple and easy. They had the easygoing attitude of a couple that could joke about indiscretions and stolen glances with the opposite sex with never a ruffled feather or cross word. They finished each other’s sentences, had regular sex, got jealous only when absolutely necessary, and supported one another in their individual endeavors. They went overboard on my expenses to travel around the country to interview their college friends and nail down the early phase of their life together. In fact, they paid my airfare to fly me to Boston to interview Sara, even though she was the only person there I had to interview. Sienna deemed it necessary because Sara was her best friend from college and had been there from the start. Looking back, I think Sienna was playing matchmaker, though she never admitted it, then or later.
I remembered how quickly I’d fallen for her, like in the first few seconds. From the moment I said hello I didn’t have a chance. She just clicked for me. After my trip to Boston, I had Sara on the brain. I could think of nothing but her. While writing the story for Jeff and Sienna, Sara was always hovering in the background. When they invited me to the wedding, I jumped at the chance to go, which I rarely did. During the first few years I’d written these stories, I would always attend the weddings, but over time, the weddings became more work than anything else. Everyone at the wedding knew me and it always became several hours of straight socializing, something I was neither good at nor enjoyed. So, I soon made it my practice to turn down all wedding invitations unless there were special circumstances, for which I would make an exception. Sara was the special circumstance and the exception. At the reception for Jeff and Sienna, late in the night, after the alcohol had been flowing for some time and the music was blaring, Sara came over to me and asked me to ask her to dance.
“Ask me to dance,” she said.
So I did. The dancing led to more dancing, and then Sara asked me if I would accompany her back to her hotel, which was more of a request than a question. So I did. The rest of the night unfolded as I’d eagerly hoped but not expected. We had fast, sloppy sex the first time, and then better, more focused sex the second time around. Soon after, the first signs of sunlight showed through the blinds.
I was already hopelessly, madly in love and half asleep when Sara leaned into my ear. “Would you like to do this again sometime?”
I nodded.
“I just accepted an offer at a law firm in Los Angeles. I start in two weeks.”
And that was that. Sara and I became an item, and I was swallowed up into her world.
3 Early November – Los Angeles
But here it was almost three years later and I was no longer consumed by Sara’s world. She’d booted me out. We were broken up and it was over and I needed to get my life together. October had come and gone and I had spent it doing absolutely nothing but mooning over Sara. As a direct result of my behavior, an overzealous FBI agent had just paid me a visit. I was working for the Mafia. The Chicago couple’s project, “The Coffee Shop Lovers,” was due by Thanksgiving and I hadn’t touched that in months. I needed to shake this break-up lethargy, get my life moving again, stop feeling sorry for myself. I needed a jolt.
I needed something uplifting to draw me out of my miserable state. I crawled across the carpet to my computer, sat down cross-legged at my makeshift chair cum desk and went online to the Los Angeles Times website. I scrolled through the day’s obituaries, scanning the newest dead people in town. Not finding what I needed, I scrolled back to the previous day’s deaths but didn’t see what I was looking for. I went backwards a day at a time until, bam, there it was. I grabbed a pen and wrote down the address for the memorial service.
I stood up, went over to the few clothes I had hanging in my closet because the rest were all boxed up and grabbed my black suit, quickly changing out of my night’s dirty outfit. I had my suit pants on when I realized I had not showered in days, so I went into the bathroom, turn
ed on the light, and stared in the mirror. Dull eyes stared back. Out of respect for where I was heading, I hopped in the shower and rinsed off. I dried off quickly and pulled on a pair of underwear, grabbing my only black button-down shirt, noting how wrinkled it was. I checked myself in the mirror and spotted a stain center right. My suit jacket, once on, hid the stain. As long as I didn’t take the jacket off, I’d be fine. I glanced at my computer clock, noting I had thirty minutes before the service started. I put on my pants, grabbed my shoes, and hustled out the door.
I hopped into the Regal, put my hand on the gearshift, and popped it in reverse. But the look in my rearview mirror stopped me. My eyes had a look I’d never seen before. Even to myself, I appeared unhinged. I blinked, shaking my head, the unhinged stare replaced with a deep, sad, empty gaze. I’d become so accustomed to seeing this look in my eyes I rarely noticed how pathetic I seemed. But with Williams’ unsolicited help, I had taken a step that morning in a positive direction. He’d pushed me out of my sandbox of self-pity. I was now ready to move on from the breakup. I pulled out of the garage onto the street, turning right toward Beverly Hills and the Good Shepherd Catholic Church on Santa Monica Boulevard. I took Coldwater Canyon over the hill and with the light weekend traffic arrived at my destination with a few minutes to spare. Driving past the church around to the parking lot in back, I saw people dressed in black quietly filing in. I drove into the lot, noting the worried side glances my muscled-up Buick invariably received. At the end of the parking lot, I pulled in between a Cadillac Escalade and a Toyota Prius, the irony of L.A.’s schizophrenic nature on display. I parked, turned off the ignition, and climbed out of my car. As I straightened up, I realized I’d taken the last available spot. The place was packed. This was going to be a good one. I needed this. If this didn’t take my mind off Sara and her new sleeping buddy, then nothing would.
I crossed the parking lot, gazing up at the pure blue sky as I moved toward the church. The sun was climbing strong in the east. Sunlight was streaming down, reflecting off the multicolored windows built into the archways of the three-story sanctuary, a beautiful day to honor someone’s life. I trailed an elderly couple up the few front steps to the entryway toward a somber greeter handing out the deceased’s condensed biography. As he handed me a program, I froze, getting the feeling I was being watched. I quickly turned, looking over my shoulder up Santa Monica Boulevard, then in the other direction, not spotting anyone or anything unusual.
As I turned back to the greeter, trying to make the look on my face match his sad semi-smile, something caught my eye. I turned toward the side road bordering the church, spotting a black Lincoln Town Car sitting in a yellow passenger-loading zone. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see who was inside. Williams. Was the guy following me? What did Sara tell this guy? I felt a surge of anger toward Sara, her French boyfriend, and his asshole FBI-agent-cousin. I wasn’t about to let anyone harass and intimidate me. Regardless of my somewhat erratic behavior, it didn’t call for being followed. Here I was trying to mind my own business for the first time since the breakup, and I was not going to stand for this intrusion. I turned away from the proffered program and angled toward the Lincoln. Hustling across the sidewalk, I stepped off the curb and crossed the street to the opposite side, banging on the driver’s side window with foolhardy disregard.
“Get out of the car! I let you go last night, but I’m not going to let you keep harassing me.”
There was no reaction. The tinted windows were so dark I couldn’t tell what he was doing inside the car. For all I knew, he had a gun pointing at my forehead, but I didn’t care. I tried to bait him. “What? Are you scared? Afraid of what I’ll do to you out in the open?”
I was feeling completely irrational. Every second I stood in front of the car I was getting angrier. Something had unscrewed inside me that morning, the underlying, always-present human instinct for self-preservation hibernating somewhere deep in my subconscious. “Did you hear me? Get out of that car so we can talk man to man!”
Suddenly, the window opened. Instinctively, I took a step back and relaxed my body, preparing. As the window crack widened, I saw the top of a head covered with the glow of blond hair, then more blond hair cascading over female shoulders. Deeper into the car, I could see a second head of long blond hair in the passenger seat. Two pairs of deep, Mediterranean blue eyes, red with recent tears, were glaring at me, two cans of Mace aimed at my face. I stared at these women, frozen by my own foolishness. They were young, college-age, beautiful, scared. And high. My nostrils were hit with the strong smell of marijuana. My cheeks flushed red with my mistake. I smiled in embarrassment, raising my hands up.
“I’m so sorry! I thought you were somebody else.”
The Mace cans were still held high, aimed at my face. I felt my behavior merited an explanation.
“See, my girlfriend broke up with me and the guy she’s sleeping with now is related to a guy who’s in the FBI who came over early this morning and warned me to stay away from her. He drives a Lincoln identical to yours so I thought he was following me and that’s why I came over here. I’m real sorry for scaring you.”
Nothing. Cans still at the ready.
“Well, um, okay. So.”
Neither woman said a word. Standing there staring at them, I saw the same person twice. Identical twins. With my hands still up in surrender, I took a step backwards and meekly waved at them. With the Mace still at the ready, the windows climbed upward, shutting the blond twins behind a wall of tinted glass, leaving me standing in the middle of the street staring at my reflection. Feeling utterly foolish, I turned back in the direction of the church steps. I took the proffered program from the greeter, though I was not given the same sad smile. This time he took a long, hard look at my face. I smiled sheepishly and passed him into the church. So much for anonymity. I didn’t like to be noticed when I came to these events. I wanted to observe, not be observed. Just as I crossed the threshold, I got that same feeling I was being watched, but this time I didn’t turn around, not trusting my sixth sense or the reaction it might provoke.
I entered the sanctuary, a large Catholic church, now filled with mourners, row upon row of them, right up to the front steps of the altar. A large cross with a larger-than-life Jesus nailed to it hung on the front wall. I shuddered. The image of Jesus on the cross always scared me. I cut to the left and grabbed a seat in the last pew on the outside aisle. Soft organ music wafted through the air, filling in the empty spaces between and around the mourners. Many people had come to pay their respects to—I checked the program again—Carol Margaret Zefarelli. The picture on the cover showed a woman who had lived a long life; she looked old and near the end. In the picture, her hair was thinned, her skin saggy and sallow. I guessed she’d died from some kind of cancer, this picture taken while she was going through chemotherapy. She was Italian, born not long after the war to end all wars. Opening the program, the inside cover was the picture of a completely different woman, a woman in the prime of her life. She could not have been more than twenty at most. Her dark hair blowing behind her in the wind, she was standing on a bridge somewhere in Europe, the architecture in the background saying as much. Her hands gripped the railing, a provocatively sweet smile aimed at the camera. A conservative, formfitting dress circa the early ’40s revealed a well-shaped body. The contrast between the ancient Carol and the young Carol on the inside cover was striking.
I turned to her biography. Born in Italy, she’d lived through the terrors of World War II and had fought in the underground resistance against Mussolini. After the war, she moved to the United States by herself, went to college, became a high school teacher, got married, had four children, and, after raising them, went back to law school and got her law degree to practice on behalf of the poor and underprivileged. She founded a halfway house for abused women in downtown Los Angeles that had now been open for over thirty years. She founded a scholarship fund at a presti
gious local private high school for intellectually talented but financially challenged youth to attend. Carol and her husband were blessed with the ability to use their money to make more money, and they put it to good use. Her biography made it clear she had fought the good fight. Her track record spoke for itself. She wanted to help others. As I read more about Carol’s life, I felt a tingle of inspiration. Long ago, I’d learned that memorial services were great places to go if I wanted to be inspired. I realized I’d been acting like a selfish prick over the last few weeks, moping around as if my life was over. But it wasn’t. I was at a memorial service for Carol Zefarelli, and her life was over. It was a solid reality check.
My thoughts were interrupted by the beginning of the service. A priest walked to the front of the altar, solemnly looking out over the gathering. I looked around, realizing that my pew was now filled. I took stock of the entire room, noting that the place was packed with more mourners gathered along the back wall. It was standing room only. Father Murphy, as the program indicated, gathered his thoughts. He looked down at his hands for a moment, and then he looked back up.
“Let us pray.”
In unison, all heads dropped forward, chin to chest. I did likewise, not wanting to stand out, but I found it impossible not to peek. I could see just over the heads of the crowd to the front, noticing several sets of shoulders silently heaving with the tears of loss and sadness. Up front, the extended family appeared to take up several pews. I spotted the blond twins seated to the side of what I assumed were their mother and father. I had not seen the blonds enter the church, so they must have come in from a door near the front of the sanctuary. On the other side of the twins was a young man head and shoulders above the other family members. Suddenly, he turned around, his gaze intently sweeping across the rows of mourners, searching, until his eyes found me. His look was as cold as ice. The twins must have pointed me out to him. I quickly dropped my head to break his gaze. Staring down at my lap, I wondered if maybe it would be a better idea if I left. Maybe it wasn’t my day. Father Murphy’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
Jon Fixx Page 5
