Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “He doesn’t have a car?”

  “Sometimes he borrows ours, but otherwise he takes the bus. Or bikes.”

  “When you see him next time, would you tell him I’d just like to talk with him? You can even give him my phone number. I want him to at least hear the truth.”

  I shake my head, feeling sick. How many other people like Corky Shaw’s family were devastated by my former husband’s scam? Paul Stevens—only one of his many aliases—was a conman. Even if I’d had a reason to look into his background, I couldn’t have known he’d served time in prison—and that was only the beginning of the secrets he kept from me. I’m aware that there will always be people who will wonder what I knew, when I knew it.

  Jack, of course. Surprisingly, even me. While I played no active role in Paul’s business dealings, there were red flags I overlooked. I should have had suspicions, but did I want to know the truth? I loved Paul with abandon and chose to trust, not question. The terrible guilt I feel for the consequences of turning a blind eye haunts me and, I fear, will always shadow my relationship with Jack.

  “You want to walk some more?” Corky asks, breaking into my thoughts. He slings a canvas bag onto his shoulder and stands up. “I should probably catch a bus.”

  “You’re through filming?”

  “I didn’t really have any to do.”

  I hand him the plastic bag containing the rest of the cookies. “C’mon, let me drive you back. I can drop you at the bus stop near your house. Your mom won’t know.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I feel like we should be in a parade or something,” Corky says, climbing into the front seat of the Olds 98. He regards the vintage seat belt a moment, a relic manufactured before he was born, then plugs it in. “Maybe I could use your car in a film someday?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I start the engine and we’re both quiet, realizing there probably won’t be a next time if his parents forbid him to associate with me. This turn of events is more troubling than I care to admit. I like Corky. It’s hurtful to no longer be considered a suitable mentor to him for reasons entirely beyond my control.

  “What’d you think of the video I sent you last night about Chelsea?”

  “Disturbing.” I swing down a residential street and onto Wilshire Boulevard, the La Brea Tar Pits visible on my right. “I’m sorry Dirck posted it. How did you happen to see it?”

  “I’ve got Chelsea Horne on Google Alert. She is really hot. I don’t think my uncle thinks much of her, though. He calls her a spoiled brat.”

  “What would give him that idea?” My hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Wait, when did he say this to you? Last night?”

  “Yeah. When he called, I’d just come across the YouTube video.”

  “And when you mentioned Chelsea, he said, ‘She’s a spoiled brat.’ Interesting. Did he ask about me at all?”

  “He asked if I was going to film any reshoots with you. But then I told him I wasn’t supposed to see you anymore.”

  “Did he say any more about Chelsea?”

  “Um, he didn’t like it that I thought she was hot. And he got really mad when I told him about the YouTube video and what your husband was saying.”

  “Former husband. Technically speaking, my former, former husband.”

  “I know. Chelsea’s father. Anyway, Uncle Joe told me to forget about her.”

  “I see.” What I’m hearing opens up troubling concerns, but I don’t want to risk pressing Corky too hard. I keep my suspicions to myself as I pull into the left turn lane on Fairfax Avenue and smile at him. “Well, you’re absolutely right and your Uncle Joe is wrong. She is definitely hot.”

  “Yeah.” He grins. “I hope I haven’t given you a really bad impression of my family. They’re nice people, but this has been a bad time for them. They’ll come around.”

  “You’re right. Things will get better. So, Uncle Joe works as a printer? Do you know where?”

  “No. He got a job with someone who used to work for him, but I don’t know his name or where the place is. They do printing but sell boxes and supplies wholesale. With all these big chains taking business away, it’s really tough.”

  “Is there any chance you have some of that video in your camera that I could see again?”

  “Oh, yeah, hang on.” He slides a laptop out of his canvas bag. “Got it all here.”

  “Great. After all those cookies, I could go for a cup of coffee. How about if I pull up to that donut shop for a minute and we can take a look.”

  At a speed Edie would have found alarming, I swing her yellow Olds into a run-down mini-mall and park. Corky sits at a metal table in the shade while I go inside to buy a container of coffee and a Coke. By the time I return, he’s pulled up the video he shot of Chelsea in the park. After watching it again, I ask to see some of the other video from that day.

  “It was nice of your uncle to help you out. Where’d you go after we saw you?”

  “We drove around the neighborhood, then passed by where we used to live. I figured he’d feel better about my project if he could be a part of it and see what I do. That’s why I gave him the role of the bookie.”

  “Good thinking.” We watch the video as the camera sweeps along a leafy residential street in a Westwood neighborhood, then stops at a two-story traditional house with an attached glass arboretum. “Charming! So this was your former house?”

  “This was Uncle Joe’s. We lived three blocks away. He hadn’t been back there since he and my aunt had to move out.”

  Remembering how hard it was for me to drive by my own house after new owners had moved in, I ask, “How did he take seeing it again?”

  Corky’s hand hovers over the keyboard a moment, then he abruptly shuts off the video. “It probably wasn’t such a good thing to go by there, but it was his idea. He sorta broke down and started saying things and blaming people for robbing him. But nothing was going good for him anyway. That’s what my mom says.” Corky flips the lid down on his computer. “Maybe it’s better not to go into this. I hear stuff my parents say and I shouldn’t talk about it. You’ll think even less of my family.”

  “Please, I understand. I don’t mean to pry. Why don’t you finish your Coke and I’ll drop you off? We don’t need to say another word about this.”

  “Good, because I want us to be friends.” He slurps his cola, looking relieved. “Maybe we can still email?”

  “Of course. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” There are still more questions I want to ask, but I don’t want Corky to pick up on the suspicions forming in my mind.

  Parked in the hot sun, the Olds is an oven. “My God, we could bake cookies in here,” I say, rolling down the windows. Corky laughs. “Why don’t you tell me about your next film project?”

  I drive leisurely, taking a longer route than necessary to give him time to talk about his new script. As we approach his neighborhood, he directs me to the bus stop. I drive up to the curb just as a bus is pulling out. “Sorry I can’t take you all the way home. Is that bus up there the one your uncle takes?”

  “No, it’s another number.” He starts to open the door. “Thanks again for understanding.”

  I reach over and touch his arm. “Listen to me, you have a great family, and I am very sorry for all you’re going through. I wish none of it had happened to any of us. I hope your Uncle Joe calls me so I can talk with him.”

  “Me, too. Maybe it will help.”

  “By the way, yesterday you said that Chelsea had already left when you filmed me going into Donna’s house. Did you think Chelsea and I had finished work and she’d gone home?”

  “Yeah, why? You were alone.”

  “Right. You and Joe didn’t see her, of course, because she’d already gone through the gates. Then after you finished filming that afternoon, Joe took you home and caught the bus here?”

  “Not exactly.” Corky blows his cheeks out and shakes his head. “Uncle Joe dropped me at the house and then drove off again. M
y mom was furious because she needed the car and he didn’t bring it back until late.”

  “And there was no way to reach him? He doesn’t have a cellphone?”

  “No, when he calls it’s from a payphone. So that was the end of letting him use our car anymore. My dad was even angry with me, like it was my fault.”

  “That’s what families are like.” I smile sympathetically. “But you and I are still friends, so keep in touch.”

  He beams. “Thanks for saying that.”

  Corky climbs out of the car just as another bus pulls in front of me. “Maybe your Uncle Joe will be on that bus,” I say offhandedly.

  “Could be. That’s his route.” He rolls his eyes and gives me a look. “But I sure hope not. That’s all I need.” He shuts the door and waves as he walks away.

  I wave back and wait for the bus to pull out, then follow it. My hands are tight on the steering wheel, processing everything I’ve heard about Uncle Joe. I go through a rough timetable in my head. After filming me entering the gates to Donna’s house, Joe and Corky probably drove a mile or so into the residential streets of Westwood. Allowing for more filming in addition to dropping Corky off and driving back again during rush hour traffic, could his uncle have been in Holmby Park by the time Chelsea left after our session together? Indeed, possible. Then what happened?

  While following the bus from one stop to the next, I play out various scenarios in my head. Was Joe Shaw angry enough that he came back to try and see me? Did he try to enter the grounds? Did he run into Chelsea as he was deciding what to do? She had time to make two phone calls, so . . . could he have offered her a lift? Followed her? Why? Did he even speak to her? If so, what did he want?

  Occupying my mind with these questions helps me put off asking myself why in the world I am following a bus. Do I really expect to see Joe Shaw on a street corner? Sidewalks in Los Angeles are mostly devoid of pedestrian traffic anyway, and I hardly expect to encounter him out for a stroll.

  The futility of this exercise is compounded by the cost of the fuel I’m using to stalk a city bus. I’ve already exceeded my limited budget with the purchase of the coffee and cola. That thought leads me to think of the life Joe must be leading if he, too, has gone through bankruptcy and lost everything. Unlike me, he doesn’t have a car to live in. Can he afford a room somewhere? As the bus lumbers ahead, I try to put myself in Joe’s place. After all, I have some familiarity with what he’s experiencing.

  I travel past used-car lots, industrial sites, big-box stores, derelict streets where every shop window has an iron grill, and still other neighborhoods just on the verge of gentrification. The proliferation of nail salons seems to cross all demographics; I begin to count them, then realize it would be more useful to keep my eye out for print shops.

  Throughout what seems like a senseless hour-long journey, I have the odd sensation that Joe Shaw is somewhere in the vicinity just ahead. I realize I am now obsessed, unable to stop and turn around. I also know that even if my suspicions about Joe prove to be true, I can’t help but feel sorry for him.

  Eventually the bus pulls to the curb and stops. The last of the passengers get off. A moment later, its bulk shudders and sags as the motor is turned off. Stopped two car lengths behind, I drive up close to the curb and turn off the ignition. I sit back, looking around, then see the bus driver, a heavyset woman with thin, bleached hair, step onto the sidewalk. She swings her arms above and across her body, exercising, but her eyes are on me. I climb out of the Olds and walk toward her.

  “You must like the smell of exhaust,” she says as I approach. “Most people are trying to dodge around me.”

  I smile. “You saw me back there?”

  “Hard to miss in that showboat you’re driving. My brother had one of those.” She’s got a friendly face and a voice to match. “You lost?”

  I nod. “I’m not too familiar with the area.”

  “Didn’t think so!” Her laugh is hearty. Then recognition dawns. “Don’t I know you from Holiday? You’re Jinx Fogarty. I just saw you on The Today Show not long ago.”

  “Hi, I’m Meg. Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand.

  “Lucille,” she says, peering into my face. “Looks like you tangled with an alley cat and the cat won.”

  “No, just a minor car accident. Anyway, I wondered if this was the end of the line.”

  “Nope, but this is as far as I go on my schedule. What can I do you for, my dear?”

  “A guy I know takes this bus route. His name’s Joe Shaw. He’s tall, sort of stocky. Dark eyes.”

  “Tall, stocky, dark eyes? Name’s Joe? You kidding me?” She laughs, rocking back on her heels. “You’re asking if I know this guy from the route?” She laughs again. “Sorry, Jinx, that describes half the guys riding the bus. The other half are short and stocky with dark eyes.”

  I laugh along with her. “Anyway, it was worth asking.”

  “That’s okay. Wish I could help. I been driving this route a good five years.” She starts walking to the corner, still swinging her arms. I keep in step with her. “Sorry, gotta stretch my legs. Anything else about this guy? Maybe a beard?”

  “No, clean-shaven.” I look across at the bus and notice a metal frame attached to the front. “Is that for bikes?”

  “Yeah. Not all buses have racks. Your guy travels with a bike?”

  “Maybe, at least sometimes.”

  “Okay, not a lot of people use the rack, but there’s a guy, kind of tall, that I sometimes pick up maybe seven, eight stops back. It’s just down from a towing place. There’s a body shop on the corner. He’s a mean son-of-a-gun, sits up front, never takes his eyes off his bike because you can’t lock ’em to the rack. He’s always afraid it’s gonna get stolen. Don’t know his name. Never says a word.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “And this is a guy you want to find? You could sure do better!” She tips her head toward the bus. “You can follow me, if you want. I go around the block and head back in maybe fifteen minutes after I get some coffee.”

  “That’s okay. I can probably find it. Thanks!”

  “Hey, you mind saying it? You know—”

  “Awfully good of you, my dear!”

  “All in a day’s work!” she says, laughing, as I sprint to my car.

  Ace Towing would be hard to miss, located where the last remaining dilapidated turn-of-the-century mansions are either being torn down or moved to more gentrified neighborhoods. I remember seeing the junkyard as I passed by, an urban wasteland locked within a thick grid of metal pipe and steel fencing topped with rolls of razor wire. I drive by slowly, seeing that the entrance to the enclosure is through a narrow L-shaped wire cage, presumably another deterrent to anyone bent on theft.

  I make a turn at the corner, cruise down the street and find an alley behind the towing lot. I make another turn and travel down a broken, bulging cement strip past padlocked, wood-frame, two-story garage units from an era when the help lived above the family car. At the corner, I turn again and see the body shop on the corner. I park in a shaded space, leaving the motor running, feeling entirely too conspicuous in Edie’s blast-from-the-past Olds Regency.

  I glance toward the back end of the junkyard and see the frame of a Volvo hunkered in the dirt, separated from her chassis, and feel a pang of longing. If only I had my old plain-wrap Volvo back!

  But as conspicuous as my car is, I’m reluctant to step out onto the street, where I’d stick out like a sore thumb. The midday sun is still scorching the pavement. People aren’t out walking around for their health in this quasi-industrial area. I sit back and take stock, the Olds idling while I decide what to do. I could wait to see if Joe turns up at the bus stop on the corner. I could also scout the area for a print shop where he might be working. What are the chances that the tall, stocky man with dark eyes and a bike, who catches a bus on this street corner, is Joe Shaw? My prickling scalp tells me the odds are good.

  But if Joe is out there, I’d just as s
oon surprise him rather than let him spot me first. I rummage through Edie’s glove compartment again and find a bright bandana. Sliding my hand under the seats, I come across an old gob hat. I flip the rim down into a tight, unstylish cloche and pull it onto my head, which at least conceals my ginger hair. With the addition of my Ray-Bans and the jaunty bandana, it’s the best I can do to disguise myself.

  It’s not the sort of neighborhood that Edie’s Olds 98 is accustomed to visiting. With no alarm system, and an old-fashioned, non-electronic key, the Regency would be easy to hotwire. I lock the door and walk away, hoping there’s some residual benefit to all those early-morning trips Edie and her car made to attend mass at Good Shepherd.

  A bus pulls up just as I reach the corner and toots twice. Lucille waves; so much for my attempt at masking my identity with a hat and a kerchief. I wave back.

  I look up and down the street and see a couple of fast-food joints, a liquor store, a nail salon and a shop with a window advertising tropical fish, but no print shop. With my sandals starting to burn into the soles of my feet, I decide to check out Ace Towing, where at least there’s the shade of an awning.

  A surly-looking woman wearing oversized coveralls with the name “Mort” stitched above a zippered pocket sits in a cubicle behind a scratched Plexiglas window. I take in the myriad stained and curling signs tacked around the booth, all of them demanding payment in cash for exorbitant towing and storage fees.

  The woman addresses me without looking up. “Yeah? Whaddya want?”

  Her bark could penetrate lead, but I respond with a smile in my voice. “Hi, how’re you doing? I was wondering if Joe Shaw—”

  Still not looking up, she says, “Night watchman. He doesn’t start his shift until nine o’clock. You can go around to the alley and see if he’s in. Number eight.”

  “Number eight?” I repeat dumbly.

  “Yeah, eight. You from the print shop?”

  I nod. “Yeah, the print shop. He wasn’t there, so—”

  She shakes her head. “Sometimes he takes a late lunch. You want me to call him?”