Last Looks
Page 24
When Cuppy turned into the driveway and disappeared from sight, Waldo flipped open his Swiss Army knife and carved a two-foot gash in Cuppy’s ragtop. This street had a steep California flood-control curb, leaving the car at the perfect height for what came next: Waldo unzipped his fly, leaned over the torn cloth and, steadying himself on the frame with his good arm, took a nice long leak into the cabin of the Corvette, closing his eyes to savor the moment in full.
When he opened them, not quite done with his piss, he saw a Mercedes across the street finishing off an impressive parallel park into a tight space. The door opened and there was Lorena. “Go ahead,” she called as she jaywalked toward him. “Finish.”
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve already seen it.”
“How long you been watching?”
“Couple minutes. Thanks for squaring things with Q.”
“Welcome back,” he said, zipping himself up.
“You were the only one I trusted could fix it for me. Hope it didn’t cause you too much trouble.”
“Oh, no trouble at all,” he said, amusement dancing in his eyes and inviting hers to dance too.
“I’ve got something else we could work together, if you’re up for it.”
That made him laugh out loud, reminding him of his ribs and how they got that way. “Yeah, I don’t think my body can take more of your business.”
“Don’t be such a princess,” she said. “You loved every minute of it.” She gave him a full-frame survey, down then up, settling on his jawline. “Bet you even found some damsel in distress worth shaving for.”
“Is that jealousy I hear, Mrs. Vander Janssen?”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Guess I could’ve told you about that.”
“How about you tell me how you made yourself dead. That one’s had me more curious.”
“Coroner in San Berdoo owed me a favor, let me have a Jane Doe they were about to cremate.” Fucking Lorena. “I burned her in my husband’s car instead of my own because—well, because he’s a cheating prick.”
“Good-looking prick.”
“If you like ’em that way.” She smiled at him. This felt easier now, easier than when she came up the mountain. “Sure you don’t want to work this new case with me?”
“Sleazy divorce?”
“Hey, sleazy’s in the eye of the beholder.” He wanted to say no but suddenly couldn’t remember the word. “How about I give you a lift to Idyllwild while I tell you about it?”
“Better idea,” said Waldo, recapturing his resolve and picking up his wreck. “How about I find a bike shop, then figure out how to—” He stopped himself. “Ah, fuck it.” He tossed the whole pricey Brompton onto Cuppy’s compromised ragtop, which tore and collapsed under the weight.
He tipped his head toward her Mercedes and they crossed the street together. They got in and Lorena pulled away from the curb.
“So what does this clunker get? Like four miles to the gallon?”
“It’s not a clunker,” she said, irritated, as she got the car up to speed with the traffic on Alameda. “It’s a brand-new Mercedes SLK. It set me back sixty-two-eight and it’s my fucking baby and I’m not going to apologize.”
“Sixty-two-eight?”
“Sixty-two-eight. Now, what’ll it take for you to shut up about it?”
He turned to her with the answer, smiling like a man who was down to Ninety-Nine Things and somehow still had all he needed. “Let me drive.”
She shook her head. “Jesus, Waldo.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There would be no Waldo without Andrew Lazar, whose insight and heart breathe in every chapter. My thanks also to his partners in Tango West, Christina Lurie and Steve Shainberg, who’ve been there from the beginning. And to Aaron Kaplan, who was there for a little while before the beginning.
Larry Doyle was the big brother any first timer would want.
Glenn Gers is as fine a writer as I know, and an even finer writer’s friend. Nothing I say here could do justice to what our decades have meant to me and to my work.
Susan Dickes, Laurie Gould, Neel Keller, Tony Quinn and Russ Woody also made the book better. Seeing those five names together in a sentence reminds me what a fortunate man I am.
Though he probably doesn’t realize it, Jay Mandel’s initial enthusiasm for the half-finished manuscript was a watershed, validating a midcareer experiment that I know had some people scratching their heads; then he turned out to be the rare agent who actually did exactly what he said he’d do. I’m thankful also to have had Jared Levine, David McIlvain, Danny Greenberg and Corinne Farley in my corner during the project’s unusually complicated genesis.
Deepest gratitude to everyone at Dutton, particularly Jess Renheim, who brought this book into the world, graced it with her insightful notes and guided me through the experience. I’m too new at this to know what a novelist should reasonably expect from an editor, but I have a strong suspicion that I’m getting spoiled.
Though I’ve never met her, I want to mention Annie Leonard and her dazzling video The Story of Stuff, which got under my skin at just the right (or wrong) moment in my life. And while I’m at it, Kenneth Millar and Eudory Welty and Ray Wylie Hubbard for the same.
A shout to everybody at Peet’s.
My children’s contributions went beyond the usual love and support. Amanda planted the seed by showing me The Story of Stuff way back when. Milo, an artist with a powerful sense of the value of simply making and sharing, affirmed and illumined when I needed it. Gary asked to look at chapters very early on and had some sharp and useful observations—doing, in his inimitable way, just enough of the homework.
My mother didn’t have much to do with this book directly but had everything to do with it indirectly, so I’ll take this opportunity to say: Thanks, Mom.
Terri Gould, she of infinite kindness and patience and all-around wonderfulness, has been my first and best reader for most of my life. No writer ever had it better. No husband, either.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Howard Michael Gould is a writer, producer and director in television and film. Last Looks is his first novel.
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