Billy looked up at him with grateful spaniel eyes. ‘Thanks.’
Wycliff, embarrassed, turned away.
EIGHT
Charlotte was out of commission for the evening. She didn’t say why, and Wycliff didn’t ask. He fleetingly thought about driving over to her apartment, wait for her to come out, and tail her to where she was going, but decided not to. He didn’t know what kind of car she drove or if she took cabs or limos, one of the many holes in his lack of knowledge about her. Maybe she was entertaining another man. Seeing female friends. Options that didn’t involve him. He could sleuth her another time. Tonight he wanted to be around people his age who were healthy and vibrant.
He had been in LA for almost two weeks and had barely seen anything. Venice was supposed to be a cool place. It would be nice to actually see and smell the ocean. He Googled clubs and other local attractions on Billy’s Powerbook and printed out the list, along with a map of how to get there. After making sure Billy was settled in with the caretaker, he hopped in his car and headed towards the beach.
The heavy commuter traffic crawled like a slug. Wycliff didn’t mind, he was happy just to be out and about, away from sickness, impending death, and Charlotte’s mysterious shenanigans. He smoked a couple of cigarettes with the windows rolled down for ventilation and listened to country music booming out of his car’s excellent sound system.
He lucked into a parking spot on Washington Blvd, less than a block away from the pier. He got out of the car, locked it with the remote, and fed the meter with quarters. The setting sun was low over the ocean. His cheat sheet was folded up in the back pocket of his jeans. He consulted it, looked around a minute to get his bearings, and strolled along the sidewalk.
The ice-cold margarita in the surfer-themed bar went down fast and smooth. He dropped a twenty on the bar and let the change ride. Playing it casual, he swiveled on his bar stool and checked out the room. More guys than chicks, which did not bode well, and none of the women looked like they were anxious to be picked up. It was early – the whiff of going-home-alone desperation was not yet hanging in the air.
Not to worry. If he scored, good deal. If he struck out, there were other ways to enjoy an evening at the beach. Get something to eat, have a few drinks (in moderation, he had to be careful to avoid getting a DUI), rub elbows with people his age. He was out in the world. It felt good.
He switched to beer, Sierra Nevada on draft, and nursed the tall schooner until it was obvious there were no pickings to be had here. He left a couple singles for a tip and walked out into the night. It was cooler by ten or fifteen degrees than it was inland, and the breeze blowing off the ocean raised goose bumps on his bare arms, a far cry from hot, bone-dry Arizona, where the only bodies of water were rich people’s swimming pools. He had done a stint cleaning pools, one of the dozens of grunt jobs he had drifted in and out of over the years. Plastic-surgery-enhanced housewives, slathered in oil, tanning with their bikini tops unfastened, would lie on towels at poolside, cock-teasing the hired help. He had scored a few of them, but they had been hollow victories. The women weren’t screwing him as a specific person, they were getting off on ten minutes of exciting danger. More excitement than they got from their husbands in a month, as one of the more candid ones had confided to him.
His own house with a swimming pool was one of his ultimate dreams. Adorned with hot babes around the clock, like Hugh Hefner. He wondered if they still had the wild parties at the mansion he had read about in Playboy. If you were rich enough to have your own house with a pool, the women would flock to you.
Lots of fantasies. That’s all they had ever been. But now, for the first time in his life, he indulged in thinking that some of them might come true.
The sun was almost down now, a sliver of orange lollypop on the horizon, sending rainbow waves across the cumulus sky. He walked onto the pier, which was thinning out as night-time approached. A smattering of pedestrians; some locals still fishing, groups of teenagers loitering, waiting for something exciting to happen. Latinos and blacks as well, which he hadn’t expected; he’d always thought the ocean was white man’s territory. Most blacks can’t swim, that’s a scientific fact. He knew LA was gang capital of the world, but he thought the action was inland. Maybe they were spreading out to here, the world one big gangland. He didn’t want any part of that. He wasn’t scared, he could take care of his business, but he needed to keep his nose clean. No hassles, nothing to call attention to himself.
Wycliff reached the end of the pier and looked out over the water. The sea was black-green, churning, the foamy waves pounding the pilings. He inhaled salt spray into his nostrils. He would buy a bathing suit and the next time he came here he would plunge in, swim out past the breakers, and body surf until he was wasted. California dreaming was becoming his reality.
He fired up a smoke. The nicotine rush felt good. He looked out over the horizon as the sun hesitated in one last gasp of suspension, then slid below the horizon.
‘Got a light?’
He turned. The speaker had come up unawares behind him. One of the Latino teenagers he had passed by earlier. The boy was medium-sized, with some pudge on him. Low-riding khakis, JC Penny wife-beater. Arms adorned with blue-ink homemade tattoos, probably acquired during a stay in juvenile hall or the county jail, although he didn’t look old enough for adult prison. His look to Wycliff had no threat in it.
Wycliff tossed the kid his pack of matches. ‘Keep them.’
‘Thanks, man.’ The kid pulled a skinny blunt from behind his ear and lit it. He sucked in deeply, held the smoke, exhaled with a whoosh. He held the joint out to Wycliff. ‘Want a taste?’
Smoke marijuana in a public place with a Latino gangbanger? That would be the smartest move of the day. For all he knew, the kid was a plant.
‘No, thanks,’ he declined casually.
‘No problema, big man,’ the kid replied. He had a cocky smile on his mouth. He glanced behind him. His friends were looking at them by studiously not looking at them.
They must think I’m a mark, Wycliff realized. Was he throwing off that vibe? Some out of place tourist, ripe for plucking? The last image he would have thought he projected. He was taller than any of them by a good three inches, probably outweighed the heaviest one by at least twenty pounds, and was still in reasonably good shape. It had only been a couple of weeks since his last job working construction in Tucson. But there were four of them against his solo act. It wouldn’t be much of a contest.
Stay cool. Don’t acknowledge threat. Above all, do not show fear, these jokers can smell fear better than an airport security dog can smell Afghani heroin stashed up a courier’s ass.
He flicked his cigarette butt into the ocean and pushed off from the railing. ‘Take it easy,’ he said, his voice low and calm. He started walking away from the kid towards the street. The pier was dimly lit, and less populated than it had been only a few minutes ago.
‘You, too,’ came the voice from behind his back. ‘You take it easy.’
Just keep walking. And listen and watch. The kid’s compadres were off to the side ahead of him. A few stared at him with blank expressions.
He reached them. Walk easily, no hurry. Don’t look around. Listen for footsteps coming up behind. Keep walking at the same pace.
He did not hear footsteps. What he heard was laughter. Snickering.
They had been fucking with him, and he’d let them. His armpits tingled with humiliation flop-sweat. Good thing he wasn’t carrying Charlotte’s revolver, he might have done something he would regret.
Reaching the street at the foot of the pier, Wycliff couldn’t resist the urge to look back. The boys had not moved from where they had been. They were not paying him any attention. They had gotten their rocks off by messing with his head, so he no longer mattered to them. Or maybe they were just a bunch of kids hanging out who could give a shit less about some lame older guy. Maybe the offer of weed had been a friendly gesture, nothing more.
&nbs
p; It’s okay to be paranoid, but you have to have a reason. There had been no threat. He felt like an asshole.
The night air, in combination with the two earlier drinks and his panic attack, had roused his appetite. He spied an Ernie’s Taco House halfway down the street, a duplicate of one he had eaten at in North Hollywood. He hadn’t gotten ptomaine poisoning, a good-enough recommendation.
The place was your typical Mexican restaurant: red fake-leather booths, bad paintings (some of them actual black velvet, including the worst Elvis he had ever seen), a long bar that took up the entire far wall. The back bar was stocked with dozens of various tequilas for every taste and pocketbook, along with every other kind of booze known to man. The Mexican waiters wore red jackets, white shirts with black ties, black slacks. They crafted their pompadours with pomade.
He made a quick visual survey of the possibilities. None of the available women were worth hitting on. On the drive here he’d had this film loop running in his head like how it played out in a beer commercial: lots of hot chicks, all gorgeous and available for a stud like himself. Well, he might be in LA, home to the stars, but this was real life, not make-believe.
He had picked up a woman in a bar on his first night in town – an encounter that had given him a false sense of entitlement. Except he had not picked her up, she had been the aggressor. And their encounter had not been your standard wham bam thank you ma’am roll in the hay go your separate ways. Charlotte had not chosen him for his looks or charisma or prowess in bed. She needed him to help her pull off some agenda as yet unknown to him, something that would be far dicier than the jewelry-store theft, to which he had been a bystander, a distraction.
So he wouldn’t get lucky tonight. That was all right with him. The pressure to score was off.
The enchilada/relleno combo with beans and rice hit the spot. The margarita he washed it down with added to the satisfaction. Sated, he ordered a coffee, passing on dessert, although the flan was tempting. He wasn’t doing physical labor now and wasn’t going to for the foreseeable future, which hopefully would be never, so he had to come up with another way to stay fit. He could join a gym, there was a 24-hour fitness center a few blocks from Billy’s house. That would be a good place to meet women. Hard bodies running on the treadmill, climbing the Stairmaster, crunching their abs on the Nautilus machines. Tomorrow, when he had a break from his caretaking duties, he’d check it out.
It was still early. He had a few hours left until he had to drive back to Billy’s house. It would be dumb not to use what free time he had left. Charlotte might want him at her beck and call every night, starting tomorrow. He was powerless to say no to her, no matter what.
He checked his Google map. Santa Monica, another area he wanted to check out, was the next city over. He got into his car and headed up Pacific Ave. As he drove, he vented at himself. Damn those kids. Double damn him for letting them get his goat. This is how your brain gets messed up when you’re living on the edge. A snake under every rock, an assailant hidden behind every shadow.
Life on the edge was getting old. He needed normalcy, a respite from his nerves being constantly frayed. He had responsibilities now he had never had before. He was a caretaker entrusted with helping his brother reach the end of his life in peace and dignity. That was a solemn duty. He couldn’t fail at it. He had made a promise and he had to keep it. Maybe he shouldn’t have made that promise, because being responsible for anyone other than himself was foreign to his nature. But he had done it, and for once in his life, he was going to keep his word.
His nerves were still jumping. A nicotine hit would settle him down. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his pack of Camel filters. Empty. He must have smoked his last one on the pier. At the time, he had been too discombobulated to notice.
The AM/PM Minimart a block away was lit up in neon beer signs. He parked in front, made sure the doors were locked, and went inside. The lighting was florescent-zombie harsh. On guard because of Charlotte’s jewelry store caper, he looked up at the ceiling. Security cameras at all four corners. Robbing a convenience store was an amateur play. They don’t keep much cash in the register, the surplus automatically goes into a safe. Anyone with experience knows that. Only junkies and punks would try to knock off a place like this, which made them dangerous locations to be in, because those assholes don’t know how shit works, and can go off half-cocked.
There were a few other customers in the place. None of them looked like trouble. He waited while the woman in front of him paid for a refrigerator keg of Old Milwaukee and a roll of Tums with a debit card, then took her place at the counter and told the Pakistani clerk behind the counter he wanted two packs of Camel Filters 100s. ‘And one of those two-dollar lighters,’ he added, pointing at the display window.
‘You shouldn’t smoke those.’
He turned around.
The woman was about his age. She was dressed in nurses’ scrubs and orange Crocs over athletic socks, her face washed clean of makeup. Her reddish-brown hair, a tangled bush of wiry curls, was pulled back in a utilitarian ponytail. She looked weary, probably coming off shift.
Instinctively, he checked her out. She was not conventionally pretty, certainly not in any way that appealed to him. Her nose was pointy, her pale complexion was splayed with freckles, her chest was small and her hips were ample. A good body for having kids, maybe, but not one he’d want to parade on his arm.
‘Cigarettes kill you,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen the results. They aren’t pretty.’
‘You can get killed lots of ways.’
‘But why increase the odds?’
She had spunk. He liked that in a woman. ‘What are you, Mother Theresa?’
‘Hardly.’ She stretched and yawned. ‘Just putting in my two cents. Not my business.’
He looked at her more closely. Her lips were full and soft. Even without lipstick, they were kissable. ‘What hospital do you work at?’
‘St John’s.’
‘Where’s that? I’m new around town.’
‘Right here in Santa Monica. Where are you from?’ she asked.
‘Tucson, Arizona, most recently.’
‘I’ve never been there. What’s it like?’
‘It’s okay if you like blast-furnace heat. Here’s better.’
The clerk put his merchandise on the counter. ‘Twelve seventy-three,’ he said. Wycliff ignored him. ‘What do you do there, at St John’s?’
‘I’m a nurse. I work with cancer patients.’
‘Hence the two cents. I guess you see some pretty ugly …’ He stifled shit. ‘Stuff.’
‘Twelve seventy-three,’ the clerk impatiently repeated.
Wycliff stole a look at her left hand. Ringless, although that could be a false reading. People who work with their hands often don’t wear rings, because they can get tangled up in equipment. A co-worker on a house remodel last year had lost a finger when his Marine Corps ring was snagged in a cross-cut saw. The blood spatter had been humongous. They packed the digit in ice and took it with him to the hospital, but it was too late to sew it back on.
‘Can I buy you a cup of coffee?’ The words came out unexpectedly.
Startled, the nurse looked at him suspiciously. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think so.’
He wasn’t going to go down without a fight. What did he have to lose? ‘You realize you could be responsible for me if I don’t buy the cigarettes, don’t you?’
‘How do you figure that?’
‘If I don’t buy these cigarettes I might not die, which would mean you saved my life. Where I come from, you save someone’s life, you’re tied to them. Forever.’
She laughed. It was a good laugh, from her gut. ‘I thought you were from Arizona, not Sicily.’
‘Same difference. Seriously, if I pass on the smokes, can I buy you a coffee? One coffee, not even a refill.’
She considered the trade-off. And him. ‘Okay.’
He followed her car, a ten-year-old red
Honda Civic with Obama/Biden stickers plastered on the rear bumper, to a local coffee joint on 4th street, away from the congestion of the 3rd St Mall. A sparse crowd, huddled over their laptops. Kind Of Blue, the sound turned low, played on the stereo. The woman ordered a double-shot latte with half and half – ‘It actually helps put me to sleep, believe it or not’ – and he opted for a traditional cappuccino, waving off her offer to pay for her own. They carried their drinks to a quiet area in the back and sat next to each other on a lumpy sofa.
‘What brought you to Los Angeles?’ she asked him, opening the conversation.
‘My brother lives here.’
‘Where?’
‘Silver Lake. Over by—’
‘I know where Silver Lake is,’ she interrupted, but sweetly. ‘I trained at Hollywood Presbyterian. That’s a nice area.’
‘It is,’ he agreed. He didn’t know how to small talk a woman like this.
‘So you’re out visiting?’
‘Not exactly.’ He was uncertain of how deep into his situation he should go. He had just met her.
She sipped her drink and slipped her feet out of her crocs, flexing her toes through her socks.
‘He’s sick,’ he explained. ‘I came out to check up on him.’
‘That’s brotherly of you,’ she said. ‘How is he?’
‘Not well.’ A vision of Billy flashed in his mind. Ash complexion, bones showing through skin, eyelids fluttering like hummingbird wings. ‘Pretty bad, actually.’
A look of genuine concern crossed her face. ‘What does he have?’
‘Complications from AIDS. His doctors tried different drug combinations on him, but they didn’t work. They’re not a silver bullet every time.’
It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. The woman opened her mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out.
‘He’s almost gone,’ Wycliff told her. ‘It won’t be long.’
Her hands shook. She put her coffee cup down. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thanks.’ He didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t good at dealing with emotion.
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 7
