Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles

by J. F. Freedman

  It was nice to be told he was going a good job taking care of Billy, not that she could know anything about that, since she wasn’t there. But the rest of what she said, that sunk in. He had been a scrambler and a scuffler all his life. He had survived, but that was all it was: baseline survival. That way of life had been tolerable then, because he hadn’t experienced any better. But now he had, and because he had, he couldn’t go back to the life he had led. It would be unbearable.

  What was he doing to do after Billy died? Something with Charlotte? Was that what she was hinting at, not too subtly? ‘I hear you,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been thinking about it.’ He smiled at her, turning on the charm. ‘You got some suggestions you want to lay on me? You’ve been pretty good so far, telling me what to do with myself.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she answered coyly. ‘It will depend.’

  Maybe now they were getting down to concrete specifics. ‘On what?’

  ‘Many things.’ She unwrapped the slices of cake and set them on plates. ‘We can talk about that later. For now, let’s enjoy these beautiful surroundings.’

  They cleared the food and utensils off the blanket and made love with the sun shining down on their naked bodies. The sex was great – it was always great – but his mind was wandering. What actually was her plan for him? Of course she had one, she wasn’t wining and dining and fucking him just because it felt good. She was too calculating to do anything just because it felt good.

  He was riding a tiger, and he couldn’t get off. Which was all right, for now at least, because he didn’t want to. The ride was way too exciting.

  ‘I won’t be able to see you tonight,’ she said. ‘I wish I could, but I have an obligation I can’t get out of.’

  It was mid-afternoon. They had driven back to her condo. ‘Will you be with your brother tonight?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘That’s where I’ll be.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’ She reached into her purse and took out her cell phone. An iPhone, of course, like Amelia’s. He was the last Neanderthal left on the planet. ‘I don’t want to call you on your brother’s line anymore, now that he’s there. You and he need your personal space. Let me have your cell number.’

  He recited it to her and she programmed it into her phone. ‘See you tomorrow, darling,’ she said. ‘Don’t do anything naughty.’

  He walked to the elevator. He could feel her eyes burning a hole in his back until he got in and the doors closed behind him.

  ELEVEN

  Billy was out of bed when Wycliff got home, sitting in the living room in a special adjustable recliner the hospice people had brought over. Raquel, the new caregiver, had shaved and bathed him and dressed him in a long-sleeved crew-neck cotton shirt and dark blue sweat pants with parallel white stripes running down the legs. The house smelled of fresh vacuuming and lemony air-spray.

  The most unexpected and pleasant surprise was that Billy was holding a tall cool one, clenched in his fist. He raised the bottle in toast. ‘Care to join me, big fellow?’

  Wycliff broke into a happy grin. ‘Hell, yes.’

  He snagged a cold Corona from the fridge, popped the top, and clicked the bottle to Billy’s. ‘Hair of the dog.’

  ‘Back at you.’

  Raquel beamed as she watched the two of them banter back and forth. ‘Don’t he look handsome?’ she cooed.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Wycliff agreed. ‘How’s about you give me a bath now, so I can look handsome, too,’ he flirted.

  She giggled. ‘You don’t need my help to bathe your own self, mister.’

  He kept the banter going. ‘Not as good as you could.’

  She gathered her stuff. ‘My old man wouldn’t go for that. He’s Samoan. They get real jealous.’

  The only Samoans Wycliff knew of played football in the NFL. Their necks were as big as his thighs. ‘Just kidding,’ he said, backing off.

  ‘See you, Billy boy.’ Raquel gave Billy a sisterly kiss on the cheek. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day.’

  ‘Thanks for everything.’

  She waved good-bye and left. ‘Looks like you made a conquest,’ Wycliff remarked as the door closed on her bodacious ass.

  ‘She’s a nice person.’ Billy took a sip of beer, swallowing slowly, his Adams apple a bobbing walnut in his withered throat. ‘So many people are being nice to me.’ He paused. ‘Thanks to you.’

  Wycliff swigged a mouthful of his own brewski. ‘No biggie. You would have done the same.’

  Billy shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn’t have. Not in a million years.’ He closed his eyes, either in fatigue or thought, Wycliff couldn’t tell. ‘I still can’t believe this is happening. Me here in my home, you, all of it. I owe you.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Wycliff answered quickly. If his brother knew what was really going on in his life, he wouldn’t be so quick to heap on the praise.

  ‘I’m learning a lesson from you, big brother. Something I would never have thought could happen.’

  ‘What is that?’ Wycliff asked, genuinely curious. Him teaching anybody anything, that would be a first.

  ‘That the leopard can change his spots.’

  If only. ‘But he’ll still rip your throat open if you turn your back on him,’ he reminded his brother.

  ‘Not if he’s been defanged,’ Billy rejoined, as if to assert that had already happened.

  One beer and Billy was ready to get back into bed. Wycliff carried him into the bedroom, undressed him down to T-shirt and shorts, and positioned him comfortably, resting his head on a mound of pillows.

  ‘Any movies you want to watch?’ he asked. ‘You’ve got Direct TV, you can order up whatever you want, right into your set.’

  ‘Anything? Bulgarian folk-dance documentaries? Instructional videos on Navajo basket weaving?’

  ‘I don’t know about the Bulgarian ones, but the Navajo, definitely. I think that’s number ninety-nine thousandth on the request parade. Seriously, what do you want to watch?’

  ‘Check to see if they have Magnificent Obsession.’

  Wycliff had never heard of that one. ‘When did it come out? Is it recent?’

  Billy shook his head. ‘It was released in 1954, starring Rock Hudson. The art direction was to die for.’

  Wycliff knew who Rock Hudson was – the homosexual movie star from back in the days when being a gay actor was the kiss of death. Wycliff knew he had died of AIDS, one of the first ones to admit it publicly.

  ‘I don’t know if the list goes back that far,’ he said, trying to stay nonjudgmental. ‘We can check if you want.’

  Billy’s expression was more grimace than smile, the skin across his face stretching like it had been shrunk by a voodoo doctor. ‘I’m kidding you. See if you can bring up the earlier episodes of this year’s Mad Men. Same decadent period from when Rock was in his heyday, but now you can show the nasty stuff on screen. I missed it while I was in the hospital. They don’t carry the premium cable channels unless you’re in the VIP section.’

  Halfway through the first episode, Billy slipped into sleep. Wycliff muted the sound just as the front doorbell rang, announcing Ricardo’s arrival to take over for the evening shift.

  ‘I didn’t think you were going to call.’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘People say all kinds of things they don’t follow through on.’ Amelia’s hand touched Wycliff’s across the table, her fingers lingering for a moment before she withdrew them. ‘I’m not playing it very cool, am I?’

  ‘Playing it cool’s for phonies.’

  ‘That’s refreshing to hear. I guess you’re not too cool yourself, since you didn’t wait the prescribed three days before calling me.’

  ‘I’m about as uncool as they come, Amelia.’

  She laughed. ‘Saying that makes you extra cool. You know all the lines, don’t you, Wycliff?’ she teased.

  They were in a corner booth in Ye Old King’s Head Pub in Santa Monica, a block off Ocean Blvd., drinking their
second black and tans. Not a tourist joint (except on St Patrick’s Day), the clientele was mostly expatriate Brits and Micks and darts aficionados. A spirited darts game was in progress on the other side of the large room. The sound system was tuned to a classic rock ‘n’ roll channel (right now playing Del Shannon’s ‘Runaway’). The song caught Wycliff’s ear. Crime Story: now that was a great TV series. He’d been a kid glued to the TV set twenty-five years ago, watching the blood and gore and glamour. The life on the tube was so much better than the one he had actually been living in those days.

  That wasn’t true now, though, especially with this sweet woman sitting next to him, their legs lightly touching, thigh to thigh. She was in jeans and a light sweater, her hair in a ponytail like last night’s, but more artfully pulled together, with a ribbon rather than a rubber band. The touch of makeup she wore was barely noticeable. She doesn’t need any, he thought, as he sipped a layer of foam off the top of his fresh schooner.

  ‘I wish I actually was cool,’ he responded to her joshing. ‘Usually when I try to be witty I wind up putting my foot in my mouth.’

  Amelia sipped from her own mug and wiped her lips with a lady-like napkin swipe. ‘I don’t believe that. Not after that brilliant come-on last night.’

  ‘Beginner’s luck.’ He grinned awkwardly. What he had with Charlotte was a wild and crazy fantasy. This woman was the real deal.

  ‘Could’ve fooled me,’ she told him.

  They exchanged basic information. She lived not far from here, in a small apartment complex. She had her own place, she could finally afford the rent without a roommate, after years of school and getting her career up and running. One pet, a cat from the rescue shelter. Wycliff wasn’t allergic to cats, that was one issue they wouldn’t have to deal with, fortunately. She had once dated a nice man, she told him, a radiologist (her mother would have been over the moon), who almost went into cardiac arrest when she brought him home and the cat jumped into his lap.

  She had offered to meet Wycliff somewhere between here and Silverlake but he didn’t mind the drive, he wanted to be close to the ocean, to the pulsing energy he felt radiating from it. And he wanted to stay clear of Hollywood, West Hollywood, and Beverly Hills, because of the one-in-a-million possibility he might run into Charlotte. Charlotte would never set foot in a down-and-dirty Santa Monica bar, so he was safe here.

  There was no logical reason he should avoid Charlotte, but there were powerful emotional ones. In her mind, she owned him. He thought back to last night, the phone call demanding to know where he had been, if he had been with anyone, the demands to get more relief help for Billy so he could be at her beck and call. A woman scorned could be lethal. The graveyards were full of men who had not remembered that fundamental rule.

  ‘Where are you?’ Amelia asked, breaking into his dark reverie.

  He flinched. ‘Here.’

  ‘You seemed to be somewhere else.’ It wasn’t an accusation, more a question.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologized. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ she said, honestly sympathetic. There was no phoniness to her. How strange was that?

  ‘But I’m with you now,’ he told her. ‘Nowhere else.’

  They walked along the dirt path that meanders alongside Ocean Ave. and overlooks the wide beach and the ocean, the water dark now, the waves glowing iridescent in the moonlight. Tentatively, like a junior high-schooler on his first real date, he reached for her hand and she took it in hers and they strolled easily, not feeling a need to talk, enjoying the night, the breezes, the buzzing traffic hum, the other evening walkers. They stopped at the protective railing near Montana Avenue and stared out into the ocean’s darkness, and as he turned to kiss her she was turning to him.

  Her second-floor one-bedroom on 12th St was small, cheery, and feminine without being frilly. A large bay window offered an expansive view of the street. Her cat, a Burmese mix, stared unblinkingly at him from his perch atop a bookshelf.

  ‘Is he the jealous type?’ Wycliff asked, staring back at the cat. ‘Or is it a she?

  ‘He is an excellent guard cat,’ Amelia answered. ‘So don’t try anything cute.’

  ‘Can I pet him?’ He reached towards the cat.

  ‘Sure. Who needs five fingers?’

  He jerked his hand away. Amelia laughed. ‘I’m kidding. He’s a real pussycat, in the good sense of the word.’

  Wycliff plunked down on her couch while she put a kettle on for tea. The sofa was draped with an Indian-style blanket overlaid with earth-tone colors and zigzag patterns. It was probably second hand, he assumed, as were the other pieces of furniture, no two pieces matching, but bundled all together, they worked. For sure she hadn’t had a professional help her decorate.

  He felt comfortable here. He could be himself, whoever that was. Or was going to become.

  Amelia joined him with two cups of tea-bag tea and a plate of Pepperidge Farms Milanos. ‘I’m no Martha Stewart,’ she told him without apology, ‘my schedule’s too hectic. The last anything I baked was probably in Girl Scouts.’

  Wycliff couldn’t care less about that. That’s why grocery stores were invented. ‘Did they teach you how to tie knots?’

  ‘Any particular kinky fantasy you have in mind?’ she asked as she blew on her tea and took a sip.

  He almost dropped his own cup. ‘Well, let me think—’

  ‘That was a joke, buster. I’m pretty vanilla. Probably too tame for you.’

  Or just right. A comeback such as you won’t know until you try bubbled up in his mind, but he swallowed it. He didn’t want to push her. And of course, there was Charlotte. ‘I’m sure you’re good at it,’ he said, and immediately thought, Christ, how lame was that.

  ‘What a compliment!’ she said, laughing. ‘You are such a silver-tongued devil.’

  He put his cup down and reached for her and they fell into a clumsy embrace, tangled up in each other’s arms and legs, sliding off the sofa onto the floor. Rearranging themselves, they went at each other like dogs in heat, wet, sloppy kisses, hands grabbing hunks of hair, bodies pressing hard, his hand under her sweater, caressing her breast through her bra. She rubbed his chest, his thighs, pulling him tighter to her.

  Breathless, they came up for air. ‘The bed will be more comfortable,’ she gasped, taking his hand and leading him into her bedroom, where they fell onto the bed, making out like bandits.

  ‘I’m not sleeping with you tonight.’

  They were side by side, on their backs. They had been kissing for fifteen minutes without coming up for air. Their clothes were still on, except for their shoes. His cock in his jeans felt like a stalactite.

  ‘I don’t know you well enough yet,’ she told him. ‘And I’m having my period.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he told her again, cutting her off. He turned to kiss her again.

  His cell phone went off. The ring froze him, his mouth inches from her lips. It rang again.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’ Amelia asked. ‘It could be about your brother.’

  He hadn’t thought of that, but it was true. The caretakers had instructions to call him immediately if anything unforeseen happened. He took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the ID: Private Party. Not a hospice worker, their names would be displayed. Which left only one other possibility.

  ‘Who is it?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘Didn’t leave a number. Probably a telemarketer. They’ve perfected the art of calling at the most aggravating time to a science.’

  The ringing stopped as his voice message came on. He thumbed the sound down to vibrate, in case there was a second call. Which there was, immediately on top of the first one. He could feel the phone vibrating against his leg. Chinese water torture couldn’t be worse than this.

  Amelia cupped the back of his head in her hand. ‘Come here, you.’

  He hadn’t had a
nicotine craving this intense in years, going back to when he was in jail, where smoking was prohibited. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment. This was worse, because the torture was self-inflicted.

  He sat in the dark in his car, which was parked in Billy’s driveway. He had a few minutes before the clock turned midnight and he had to go in to relieve Ricardo. He was going to call Charlotte; not calling her wasn’t an option. But he was dreading the guilt tripping, accusation by implication. He had planned on doing it from outside Amelia’s apartment, but then he had a terrible thought: what if Charlotte could tell where he was, from his cell phone? He was a dummy about electronics, he didn’t know if a cell phone could act like a GPS, pinpointing your whereabouts down to a specific address on a specific block. So he hadn’t called then. Now he had to.

  Charlotte picked up on the second ring. He knew she wouldn’t go to sleep until he called her back, no matter how late.

  ‘Thanks for returning my call.’ Her voice was neutral; not sweet and loving, but not harsh or accusatory, either. ‘I was beginning to worry about you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m happy to hear that. Where have you been? You weren’t at your brother’s.’

  How in the world did she know that? Was she spying on him? An educated guess? A microchip she had secretly implanted in his brain? ‘I was out. I’m here now, though. At his place.’

  ‘Safe and sound. You are, aren’t you? Safe, at least.’

  ‘Yes,’ he told her through clenched teeth. ‘I’m good.’

  Off-handed: ‘So where were you again?’

  Christ, he thought, she’s relentless. ‘Just out. Dinner, couple of beers. Nothing special.’

  ‘If it was nothing special, then why can’t you tell me where you were?’ she continued, maddeningly rational. ‘Unless you’re hiding something from me, which I can’t imagine you would do.’