He could feel the sarcasm almost literally oozing through the airways, into his telephone, and onto his skin, like sap dripping off a tree. ‘And why didn’t you answer when I called?’ she went on. ‘Were you preoccupied with something else?’
Some one, not some thing. ‘I was in a restaurant. It’s rude to talk on the phone in a restaurant.’
‘What manners. I didn’t realize you were such a quick learner, darling.’
Managing to keep up: ‘That’s because you’re such a good teacher.’
The sarcasm dripped even thicker. ‘Why thank you, Mr Charming. So you were where?’
He was not going to let her trip him up. ‘Out, like I said.’
‘Have it your way. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.’ An order, not an invitation. ‘We’re going to have an adventure.’
An adventure. He couldn’t imagine what it might be, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. He felt exhausted. Sparring with Charlotte was draining, the intensity of their love making turned inside-out.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he told her, hanging up before she could keep the conversation going any longer.
Billy, wide awake, was in the living room, watching Charlie Rose. ‘This one was a pistol tonight,’ Ricardo told Wycliff as he beamed at Billy. ‘Polished off two heaping plates of food. We’re going to put meat on those bones, I’m telling you.’
‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ Billy laughed. He gave Ricardo a frisky waist-pinch.
‘Be good,’ Ricardo bantered to Billy as he was leaving. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
‘Would that I could, Ricardo Ricky,’ Billy answered, as he waved good-bye.
Two days and they’re best friends forever, Wycliff thought. Billy had always made friends easily, going back to when he was a toddler with beautiful tow-head curls. Unlike himself, who was world-class at alienating anyone he came in contact with. Although Charlotte had sure as hell cottoned to him, in her own strange way. Amelia, too. Maybe he wasn’t scaring people off anymore.
He sat alongside his brother, watching the tube. ‘What do you do when you’re out at night?’ Billy asked. ‘You got something going on the side?’ he teased.
‘Not hardly,’ Wycliff answered, fending him off. ‘Just cruising around.’
‘Cruising is dangerous terminology to use with someone like me,’ Billy goosed him verbally. ‘Maybe the leopard really has changed his spots.’
Wycliff shook his head. Not long ago a statement like that would have raised his hackles. Now it was water off a duck’s back. ‘Naw, I’m still plain-vanilla straight. Not the adventuresome type.’
That, of course, was bullshit. What he had going with Charlotte was like the colors in the rainbow, including psychedelics and neons, all exploding together.
‘Your loss. But you still have time.’ Unlike me went unspoken. His brother’s tank was about to run dry. He didn’t know diddley about Billy’s life, but he’d bet dollars to doughnuts the ride had been pretty damn wild.
It was nice, bantering with his brother like this. They had never been able to. Accusations and curses had been their common language. Looking death in the eye can bring a lot of fundamental changes, he thought insightfully. Not only bad ones, but good ones, too.
Billy turned to him. ‘Do you get high?’
‘You mean marijuana?’ Wycliff asked, taken aback.
‘No, dude, hot fudge sundaes.’
‘Of course,’ Wycliff said. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘Everyone I know, but I don’t know everyone. You want to smoke? It helps me sleep, and toking alone isn’t sociable.’
‘Sure, I’m good. You holding?’
Billy pointed to a hutch in the corner. ‘Baggie, pipe, and lighter in the second drawer.’
Wycliff found the goods and brought them over. ‘You do the honors,’ Billy said. ‘My hands get to shaking. Don’t want to spill any of this excellent sensimilla.’
Wycliff packed a loose bowl. He put the pipe to Billy’s lips and lit it. Billy sucked in a greedy lungful, held the smoke for a few seconds, then expelled it with a chest-rattling cough. Wycliff held his brother’s glass up so he could drink water through a straw. Then he fired up the pipe again and took a deep hit himself, the smoke banging his lungs. Immediately, he could feel a buzz.
‘How do you score?’ he asked. His brother spoke the truth: this was righteous weed. ‘You have a dealer, someone you can trust?’ That would be useful to know, if Billy was willing to share the info.
Billy, gasping for breath, was still able to cackle like a rooster. ‘This is medical marijuana. Totally legitimate, courtesy of the voters of the sovereign state of California. Is this a great country, or what?’
Wycliff had never been inclined to think that way. Usually, it was the opposite. But a secure roof over his head, cash in his pocket, a lover who might be dangerous but exciting, and maybe a real relationship, too, knock wood? Not to mention free dope, courtesy of his brother? His life was still far from great, but right now, it was pretty up and walking good.
TWELVE
The woman looked to be in her mid-to-late thirties. She’d had her breasts done, plus other work; no mortal woman’s cheekbones are that striking. Small waist, slender hips, well-rounded behind. The diamond on her ring finger was almost the size of a golf ball. Her stylishly disheveled blond hair was held together in a loose twist with a pair of chopsticks. She wore designer jeans and a silk blouse, unbuttoned partway down to show off her assets under the lacy bra. Three-inch heels. She had probably spent an hour putting herself together so she could look like she had just rolled out of bed.
Wycliff looked her over. She was sexy enough, in a Las Vegas showgirl kind of way. Attractive, not so much, because she was copping an attitude, acting out in public and not caring if anyone picked up on it. Less than a month ago he would have been dripping saliva down his shirt at the thought of bedding a hottie like this woman, but his horizon now was a lot higher than when he had hit town. He already had one incredible woman in hand, with another one maybe about to happen.
Be thankful for what you have, he reminded himself. Don’t get greedy. He had come a long way in a very short time. If a couple of months ago anyone had told him he would be where he was at this moment, he would have called for the guys with the butterfly nets. Yet here he was, styling like a fresh prince. Count your blessings.
It was a couple minutes before eleven. Raquel had come to the house at ten to spell him for a few hours so that he could take care of a much-needed piece of business, which was about to transpire at a Verizon store on Little Santa Monica Boulevard, in Beverly Hills. No more prehistoric equipment for him: he was getting his own brand-spanking-new iPhone. He had called around to half a dozen locations until he found an outlet that had the phones in stock.
The store was busy. He had signed in and taken a seat, waiting for a sales person to become available. He had been here for fifteen minutes and there were still two customers ahead of him on the waiting list.
From where he was sitting he could see outside to the store’s parking lot. The woman had pulled up in a midnight-blue Porsche Cayman. She had parked at the far end of the lot away from other cars, so it wouldn’t get dinged up. To Wycliff’s taste, the Cayman was the cherriest car on the road. He was happy with his Beemer, but if he could have any car, that Porsche would be the one. More than a Ferrari, Bentley, Maserati, cars that cost two, three, ten times as much. He didn’t need the most expensive car in the world. That little bomb parked outside would be perfect.
The woman was on her cell as she stormed into the store and she kept her jabber going, even though she was in public. She had taken the chair right next to Wycliff’s after she signed in, so he couldn’t help but hear her end of the conversation, which was juicy. She was a recent widow who had been married to a man considerably older than her (confirmation of Wycliff’s assumption that she was a trophy wife). She had been screwed in his will. Not only had all his money gone to his children, but, more impor
tantly, now that she was no longer married, her credit rating had plummeted. She was in the process of negotiating to buy a new residence for herself (his kids had gotten all his property, too, including the house in Bel Air she had lived in with the deceased), and she was trying to scam her potential lender by withholding the information that she was no longer the spouse of a multi-millionaire. From hearing her side of the agitated conversation, Wycliff surmised that some underling in her accountant’s office had accidentally blown her cover, and she was frantically scrambling to put Humpty Dumpty back together.
‘Do whatever you have to do to fix it,’ the woman told the person on the other end in bitter anger, ‘or I will tie you bastards up in court for the next ninety-nine years.’ She ended the call and slumped back, eyes shut tight, quivering like a hard-ridden thoroughbred.
Then she started crying, silently, her body shaking violently. Wycliff, startled and alarmed, looked around. Was anyone besides him watching her breakdown? A quick survey of the room told him no. She was alone in her grief. Plastic breasts, bullshit attitude, whatever else was phony about her, her emotions weren’t fake. This woman was hurting for real. He felt the need to reach out to touch her, a hand on her shoulder, something minor to ease the pain, if only for a moment. But he hesitated. It wasn’t his place to do anything.
His name was called. He glanced at the woman again but she was oblivious to him, absorbed in her sorrow. He got up and walked to the waiting salesperson.
It took half an hour to purchase the new phone, have his data transferred from his old one, choose a personal ring tone (the opening bars of the theme music from The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly), and get walked through a basic tutorial by the technician, so he became absorbed in his own business and lost track of the woman who had turned to mush in front of his eyes. As he left the store, though, he saw that her car was where she had parked it, so she was still inside. He hoped she had been able to pull herself together.
‘Excuse me!’
He stopped and looked behind him.
The woman had come out of the store and was striding urgently towards him. She was wearing sunglasses, but he could see mascara smudges under her eyes from her tears. He waited for her to catch up. Her shades reflected the sun as she looked up at him. ‘Do you drink?’ she asked abruptly.
That was a weird question. ‘Sure,’ he answered.
‘I mean now. In the morning.’
At one time or another Wycliff had knocked a drink back at every minute of the day and night, but he normally didn’t drink early. That was for lushes, men (and the odd woman) you see go into a bar at six in the morning for their pre-work fix, or stagger out of one before the sun had risen. ‘I’ve done that,’ he admitted.
‘Would you? Now?’
‘Now?’ he repeated, thrown off-guard.
‘You were eavesdropping on my demented conversation in there, so you know I’m not doing very well. You weren’t being rude,’ she continued, letting him know she wasn’t angry that he had violated her space, ‘you couldn’t help it, I was out of control.’ She ran her hands through her unkempt hair. ‘I need to unwind, I’m really …’ Her sigh was more like a moan. ‘I need a drink, and I don’t want to drink alone.’
He followed her in his car down South Beverly Drive. She hung a right on Pico, drove west for several blocks, then pulled over at a meter. Wycliff found an open spot further down the block and parked. The area was populated with small stores, ethnic restaurants, a couple of hole-in-the-wall bars. The woman tottered slightly on her high heels as she trotted up to him.
‘You’ll need quarters. The parking cops are merciless around here.’ She handed him a dollar in coins, which he fed into his meter. ‘We can get more change inside if we need it.’
How much drinking was she planning on, he wondered? He was on a schedule, he had to get back to the house. He would lend a sympathetic ear for as long as it took him to drink a bloody Mary, then make his exit.
The bar was long, narrow, and dark. A few hard-core habitués, solitary drinkers, took up space on stools. One bartender, no waitress. The woman led him to the last table in the back. ‘What are you drinking?’ she asked.
‘I’ll have a bloody Mary.’
‘Two bloody Marys,’ she called to the bartender. ‘Extra Tabasco.’
As he did whenever possible, Wycliff sat facing the door. The woman slid in across from him and took off her shades. Her makeup was smeared, her eyes bloodshot. ‘Do I look as bad as I feel?’ she asked, staring him in the face.
‘You’ve looked better, I’m sure.’ He didn’t know this woman from Adam, and in half an hour or less they would part company and he’d never see her again, so he could give it to her straight.
She tried to force a smile, but couldn’t. ‘At least you’re honest. That’s a long-gone commodity nowadays.’ She coughed, trying to clear her throat. ‘Who am I to talk? I’m more full of shit than anyone, pardon my French.’
Wycliff had nothing to say back to her, so he didn’t. Coming here with her had been a waste of time. He should be on his way back to his brother’s house, where he was actually needed. This woman wanted someone to vent at, and he was standing there with his thumb up his ass, so she had bagged him, and he’d let her. He didn’t desire her except as an idle fantasy, the kind men enjoy dozens of times a day, but he also knew that if she had been a plain Jane he wouldn’t have followed her here.
She glanced at his unadorned fingers. ‘You’re not married.’
‘No.’
‘Ever been?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘You’re smarter than me. I didn’t even get a kid out of it. All I got was –’ she waved a bejeweled hand in the air – ‘stuff.’
The bartender set their drinks down at the end of the bar. The woman got up and brought them back. She picked up her glass and looked into it as if she was trying to see into a crystal ball.
‘What do you do, if I may ask? I’m not trying to get personal or anything.’
The lie came out of his mouth so easily now he was beginning to believe it. ‘I’m a contractor. Housing. Remodels.’
‘Would I know you? I’ve remodeled some houses and flipped them. My husband and I.’ She quickly amended: ‘Late husband.’
Wycliff took a small sip of his drink. Properly done, spicy with a nice bite of horseradish. ‘No,’ he told her. ‘I’m from out of state. I’m not licensed in California.’
She looked deflated, as if hoping their paths might have crossed. ‘Oh.’ She sampled her own drink, nodded approvingly, took another swallow. ‘What are you doing here, then?’
They weren’t going to get personal. He’d make sure of that, even if she didn’t. ‘I’m visiting a relative. My brother.’ That admission couldn’t get him into trouble.
‘Are you going to be around long?’
Now it was getting too personal. ‘I don’t know. I’m playing it by ear.’
She studied him over the rim of her glass. ‘You look like a cop. Were you, ever?’
He laughed. ‘Not hardly. Why do you ask?’
‘Because if I unburden myself to you – I kind of did, already, back at the phone store – I want to know I’m not going to get busted.’
‘I’m not a cop,’ he assured her. He wasn’t going to get personal from his end, but where she seemed to be going sounded interesting. No harm in listening. ‘What are you afraid of?’
‘Anything. Everything. The whole enchilada.’ She leaned in towards him. ‘Can I trust you?’
His impulse was to say no, you can’t, but he didn’t. ‘You won’t get in trouble with me,’ he told her.
She stared at him as if trying to make up her mind. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you that, because I don’t trust anyone these days, certainly not a stranger.’ She smiled. ‘A tall, handsome stranger, across a crowded room.’
Wycliff couldn’t help but smile back at her. ‘Thanks for the compliment.’ Be nice, he reminded himself. She’s hurting. ‘You
’re very good looking yourself.’
Actively flirting now: ‘Even with these raccoon eyes?’
‘On you, it’s sexy.’
She shook her head. ‘Oh, God. I’m such a sucker these days. I am the neediest woman on earth. So now that you know that, you can go.’
This was fun. Just keep it light. ‘I haven’t finished my drink.’ He held up his glass for proof.
‘A billion people starving in China,’ she came back. ‘That’s passé, isn’t it? The reality is here, in places like New Orleans and the Jersey shore.’
Wycliff had missed his share of meals, recently enough to remember. He ate the olive off the toothpick. The woman reached across the table and took one of his hands in both of hers. Her hands were soft, the hands of a woman who had people working for her to do the heavy lifting.
‘I want to tell you a few things about me,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to unburden my life story on you, just some recent history. Can you take it?’
‘I can take anything you can throw at me,’ he told her. Superficial woman. What he had lived through, what he was living though now, made any bullshit she could lay on him feel like a feather. ‘Do I want to? That I don’t know.’
The woman reared back in surprise, staring at him with fresh eyes. ‘That’s calling ’em like you see ’em. I respect that.’
He was trying to drive her away, but his coming on straight was having the opposite effect. He should have anticipated that. Played it cool, said yes or no to her questions, finished his drink, boogied on down the road. Now they were dancing.
In for a dime, in for a dollar. ‘Talk to me.’
‘Have you ever killed anyone?’
They were on their second bloody Marys. The bartender poured with a heavy hand. Wycliff wouldn’t have a third. Looking at the woman, he could tell that the alcohol was affecting her. She had spilled some of her drink on the table, and giggled as she mopped it up with a cocktail napkin.
What to answer? Play with her, play it straight? Was she joking around, or was there an undercoat of seriousness there? ‘Deliberately?’ he decided to answer.
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 10
