They played Hollywood-style gin rummy, a penny a point. Billy kept score. Wycliff was rusty; he hadn’t played in ages. Texas Hold ’Em and stud poker were his card games. Before he knew it he was shut out in the first game, about to be in the second, and was down ten dollars.
‘You need to concentrate,’ Billy advised him. ‘If I’m picking up fives don’t throw me another five.’
‘I didn’t know you were picking up fives.’
‘That’s because you weren’t paying attention. You’re so rich you can afford to lose money?’
Wycliff, who was basically broke when he hit town, now had a couple thousand dollars from the Lexus-BMW swap in his pocket (not his actual pocket, the money was hidden in his underwear and sock drawers), but he understood what Billy was talking about. Money doesn’t come easy and you don’t know when you’re going to see any more, so you have to be careful about what you do with it. Like not losing at gambling. Not gambling, period. Their father’s mantra, drummed into them like a tom-tom whenever they had approached him for school clothes or lunch money, had been money doesn’t grow on trees, you little assholes, usually followed by a dose of the strap. But this was penny-ante stuff with his brother. He was happy to lose a few bucks if it kept Billy from thinking about how little time he had left.
‘You know what I’d like for dinner?’ Billy said. It was late in the afternoon, coming on evening. They had been playing cards for hours. Wycliff was down over thirty dollars.
‘More champagne?’ He threw an eight of clubs and immediately remembered his brother has already picked up an eight. Pay attention, he admonished himself.
Billy scooped up the eight and threw a jack. Wycliff wasn’t collecting jacks. ‘Pizza. Thin crust, with mushrooms and peppers and extra cheese. From a real pizza parlor, not a chain.’
‘Is that on your diet?’ Wycliff was being careful to make sure Billy didn’t eat anything that could upset his system more than it already was.
‘Who cares? What’s it going to do, kill me?’ Billy laughed his throat-rattle laugh. He coughed up a wad of phlegm into a tissue. ‘I want to enjoy what time I have left, not hoard it like a miser counting his nickels and dimes.’
‘You’re right,’ Wycliff agreed. The man was at death’s door, why deny him a simple pleasure like that? ‘Where do you like it from? Some place not too far that delivers, it has to be.’
‘Pizza Royale on Sunset is good. Tell them it’s for me and they’ll deliver. What time is it?’
Wycliff checked the time on his new cell phone. ‘Ten after five.’
‘We’ll call at six and we can eat by seven. On me,’ he added.
Wycliff’s cell phone rang. He clutched – Charlotte dropping another shoe. She had a full wardrobe of them she could pile on him. ‘I’ll take this outside,’ he said, getting up from the table.
‘Got a honey on the line?’ Billy teased.
Wycliff didn’t answer. He went out onto the back patio. The phone was still ringing. He looked at the ID. It wasn’t Charlotte.
He answered it. ‘Hello?’
‘You called me,’ Amelia said. ‘What’s up?’
She would pick up the pizza and a bottle of wine along the way. ‘I want to meet your brother. You upended your life to be here for him, he must be special.’
‘He is. But you don’t have to do this. Driving across town at this time of day is brutal. Why not wait when it’s easier? He isn’t going anywhere.’
‘It’s never easy in LA, and I’ve got a hankering for pizza. Unless you don’t want me to come.’
‘Of course I do,’ he answered, maybe too hastily, but he wasn’t going to play it cool with her. ‘I think Billy will like meeting you.’
‘I’ll be my most charming. And I’m bringing pizza. He’s going to adore me.’
He will, Wycliff agreed silently. He’ll be surprised that a woman of her character would want to be with Wycliff, but he would certainly like her.
He went back inside. ‘Who was it?’ Billy asked out of idle curiosity.
‘The person who’s going to deliver the pizza.’
Billy was confused. ‘What are you talking about? Why would they call?’
‘It’s a mystery,’ Wycliff agreed. He couldn’t help but smile. ‘Which will explain itself, in its own time.’
It was love at first sight. Billy fell head over heels for Amelia. ‘Why haven’t you brought her here before?’ he cried out to Wycliff.
‘We just met, bro.’
‘You’re lucky, man.’ To Amelia: ‘He’s lucky.’
‘Of course he is,’ she answered, softly stroking Billy’s arm.
Wycliff, dazed, watched the two of them banter like they had been best friends forever. In his wildest dreams he couldn’t have imagined it this good. He had wanted her to come and he hadn’t. His life was compartmentalized. No two people that he knew knew each other. He had always lived that way. That was how he protected himself. Now he was naked.
Amelia plumped up Billy’s pillows. ‘Better?’ she asked.
‘Much.’
The pizza was excellent, as Billy had promised. They washed it down with a nice Santa Barbara County syrah. ‘The wine country up there is as beautiful as Napa,’ Amelia told Wycliff. ‘Have you ever been?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I just got here,’ he reminded her.
‘It would be a nice day-trip. The three of us,’ she said, making sure Billy was included. ‘We could rent a minivan, fix up the back like a bed, you would be as comfortable as you are here,’ she told Billy.
‘I’m up for it,’ Billy enthused.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Wycliff said. Charlotte had talked about taking the same trip, but without Billy. Going with Amelia and Billy would be much more fun.
As Wycliff knew would happen, his brother’s energy didn’t last. He faded as soon as dinner was over. Wycliff took him into the bathroom to wash him up before putting him to bed.
Billy suddenly convulsed, a forceful spasm. He leaned over the toilet and threw up most of his dinner. Wycliff held him steady over the rim until he was finished, then washed his face clean, brushed his teeth, and gave him a cup of mouthwash to gargle.
‘Don’t tell Amelia,’ Billy implored him.
‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’
‘Thanks.’ Billy’s smile was a grimace of embarrassment. Wycliff stripped him, washed him, changed his diaper, put fresh pajamas on, and helped him to bed. He was asleep within seconds.
They retreated into the kitchen so they wouldn’t disturb Billy, who could be a fragile sleeper. ‘You’re wonderful with him,’ Amelia said, keeping her voice low.
‘I don’t have a choice, so I might as well do it the best I can.’
‘Not everyone would.’
Not everyone had a shot at a million-dollar house and a substantial estate. Wycliff kept that thought to himself, even though he knew it wasn’t going to happen, and by now wasn’t the reason he was taking care of Billy anyway. ‘Thanks,’ he said, feeling embarrassed. ‘Coming from you, that means a lot.’
They went into his bedroom and started making out. Amelia came on strong, giving herself to him, no inhibitions this time. They stripped out of their clothes and made love. It wasn’t volcanic like with Charlotte, but it felt better. As her orgasm crescendoed she bit his shoulder to keep from crying out and waking Billy. Wycliff flashed that he would have a bodacious hickey tomorrow, which was probably the next time he would be having sex with Charlotte. She would demand to know who gave it to him. That would be a bitch to explain.
What a tangled web he was weaving.
Charlotte called at two thirty, long after Amelia, whose shift started at seven in the morning, had kissed him goodbye and left. Wycliff didn’t know what his schedule was going to be for the next few days, so he and she would play it by ear. Get together again as soon as possible, for sure. He had fallen asleep in a state of bliss. Charlotte’s phone call brought him crashing back to reality.
‘D
on’t you ever sleep?’ he complained, groggy from being awakened.
‘The early bird gets the worm. Where were you tonight?’
‘I told you. Here. With my brother.’
‘Just the two of you?’
She had to be spying on him. Not personally, she wouldn’t stoop to do the physical legwork. She would have hired a detective to track him and report back to her. He should have thought of that and taken steps to cover his tracks.
He got out of bed, padded into the dark living room, and peeked out through the drawn blinds. The street was empty, no traffic, a puddle of light from a single street lamp halfway down the block, otherwise dark. No one was out there that he could see, but that meant nothing. A decent detective wouldn’t be in the open. His paranoia was coming on stronger. But paranoia doesn’t come out of nowhere, he reminded himself. There has to be a basis in reality.
Her focus was like a laser. ‘Was there someone else there?’
Stop being afraid of your shadow, he cursed at himself. ‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘I knew it!’ Her voice was triumphant. ‘Who was it? Don’t lie to me.’
‘A nurse.’ Not a lie.
‘A nurse?’ That threw her. ‘Has something happened to your brother? Has he gotten worse?’
‘He gets worse every day.’
‘I know that.’ She sounded subdued, suddenly passive rather than aggressive. ‘I meant something specific.’
‘He was having trouble breathing.’ Again, not a complete lie. Billy was continuously having trouble breathing. He was on the oxygen tank part of every day, some days more than others. Today, actually, he hadn’t needed it as much. But Charlotte didn’t have to know that.
‘Emphysema,’ Charlotte said, as if she knew.
‘It’s everything.’ Awake now, the cobwebs cleared from his brain, he played a trump card. ‘If you actually saw him, you’d understand.’
‘I’ve already told you. I can’t do that.’
He had guessed right, she wouldn’t come here, no matter what. In the past, her refusal hadn’t mattered to him, one way or the other. He had attributed it to queasiness, being around a dying man who was physically repellent. But now he wasn’t sure if that was the reason. ‘Why not?’ he asked, pushing her.
‘I just can’t,’ she said testily. ‘Please do not bring the subject up again.’
‘Fine, I won’t. But then don’t be bugging me about not being able to be with you whenever you want. It isn’t always possible.’
‘I understand. So will I see you tonight?’ She seemed to be almost pleading, while trying not to.
‘It’s after two in the morning, Charlotte. I’ll find out what’s going on later.’
‘And you’ll call and let me know?’
This time he hung up without answering.
FOURTEEN
‘Wear your suit. The dark shoes that go with it, a fresh white shirt, and a tie, of course. Make sure the suit is pressed and the shoes are polished. Pick me up at seven.’
There she was again, this time instructing him on how to dress, like he was ten years old. I’m not the same man I was when you met me, he contemplated reminding her; but that impulse only lasted for a second. He didn’t sweat small stuff like this anymore. He told her he understood the drill, and let the bile pass out of his system.
Earlier, Amelia had called. She had to work an emergency double shift, so she wasn’t free tonight, and Ricardo was back on the job, so he was available to be with Charlotte after all. He thought about lying, using Billy as an excuse, but he decided not to. Charlotte would find out in the end and there would be more hell to pay. He had bought his ticket to ride, and she would decide when it was time for him to get off.
Besides, he had a different perspective on their relationship now, so he could be with her and not feel like he was falling down a rabbit hole. She was a fascinating woman. She was helping him broaden his horizons, and would continue to do so. And, of course, she was insane in bed. That still counted for a lot. Yes, she was using him, how and why, he still didn’t know. But he could use her, too. There was some rough balance in their relationship now, and that gave him a feeling of security.
‘You would be on time.’ Charlotte was wearing a robe, stockings, no shoes. Her makeup was only partially done – he could see age lines and blotches where she hadn’t put on foundation yet. She scampered back into her bedroom. ‘Fix yourself a drink. You know where everything is.’ The bedroom door closed behind her.
He would pass on imbibing. Wherever she was taking him would be serving alcohol. He was going light on the booze tonight. Stay sharp, keep his wits about him. He didn’t want Charlotte to have an edge.
He crossed the room and opened the side table drawer where he had put the gun. He didn’t want it, but he was curious to know if it was still there. It was. He picked it up and hefted it in his hand. Heavy, solid. Beautiful, in its lethal way. He cracked the cylinder. It was loaded, the same as the last time he’d handled it.
Why did he want to know if the gun was there, he wondered. The security of feeling you’re in control if there’s a weapon at hand? He didn’t want a gun on his person. He couldn’t afford the risk. But he felt a sense of security that it was here. He put it back where he had found it and closed the drawer. He walked back into the living room, picked up a recent issue of Vogue from the coffee table, and leafed through it blankly.
Charlotte, now in heels and full makeup, came out of her bedroom. ‘Zip me up, darling.’ She turned her back to him. He slid the zipper up her back, the tips of his fingers tickling her spine, leaning forward and inhaling the perfume on the back of her neck. She smelled good. She always smelled good.
‘Later,’ she said, reading his mind as she squeezed his hand. ‘We don’t have time now.’
He would have fun tonight, he thought, as they rode the elevator down to his car in the garage. He would meet some of whoever they are. The big deals of society, presumably, movie moguls, kings of real estate, financial wizards, celebrities whose pictures were plastered in People. Maybe some of the Kardashian girls would be there, like the one married to the basketball player. That would be cool, meeting an actual star athlete.
No Kardashians. No celebrities at all that he recognized. Most of the guests milling around were middle aged and older, the men dressed like him (they looked at ease in their expensive suits, which he didn’t), the women in fashionable cocktail dresses.
Charlotte, comfortable in this milieu, air-kissed like a pro. The greetings were generic: sweetheart, darling. It seemed to Wycliff that no one here really knew each other but were acting as if they were best friends forever. If there were any actual actors in the bunch they weren’t people Wycliff knew of or had seen.
Aside from the suits, a small minority of the crowd were his age or younger. Artists of various kinds: painters, musicians, writers, according to Charlotte, who was giving him a whispered running commentary as this and that face passed in front of them. The younger men were not in suits. They had on T-shirts and torn jeans; a different kind of uniform, but still a uniform. The women wore mini-skirts that barely covered their behinds. There was an excellent representation of tattoos and body piercings on both men and women. No one from this crowd of either sex gave him a second look. He was on the other side of the border.
The event, an art-opening benefit for some charity Wycliff had never heard of, was being held in a gallery in West Los Angeles, near the Design Center. Wait staff circulated the large space, bearing trays of wine and unappetizing hors d’oeuvres. Paintings by the featured artist hung on the walls. The paintings were massive nudes of both sexes, showing huge asses and tits and thighs and cocks in contorted sexual postures. Kind of cool, Wycliff thought as he looked them over, although he couldn’t imagine having one in his house on an everyday basis. It was like porn: you look at that stuff too much, it doesn’t turn you on anymore.
‘Do you think he’s stolen more from Francis Bacon or Lucien Freud?’
; Wycliff turned to face the man standing behind him who had asked the question. Mid-to-late forties, thin, hair slicked back in a Fred Astaire Brylcreem comb-over, in his double-breasted Versace suit looking like he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ. As to the man’s question, he didn’t have a clue.
‘Freud, of course,’ Charlotte answered for him, her arm entwining with his. ‘Don’t be a show-off, John, it confirms your lack of breeding.’
‘I’m only a coal-miner’s son, what do you expect from me, finesse?’ the man bantered back. ‘It’s good to see you, darling.’
They air-kissed. Wycliff kept his distance. He didn’t want some guy kissing him, even if no skin touched.
The man held Charlotte’s hand in his fingers. ‘Are you keeping busy?’ he asked, looking from her to Wycliff, who was beginning to feel like a butterfly ensnared in a collector’s net.
‘Busy enough. You know me, I have a Mexican jumping bean in my DNA.’
The man turned to Wycliff. ‘John Cummings,’ he said, extending his hand.
‘How rude of me,’ Charlotte interjected. ‘John, say hello to Wycliff.’
The men shook hands. ‘Good to meet you,’ Cummings said. ‘What brings you out on this dark and stormy night? Aside from the company of this charming lady?’
Charlotte answered for Wycliff again. ‘He is a friend, from out of town.’
‘Whereabouts?’ Cummings asked in a tone that implied he couldn’t care less about where Wycliff was from or anything else about him. He was making cocktail party small talk, nothing more.
This time Charlotte didn’t speak up, so Wycliff answered the question himself. ‘Arizona. Tucson.’
‘I like Tucson,’ Cummings said, as if he actually meant it. ‘Clean air, great golf, still livable, unlike here.’ He opened his arms wide, embracing Los Angeles, California, the entire west coast.
‘So move there,’ Charlotte chided him. ‘You can play golf to your heart’s content.’
‘Maybe when I retire,’ Cummings answered. ‘My work here is not yet done.’
‘John manages a hedge fund,’ Charlotte explained to Wycliff. ‘He’s very successful.’
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 12
