It was past midnight. He went outside. Another drink, another cigarette. He felt numb. Not calm, rather no feeling at all. At least that was better than feeling he was about to jump out of his skin.
He was in over his head, way over. He needed an escape hatch, but he had no idea what it could be. Beat the rap? If he did, what then? Would he actually be able to live like a civilian, obey the rules, be quote productive unquote? Have an ongoing relationship? Make a living beyond the day to day?
He’d had a simple plan. Blow into town, con his sick brother out of some money, get the fuck out of Dodge. He had pulled off the first part: he was here. The rest had not gone the way he had planned, not remotely. Up was down, right was left, in some ways he felt more connected to the world than he ever had, in others he was totally out to sea.
One step at a time. Be present for his brother until the end. Get the money from Laurie. He would see about the rest later. Right now, those two things were all he could handle.
He finished his cigarette and whiskey and stood, stretching, looking up at the sky. Too many streetlights to see any stars. The moon was hidden behind a cloud. He went back inside.
The house was dark except for a solitary night light, glowing like a lightning bug, which was plugged into a socket near Billy’s bed. Wycliff gently lifted his brother’s arm and felt his wrist for a pulse, as he did a dozen times a day.
There was none.
He leaned over and put his ear near Billy’s mouth. No breath.
Softly: ‘Billy.’ Again: ‘Billy.’
No answer.
He could call the paramedics like he had done before, but his brother had made the decision: no heroic gestures. Do not keep me alive artificially.
He went into the bathroom, found a small hand mirror, and held it up to Billy’s mouth. The mirror remained clear, not a trace of fog.
One more time, he checked for a pulse. Neck, heart.
He kissed his brother on the forehead and called Sadie.
TWENTY-THREE
The funeral, at Forest Lawn, was held at sunrise, per Billy’s instructions. It was not private, but it was sparsely attended nonetheless. The lack of mourners pissed Wycliff off. His brother had enriched people’s lives. Why weren’t more of them here to pay their last respects? They couldn’t haul their sorry asses out of bed to say goodbye to a friend?
As the sun broke through, the minister, a functionary provided by the mortuary, droned out a laundry list of homilies. He didn’t recite anything about who Billy actually was, what his unique achievements were, his bold struggle against the scourge. Wycliff stood silent as he listened. The minister had asked if he had anything to say; Wycliff had declined. What was the point? He and his brother had been estranged all their lives, now one was alive and one was dead. For some, life moves on. For others, it doesn’t.
Amelia was supportive, as usual. She rubbed Wycliff’s back as the minister sputtered to his conclusion. The ceremony was over and done with in less than fifteen minutes. After Wycliff threw the first clog of earth on the coffin, Amelia picked up a handful and threw it on top of his. By the time the cemetery workers had half shoveled the dirt over his coffin, the crowd had dispersed.
They walked to his car. Stanley came over to them. He seemed nervous as he approached. Wycliff stopped and waited for him to catch up.
‘I’m sorry,’ Stanley began. His voice was quivering.
‘Thanks,’ Wycliff answered. The man had shown up. Reason enough to treat him civilly. ‘Me, too.’
‘I just wanted to say …’ Stanley flushed. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. His eyes were red; he had been crying. ‘What you did made a lot of difference for him. His friends really appreciate that. I appreciate that.’
Wycliff was surprised and touched. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled.
‘Whatever I feel about you,’ Stanley continued, ‘it doesn’t matter. You were there for him in the end.’
He stuck out his hand. Wycliff took it. The hand was sweaty. He had been sweaty when Wycliff had first encountered him. He hadn’t changed. Wycliff had.
‘Thank you,’ Wycliff told him. ‘He really valued your friendship. He spoke of you often.’
The man’s eyes lit up behind his Coke-bottle lenses. ‘He did?’
‘Yes. He said you were a great friend. Someone who had been there for him when the going got tough.’
Stanley blushed. ‘I loved him. Others did, too.’
‘I know,’ Wycliff said. ‘He was well loved.’
Stanley turned and trotted away towards a couple of other men who were watching with wary eyes. Wycliff watched them get into their cars and drive off. Amelia took his hand. ‘He’s the man who was house-sitting for your brother before you came?’
Wycliff nodded. ‘I treated him like shit. I feel like an asshole now.’
‘Don’t.’ She took his hand. ‘It’s time to go.’
Wycliff had sprung for a nice deli spread, plus wine, beer, and sodas, but only a handful of mourners showed up at the house. The few who came had a quick drink and a bite to eat and left. Wycliff surveyed the untouched trays of food with annoyance: what a waste of money. He went outside and had a smoke.
Amelia came out to join him. ‘No one’s left,’ she said. ‘I’ll wrap the food up and put it in the refrigerator.’
‘I’m not going to eat it. Take it to a food bank.’
‘You sure?’
He nodded.
She rubbed his back. ‘I have to go to work, honey. I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t.’
‘I know. Thanks for being here.’
‘Of course I would be here,’ she told him. ‘You know that.’
He kissed her. They held onto each other for a moment.
‘I’m going to miss him,’ she said. ‘He had real soul.’
‘That he did.’ Wycliff dropped his butt and stubbed it out with his foot. ‘Tomorrow I’ll start packing up. It won’t take long. I don’t have much. Just my personal stuff.’
‘You can stay with me,’ she offered.
He cupped her neck and drew her to him. ‘Thanks. I may take you up on that temporarily, but I need to find my own place.’
‘You can’t stay here?’
‘Not for long. Once the will is settled …’ He shrugged.
She nodded in understanding. ‘I’ll call you later.’
They kissed again and she left. The house was empty. He poured himself a drink and had another cigarette to go with it.
Laurie opened her door almost before he knocked. She pulled him inside and slammed the door behind him, double-locking it.
‘I’ve been jumping out of my skin waiting to see you,’ she scolded him. ‘Why didn’t you come earlier?’ She wasn’t holding it together very well. ‘It’s been three days!’
‘I had other business to take care of.’ He wasn’t going to tell her what that business was. The less she knew about him, the better. ‘And I didn’t want to show my face here too soon. I didn’t want to run into anybody.’
Wycliff had checked her building out thoroughly before entering it. He couldn’t see that anyone was watching. There was no logical reason for that, but he had to be extra cautious with everything about her. This was a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He had to keep her calm at all costs.
She slumped onto her living room couch. ‘My life has been utter hell. My in-laws, the police. Question after question. Everyone’s been solicitous of the poor widow, but underneath you can feel the accusations. No one has come straight out and said I had anything to do with killing her, but I can feel the tension. It’s no secret we hated each other. Her family knew that, and I’m sure they told the police.’
She laughed, a high nervous laugh, then she coughed harshly. There was a glass of water on the side table next to her. Wycliff picked it up and handed it to her. She gulped it down.
‘The cops described you,’ she went on. ‘Not your face, I don’t think they have any idea what you look like, they only have tha
t witness who saw you from the back. They asked if I knew anyone who fit your description. I told them I knew dozens of men who did. From the gym, from where I shop, where I used to work.’
From the way she was telling it, they didn’t have a description of any of his features. So there was no other eye-witness, at least not so far. Every day that held up the case grew colder. All to the good.
‘I have to get going,’ he told her.
‘You want your money.’
‘That’s why I’m here. You know that.’
She struck a pose. ‘It’s not to see me, too?’
This woman had been trouble from the get-go. Why did he think that was going to change?
‘I’m happy to see you, Laurie, but let’s take care of business, okay?’
She pouted. It felt phony. ‘Whatever you say.’
He followed her into her bedroom. The suitcase in her closet was the same Samsonite the first payment had been in. Wycliff picked it up. It was heavy. He laid it on the bed and opened it.
Stacks of bills, like before. She had come through.
He had a second backpack with him, from the same store where he had bought the first one. He started transferring the money.
‘Aren’t you going to count it?’ she asked, hovering behind him.
He didn’t look back at her as he kept transferring the stacks. ‘I trust you.’ On this. Anything else, no way in hell.
The transfer didn’t take long. He zipped the pack up and turned to her.
She had taken off her blouse and bra. Her naked breasts were cupped in her hands, thrusting up at him. ‘We’re finished with our business now,’ she said tantalizingly.
Wycliff tried to look away, but he couldn’t. They were gorgeous. Real or fake, it didn’t matter. He felt himself getting hard. He cursed his relentless sexual nature.
‘You want me. I know you do.’
It took all the self-control he had, but he managed to force himself not to reach out for her. ‘We can’t do this, Laurie.’
She took a step towards him. ‘Your eyes have been falling out of your head since the first time you saw me,’ she mocked him. ‘Now you can have these. And everything else.’
Think with your brain for once instead of your cock. ‘It’s too dangerous for us to be together. I fit the police description.’
‘The police don’t know shit,’ she retorted in anger. ‘They want the family to think they’re on the case. They pretty much came out and told me that.’
‘But they’re still going to keep an eye on you. If they see me they’ll wonder who I am, start to nose around. That’s no good, Laurie. We can’t take the chance.’
She paused, looking him over as if trying to see if he was telling her the truth, and if it didn’t matter. Her expression became glum as she saw he wasn’t going to succumb to her.
‘You’re right,’ she said, sounding deflated. ‘I was thinking with my heart, not my head. I was hoping you would, too. But you won’t.’
He exhaled. His bones were jelly.
‘Obviously, I’m attracted to you,’ she said. She tried to force a self-effacing laugh, but it fell flat. ‘But you’re right. We need to cut this off cleanly, before we do something we’ll both regret.’ Another sorrowful breath. ‘You won’t hear from me again.’ Wycliff left the apartment before she could change her mind.
A FedEx envelope was on the doorstep when he got back to the house. Inside, a single page legal document, informing him that his brother’s estate would be probated the following Wednesday, at his lawyer’s office. His presence was requested.
He carried the backpack inside and stashed it in the closet with the first one. One hundred thousand dollars in each. More money than he’d ever thought he would have in his entire life. The backpacks were practically glowing, they were so hot. He needed to get them out of here, to a more secure place.
One detail above all worried him. He had been trying to put the thought out of his mind, but couldn’t. How had Laurie been able to come up with two hundred thousand dollars in cash? Maybe she was richer than she said she was. But then why would she be living in a nondescript apartment in the regular-people section of Beverly Hills? Unless her late husband had given her more money than she had let on, and she didn’t want his kids to know about it, because it would jeopardize her claim for more. That would make sense, if anything about this fiasco made sense.
He knew nothing of her background. The story she had fed him about her life could be a pack of lies. Hell, he lied about practically everything. Why should he be surprised if others did the same? Everyone wants to reinvent themselves as someone better, more special. He was doing that on the fly, day after day. Why shouldn’t others do the same?
What upset him more than anything was him. This was the second woman he didn’t know anything about who had seduced him into being her partner in crime. It had been bad enough with Charlotte and her crazy jewelry scam. But his situation with Laurie was on a much different level. Murder for hire, that’s life without parole, or the needle. What kind of moron allows himself to be duped like this, over and over again? All he had to do to find out was look in the mirror.
You can’t turn back the clock, no matter how much you want to. He had the money, that was the bottom line. How Laurie had gotten it was not his business. He had too much on his own plate to take care of to worry about someone else’s problems.
The house felt claustrophobic. He locked up, jumped in his car, and took off.
He had no destination in mind. He took Sunset over to Santa Monica Boulevard, stopping in a convenience store in west Los Angeles for a six-pack of Sierra Nevada out of the cooler, continuing west into Santa Monica, Wilshire to Ocean Avenue, down the incline to Highway 1, north past the Palisades, past Topanga Canyon, the ocean on his left, shimmering in the sunlight. He drove through Malibu, past Trancas, past Zuma Beach, until he got to Leo Carrillo State Beach, almost to the Ventura County line. He parked in the public lot on the beach side and got out of his car. He cracked one of his cold brews and drank it with a cigarette, sitting on the hood of his car, staring out to the water, the horizon where the ocean meets the sky.
He had arrived in Los Angeles driving a stolen car, a thousand dollars in his pocket, eight hundred of that also stolen, and the clothes on his back. Now he had a wardrobe full of fancy threads, a car clean enough to fool the cops, and two hundred thousand dollars stashed away in his dead brother’s closet. In his wildest dreams he could never have imagined having two hundred thousand dollars. By any standard he had ever set for himself he had it made.
He could stay or he could go. If he left, he could put his worries behind him. Two hundred thousand dollars would last him a long, long time. He could settle down in some out of the way town and buy himself a little business. You see these ads for low-rent franchises: laundromats, car washes, hardware stores. He could take a community college class in how to run a business, learn basic bookkeeping. If he did it right and stayed under the radar, he could be set for life. Lots of people did. He could, too.
If he stayed, what? He could still start a business. LA was a good town, better than most. But that was not enough reason to stay here, particularly with two murders hanging over his head.
If he left, he would be on his own again. Like he had always been, his entire life. If he stayed, he could be with Amelia. They could have a life together. He had never been in love before.
Hard choice, but no choice. He couldn’t leave, at least not yet. If the police wound up closing in on him, he’d rethink his position. For now, he had to stay here. He had to give himself a chance.
He had a pair of running shorts and a towel in his trunk from when he had gone to the gym to work out. He shucked his clothes in the back seat of his car. What a lame-ass farmer’s body, he thought, looking at his naked torso. Dark as an Arab on the arms, whiter than milk on his body and shoulders. He needed to be careful or he’d get burnt to shit, he didn’t have any lotion. He put on his shorts, got out of
the car, and walked across the expanse of sand, past the wind-surfers in their wet suits, the hot college girls in their skimpy two-pieces. At the water’s edge he stuck in a foot to feel the temperature – cold but tolerable – and kept going until the surf was at his waist, then he plunged in and swam out past the breakers. He rolled over on his back and floated.
Of course she wanted to see him, Charlotte said when he called her. She sounded angry. He wondered if she was miffed because he hadn’t invited her to the funeral. She had been forceful about not having any contact with his brother while he was alive, so he had assumed she wouldn’t want to be present when he was laid to rest. Maybe he’d been wrong. But she hadn’t asked him about how the funeral had gone, so she couldn’t have been too concerned.
‘Where in the world have you been?’ she exclaimed as she opened her front door. His hair was damp from swimming. He smelled of salt water.
‘Swimming in the ocean,’ he replied. ‘Good for what ails you. You ought to try it.’
She looked horrified at the suggestion. ‘At my age, sunlight is poison. You need a bath,’ she told him, wrinkling her nose. ‘I’ll draw one for you. Get out of those clothes. I’ll throw them in the washing machine.’
She went into the bathroom. He heard water running. Before he took his clothes off he put the revolver back in the drawer. He got undressed and went into the bathroom.
Charlotte, wearing a terry cloth robe, was waiting for him. ‘I’ll join you.’
‘Are you seeing someone?’ They were lying in bed, smoking their customary post-coitus cigarette.
‘Yes,’ he answered. No more lying. Not about this.
She ran her fingernails along his thigh. ‘I knew you would, sooner or later. Is she classy?’
‘Very,’ he answered. His throat felt constricted.
‘Good. I wouldn’t want to be sharing you with a floozy.’ Her fingers moved further up his leg. ‘Will we keep seeing each other?’
I hope not, he prayed. ‘Sure we will,’ he told her. Sometimes, you have to lie. ‘I can’t resist you, Charlotte. You know that.’ That wasn’t a lie.
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 19
