She shook her head. ‘I don’t know that. What I know is that nothing is permanent. It’s foolish to try and convince yourself otherwise.’
He wished he had her hard-headed objectivity. He’d be a lot better off.
‘When do you want me to set up a meeting with John?’ she asked, abruptly changing the subject. ‘You have the time now.’
He had been too busy to think about that since the murders and Billy’s death. Now that the opportunity was concrete, the idea of turning over his money to someone he didn’t know was scary. He had earned that money in blood. But he had to do something with it, he couldn’t leave the situation as it was.
‘In a couple of days,’ he parried. ‘I have some stuff to take care of first.’
‘Whenever you’re ready, just let me know.’ Her roaming fingers reached his penis. He lay back against the pillows and moaned.
TWENTY-FOUR
There were dozens of contractor’s licensing schools in the area advertising on the Internet. They all charged about the same, $700, which included study DVDs, a weekend of class work, and the two-day state exam. Must not be too hard to pass, Wycliff thought, if they offer a money-back guarantee. He had worked construction on and off for years. Framing, drywall, electrical, plumbing. He could practically build a house from scratch. Many was the time when he had done the actual work for the contractor of record, who instead of framing a door or pouring a foundation was boffing the owner’s wife or knocking down brewskis in the local bar.
Contracting would be a good career for him. It was more up his alley than starting a business he didn’t know anything about, or investing in the stock market, of which he knew even less. You didn’t need a college degree to become a contractor, like so many damn jobs required these days. You practically needed a diploma from Harvard to make cappuccinos at Starbucks these days, the competition for jobs was so fierce. He had never done well working for others. With a contractor’s license, he could be his own boss. Use some of the backpack money to seed a new business, the rest would be a cushion against hard times. He knew a hell of a lot about hard times. It was the cushioning part that was strange.
He looked up various schools and chose one in Glendale, fifteen minutes away on the freeway. The paperwork was easy. and it didn’t take him long to fill out the forms. The young Latina receptionist, who would have been cute if she hadn’t had awful acne, asked him to wait while they were checked over, it wouldn’t take long.
He hadn’t even finished one article in Guns and Ammo when he was summoned to meet the supervisor in his office. The office, behind the reception area, was utilitarian: a desk, one chair behind it and one in front, a row of filing cabinets against the back wall. Some photos of youth sports teams the company sponsored. The only window looked out on the back of a Taco Bell dumpster. The supervisor was Mexican, about his age. Wycliff’s knowing eye told him ex-service or ex-prison or both. He could have been a relative of Juan in Sunland, the dude he had sold the stolen car to, their faces had a certain reptilian similarity. This guy looked like he was a workout freak; his muscles bulged under his T-shirt. He tapped an approving knuckle on Wycliff’s application.
‘You’re more than qualified,’ he told Wycliff. ‘Any particular area you’re interested in?’ He slid a sheet of paper across the desk to Wycliff. It listed all the classifications available.
Wycliff looked them over. ‘I could go different ways,’ he hedged. ‘Where’s the steady work these days?’
‘The standards,’ the supervisor answered. ‘Drywall, framing, plumbing, electrical, tile, painting, welding. You can’t go wrong with any of them.’
‘If you were starting out, what would you choose?’
‘Plumbing, but that’s because my brother-in-law already has an up-and-running company. Nepotism has its benefits. You got anyone you could partner up with?’
‘No,’ Wycliff answered. ‘It’s just me.’ He made his decision. ‘Let me go for painting.’ He had done that in the past and liked it. It wasn’t just grunt work. Mixing and matching colors took real artistry. And you were often outside, not always crouched under a sink or sub-floor. Learn the ropes working under a seasoned painting contractor, then go out on his own.
‘Good choice,’ the supervisor said. ‘The housing market’s heating up again, everybody’s remodeling. Painting’s at the top of the list.’ He reached into a filing cabinet and took out a handful of pamphlets, which he passed over. ‘General contractors are looking high and low for good painters. You won’t have any trouble finding steady work.’
He explained the procedures to Wycliff. Home study, class study, on-the-job training, state exam. If Wycliff hustled, he could be licensed in three months and go to work the following day.
‘One thing we do in-house, which you won’t get from most other schools, is Live Scan Fingerprinting. We do everything for you here, applications, paperwork, fingerprinting, the whole ball of wax. Saves you the time and aggravation.’
A three-alarm fire bell went off in Wycliff’s head. ‘You need to be fingerprinted to get a license?’ he asked.
‘State requirement,’ the supervisor answered. ‘Going back to nine-eleven. They want to weed out the deviates and criminals.’
Wycliff drew back. ‘That could be a problem.’
The supervisor gave him a knowing look. ‘You have a record?’
‘Yeah, I do,’ Wycliff admitted.
‘What, when, and where?’
‘Petty larceny. Florida. About fifteen years ago.’
‘Prison or jail?’
‘Ten months in the county jail. No prison. Nothing after that.’
The supervisor sat back, at ease. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. The state’s big on rehabilitation. If they disqualified every swinging dick who had done time, there wouldn’t be nobody left to do nothing.’ He smiled and winked. ‘Long as your crime wasn’t something heavy, like rape or child molestation or murder.’
Wycliff forced a smile in return. ‘None of the above.’ He scooped up the pamphlets. ‘Let me look these over, and I’ll get back to you real fast.’
Make his fingerprints available to the state? He might as well walk into a police station and give himself up for the murders as do that.
He called Charlotte.
Cummings was already seated on a comfortable couch in the lounge of the Beverly Wilshire hotel when Wycliff, cleaned up and dressed in his coolest threads, arrived. The dude has style, Wycliff noticed admiringly. Three in the afternoon and he’s drinking champagne. Cummings stood up and gave Wycliff a warm smile and a firm handshake. ‘Good to see you again,’ he said. He hoisted his glass. ‘Care to join me?’
‘Sure.’
‘The same for my friend, please,’ Cummings told a passing waiter. Wycliff lowered himself into an overstuffed easy chair. The waiter returned with a glass of bubbly for Wycliff. He hovered discreetly.
‘Care for something to eat?’ Cummings offered.
‘No,’ Wycliff answered. ‘I’m not hungry.’
His appetite had gone south the moment he’d put several bullets into two strangers. Eating was torture now. Just the thought of food made him want to puke. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach, but he couldn’t turn down such an extravagant gesture. This is how rich people do it. He could learn through imitation.
He took a sip of his champagne. Cold and dry, the way he liked it. Charlotte had taught him that. She was a good teacher for this kind of stuff.
Cummings didn’t waste time. ‘How much do you want to invest?’
Wycliff felt his stomach tightening. ‘Two hundred thousand dollars.’ Merely saying the words freaked him out. ‘I know you usually require more to start off, but Charlotte told me …’
Cummings put up a hand to stop him. ‘Two hundred thousand is fine. A good beginning.’
That’s all there’s going to be, Wycliff thought, but he wasn’t going to say that. He wanted Cummings to think he was a player. Players don’t stop at two
hundred thousand.
‘When do you want to do it?’
Wycliff thought of the backpacks. They were like landmines, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. ‘As soon as possible,’ he said.
Cummings nodded as if Wycliff had given the correct answer. ‘That’s good to hear, because I’m about to jump into a new investment that’s going to be one of the best deals I’ve ever done. It has all the elements I require: it’s short-term, liquid, meaning we can get in and out anytime we want, and it’s ready to take off like a rocket. You know what Google is, of course.’
Wycliff nodded. Everyone knew what Google was. With Facebook, it ruled the universe.
‘Do you know how fast the price rose after their initial public offering?’
Wycliff didn’t know shit about stocks. He had never owned one in his life. ‘Not really,’ he said, hoping Cummings wouldn’t see him for the ignorant hick he was.
‘It doubled in less than six months,’ Cummings said. ‘Even after the worst recession any of us has ever seen and knock wood ever will see it’s worth almost ten times what it was when it began.’ He leaned forward, as if about to tell Wycliff a secret. ‘Let’s say you had put your two hundred thousand dollars into Google when it opened. It was a no-brainer, everyone knew the stock would go up. In six months, you would have doubled your money. Four hundred thousand. Tidy profit, no?’
‘Yes,’ Wycliff concurred. Even a nincompoop could figure that out.
‘So would we wait and see if it’ll do better?’ Cummings continued. ‘Make even more money? Really fatten up the hog?’
Wycliff stared at him, tongue-tied. Was he expecting an answer to that question, too? He didn’t have one.
‘No,’ Cummings said, answering his own question. ‘We do not. We get out, we pocket our profits, we move on. That’s the secret in gambling, which the market is, a gamble. But unlike Las Vegas or your local Indian casino, the bettor has information. He has the odds in his favor if he does his homework. And believe me, I do my homework.’ He sipped more champagne. ‘So what do you think, my friend? Are you ready to give this a shot?’
Here it was, the moment of truth. ‘Yes.’
Cummings beamed. ‘Excellent. You have the money in your bank account, I assume.’ His face went serious. ‘I heard about your brother’s untimely death. I’m very sorry.’ He paused for a moment of commiseration. ‘I’ll draw up an agreement between us for you to sign and we’ll arrange for a wire transfer of the funds. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two. We do this whenever a new investor joins the team.’
‘It’s in cash.’
Cummings looked up. ‘Excuse me?’
‘The two hundred thousand is in cash. Not in a bank.’
Cummings sat up straight. ‘Oh,’ he said.
So much for being a player. Legit people don’t deal with backpacks stuffed with small bills. Maybe Vegas actually was the way to go.
‘That won’t be a problem,’ Cummings said.
Expecting the opposite answer, Wycliff was surprised. ‘It won’t?’
‘No. Plenty of my clients squirrel some of their money away in cash. With all the problems the banks have been having with the government, who can blame them? Can you bring the money to my office?’
The sooner the better, Wycliff thought. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Cummings took some documents out of his briefcase and laid them out on the table. ‘Information that will get you started,’ he explained. ‘Some of our ongoing accounts, to give you an idea of our diversity. We’ll be starting a new account geared specifically for you, because every client is treated individually.’ He tapped a finger on the documents. ‘Look these over. If you have any questions, jot them down and we’ll go over everything. I’ll call you when I have your paperwork ready.’ He stood up. ‘I’m looking forward to this. You come highly recommended.’
Wycliff stood with him. ‘Thanks. So do you.’
‘See you soon.’ Cummings dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table. ‘That should cover our drinks.’ He picked up his briefcase and walked away.
Wycliff sat back down, sagging into the comfortable cushions. Here we go, he thought. Here we go.
The waiter materialized. ‘Did you want change, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I do,’ Wycliff said.
He waited for the waiter to return with the change. Two glasses of champagne, fifty bucks. The champagne wasn’t even that good; Charlotte’s was better. He left a ten-dollar tip and pocketed the rest.
TWENTY-FIVE
Amelia swapped shifts with a co-worker so she could take the weekend off, starting Friday night. She and Wycliff spent every minute of their two and a half days together, a lot of it in bed. Wycliff was jittery and uptight, especially at the beginning, which she assumed was due to his brother’s death. He didn’t correct her misunderstanding.
Besides making love, they talked. Wycliff had already unloaded about himself – now it was her turn. Her history was unremarkable. Third of four children, working-class parents: father a postal worker, mother a stay-at-home mom when the kids were younger, later worked part-time for a local woman’s clothing store. One brother was career Army, the other brother a long-haul trucker. Her younger sister was a schoolteacher, married to a barber who owned his own shop. All her siblings were or had been married, all except her had children.
‘I can’t conceive,’ she told him. ‘I had ovarian cancer shortly after I completed nursing school. My ovaries were removed. It’s been fifteen years and no recurrence, so I’m officially cured, knock wood.’
They were in bed, drinking wine. She had cooked dinner and they had gotten into bed right after, leaving the dishes in the sink for later. They had made love, and now they were enjoying the after-sex glow. ‘I was married then,’ she went on, ‘but he wanted kids and didn’t want to adopt, so we divorced.’
‘I’m sorry you had cancer,’ Wycliff replied. ‘And I’m glad you don’t anymore.’
‘How do you feel about children?’ she asked him directly. ‘You don’t have any, do you?’ More a statement than a question. From everything she knew about him, she assumed he didn’t.
‘No kids,’ he confirmed. ‘I’ve never been married, so I’ve never thought much about it.’
The idea of having kids was ludicrous. His childhood had been an unmitigated disaster. He had no good models for being a parent; it was the reverse, all negative. The thought of being responsible for children scared the shit out of him. He could barely handle taking responsibility for himself. The horrendous events of the past several days presented stark confirmation of that.
What she was really asking him, he knew, was if her inability to have children was a deal-breaker. It wasn’t. If anything, it was a positive. He wasn’t going to tell her that, though; not yet, anyway. That would imply a level of commitment he didn’t know if he wanted to make, or could make.
He had never enjoyed being with a woman this much. His relationships had always been shallow, mostly about sex, not the deeper stuff that makes for a real relationship. He had never been in a real relationship. He didn’t know if he was capable of being in one. But he sure felt good being with her.
They drank wine, slept, woke up, made love, drank more wine, and slept until morning. She wanted to make breakfast but he insisted it was his turn to serve her. He brought her coffee in bed and made French toast, another thing he had learned to do in the joint, when he was able to pull kitchen duty. They took their food outside and ate on the back porch. Then they went back inside and got into bed again. In the afternoon they watched the Dodgers play the Giants on the Fox game of the week, followed by the local news (no mention of the murders) and a CD, Out Of The Past, from Billy’s extensive collection of classic films. Dinner was take-out Mexican. Then more sex, and sleep.
By Sunday afternoon, he was hooked. He had been hooked earlier, but he wouldn’t cop to it emotionally. Now he had to. He couldn’t keep his feelings bottled up any longer.
She fel
t the same way about him. She had worried about that. Her marriage falling apart the way it did had soured her on relationships for a long time. Wycliff was the first man she had slept with since her husband (that surprised and flattered him). Why she had spoken to him in the Minimart that first time they met, she couldn’t say. Why she had agreed to have coffee with him was still a mystery to her. But she was happy that she had, even though he was unlike any man she had been attracted to before. Maybe that was why she had fallen for him, because he was so different. Break the mould, start life afresh.
He would have to move out once his brother’s estate was settled, which would be soon. Her apartment was too small for the both of them, but she was on a month to month, so moving wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe they could find a place together on the west side. He had come to like this neighborhood and she did, too, but her daily commute to Santa Monica would be too long from here. He had no roots and no job yet, so he could live anywhere. It was a big decision, moving in together after knowing each other for such a short time, but it felt right, for both of them.
Monday morning they woke up early, had a quick fuck, showered together, drank coffee, and she was on her way to work. He lingered over a second cup, finished getting dressed, threw the backpacks in the trunk of his car, and drove to west Los Angeles.
Cummings’ office was in a small building west of Century City, near the Mormon Temple. Wycliff parked, lifted the money-crammed backpacks out of the trunk of his car, hefted one on each shoulder, and rode the elevator to the third floor.
The reception area was sparsely furnished, as if the occupant had recently moved in. No one was present. He dropped the backpacks on the empty desk. They landed with a thud. ‘Hello,’ he called out. ‘Anyone home?’
The door to the inner office opened. Cummings’ head popped out. ‘Hey,’ he greeted Wycliff. ‘Didn’t hear you come in.’ He was dressed in a sharp single-breasted suit, his crisp white shirt fastened at the wrists by gold doubloon cufflinks. ‘Excuse the mess.’ He grinned. ‘Or rather, the lack thereof. I just moved in here last week. I was operating the business out of my house, but it’s gotten too big. So now I’m one of the commuter ants.’ He threw up his arms in mock surrender. ‘We all make compromises in life to get what we want. In the end, we’re all whores. The only distinction is that some of us smell better than others.’
Turn Left at Doheny--A tough-edged crime novel set in Los Angeles Page 20
