Jericho Point

by Meg Gardiner

  Outside, in the alley behind the arcade, the red van cruised past. I hissed and jumped inside the dressing room, trying to get out of sight.

  Murphy Ming was waiting for me inside.

  He grabbed me and swept his hand across my mouth.

  ‘‘Rowan,’’ he crooned.

  He smelled like cooking grease. The drooping mustache gave him a lazy look, but agitation vexed his eyes. I pawed behind me for the doorknob.

  ‘‘You look wicked in this dress.’’

  I found the knob. As soon as I turned it, Murphy lifted me off my feet, swung me around as if we were waltzing, and pinned me against the mirror. He flattened himself along me like an enormous flank of meat. He brushed my neck with his lips.

  ‘‘The money.’’

  His breath was humid on my skin. His mustache licked my neck, silken and stubbly, like a hairy insect.

  ‘‘You’re close to getting hurt,’’ he breathed.

  He leaned against me, the studs on his dog collar scraping my collarbone. I couldn’t move. His thighs were warm. And oh, crap, I felt his crotch against my thigh. The big worm was wriggling awake.

  ‘‘But I don’t have to do it. Getting hurt’s up to you. Understand?’’

  I nodded.

  ‘‘I’m gonna give you a choice. People always get a choice. You act of your own free will.’’

  There was a tap on the door. I writhed and moaned.

  Merlin hissed from outside the door. ‘‘Murph, cut it out. You ain’t supposed to mess with her.’’

  Murphy’s face was two inches from mine. His skull shone as if it were varnished.

  Merlin tapped again. ‘‘The hag’s gonna see. Let’s go.’’

  Murphy breathed against my throat. ‘‘Here it is. You can come with us and fix the money issue this afternoon. Or you can scream, in which case the old lady ends up with sewing scissors through her eye socket. And she will; don’t even think about doubting it. Then we’d have to come back another time to sort things out. And that’ll be far worse, believe me.’’

  I didn’t doubt it for a second. And I knew this wasn’t really a choice. But I also knew that they wanted money I didn’t have, and if I could convince them they’d been lied to—if I could clarify that to them—I could get out of this. Once and for all.

  ‘‘I’m taking my hand off your mouth. You decide which it is.’’ He pulled his hand away.

  ‘‘I’ll come with you.’’

  The red van was parked next to a Dumpster in the alley. They shoveled me into the back to sit among keyboards, drums, and sound equipment. And a clothing rack on which hung what looked like the Bee Gees’ closet, circa 1978.

  ‘‘Where are you taking me?’’ I said.

  ‘‘To meet the boss.’’

  They pulled me out of the van at the harbor. It was a glittering winter day. On the beach, tourists braved the brisk air. Kids with pails and shovels sprinted toward the water, kicking up soft sand. Seagulls screeched overhead.

  Murphy held my biceps. ‘‘Keep your mouth shut. Just walk.’’

  ‘‘And if people ask me when the bride’s tossing the bouquet?’’

  ‘‘Shut up.’’

  They led me toward the marina. The ocean was sapphire spread with gold sparks. Sailboats lazed at their moorings, halyards clanging against masts. Merlin’s eyes jerked back and forth and up to the sky, as if a gull might mistake him for a burrowing rodent and carry him off.

  I had a plan: talk, straight, about the money. This boss of theirs, their manager, Tibbetts Price, may have been ripped off. I needed to explain that nobody had ever given me their money. I didn’t have it, knew nothing about it, couldn’t get it.

  I’d tell him to take it up with Sinsemilla Jimson.

  We went through a gate and out onto the dock. We passed a long row of sailboats. I heard radios and televisions, and saw an occasional sailor working on deck. We walked to the end of the dock to a sleek white boat.

  Navy brat though I am, I had no idea what class of boat it was, except expensive. Merlin grunted and hopped aboard. Murphy and I followed. It had been years since I’d been on a boat, and, wearing high heels, I felt myself pitching. Merlin walked down a set of steps and opened the cabin door.

  ‘‘Boss, it’s us.’’

  Murphy stood behind me, one moist hand gripping my arm. His other hand crept to the center of my back and began unzipping the bridesmaid’s dress.

  I pulled away. ‘‘Stop it.’’

  He pulled me back. ‘‘You want to play hard to get?’’ His hand went to his own zipper. ‘‘Okay, me first.’’

  Merlin called into the cabin, ‘‘We got her.’’

  A voice spat back from belowdecks. ‘‘Hey. Hey. Haul it right back up the steps, Merle.’’

  ‘‘But—’’

  ‘‘You need to request permission to come aboard. Do I have to tattoo that on your forehead?’’

  Merlin bungled backward, pushing his little glasses up his nose.

  Murphy called out, ‘‘Permission to come aboard, Skipper?’’

  His answer was a whistle from the cabin. He zipped up and pushed me down the steps ahead of him. I ducked my head and went inside, getting a Jonah-versus-whale feeling.

  The cabin was beautiful. Teak paneling, brass fixtures, sconces on the walls. Like something out of The Great Gatsby, aside from the empty pizza boxes, bags of tortilla chips and popcorn, the half-eaten tubs of cake frosting on the coffee table, MTV droning from a television, and the roaches in the ashtray.

  ‘‘You wait topside, Murphy.’’

  He left, climbing the stairs to the deck. I stood, trying to find my sea legs, facing their boss, who leaned back in a green canvas director’s chair, reading the Wall Street Journal. He wore horn-rimmed half-glasses. A .44 lay by his feet.

  He nodded at a bench built into the wall. ‘‘Sit.’’

  I rustled over and sat, tamping down my green hem. My hands were cold and trembling.

  ‘‘Murphy behave himself?’’ he said.

  ‘‘He likes unzipping in public.’’

  ‘‘He’s a musician. Busy hands.’’

  ‘‘Quite. Hello, Toby.’’

  He thumped the chair down onto all four legs. ‘‘It’s Mr. Price. But I’ll let that slide, since I did ask you to call me Toby the other night.’’

  In the daylight his hair was streaked with gray, his tan dark and weathered. His T-shirt wilted across his beef-jerky frame.

  ‘‘And what should I call you?’’ He folded the newspaper neatly and set it down. ‘‘Kathleen Delaney? Rowan Larkin?’’

  ‘‘Evan.’’

  I could barely hear myself. I could barely think. I squeezed my hands between my knees so he wouldn’t see them shaking.

  He was the one who’d phoned me to come to the party where Brittany Gaines was murdered. His flunkies had been dogging me ever since. They were the ones, I thought. They had killed her.

  He took off his glasses. ‘‘You messed my evening up, calling nine-one-one like that. I ask you to deal with one kid having a bad trip, and next thing I know the house is full of uniforms.’’

  He stared at me intently but his eyes didn’t lock on, as though a hive of bees were loose in his brain.

  ‘‘I looked you up,’’ he said. ‘‘Kathleen Evan Delaney.’’

  He stood and went to the back of the cabin. Opening the boat’s first-aid kit, he took out bandages, a flare gun, and a silver cigarette case. He got himself a prerolled joint and offered the case to me.

  ‘‘No, thank you.’’

  He lit up, holding the smoke in his lungs. Exhaled. ‘‘Merlin went to the courthouse, checked out property records. The place you live is owned by people named Vincent. But there’s a K. E. Delaney listed in the phone book. So we know she’s for real. And we know she has credit cards. And a bank account.’’ He took another toke. ‘‘That she writes bad checks on.’’

  The smoke began to sweeten the air. He set the joint in the ashtray and
rooted around in the debris on the coffee table, knocking popcorn and a bag of Oreos to the polished wood floor. He came up with a well-thumbed paperback. It was my novel Lithium Sunset.

  ‘‘And weirdest of all, here’s a book by Evan Delaney. No photo on the jacket. Could be you, could be some hack the publisher hires. But the book’s about this guerrilla babe called Rowan Larkin.’’

  Sitting back down, he opened the book. He had highlighted passages in yellow marker and written in the margins, tiny reams of commentary. My skin shrank. The only people I knew who did that were unmedicated compulsives or survivalists parsing the Bible for signs of the Apocalypse.

  ‘‘Some extreme stuff here. This Rowan chick, she cooks a guy’s brain inside his head just by staring at him.’’ His gaze swarmed over me. ‘‘That your message? Men gotta toe the line, or women’ll fry their minds?’’

  He took a drag from the joint.

  ‘‘You’ve been playing with my head. You were supposed to be the silent partner, the go-between who was gonna make the payoff. Instead you kept the money for yourself and left me twisting in the wind.’’

  Silent partner. God. Was the other partner Brittany Gaines—now silent forever? This wasn’t about mistaken identity or money. I smelled the fetid ocean smell of the morgue, and saw Brittany’s torn throat. I had to get out of here. Alive.

  ‘‘I—’’

  ‘‘Do not interrupt me.’’

  ‘‘Just—’’

  ‘‘Not one fucking word.’’

  No amount of identification, and no explanation, was going to satisfy him. Not when he had done this . . . research.

  ‘‘You told Merlin you were Rowan, which is obviously an alias. You may be Delaney. Or that may be a nom de plume.’’ He pinched the joint between his fingers. ‘‘What I do know is, you’re in entertainment.’’

  He turned my book over and peered at the spine. ‘‘Arcturus.’’

  He squinted at me like a law professor demanding an answer.

  ‘‘That’s the publisher,’’ I said.

  ‘‘A subdivision of Spillhouse Media.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Which in turn is owned by the VZG Group.’’

  Why did this matter? Where was he going with it?

  ‘‘Which owns radio stations in the U.S. and Canada and is a minority stakeholder in film production companies and record labels headquartered in Hollywood and Nashville.’’

  This was news to me. I felt my knees jouncing. I glanced at the Wall Street Journal, and the zing in his eyes.

  ‘‘It’s one of North America’s largest entertainment conglomerates. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? I have a degree in business economics, for fucksake. I ran the dope business for half of Isla Vista from my fraternity house when I was nineteen.’’

  He knocked more junk around the coffee table, finally coming up with a CD. He tossed it at me like a Frisbee. I caught it clumsily. It was Jimsonweed’s last album.

  ‘‘And Jimsonweed records on the Black Watch label, which is owned by the same conglomerate that owns your publisher. I do my homework, bitch-hole.’’

  I stared helplessly, thinking: So what? ‘‘I—’’

  ‘‘No excuses. The deal didn’t go through, so you’re going to get me my money back. Do you fucking dig?’’

  ‘‘I don’t have that power.’’

  The beehive awoke behind his eyes, and he leaped off the director’s chair. He was on me in a second, grabbing my hair with one hand and planting his knee between my legs.

  ‘‘Don’t fuck with me, woman.’’

  The joint was pinched between his fingers, aimed at my cheek.

  ‘‘Representations were made to me. I was promised face time.’’

  ‘‘With whom?’’

  ‘‘You’re insulting my intelligence. With Slink’s producer. And the execs at the label, who were doing the deal. Three albums, a spot on the tour. Access.’’ The joint wavered back and forth in front of my face. ‘‘Fifteen K in pay-fuckin’-ola, and I got jack shit.’’

  He flicked the joint at me. I put up my hands. It stung my palm and fell to my dress. I swept it off and ground it out on the floor.

  He loomed above me. ‘‘I’m not going to dink around Santa Barbara forever, booking bands to gig at the Elks lodge and the county fair. I have real singers, acts who can put me on the map in the industry. And I paid real money to get them signed. And you fucked me up the ass.’’

  He pointed at me. ‘‘You wrecked my deal. And instead of me, who’s VZG paying? You.’’ He grabbed my novel. ‘‘For your publishing deal. So to make up my losses, you’re going to donate your book money to me.’’

  He flipped pages. ‘‘Shitty paperback, I’ll lowball the estimate, figure seven grand. Add it to the original fifteen, plus the three in interest, that makes your bill twenty-five thousand.’’

  He threw the paperback at me. I batted it aside and pressed my fists into the seat, trying not to scream or wet my pants.

  I didn’t know who had sold him fool’s gold. Almost certainly Sinsa. But right now that didn’t matter. I had to get out of here in one piece and get to the police. I smoothed the skirt of the dress, brushing away ash. I exhaled, slowly, and prayed to God to put lies in my mouth.

  ‘‘Mom always told me only easy girls say yes right away. You’ve got to say no, or the boys think you’re a slut.’’

  He gave me a crooked stare. I cleared my throat and continued, stronger.

  ‘‘Don’t blame a girl for trying.’’ Before he could respond I put up my hands as if in apology. ‘‘We’ll make an arrangement.’’

  He sank back onto the director’s chair. ‘‘That’s better.’’ He reached again for the silver cigarette case. ‘‘The Mings will take you by the bank on your way back to . . .’’ He blinked and widened his eyes, as if assessing my getup for the first time. ‘‘Wherever it is you came from.’’

  ‘‘That won’t work.’’

  ‘‘Make it work.’’

  ‘‘The money is safe, but I can’t get it today.’’

  He pressed his fingertips to either side of his skull. ‘‘I’m getting a sensation here like you’re trying to barbecue my brain.’’

  ‘‘Allied Pacific Bank is under surveillance. Didn’t the party kings tell you what happened the last time I went in?’’

  His forehead creased. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘The cops were waiting when I came out.’’

  He looked frustrated, perhaps displeased that the Mings hadn’t reported this detail. ‘‘So do it inside the bank. Ask for a private room. Get the cash and give it to the boys behind a closed door.’’

  ‘‘With surveillance cameras filming the whole thing? The account is flagged, Toby. There’s been too much cash flowing in and out of it, plus some checks that bounced. They’re watching it.’’

  ‘‘That’s your problem, not mine.’’

  ‘‘It’s not a problem. It’s a matter of timing.’’

  ‘‘How?’’

  ‘‘Think about it.’’

  The beehive decelerated behind his eyes. I balled the fabric of my skirt between my fingers. He was thinking. He believed me.

  ‘‘Time-lock vault?’’ he said.

  That worked. ‘‘In part. Safe-deposit box.’’

  ‘‘So go get the key.’’

  ‘‘It’s not that simple. There are several accounts involved, and other banks, and travel time.’’

  He reached for the tub of chocolate frosting on the coffee table. A butter knife was stuck into it. He swirled a gob onto the end and poked it into his mouth to lick it off.

  ‘‘Tomorrow,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Afternoon.’’

  ‘‘Don’t fuck—’’

  ‘‘Wouldn’t dare.’’ I stood up.

  He stabbed another gob of frosting onto the knife. He licked it, taking his time.

  ‘‘Have it here tomorrow at five p.m.’’ Finally he looked at me. ‘‘Now get out.’’<
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  The red van chugged into the alley behind the bridal boutique. Murphy slid open the door and climbed out with me.

  ‘‘Tomorrow. Dress in something else,’’ he said.

  I took a step, and he put an arm out to block me. ‘‘Remember, I said I always give you a choice?’’

  Merlin moaned from the van. ‘‘Naw, Murph.’’

  A new light was playing in Murphy’s eyes, what in a normal man would be amusement. His hand went to his mustache, smoothing it. His greasy body scent filled my nose.

  The thought slapped me. Did he give Brittany a choice? I backed against the van.

  He leaned his face close to mine. ‘‘Naked or not?’’

  I felt myself jerk. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Murph,’’ Merlin said. ‘‘We ain’t got time for this shit. The boss won’t like it.’’

  Murphy smiled. ‘‘How do you want to go back in the wedding shop? Naked or not?’’

  ‘‘Not,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Fine.’’

  Grunting, he heaved me off my feet and pitched me into the Dumpster.

  I landed on my back in soggy lettuce and veal gristle and wet cardboard. I looked up to see Murphy slamming the lid shut. Dark and stink enclosed me.

  He banged on the side of the Dumpster. ‘‘Tomorrow. Don’t fuck us.’’

  I heard the van drive off. Gingerly I sat up. Every inch I moved brought new sucking, sliming, crackling noises from beneath me. They mixed with another sound. Myself, crying with relief.

  The lid cracked open. Madame Kornelia peered in.

  ‘‘You will pay for this dress. Now,’’ she said. ‘‘In cash, fräulein.’’

  17

  An hour later I met Detective Rodriguez at the International House of Pancakes, off the freeway near the sheriff’s station in Goleta. The restaurant was busy with truckers and deputies and the usual crowd of retirees eating dinner at five p.m. Rodriguez was sitting in a bright blue booth near the counter, digging into bacon, eggs, and a short stack of pancakes. I slid into the booth, across from her.

  She wiped her mouth on a napkin. ‘‘Tibbetts Price. Known as Tokin’ Toby, or Toby Price-Is-Right.’’

  ‘‘You checked out what I told you?’’ I said.