by Harry Bryant
So what if she had been right. I still changed the locks.
"Nice," I told Natalie, and she tucked her foot back in her shoe. "How about medicated assistance with heroin withdrawal?" I asked.
"Of course," she said without missing a beat.
"Psychological counseling for pornography addiction? You know, when I—I mean, my friend—has difficulty relating to a real sexual partner unless one or both of them is watching porn?"
"Is that a real condition?"
"I read about it in a magazine somewhere."
"I'm sure there's an expert in the field who can be brought in for a consultation," she said.
"Really?"
She shook her head slightly, and smoothed down the front of her skirt. "Well, Mr. Bliss, do you have any more questions?"
"A few," I said.
"Okay," she said, and she clasped her hands on her knees and looked at me expectantly.
"You don't believe me," I said.
"I'm inclined to think you are wasting my time," she said.
"Was it the porn joke?"
"It didn't help."
"I do that, you know," I said. "When I get nervous."
"We all get nervous from time to time, Mr. Bliss."
"It's really difficult to admit that I have a problem. I didn't have to come here, you know."
"Of course you didn't."
"I mean, I could have gone to that other place. You know, the one, right?" I was guessing here—well, I was guessing about a lot of things—but figured the vaguer the better.
Her features tightened slightly. "Yes?"
"I mean, I hear really good things about that place. Oh, man, the list of people who have been helped there. Whew. That's some serious promotion. Even if you can't advertise it. Now, this place? I don't hear nearly the same amount of buzz about it, but—" I leaned forward, glancing up at the glaring figure of El Illustro. "But this place has the goods, you know?"
She was silent for a long moment, her eyes searching my face, and then she smiled again. "Very good, Mr. Bliss. I'm glad to hear that we come highly recommended."
"I really need to kick my habit," I said. "But on the hush-hush. And frankly, I've been feeling a little lost these last few months. Just not myself, you know? And yeah, yeah, I know that the drugs aren't helping, but why I'm doing them again, right? Why is that? I was clean for so long. I really thought I had it under control."
She was nodding right along with me. "I think we can do some real good for you here, Mr. Bliss. Perhaps we can even arrange from some guidance from Elder Byron himself."
"Really?" I sat up a little straighter. "You think that could happen?"
"If certain opportunities present themselves," she said smoothly, falling back into her sales pitch now. "I am certain some private sessions might be possible."
"That's fantastic," I gushed. I looked up at the picture again. "I can already tell that he wants to help me," I said.
"I hear that a lot," Natalie said. "We understand your pain. We want to help."
CHAPTER 12
Natalie and I played Questions and Answers for another half-hour or so, more questions from her than answers, but that was to be expected. We finally ran out of steam, and there wasn't much else to do but take a tour. The tour covered a lot of what I had already seen, though I did get a chance to see what one of the guest rooms looked like. Spartan. Nice view. Deadbolt on the inside of the door. Wash basin in the room. Tiny shared bathrooms with shower stalls.
As we were coming back down the main staircase, I caught sight of a familiar musclebound shape. Terrance was walking down the hall where the consultation office was, and I dallied a bit on the stairs, pretending to be interested in an enormous painting of Elder Byron that was mounted in the upper half of the grand open space that rose up from the foyer. It was similar to the one in the office, but with more birds and better lighting. God lighting, in fact.
His eyes had the same weird way of tracking you wherever you were, too.
"Well," Natalie said as we finally wandered down to the foyer again. "That's the tour. Are there any more questions, Mr. Bliss?"
A quick glance down the hall revealed no sign of Terrance. "Any chance we could take a spin around the yard?" I asked.
"No chance," she said quickly. She flashed me a bright smile. "We respect the privacy of our guests quite earnestly."
"Of course," I said.
She produced a brochure exactly like the one Dolly had given me that morning. "There are some nice pictures in this brochure," she said.
"Oh, lovely," I said, pretending to be excited about the pictures.
"Would you like to book a room now?" she asked. "And I'm sorry, was it for you or your friend?"
"Hard to say," I said. I tapped the brochure against my wrist. "Is there a discount if I book now?"
"There is no discounting of any services at the center," she said, some of that frostiness returning to her voice.
"If—sorry, when—I call to book a room, do I just call the number here in the brochure, or is there a better way to reach you?"
"Just tell the switchboard operator that you wish to speak with me," Natalie said. "She'll transfer you."
"Okay, great." I held out my hand. "Thanks for the tour."
"Don't mention it, Mr. Bliss." She took my hand and shook it promptly. There was no emotion on her face. Nothing to give any indication whether she was disappointed or elated that I was leaving. She had been doing cold sales like this for a long time; she was too good to let me in on what she was feeling at the moment. Though I could probably guess.
"I can let myself out," I said.
"I'll walk with you," she replied, squelching any idea I might have had about wandering off the path.
"Very well," I said. I pointed at the door, and she nodded, falling in behind me as I started toward it. "What shall we talk about on the way?"
We went out of the building and she stood on the porch for a second. "It's not that far of a walk," she pointed out. "We won't have time to talk about much."
"Baseball?" I tried. She shook her head as she started down the steps. "Deep sea fishing? Antiquing? Pugs? Squirrels? Lime Jell-O?"
She shook her head to each of them in turn, but made a face when I mentioned Jell-O. "What is there to talk about when we talk about Jell-O?" she asked.
"Whether you use gin or vodka when you make shooters."
We started walking toward the distant gate.
She made a face. "Oh, god. Vodka. Gin would taste terrible with Jell-O."
"There, see, we do have something to talk about."
"Why would anyone use gin?"
"Right? I totally agree with you. Even better might be some sort of white rum."
"Whoever invented this concoction?"
"You've never had a Jell-O shooter?"
"No. I can't say that I have."
"How about a Long Island Iced Tea? Or a Mai Tai?"
"I don't know what those are, sorry."
"Do you even drink? I supposed I should have asked before I went plowing ahead like this."
She laughed. "I do, but rarely."
"Why not? No friends?"
"I have friends."
"But they don't drink."
"No, they do. It's just . . . it's much more . . . social drinking."
"Of course it is. Otherwise dealing with other people would be intolerable, right?"
"Do you have any friends, Mr. Bliss?"
"At least one," I said. I smiled at her.
"Any other friends?"
"A couple."
"And do they drink?"
"Of course they do. I wouldn't be their friends otherwise."
"And that's how you define your friendship with these people?" Natalie asked. "By whether or not they'll drink with
you?"
"No, we usually drink after sex. Or after we've hidden the body. Sometimes both."
"In that order?" she asked.
"Which order?"
"Hiding the body. Sex. And then drinking."
I nodded. "Yeah, mostly."
She stopped walking. We were about three quarters of the way to the gate. "It's been an interesting interview, Mr. Bliss," she said. She held out her hand one more time. I took it, and smiled at her as we shook hands. "Good afternoon, sir."
"Good afternoon, Natalie," I said.
"I hope we'll hear from you soon."
"Me too."
She nodded toward the gate. "I'll have it opened when you get there," she said.
"Okay." I let go of her hand and stood there awkwardly for a minute, and then I nodded. That was that. "All done," I said.
"All done," she said.
"I feel like I should offer to kiss you on the cheek or something," I started.
"Please don't," she said.
"But we haven't hidden a body together yet, so that's probably a little premature in our friendship."
She cocked an eyebrow at me, and with a tiny smile on her lips, she turned and started back toward the house. I stood there for a while, watching her hips move back and forth, and I was pretty sure she knew I was watching. When she got to the main porch, I let out a tiny sigh and raised my hand to wave goodbye.
She waved back, and behind me, I heard the gate motor start running.
I walked straight out. Rocking my hips a bit too.
Two can play that game.
I still wasn't any closer to finding Gloria, and short of checking myself into the center, I wasn't sure of any other way to find out if she was there without alerting Wilson and his goons. And maybe it would come to that, but that wasn't a problem I had to solve this afternoon.
My dinner reservation wasn't for a few hours yet, and so I drove north from Hidden Palms instead of south and ended up at the interchange for 166. I turned left, and merged onto the highway. It would wind its way back across the mountains to Santa Maria. It was out of my way, but it gave me time to think.
Mid-week traffic was light, and overhead, wispy clouds stretched across the pale sky. The hills were covered with a mix of cottonwoods, pine, and oak, creating a patterned layer of yellow and green. It was good to get away from both the coast and the city. Not quite lost in nature, but far enough out that there wasn't an omnipresent reminder of our presence on this planet.
I wasn't much for philosophical musings about the grander scheme of things, and if I had spent a year in the woods, meditating on the ultimate purpose of our lives, I'm sure I might be more inclined to such thinking on a regular basis. I had had a lot of time to think over the last decade or so, and some of it was actually in relative solitude. But I had been surrounded by concrete and steel, confined to a space not much larger than the inside of my car. Such incarceration tended to focus your mind on more physical world issues. For a time, though. After a few years, you learned how to survive. How to keep your sanity.
Some of the inmates had been very regimented about it. They weren't going to let prison change them. They built walls within the walls, and kept precise count of the number of days they had left before they left the state-made walls behind. When their release days arrived, they marched out of the block without so much as a glance back. I wondered about them sometimes. I wondered if their walls had been successful at keeping their true selves safe from prison, and if they had been able to tear down those walls they had made for themselves.
I wasn't sure I could live by myself in the woods. It would be too much like solitary. I knew the city. I knew that constant pressure of other people—other lives—around you. It was comforting to know you were surrounded by others who were just like you. Some of them were more caged than others, but we were all part of a community, our cellblocks demarcated by the highways that crisscrossed LA.
Shortly after I passed a sign for a recreation area at a mountain lake, I caught sight of urban sprawl between two hills that didn't quite touch. The sky lost some of its color as my car dropped down into the valley once more, and the grid of Santa Maria's streets stretched out before me.
I picked up the card that Dolly had given me. The name and address of the restaurant were written on the back. I had about an hour to find the place. Putting aside the introspective mood that the drive had brought up, I started paying attention to the exit signs, trying to figure out which was the best one to help me find the restaurant.
The restaurant was called Ambrosia, and its sign featured a trio of comically drawn fauns pouring wine into a large bowl of grapes and apples and other fruit. The decor inside was variations on that theme, and long drapes of red and purple covered much of the old wood of the walls. The tables were small, lit by arrangements of tiny candles, and there was an upstairs loft that was framed in with bookcases. Beneath the loft was the bar and the floor-to-ceiling cases of the wine cellar, and it looked like they had an extensive selection.
I was early, and the hostess said I could sit in the bar until the rest of my party arrived. I glanced around at all the empty tables in the restaurant proper, but didn't bother to quibble with their process. They undoubtedly had an image to maintain, and someone thought that men sitting by themselves at romantically lit tables probably wasn't as enticing for business as dudes swiveling around on bar stools so they could check out the room.
Because that's what we do when we're stuck in the bar.
The bartender slipped a long menu filled with signature cocktails, stood there for a minute with a bored look on his face, and when it was apparent I was going to read the whole thing, he wandered off. I almost called him back and ordered something at random, but I wasn't in that much of a rush to start drinking.
I nursed my water and, as you might expect, swiveled around on my seat to check out the room.
This wasn't the kind of place that did happy hour for the downtown professional set. They opened for dinner at five, and expected most of their reservations to show up at seven or later. There was probably a late evening crowd as well, but most likely, everyone went home by eleven. It was a short work day, and judging from the measured pace of the staff, they all knew exactly how busy they were going to be on any given night. There weren't many surprises at Ambrosia, and the tips were good and solid.
It's good to be a gastronomical landmark. You're always there. Your food and service are always excellent. You don't try new things to entice new markets. You open; you foster a romantic and enjoyable atmosphere for your customers; you clean up and go home: what wasn't to love about that? Purpose and consistency. Many never had that in their lives, and those who found it, tended to hang on to it, because they knew how fortunate they were.
Upon my release from Tehachapi, the highlights of my résumé were ex-con and ex-porn star. One of the only real jobs I had been able to find—after a year or so of willfully ignoring the reality of my job qualifications while the rest of the world didn't—was Tire Buffer at Speedy's Car Wash in West Hollywood. I was the guy who polished the chrome on the rims of the HumVees, BMWs, Mercedes-Benzes, and tricked-out SUVs who rolled through the wash.
I was not the guy who vacuumed, nor the guy who did windows. Nor was I the guy who polished rearview mirrors and opened car doors for the customers. He was the one who got the tips. That money was supposed to be evenly split between us, but door guy had been pinched for shoplifting once or twice as a juvie and he had quick fingers.
He had had an accident in the break room one afternoon. Busted his wrist trying to get a soda out of the machine. The rest of us were sorry to see him go, but the split was much better after that.
That lasted for three months, and then West Hollywood Vice raided the place and shut it down. Apparently, there was a spot during the car wash cycle when the vehicle wasn't visible from the street—which
wasn't unusual in and of itself—but during this part of the wash, drugs could be stashed in and taken out of the cars. Who knew? I certainly hadn't. I found out about it in the paper the following week.
And the only reason I hadn't gone to work that day was because Mr. Chow had called the night before to tell me he was out of prison. He had insisted that I come visit him at his house in Venice the next day. I have to work, I had told him.
Fuck that job, he had said. It is beneath you. Crawling around on your hands and knees in an inch of water that is filled with chemicals that will rot your guts.
You have something better in mind?
Of course I do.
I missed the raid because Mr. Chow wanted me to take his wife shopping in Beverly Hills.
Three months later, the cancer took him. And I continued to take Mrs. Chow shopping.
Purpose and consistency. The two things that hold the universe together.
CHAPTER 13
Dolly swept in right at six, wearing a sleeveless dress that showed off her upper arms and clavicle. It was dark blue, tailored at the waist, and it fell loosely to just above her knees. She was wearing block-heeled sandals the same color as her hair, which was loose about her shoulders. She could look me in the eye as I sat on the barstool, and she laid her hand lightly on my arm as she reached me.
"Hi," she said. A little breathlessly. But not so much that I thought she had been running to get here in time. More that she was excited to see me.
"Hi," I said back. Not quite as breathlessly, but still quite excited.
A waiter carrying a large tray crossed behind her, and she stepped forward to get out of his way. My knees brushed her skirt.
"We should tell them you're here," I said, after taking a moment to compose myself.
"I did," she said. She looked at the nearly empty glass on the bar. "What's that?"
"Manhattan," I said. I offered her the glass, and her fingers brushed mine as she took the glass. "It's basically bourbon, vermouth, and bitters, but every bar has its own twist. You can tell a lot about a bartender by how they make a Manhattan. Or by how they make a martini. Or—well, there are a couple of ways you can tell."
