Evelyn started calling me an alcoholic. I wasn’t quite up to taking social criticism from a woman who spent her afternoons between the legs of a semi-literate steroid monkey. And she wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. So, when she called me a drunk, gentleman that I was, I called her a cock-sucking, wall-dancing whore.
We were really having a ball, Evelyn and me. I swear, if I coulda gotten away with it I would have strangled her. I was starting to fantasize about murder. But before you make a big deal out of that, let me say I believed I was way too smart to fall into that kind of trap. So in the beginning, every time I thought about killing her, I just pushed the idea aside.
Anyway, the four months after I ran over Chandler were a living hell.
Only one bright spot. Remember Marvin Worth, the CFO at bestmarket. Com? Well, he’d managed to convince one of our large account receivables, a movie-production company, that it would be better to take over our dot-corn than to let it slide into Chapter 11, where they’d only get ten cents on the dollar for what we owed them.
Gladstone Pictures was the name of the outfit. It was a Canadian conglomerate and a producer of action movies. We’d sold hundreds of thousands of their DVDs and were into them for four mil, plus a mil in interest, before they cut off our credit and started screaming at us.
Somehow, Marvin Worth had managed to talk these Canucks into taking over my company for the five million dollars we owed them. Hardly a thrilling prospect, because as you may remember, a few years ago my dot-com was valued at six hundred million, but I’d also been down as low as two with that ridiculous offer from Walter Lily. So the five mil sounded okay under the circumstances. Trouble was, the deal stipulated that we had to assume all the current liabilities and indemnify Gladstone against past debts stemming from old disputes and future lawsuits. As I told you, we owed over eight million, so the bottom line was after the sale, I’d be left with an unrecoupable deficit of around three mil.
Then good fortune struck. The leaseholder on the buildings and warehouses we rented went broke. A complete bankruptcy. Since they were no longer a corporate entity, Marvin found a way to break our lease, which was on our books as a four-million-dollar liability.
Putting it all in context for you and leaving out the legal subsets—because, while fascinating, they’re probably way over your head unless you have a high degree of business sophistication—I could now sell the company and stand a good chance of coming out of it almost two million dollars to the good.
Two million dollars. Not exactly a fortune, but at least enough to get me started again—enough to set up some new offices and get a new game going.
Maybe you can see where this is heading. My problem now was going to be Evelyn. If I didn’t divorce her, I was pretty sure that as soon as she saw the two mil in the bank, she would divorce me. California is a community property state, so she would get half. Once I paid the freight on both our lawyers and their expenses, my two mil was going to be cut down to almost nothing.
That was the box I was in. “Barkeep, ‘nother round, please.”
Anyway, despite all this, I was determined not to do anything stupid. I mean, the easiest, cheapest way out of this would be if Evelyn just sort of left the picture—if she married Mickey D. But even I couldn’t hope for that kind of luck. Evelyn was way too smart to marry a poverty-stricken weightlifter, no matter how impressive his cuts. She would wait until she had her half of whatever I managed to salvage, then she’d move in with him. See the problem?
So that left murder.
But, as I’ve already discussed, that just wasn’t a viable option. The husband is always the prime suspect, and I’m not anxious to end my life fighting off a squad of tail-gunners at Soledad State Prison. Chandler aside, I’m not a killer. So I knew I had to stop thinking about killing Evelyn. It wasn’t an option, because I knew I’d get caught. I knew that. So let’s move on. We’re moving on. Okay?
The day we were going to sign the deal with Gladstone Pictures, I had to drive Evelyn’s car because she had stolen mine. Why did she take my car? Because Mickey D liked the Porsche Targa, that’s why. He thought he looked sexy in it with the top down; he and Evelyn cruising around in muscle tees and wraparound shades. Whenever they went to the beach, he’d always talk her into stealing my car. I’dgo out to the garage and the fucking Porsche would begone. No note from her, no “May I borrow your car, dear?” It was community property, and as she’d already so plainly told me, she could do what she wanted with it.
So with the Porsche gone, I had no choice but to take Evelyn’s Mercedes SL600. But she never washes it, and the thing was filthy. I knew I might have to take one of the Gladstone executives to lunch after the signing, so I stopped at a car wash on the way to the office. I went to the drive-through on Adams.
To begin with, this place is an ethnic war zone—a sinkhole. It’s staffed mostly with pissed-off African-American parolees—black teenagers in blue jumpsuits who glower as you pull in. You’re white meat. They’re the meat-eaters. Let the games begin.
They don’t want to work there, and they squeegee your windshield like they’re swinging a razor at you, but they have to hold down a job or their P. O. S will throw their criminal asses back in the pecker palace.
I ordered the wash and hot wax, and was standing by the manager’s office, watching Evelyn’s gold Mercedes convertible go through the whirling brushes. Behind me, through an open door, I could hear the manager, a Hispanic man called Juan, in a discussion with two other men. I glanced around and saw them. Juan was a fat, short Mexican with bad skin. He was sitting behind the desk. Across from him was a middle-aged, overweight white guy, who, it turned out, was a county parole agent. He stood next to a sullen black teenager—ripped and muscled. This kid was projecting enough silent anger to start a riot.
Here’s the story I overheard while waiting for Evelyn’s car: The black banger was ready to get out of jail on state paper and needed a job to make his parole requirement. His P. O., the white guy with the big gut, was saying, “Delroy has good recs from his CUS,” which he explained was his custody unit supervisor.
I heard some papers rustle and then the manager said, “Says here you got a history of violent crimes, Delroy. Carjacking, pulling guns and shit, threatening people’s lives … I run a car wash. I can’t have you standing around here scoping other people’s rides.”
“My homies put me up on that, man. But once I got popped and did my nickel, I know dat ain’t for me. I ain’t gonna fall behind dat kinda shit no mo, know what I be sayin’? I ain’t about to be go an get myself rolled up on no major felony, dat’s for damn sure.”
Or something like that, ‘cause to be honest, he spoke so low and with such a ghetto accent, it was very hard to understand him. It sounded like pure jailhouse bullshit to me.
“Says here, you shot a guy once when you were jackin’ his ride,” Juan said.
“Mr. Hernandez, that be a real sad story. Know what I’m say-in’? That guy was frontin’ me off, y’know? I had no choice. Hadda cold deck d’nigger, but, I’m through wid’dat, now,” the ex-con said. “Ain’t gonna be no more crime in my time. Gonna get me a piece a’da rock.”
Juan was waffling, so finally the parole officer made a deal to close it. “Just give Delroy a try. He’ll work for the first two weeks at half pay, till you’re sure. You’ll like Delroy. He wants to turn his life around. Ain’t that right, son?”
“Yessir, not be doin’ no dumbass kamikaze shit no more. Here on, I’m down for what da white-shirts say:’
There was some more paper shuffling and talking that I couldn’t make out, then I heard a chair scrape, and they exited the office behind me. I got a closer look at Delroy as he went past. He was a hard-looking, ebony-skinned, teenaged asshole with boxed-out gold front teeth, who looked like he’d kill you for your pocket change. He had a tattoo on the back of his neck that I already recognized, because Big Mac had the same one on his bicep.
B2K: Born to IG11.
&nb
sp; This town is a jungle. Sometimes people die just because they said the wrong thing in a bar or at the water ride at Magic Mountain. “Hey man, you’re cuttin’ in. Go to the back of the line:’
“Eat shit, asshole:’ BLAM-BLAM-BLAM.
It’s all about survival.
Cut off some guy like Delroy on the freeway and you’ve cashed your last supermarket coupon. That’s what life in L. A. had become—kill or be killed.
As I left the car wash in Evelyn’s Mercedes, I pledged to myself that I was through being a target. From now on, I was taking control of my life. From now on, these assholes had better get out of my way or take what’s coming.
I had already killed one guy. Fuck with me and you could be next.
Chapter 19
IN EARLY OCTOBER, PAIGE GOT BACK TO THE PORTRAIT of Chandler. She was working with more emotional distance now. She found solace in trying to capture the strong, flat planes of his face. She finally liked the way it was turning out.
Given the circumstances, she was surviving pretty well. She had lost five pounds, along with her appetite, and was beginning to look gaunt, so she had been working halfheartedly at putting the weight back on.
In the afternoons, when it was cooler, she ran down by the river. She found herself stretching the distances out, keeping her pace brisk and taking pleasure in the fact that as her endurance grew, she didn’t tire. The daily run and the dojo workouts exhausted her and she slept soundly, descending into a muscle-tired REM, where the painful dreams of Chandler didn’t follow.
But the rage always lay just below the surface. She had a stress fracture in her left wrist from blocking her karate instructor’s side kick, known as a yoko-geri. She also had one on her right forearm from a missed tettsui-uke, a bottom fist-block. Her sensei had wanted her to take a month off and let them heal, but she’d ignored the advice and stayed in class; both injuries got worse until finally an orthopedist ordered her to give it up for six months. So she concentrated on her running and pushed her distance up to ten miles a day.
Bob Butler still phoned her each Wednesday to set a visit. He would bring her up to date over coffee or Cokes, but his attitude was starting to suggest failure.
“I’m beginning to think maybe I ain’t gonna get this guy after all,” Bob sadly admitted one afternoon. “Just finished goin’ back again, recheckin’ everything, recontacting rental car companies, asking them to check fender damage again.
“Same answer: no blue Tauruses with busted fenders at none a them big car agencies, so that means most likely, it ain’t a rental. Now I’m checkin’ paint stores and tire stores in the Tri-State Area.”
They were sitting on a wrought-iron bench near the aqueduct, watching two tugs work a huge oil tanker as it slid up the river. One was in front, the other trailing, each nosing the tanker occasionally, then running along beside it bumping and herding the mammoth ship like busy sheepdogs.
“Tire stores?” She was puzzled.
“Well, it’s a long shot, but if he’s smart, this perp could know we can do a pretty good job at matching treads we recover off’a bodies, or from tracks on the pavement. If our driver knew that, maybe the perp coulda went and changed tires.”
“Isn’t that going to make him harder to catch?” she asked.
“Maybe could be yes, maybe could be no.” He then turned and looked directly at her, finding her gaze with friendly gray eyes. “Here’s what I’m hopin’. If this doer changed the tires, that means he talked to somebody, and maybe that somebody will remember. Since the perp just ran Chandler down, could be that he or she was real stressed, acting strange. The tire store might help me get a sketch. I’ll show it to you and we’ll see if you can make the identification. If you can’t and it turns out to be a stranger, at least we got something to show around.”
She nodded and swung her eyes back to the huge ship that was now sliding by directly in front of them, its massive hull taking away the view. “How many hundreds of tire stores are there?” she asked, not really expecting an exact answer.
He pulled out several computer sheets. “Here’s all the names off the Corporation Commission’s computer. That’s just the ones that contain the words “tire” or “tread” in the corporate filing.” He handed it to her. She was surprised by the number of listings.
“Counting the chains and the independents, there’s five hundred in the state of North Carolina alone,” he said. “‘Bout the same in South Carolina and Virginia. After I run through all’a them, I’ll punch out the auto parts stores that sell tires, and last, the gas stations. But that’s gonna be a pile a places, so I’m hopin’ I score with the list you’re holding first.”
“Lotta tire centers,” she said bleakly.
“Yep,” he nodded. “Gonna take a heap a doin, but since the rental car thing was a bust, I have to go after this angle. Gonna check paint and body shops, too. Got a similar list a’them. Figure the front end a’that car musta got pretty damaged. Since the TV people put it on the news that Chandler was run down by a blue Taurus, the perp hadda know we made the car. So he puts the car in his garage for a month or two, doesn’t drive it, then when the heat has died down, he takes it out, gets the front end fixed, probably sells it after that.”
“It’s a lot of work, Bob.”
“Nah,” he grinned. “I live for this stuff.” But he was blushing again, his ears turning pink.
She reached out and took his hand. “Bob, you can’t possibly know how grateful I … “
But he cut her off. “Don’t say nothin, Mrs. Ellis. It’s just my job.”
Of course, she knew Bob had been ordered to put the case aside. He had a folder full of fresh crimes that his homicide supervisor had directed him to focus on. Nobody on the Charlotte PD thought there was much chance of ever solving Chandler’s hit-and-run. While it stayed active, Bob could only put a minimal amount of time in on it each week. But that didn’t stop him. He had given her his promise, so he was working it on his off-hours, on weekends and holidays. Working it for her and for his dead wife, Althea.
“You need to take some time off. Take a vacation,” she told him. “Now you’re the one looking tired.”
“What’m I gonna do, Mrs. Ellis?” he said, sadly. “Where you think I should go? Maybe to some Caribbean hotel all by myself, sit in a room and just look at the TV?”
“Don’t you ever think about getting married again?” she asked him.
“No, ma’am,” he replied. He reached for his Bible and started thumbing through it. “Bible says I gotta play it this way. Lotta people think I’m nuts, but that don’t matter t’me ‘tall.” He found the verse he wanted. “Mark 11 says, ‘Whosoever shall put away his wife and marry another, committeth adultery.’” He closed the Bible and looked up at her. “Can’t go against the scriptures.”
“I think that means while she’s still alive, Bob,” Paige smiled.
“Yep. Ya might be right, but y’see, in my mind Althea is alive. She’ll never die. Think about Althea ever day … think about her, talk to her … So it’s not like I’m alone. But I can’t take her on a vacation either. Can’t walk on the beach with her, hold her hand, or go swimmin. So I figure I just might as well stick around here and catch this guy who hit Chandler.”
She watched him as he stood and picked up his Bible.
“Best be gettin’ started. Workin’ only weekends is gonna take me a mess a’time t’get through all these.”
“Thank you, Bob,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much it means … “
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Ellis,” he said, blushing again. Then he turned and walked back to his car—a rumpled man clutching a Bible who had the softest gray eyes she had ever seen.
Chapter 20
I SOLD BESTMARKET. COM IN LATE SEPTEMBER AND managed to get out of that burning building with just a little under two million dollars. But as I sailed out the door, I had mixed feelings. It was like bailing out of your corporate jet at twenty thousand feet. It felt good when the chute o
pened, but it hurt like hell to watch something you once loved fly on without you.
However, I had bigger problems—much bigger.
Just before the company sale became final, I learned that Evelyn had hired a forensic accountant. What, you might ask, is a forensic accountant? It’s a guy who specializes in hunting down hidden assets.
Here’s how I stumbled onto this despicable fact. I’d started to record Evelyn’s phone calls, so when she and Mickey talked, I would have an incriminating tape of them planning one of their Vaseline parties. I’d removed the speaker element from the garage telephone so Evelyn couldn’t hear the background change when I picked up the receiver and started recording. You see, back then I was still counting on getting a divorce. But all I’d managed to record were conversations where Mickey D and Evelyn discussed his body. Believe me, it was a gagger listening to hours of that drivel.
“Mickey, I really don’t think you need to work on rear delts anymore. Your shoulders are simply gorgeous. I’d stick with lats and traps, and keep pounding out crunches, keep the ab work up.”
They went on endlessly with that shit. As far as I was concerned, the tapes absolutely proved they were doing the sheet dance. But I also knew that since they hadn’t actually discussed screwing, the recordings would prove very little in a court of law. You had to know Evelyn to get the drift, to understand the subtext.
During one of these phone tapings, when she thought I was out of the house, she called some guy named Paul Delmonte. When I heard his name I thought, who the fuck is this asshole? But it quickly came out that he was a forensic accountant she’d hired to dig through my bank records. Apparently he was checking for wire transfers to hidden offshore accounts. He told Evelyn he suspected me of hiding funds someplace like the Cayman Islands, which in fact I was. He said, if he could prove I did it in anticipation of a divorce, then it would constitute criminal fraud.
at First Sight (2008) Page 12
