at First Sight (2008)

by Stephen Cannell

  I was surprised at that one. Chick had never seemed very metaphysical to me. More of a business accounting type. But he was absolutely right. I’d felt all the same things he was feeling.

  “Somebody actually suggested that we bury Chandler in his football jersey,” I said.

  “Ridiculous,” Chick said. “Evelyn liked to work out. Maybe I should bury her in a sport bra.”

  We were both suddenly smiling—laughing at the idea of what other people thought was the essence of a person’s life.

  “Part of me just keeps looking for answers,” he went on. “Part of me is looking for a place to stash all this anger I have for Delroy Washington. Sometimes I pray he’ll get the needle and I’ll be standing behind the glass watching. But I also know that’s not going to help me get past this. I can’t bring Evelyn back by punishing some angry kid who’s just a violent product of our own societal mistakes. Suffice it to say, I’m confused. Sometimes I sit in my backyard and look at the trees, see the wind blow the leaves away, and wish I could just sail away with them, get out of here on a gust of air. Does any of that make sense?”

  “Perfect sense.” I reached out and squeezed his hand in a gesture of support as we were swept along in the flow of sixty-mile-an-hour L. A. traffic.

  Chick pulled his hand away so he could shift into a lower gear. The Porsche growled and buzzed around a Vons produce truck.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you with the funeral arrangements?” I asked.

  “Just being here is help enough. Having somebody who’s been through this to talk to … it’s all I need.”

  I looked over at Chick’s profile. His eyes were still hidden behind those trendy glasses. I wondered who was really inside there. I decided one way or another, I would do everything in my power to help him get through this.

  Big mistake.

  Chapter 28

  JORDAN WEISMAN WAS ONE OF THE ACE COMPUTER programmers at bestmarket. Com before the company sold. Chick pulled a guilt trip on Jordy and he had finally agreed to hack into all the major airlines’ computers to find out what flight Paige Ellis would be on from Charlotte. Jordan didn’t like pulling hacks, but Chick b. S.‘d him saying he was doing a new start-up and there might be a job in it for him. Jordan came through in less than thirty minutes.

  After that, Chick spent the next six hours going for the perfect ensemble. Nothing seemed exactly right, so he ended up driving to Bloomingdale’s and buying a cinnamon shirt and maroon tie. He already had a charcoal suit, so what it came down to was he had pretty much ended up stealing Apollo Demetrius’s entire look, right down to the Aqua Velva.

  Chick then spent almost forty minutes trying to select the right watch. He was a watch collector, an aficionado of world-class timepieces. Over the years, he’d bought every expensive or trendsetting chronometer available. He had Breitlings and Piagets, Rolexes and Cartiers. Over fifty watches were displayed in velvet-lined cases with glass tops in his walk-in closet. Each polished mahogany box contained six timepieces. He remembered reading somewhere once that sociopaths often had a fascination with clocks …

  He wondered, Are my fifty watches trying to tell me something?

  Finally, he selected the Breitling Navitimer, the same model John Travolta wore in their ads. Sporty, expensive, but not ostentatious. He snapped it on and set it.

  His mind was swirling with anticipation and resolve. Only one lingering fear … if he got lucky … if he pulled this off … if he could talk Paige into it …

  COULD HE GET IT UP?

  He washed down a Viagra, waited twenty minutes for it to hit the old bloodstream, and then with his heart racing picked up the girls from Hustler and headed to the bathroom.

  Nothing.

  Not a quiver.

  He was deader than an opening act at the Laugh Factory. Then, just as he decided to stop, he got a slight tingle down there. Not one of his old Chick Best blue-vein specials—but he was at least getting some blood flow. Flop-sweat gathered on his brow as he coaxed this poor wobbler up. It rose weakly, like a patient at a rest home. Finally, he was at half-mast, hanging out over the toilet seat, barely erect.

  He couldn’t believe this was happening. Paige Ellis was actually on an airplane, heading to Los Angeles to see him, and he couldn’t get a decent hard-on. He was in the middle of a heavy dose of self-administered performance anxiety when he finally decided to give it up and stop. He zipped up, rushed out of the bathroom, and entered his den to fire down two scotch shooters. As they hit bottom, the knot in his stomach lessened.

  Okay, jerking off was one thing. Making love was another. The old Love Master would grow some wood when the time came, but, to be perfectly honest, Chick was becoming sexually panicked. At the same time he was committed to this course of action, determined to push on.

  So he went to the airport and stood at the Delta baggage claim, waiting, and then finally saw her walking with self-confidence up to the carousel. She was so beautiful, so slender and fine, that his heart actually clutched when he saw her. He waited while the bags began coming off, watching the way she stood as a few people talked to her, asking dumb questions like, “Is this the luggage from flight 216?”

  She was the most amazing person he’d ever encountered … a fantasy and a reality. An object of lust and at the same time the gold standard for feminine perfection … well rounded, talented, incredible. His descriptive words for her were endless.

  Chick felt diminished by her presence, unworthy and outclassed. He had spent his entire adult life trying to be worthy of other people’s admiration. He had acquired the symbols of success, while always looking right and left, jealous of all the things other people had. Now, as he watched Paige Ellis, he finally realized that she was what he had been after all along. He’d been put on earth to be completed by her. She was the yin to his yang … no sexual pun intended.

  When he could bear the ecstasy of watching her no longer, he called her name. She saw him, waved, and dragged her little bag over. They’d hugged and he’d led her to the car—and then the first minor setback … The fucking Langham Hotel in Pasadena.

  She wanted to stay way the hell out on the east side of town. How could he just drop in on her out there unannounced? What could he say? “Oh, hi. I was just walking in the Rose Bowl parking lot, which is only twenty fucking miles from my house, and I thought I’d swing by and see what you were doing.” Impossible.

  He’d tried to confuse her with his line of freeway bullshit. Most out-of-towners panicked when you slung L. A.‘s confusing array of freeway numbers at them, but she’d come right back with, “I’ll just take the 210 to the 134, hang a left on Forest Lawn Drive by the river.”

  That was another thing: Evelyn was shit on directions and it had always pissed him off. Even though she was born here, Evelyn could never remember a freeway number. Whenever they were trying to meet at a restaurant, she’d say stuff like, “It’s easy to find, Chick .. . can’t miss it. Take the freeway—you know the one I mean—it’s right by where I get my nails done—and then get off near the shoe store where I buy my Prada sandals. Go past that cute antique shop where they give you coffee mocha, turn left, and you’re there … ” Ridiculous. Paige didn’t even live here and she was right on the old button. Everything about her impressed him.

  And then she had reached out and held his hand, squeezing it while he drove. It shot a volt of electricity up his arm, straight into his heart.

  Chick also felt that after a shaky start with Demetrius, he’d finally hit a pretty good post-death performance stride. Just the right amount of heartsick grief and moronic psychobabble over Evelyn’s brutal murder.

  All that stuff about, “What if she’d changed her appointment?” “What if she’d decided not to go?” That stuff was really on target. Paige was eating it up.

  Of course there were a few other, more accurate what ifs. What if his angry wife hadn’t been spending money they didn’t have, on clothes she wouldn’t even wear? What if she hadn’t been s
crewing her trainer and turning his marriage into a sexless sham?

  Mickey D, by the way, hadn’t even called to find out about the burial—a testament to the depth of that Vaseline-lubricated, penile-inserted relationship. If there was a bookmaker’s line on shallow behavior, Chick would have given the points and bet the house that Mickey D wouldn’t even bother to come to the funeral. The side bet was that he would probably also call sometime next week and offer to buy the gym equipment for ten cents on the dollar. What an asshole.

  They had finally pulled up at the Langham Hotel in Pasadena, and Chick waved off the doorman so he could get her luggage out of the trunk. He had his droopy, sad-eyed victim thing down pretty good now.

  “Well, you’ve had a long flight and I’ve got a million things to do,” Chick said. “By the way, I thought the scripture you put on Chandler’s Memorial Program was perfect. It seemed to capture the essence of him. I’ve been reading the Bible, looking for something for Evelyn.” This was such bullshit he couldn’t believe he was saying it. He was thankful he hadn’t removed the cool Silhouette darks. If there was anything in print that captured Evelyn, it wouldn’t have been in the Bible, but in the Book of Human Conceit, somewhere between Larcenous Debt and Lustful Behavior. But, in preparation for this moment, he had found one Bible passage that he thought seemed deep and sensitive, so he reeled it off from memory.

  “Last night, I found something in Proverbs that sort of got me. Tor her proceeds are better than profits of silver. She is more precious than rubies, and all the things you may desire cannot compare with her.” He looked down at his shoes as he finished.

  “That’s very beautiful, Chick,” Paige said.

  “Yeah. Well, maybe it’s the right one.” He turned sadly and moved away from her, stopping beside his car door before finally looking back.

  “Well, see ya.” He started to get into the car, wondering if she was just going to let him drive away. She couldn’t be that hard-hearted. Even pound puppies didn’t look as sad and lost as this.

  “Chick, I came out here to help. Are you sure there isn’t anything I could do for you?”

  “Finally,” he thought. He was behind the wheel of the sleek black roadster, and looked up, giving her his best angle. “I don’t want to impose on you, Paige. It’s so sweet you even came at all.”

  “I want to help. That’s the main reason I’m here.”

  “Well, I’m going to pick out the coffin now, but I could sure use some help on the flowers and stuff … “

  “I can do that.”

  “They have a shop right there, at Forest Lawn. They told me they can do wreaths or sprays, anything I want. Evie loved spring flowers—purple jasmine, especially.” He looked down sadly. “Purple was her favorite color?’

  “Why don’t I come and help you?”

  “Are you sure? It’s been a long day for you. You just got here.” “Chick, of course I’ll help. What time do you want me to be there? I’m renting a car from the hotel agency?’

  “Is five-thirty too early?”

  “Five-thirty is perfect?’

  Chick couldn’t believe how well this was going. By the time they’d finished picking out flowers, it would be six or six-thirty. After a stressful time selecting wreaths and bouquets for his poor dead wife, what could be more natural than two friends going out to dinner to try and get past the horrible specter of Evelyn’s passing?

  He had just the place. The Bistro Garden on Ventura Boulevard. A little wine, a little pasta, the special fish dish they did only for him.

  He felt his package twitch. Nothing overt, just a little throb and some subtle stiffening. His johnson was telling him, “Hang in there, pal, all is not lost.” He was beginning to pitch a nice little tent in his boxers.

  He put the car in gear, waved, and roared out, giving the Porsche a little extra pop of the clutch for effect, laying a chirp of rubber just like the sexy hero in one of Jerry Bruckheimer’s blockbusters.

  Chapter 29

  CHICK WAS DRINKING WAY TOO MUCH. WE HADN’T EVEN ordered dinner and he was already on his fourth scotch. I looked across a white tablecloth littered with unused bone china and crystal goblets. Chick was beginning to slur his words, but showed no sign of backing off on the liquor.

  “Damn people. Vultures. Who do they think they’re kidding? Like it makes any damn difference what kind of box she’s buried in.” We had already been through this once. He was talking about the account supervisor at Forest Lawn, who Chick was convinced had tried to embarrass him into upgrading Evelyn’s coffin, from a medium-priced box, known as a Heaven Rider, to a top-of-the-line, mahogany monster with silver handles called the Eternal Rest.

  “They prey on your grief,” he slurred, “saying it will be her accommodation for eternity. Like I’m gonna fall for that bullshit guilt trip.”

  “They were just showing you what was available, Chick. The choice was always yours.” He grunted and downed his scotch, the ice clicking against his teeth. Then he held up his glass for a refill.

  “I think we should order,” I said. We’d been at the Bistro Garden for almost an hour and he’d shooed the waiter away twice. Emotionally, he was all over the place. At times, it was like this next part of life without Evelyn was going to be unbearable, and then he would suddenly change. He’d start talking about a new business venture and his eyes would sparkle, as if he were about to begin a wonderful new journey. It was very strange.

  He nodded for the waiter and then insisted on ordering my meal for me.

  “They do a special whitefish for me in a Mexican red sauce. It’s not on the menu but you’ll love it.”

  I nodded okay, because the truth was, I was very tired and it sounded quick. It was three hours later in Charlotte and I was still on Eastern Time. The more Chick drank, the bigger the bore he became. I just wanted to eat and go back to Pasadena, fall in bed, and pull the world up over my head.

  “Pescado blanco de mejor para dos,” Chick said. The waiter nodded and wrote it down, then turned and left.

  Chick smiled at me. “Named the dish after me … Pescado blanco de mejor.” Then he translated, “White fish a la Best. Their idea, not mine.”

  “Very flattering,” I said, feeling, with this admission, we had definitely run out of things to discuss.

  While we waited for our meals, and after Chick’s fifth scotch arrived, he began talking about all his private club memberships, finally working his way around to a very exclusive bird-hunting club he belonged to in Mexico, called La Guerra.

  “Only very important corporate executives and famous actors belong,” he boasted. “Very hard to get into this place. It’s beautiful, but remote. They fly you down in chartered planes. It’s got its own private airstrip. Cabins are rustic, but it’s top-drawer all the way. The five-star chef is from Paris—the works.”

  “It sounds fascinating,” I said, trying to stifle a yawn.

  The fish arrived and it was excellent. After that came dessert, which Chick also ordered for me. Peach cobbler. Also great. Mercifully, the check finally arrived and we were out of there.

  “Chick, are you sure you’re all right to drive?” I asked.

  He furrowed his brow, as if the fact that he’d had five drinks and was about to get behind the wheel hadn’t even occurred to him. But now that realization dawned. “You think I overdid the scotch a little?”

  “You’ve had quite a few.”

  “Since Evelyn died, I’ve been leaning on the booze a little too much.” Then his eyes turned pensive. “I’m sorry if I got a little loaded here. It’s just … sometimes I feel … “

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. I understand. But, Chick, drinking too much isn’t the answer.”

  “You’re so right. I’ll stop.”

  “I don’t mean to be preaching at you,” I said. “It’s just … you’ll never come tog rips with Evelyn’s death by anesthetizing yourself.”

  “You’re right, of course. Thank God you’re here to help m
e.

  What a wonderful friend you are, Paige. You know exactly the right things to do and say. You’re a saint.”

  Pointing out the obvious to him should hardly qualify me for sainthood. Then he reached for my hand and held it. A troubled look passed across his face, a dark cloud of sudden anguish.

  “Do you ever feel as if Chandler was put on earth just for you? That, without him, you would have been only half of something, only part of what you were meant to be?” He was looking right into my eyes as he said that. “Because that’s the way I feel,” he continued. “I feel like Evelyn was put here to complete me. Put here to address my shortcomings, my lack of focus, my bouts with shallow behavior.”

  “You’re not shallow, Chick,” I said, wishing the valet would hurry getting my damn car up to me.

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “Not shallow? Have you been listening to me tonight? Country clubs and hunting lodges, cheesy T. V. actors I sometimes play golf with. Like who cares, right?”

  I just smiled. I wasn’t going near that one.

  “But I’ve always been a sucker for stuff like that. I always wanted to belong, so I can get tricked by nonsense. My father died when I was young so I had no role models. I went through a midlife phase where I tried to buy acceptance. But self-worth can’t be bought. It has to come from inside. Evelyn’s death has finally taught me that.”

  I nodded because I felt that was absolutely true. When Chandler had donated his inheritance and formed the learning foundation, I’d asked him why he was giving away his fortune so freely. He said L. D. kids were what he wanted his life to be about. He told me that it seemed to him that over the past decade people in this country had been striving for all the wrong things. “American society is shallowing out:’ he’d told me. “More and more it seems to be about nothing.” Chan, was right. Nobody knew who won the Nobel Prize for Medicine; instead we choose to be entertained for a month by the whole Anna Nicole circus or the shallow antics of Paris Hilton or Britney Spears. What the hell happened to cause such a shift in our society’s values?