"Yeah," she heard him say "We're on the way. All set on your end?" There was a moment of silence, then he said, "You just worry about you. "
The Beverly Wilshire Hotel was built in a section of Beverly Hills where no freeways run. To get there, she headed up big Santa Monica Boulevard, past the Mormon Temple, with its golden steeples and acres of perfectly trimmed grass. The lavish expanse of green amidst the teeming streets of West Los Angeles was as impressive a testimony to the section's wealth as anything else. As she passed the block-long black wrought-iron fence surrounding the grounds, she read the sign posted near the sidewalk. THE CHURCH OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS it proclaimed.
Latter-day Saints.
She pictured angels catching the last train to heaven, waiting till the last minute to leave earthly temptations behind. Better latter than never, they were saying.
At Wilshire Boulevard she hung a right, past Wilson's House of Suede on the corner of little Santa Monica and Wilshire. The six-lane thoroughfare was crowded as usual. No matter what time of day it was, the road never seemed wide enough to accommodate the never-ending stream of jaguars, Mercedes, and Rolls Royces as they headed for the pricey restaurants and the exclusive showrooms of Rodeo Drive. When they arrived at the entrance of the Beverly Wilshire, with its baroque facade and thick brass railings, Raleigh Ward did wait for the white-gloved valet to open his door. "You going to be okay?" he asked her before he jumped out. "I'll be back in fifteen."
"I'll be here," she said.
The doorman told her she couldn't congest the entrance and would have to circle the block.
"Didn't you see who that was?" she asked.
His cocky expression wavered for an instant.
She made a derisive noise through her teeth and shook her head in disgust. "Only the owner of this hotel."
He studied her for a moment, then moved a cone and let her wait unmolested in the hotel's circular driveway. Ten minutes later, Raleigh returned with a plump, bald man. The second man's polyester pants flared at the hem, and the points of his shirt collar nearly reached his pockets. She was no fashion expert, but she knew which decade it was.
The first words out of Mr. Disco's mouth were, "Where are the whores? You said we'd have broads." He had a European accent-something Slavic,
Raleigh looked pained. "We're going to pick them up now."
The address on North Gower turned out to be an apartment complex. The entrance to the parking lot was blocked by an electronically operated, twelve-foot iron gate. Security cameras were mounted on the complex's light poles. Raleigh had Munch punch the numbers 1-0-3 into a 10—digit keypad. She heard a phone ringing, and then a woman's voice said hello.
"It's us," Raleigh called from the backseat.
"Pull up to the left," the woman said. The gate slid open. The women who emerged from Apartment 103 were long-legged and buxom. Munch wondered how they managed to move so effortlessly in their four-inch spikes and short, tight skirts. Both women carried tiny purses and no coats.
"Now we'd like to see some nightlife," Raleigh said. He looked over at the bald guy. "Show us the hottest, hippest club in L.A."
"I know just the place," Munch said. She pulled out into the street with one hand on the Thomas Guide, already thumbing to the page that showed the dense grid of streets that make up metropolitan Los Angeles.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Stock Exchange—a New York-style dance club and bar complete with a tuxedo-clad doorman standing guard under a silk awning. The guy was huge. well over six feet, with a tiny ponytail and a superiority complex. Raleigh's bald friend slipped her a twenty and told her to get them past the velvet rope.
She pulled up in front of the club. When she stopped, she was aware of the people in line trying to see in through the limo's tinted windows. Someone called out, "Hey, my car's here." Like he was the first joker to come up with that line. She ran a brush through her hair and got out of the car. The doorman raised half an eyebrow. With the twenty folded in her gloved hand, she approached him, stopping short at the edge of the red carpet that extended out onto the sidewalk from the club's door. They leaned toward each other until his lips hovered over her ear.
"How many?" he asked.
"Four," she said as she slipped him the bill. He nodded. She returned to the limo and opened the door to the passenger compartment. Raleigh and his companions eased themselves out. He patted her arm, and said, "We're going to be a while. " He glanced nervously up the street "Where will you be?"
"I'll keep an eye out for you," she said. "This is my gig. Don't worry. Have a good time."
He answered her with a look that seemed to say she had suggested something ridiculous, then entered the club with his party.
Munch parked the car in the underground parking structure next to the club and climbed into the back of the limo to survey the damage. It wasn't terrible. She washed out the glasses they had used and filled them with fresh cocktail napkins that she folded so as to show off the company logo. The phone was still on. She pushed the recall button and wrote down the phone number he had called. She'd been burned too many times not to take as many precautions as possible. just last month she'd collected on a deadbeat plumber who owed her two hundred dollars. The run had begun as a two-hour dinner date for which the plumber paid in advance with cash. Then he and his date had started drinking and directing Munch to cruise all over the county. The plumber swore he'd pay her the next day. Multiple calls to the guy's work had produced no results. Then she tried calling the number the guy called from the limo. When she asked for the plumber, the woman said she was the wife and asked what was this about. The wife was not the same woman who'd made nasty with him in the back of the car. Munch made up some quick story about working on the guy's van and needing to talk to him about additional repairs. The wife promised to give the plumber the message. The very next day the guy paid.
After putting the phone back into its niche, she restocked the ice compartment with mixers and wiped down the chrome. Satisfied, she returned to the cab and settled down with a paperback. Two hours later, the book no longer held her interest. In the warm quiet of the car, the day's fatigue was catching up with her. She wondered if they served coffee inside the Stock Exchange. They must. She also needed to use the bathroom. She put down her book, pulled her gloves back on, locked the car, and headed up the garage ramp. The doorman turned his head halfway in her direction as she approached.
A long line of hopefuls still waited to get into the club. The doorman regarded them with contempt as they smiled gamely at him and hopped from foot to foot, trying to get a peek inside.
The only way to impress Mr. Ponytail, she knew, was with indifference. She leaned against the wall and stared at nothing. The standoff lasted fifteen minutes, then Mr. Ponytail did the only cool thing left. He unhooked his velvet rope and nodded her in. She passed him, acknowledging his graciousness with a slow blink, knowing better than to smile outright. She might need to get in there again sometime.
Inside the club, the walls throbbed with music. Quarter-sized rainbows thrown from a rotating disco ball jiggled across dancers' faces and bodies. Black-and-white Bogart movies played on the twenty-foot walls, providing a backdrop for several go-go dancers who gyrated on catwalks.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she spotted Raleigh-baby leaning against the bar. One of the women they had picked up in Hollywood was dancing pelvis to pelvis with another man. He watched them with pursed lips. Mr. Disco and the other woman leaned over her purse, sniffing coke, it looked like. Raleigh noticed Munch and waved her over.
"What you need, doll?" he asked.
"Coffee."
Raleigh beckoned to the bartender, shouted in his ear, and a cup of coffee appeared on the bar top. Munch sipped gratefully. Raleigh watched his date for another couple of minutes, then turned back to Munch. "Get the car," he said. "We're leaving."
She looked at him uncertainly, wondering if he meant to leave the women behind.
"Get the
car," he said.
By the time she had the car positioned at the entrance of the club, Raleigh, the bald guy, and the two women came rolling out. They asked to stop at a liquor store for supplies, then Munch delivered the party back to the address in Hollywood. One of the women jumped out of the back and punched a few numbers on the keypad. The electronic gate slid open. Munch waited until the woman was back in the car, then slowly pulled into the driveway.
"I'll be right back," Raleigh said.
She watched him climb the stairs with the other three. Soon light filled the window of the apartment. Through the thin curtains she could see the four of them walking around. Raleigh returned to the car minutes later and told her to drive a couple of blocks, then pull over. The privacy partition went up. Over the microphone she heard the tones as he punched another number in the car phone.
"All set," he said. "Later."
She heard him mixing himself a drink the ice hitting the tumbler, the hiss of a soda bottle opening, the glug of the decanter emptying.
She waited for him to roll down the window that separated them and give her instructions. Instead he made a second call.
"It's me," he said. His voice softened. If his head hadn't been lolling in the corner, near the mike, she would have missed his next words. "Please," he said in a tone that embarrassed her to overhear. "I just want to talk to you." A moment later, the privacy partition rolled down.
"Take me home," he said.
On the drive back to Culver City, he was quiet. She checked on him periodically through the rearview mirror, expecting to see him passed out. But every time she looked, he was staring out the window. When they turned onto his street, he finally spoke.
"I've got a proposition for you," he said.
"What's that?"
"We got a six-hour ticket going. That's what? Two and a half bills?"
"Two hundred and seventy-six plus the phone charges."
"All right. You got a head for numbers. I like that. How 'bout you write me a receipt for . . . How much is eight hours?"
"Three sixty-eight plus the phone charges."
"All right. Make the bill close to four hundred, don't make it an even number. We'll still end now, but I'll give you three bills. I'm talking cash."
"I don't know."
His voice was heavy from the whiskey. She glanced at the liquor decanters and noted that he and his guests had drained all three.
"I'm going to need a car off and on for the rest of the week, maybe longer. Did I mention that?"
She pulled up in front of his building, next to a streetlamp that would give her sufficient light, and pulled out her receipt book. "Do I make this out to you or your company?"
"Just leave that part blank."
She heard the rear door open and wondered if he was going to try to skip out on her. A moment later he was at her passenger door. She cleared her map off the seat just before the door lurched open and he let himself down heavily on the plush velour upholstery. For just an instant his coat lifted up and she saw a leather holster on the back of his belt. Her pen moved quickly across the pad. The sooner this evening ended, the better.
He sighed heavily, filling the compartment with his whiskey breath. She looked over at him, thinking she might make some small joke to lighten the moment.
Instead she found him staring at her in a way that stopped the words forming in her mind. The despair emanating from him staggered her. His head drooped from his shoulders. As he looked over at her, his lower lids sagged open, showing the parts of his eyeballs where they curved under. To call them the whites of his eyes would have been a misnomer. Those orbs of his were completely red, more than she would have believed possible. Beyond tears. He'd have to feel a whole lot better before he could cry.
She knew that because she recognized the place where he was. A person never forgets that place, not if they've ever been there. How it feels when things just keep getting worse and you never seem to die.
The Program called it incomprehensible demoralization; that pretty much summed it up.
She saw that in Raleigh Ward, in the dull gape of his mouth. It was in his eyes, too, that unmistakable expression that was both glazed and naked.
She also knew that there was a safeness in that place, that bottom. If it didn't feel so bad, you could look around and take comfort in the fact that you were invulnerable.
She almost didn't want to take his money. But, hey, they'd made a deal. Whatever was going on with this guy had nothing to do with that. She waited while he stretched awkwardly to reach a hand into his pants pocket. Finally, he pulled out a wad of cash, mumbling something that sounded like, "What they all want." He coughed wetly and jammed two hundred-dollar bills into her hand. She was ashamed when she realized that she had been hoping he'd forgotten about his earlier payment. She straightened and folded the bills while Raleigh fumbled for the door release, cursing. She got out to help him, but by the time she came around to his side he was already out and heading for the curb.
"I'll phone you about next week," he called over his shoulder.
She watched him stagger off and wondered if he was going home to blow his brains out. Nah, she decided, people don't make plans for the next week they're going to off themselves. Do they?
Fuck it, she thought. It's not my job to save every lost soul in the world. The guy is just drunk. She got back in the car and started the engine.
So why did she feel like such a jerk for letting him go home to sleep it off?
She put the limo in drive but didn't lift her foot off the brake.
Shit, she thought, shit shit shit. She moved the gear selector back to park while she thought. Maybe there was somebody else who knew this guy and would know what to do. She reached back for the car phone and pushed the recall button. A number lit up across the small screen. She pushed SEND. A woman answered by saying, "Go away," then hung up. Munch tried again but got only a busy signal. She wrote the number down on her copy of the receipt and shut off the phone. What more could she do? Raleigh Ward was in Gd's hands.
* * *
It was twelve-thirty by the time Munch pulled into her driveway. Asia met her at the door, still wearing her school clothes and looking every bit as tired as Munch felt. Derek was asleep on the couch with the television on and one of Asia's Cabbage Patch dolls wrapped in his arms.
"Can I go to bed now?" Asia asked.
Munch scooped her up, carried her into her bedroom, and helped her change into her pajamas.
"I'm really glad Derek came over tonight," Asia said as Munch tucked her into bed and surrounded her with stuffed animals.
"You are?"
"Yeah. I forgot how much I don't like him."
Munch didn't say anything, but she knew what the kid meant.
CHAPTER 3
The call to the police was the least he could do after he dried his own body and did what he could to make the women presentable.
"There's been some killing done," he whispered, partly to disguise his voice, partly to make sure they listened carefully. "Fifteen hundred North Gower, unit lO3," he told the operator.
Then he left the women's apartment, making certain no one spotted him. He was exhausted physically, but the important part of him—his soul, his spirit—roared with new life. Earlier, when he had prepared to go out for the evening, he had filled his pockets with everything he thought he would need. The checklist included his own roll of Johnson & Johnson half-inch waterproof tape and a four-inch dagger—his "stinger"—strapped to his shin. Great men needed to be prepared for whatever the world threw at them, and the way he had been feeling lately . . . Well, it was only a matter of time.
How simple the answer had been. How he had fought his natural God-given yearnings. Did birds resist migration? Salmon their spawning? The cold-blooded species their periods of hibernation? The headaches should have clued him in—those stabbing pains were just his body's way of telling him to not question his instincts, to let go and let nature take its course. The t
ruth—seeing it, knowing it, embracing it—set him free.
It was while still in college that he had first read John Locke's lucid work, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. The gist of it was that all thoughts arise from sensory experience. According to Locke, thinking is an entirely involuntary process. There is no free will, no innate concepts. A man can no more control the ideas his mind generates than a mirror can "refuse, alter, or obliterate the image of objects set before it. " People are neitheri "good" nor "bad." One merely does the things that enhance pleasure and avoid those that bring pain.
He knew enough of the secret things that went on inside people's homes to know everyone had their own private ideas of pleasure.
He studied the buildings courtyard. The security in the building complex was a joke. It gave the residents a false sense of safety. As if any person with criminal intent would be stupid enough to make himself visible to the cameras mounted so obviously. The joke, of course, was on them—the sheep.
He stepped lightly toward the rear of the compound, savoring the warm afterglow of satiation. He remembered his boyhood credo, particularly his preamble to the Golden Rules for Control, written years ago with a hopeful teenage hand. "I shall endeavor through the application of psychology to adapt myself to the Golden Rules and to attack human nature to my fullest extent." He smiled at the memory of the sweet, naive boy that he had been. With experience and seasoning, he had modified the Rules. He still thirsted for understanding. The human mind still fascinated. Ah, but the rest . . .
He climbed the cinder-block wall that surrounded the building's trash enclosure. Easily vaulting the perimeter fence, he landed lightly on his feet and found himself in a narrow, dark alley. Perfect. He followed the alley to where it joined a small side street and turned so that he was heading toward the neon extravaganza of Sunset Boulevard. As he walked, he threw back his head and laughed.
Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella Page 3
