Blurred

by Kim Karr

  She snickered at that. “Right. It’s up there next to Tom Sawyer.”

  “How’d you know?” I winked.

  I walked backward and kept my eyes on her. I stopped at the end of the aisle, put both my feet together, and leaned forward slightly. I pretended I was tipping an imaginary hat. “It was nice talking to you . . .” I paused, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

  “S’belle,” she finished for me.

  “S’belle.” I grinned. I stood straight again and quickly disappeared around the corner knowing I had to leave.

  She yelled, “Wait, I didn’t catch your name.”

  I called back, “Ben. My name is Ben Covington,” and left the library as fast as I could.

  I clutch the book tight and push the memory away. I’m getting good at that. The word ghost catches my eye and when I glance at the shelf, it’s a book about haunted locations around Los Angeles, I grab it as well. I may despise LA, but certain stories and historical events that occurred in this city fascinate me. As I’m checking out, I see a rack of journals right next to the cash register and pick one up. It’s black with gold gilded pages, similar to my old ones. The ones I no longer have. I haven’t allowed myself to put my feelings on paper since after my mother’s death, since the day I gave Dahl the journal I kept for her, but I think it’s time now.

  Turning the corner back toward my hotel, I spot a small coffee shop like the one in Laguna. The sign on the window reads Four & Twenty Blackbirds and the name catches my eye—pie. I peer in the window. Pressed-tin walls and communal tables with a few booths cultivate a sense of small-town charm and I know I’ll be coming back here. The night’s young but I’m feeling wrecked. I still have one more thing to accomplish today before it’s over. I pull out my phone and search for her number. Making this call might be a risk, but since she hasn’t phoned me back I can only assume she isn’t checking her messages until Monday. So calling my former editor at home is my only option.

  “Hello?” Christine answers.

  “Christine, it’s Ben. Ben Covington. How are you?”

  “Ben.” Her voice breaks. And although I know she already knew I was alive, her surprise is still genuine. Her professionalism quickly returns. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “Good, that makes two of us. Can we get together and talk?”

  “Yes, I’d love that. Unfortunately, I’m out of town until Friday afternoon, but I can meet that night. What do you say to Novels at seven?”

  “Great. I’ll be there. See you then,” I say and hang up.

  I’m almost back to the motel when a flash appears in front of me. Fuck me—the paparazzi found me already. I’m not in the mood for their shit, but game on. I weave in and out of stores until I find one with a back door. Once I lose the douchebag, I hightail it to the fleabag motel.

  Not feeling nearly as tired anymore with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I pour a drink. I flick on the TV, which surprisingly works, and make my way to take a shower. A few stray hairs in the bathroom make me hate my life even more. I glance at myself in the mirror. What the fuck have I done with my life—I’m twenty-seven, staying in a shit bag motel with no money and nothing to look forward to. I stand here in silence and ponder my decision—questioning this supposed new start of mine.

  A few hours later, I’m struggling to get some sleep when a disturbance from next door gets louder. Male, female, I can’t tell because the voices are muffled, but the act is undeniable. The lack of light through the broken blinds clues me in that it’s either really late or really early. I roll over and cover my head with the pillow, but can’t fall back to sleep. After a few minutes, I turn back around. The moans and groans are gone, replaced by quiet whispers that can still be heard through these paper-thin walls. I stare at the plaster peeling from the ceiling and watch the fan blades moving around as I try to stop my mind from thinking about how I ended up here. It wanders and I mentally scold myself for allowing any form of self-pity.

  I jump out of bed to grab another drink and my journal. I run my fingers along the lines of the page and then let the ink bleed upon it. I write about Australia, how sweet life was there. I write about the upcoming trial, I even write about finding a place to live and calling Christine for a chance at a new job. When I’m done, I close the journal and set it on my lap. New journal. New beginnings. New life. I eventually drift off, spending the rest of my first night back in California alone in a fleabag motel.

  Chapter 4

  Cry Me a River

  As I exit the door of my fleabag motel room, the unexpected brightness of the outdoor light blocks my vision and the rain assaults me. Once my eyes adjust, I stick my earbuds in, pull up my hood, and blast my music. I’ve been listening to “Cry Me a River” on repeat. Why? I couldn’t say. I fucking hate JT. But the song reminds me of, well, me. I run for as long as I can but honestly I hate running in the daylight. Normally I run in the dark. It gives me a sense of freedom.

  I arrived in this shitty town on Saturday and by Tuesday I was so fucking bored I couldn’t stand it. For the first few days I spent mornings in the library and the nights drinking alone in my room. Now I’ve decided exercise might help pass the time. Breathing in the California air, I think that it couldn’t be any more different from the air in Australia. Thunder rumbles overhead and I watch as everyone scurries for cover. The rain comes down harder and blurs my vision. Flickers of lightning brighten the quickly darkening sky. I glance up to watch the flashes and notice a neon red sign that reads Beck’s.

  Cutting short my run, I slip inside what looks from the outside to be a small hole-in-the-wall. But it’s actually pretty big inside. There’s a jukebox in one corner. A few booths line the wall to my right and a bunch of tables are scattered through the room. What really draws my attention is the giant bar. It’s shaped like an L and behind each side sits a wall of beer taps. There must be almost a hundred different brands.

  Shaking the water from my head I make my way to one of the stools. The guy behind the counter is intent on his laptop screen but he closes it as I approach the bar. He stands and rounds the corner. “What can I get you?”

  “Whatever you have to take the boredom away.”

  He smirks. “If I had the cure for that I’d be out of the bar business, but rich as hell.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, probably. I’ll have a beer.” I turn to check out the wall behind him. “Fosters.”

  “Paying tribute to the Aussies?”

  “Something like that.”

  He extends his hand. “I’m Beck Cavanaugh.”

  “Ben,” I say extending mine. “This place yours then?”

  He grabs a mug. “My Dad’s. I’m helping him out. Well more like I’ve taken over for him temporarily.”

  “He sick?”

  He tips the glass and fills it. When he turns around he says, “Something like that. What about you. What do you do?”

  Just as I’m about to sip my beer, my cell phone rings. I pull it out and glance at the screen before saying, “Excuse me.”

  He nods and flips his computer around to return to it.

  “Hello,” I answer.

  “Ben, this is Agent Bass. We’d like you to come in tomorrow morning to discuss your upcoming trial testimony.”

  “Sure. I wondered when you’d be calling. What time?”

  “Nine. I’ll send a car.”

  I laugh. “Are you tailing me?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “How do you know I don’t have any means of transportation?”

  She dismisses my question. “A car will be in front of your hotel at nine. I’ll explain what I can at that time.”

  I sip my beer. “Okay then.” I guess she knows where I’m staying as well.

  She disconnects and I just stare at the foam settling inside my mug.

  “Another?” Beck asks.

  I put my hand out. “No, I’m good. So what is it you’re doing over there?” I nod my head toward his computer.
<
br />   “You know anything about social media and apps?”

  I grin. “I know about them, yes. Do I have a Facebook or a Twitter? No.”

  “Cool. You’d make an excellent beta tester then.”

  I look quizzically at him as he grabs his computer and rounds the bar to sit next to me. He spends the next hour showing me an app he’s developing to combine all forms of social media into one easy-to-use program. It’s rather impressive.

  As the work day ends and customers start to enter the bar, I decide to head out. I need to get my thoughts together . . . prepare myself to think clearly for tomorrow. I thought I had accomplished that while I was in Australia but this week I let my sharpened mind wander. I say my goodbyes and exit the bar.

  When I come to the door, I stick my earbuds in, step out into the rain, and think about the case. Two of the heads of the Mexican drug cartel I’d investigated were arrested last October but there were always believed to be five people running the operation. Well, really, ever since Caleb presented the information to me I thought one guy was at the helm and the other four followed his lead—but I could never prove it. The fifth guy was actually the cleanest. Of course I uncovered a lot about the operation because Caleb gave me a lead that no other reporters had.

  And what I uncovered was an enormous setup of drug runners selling methamphetamines, cocaine, heroin, and more. I always feel uneasy when I think back to what my initial investigation led me to—drops, people, routes, banking info, and other data I never even had a chance to dissect. Facts I had stupidly kept track of even after killing the story. Details responsible for the assault on Dahl. Information I gladly handed over to Caleb before I left for Australia. Fuck . . . why am I still involved in this thing? What am I missing?

  ***

  The next morning I glance at my watch, a cheap Timex I bought off a street vendor in Times Square while I lived in New York City. Eight forty-five a.m. I make a mental note to go through the boxes in my mother’s attic when I go back to Laguna to see if my Nixon is in one of them. I was wearing it the day I “died” but I wasn’t allowed to keep it. All of my personal belongings were given to my mother. Serena bought me that watch for my twenty-first birthday because she knew I’d appreciate the tide watch dial.

  A black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulls up to the curb and the door opens. Without a word from the man in a suit, white dress shirt, and tie, I hop in. We ride in silence to the white high-rise building on 11000 Wilshire Blvd. He pulls the car over, hops out again, and opens my door, motioning for me to get out. As soon as my feet hit the pavement another dude dressed just like the driver approaches me.

  “Mr. Covington, follow me, please.”

  After sailing quickly through security, we approach the glass enclosed reception window and my companion offers a single nod. The receptionist hands me a visitor’s badge and I wrap the cord around my neck. My nerves are buzzing as we pass the round gold seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the framed picture of the president, and the various most-wanted posters that I feel I’ve passed a few too many times in my life.

  “Special Agent Bass is waiting for you inside,” the man tells me.

  They’ve arranged for us to meet in the same conference room that we used last year when I first returned. Fuck, it seems like it was yesterday that I sat in this very room waiting for my mother to arrive. My mind flashes back and I suddenly feel shaky.

  The suits had left me in there for hours. The ticking of the clock was my only solace. One suit finally came back in and told me my mother was in the building. I asked where she was, then was informed that she was talking to one of the Special Agents in the waiting room. I tried not to lose my shit as I tore out of that fucking place. I wanted to be there when they told my mother. I knew it would be a shock to her that I was really alive—that I wasn’t actually gunned down that night while on my way to an awards ceremony. I ran through the hall and stopped on my heels when I saw Special Agent Bass talking to my mother. I was relieved when I saw the agent was a woman. Why, I’m not sure, but somehow I felt there would be more sympathy from a woman explaining the circumstances to her than a man. They were sitting in the corner of the room. My mother was crying so I knew she had been told and her tears made me instantly regret ever agreeing to the whole set-up in the first place. She looked like an emotional wreck and the remorse I felt for the choice I made to leave, to not stay and turn this over to the FBI, weighed heavier than ever on me. But once the ball started rolling there was stopping it. Thank fuck Caleb had taken things into his own hands and contacted the FBI shortly after I left.

  When my mother looked up, her mouth fell open, and I could see she was shaky, unsure. She stood up but didn’t step forward and I walked over to assure her I was real. Once I was standing in front of her, she blinked and then sighed before throwing her arms around me. It overwhelmed me and I’ll never forget holding on to her for the longest time.

  She was always my biggest supporter. To her I could do no wrong—I was her golden boy, the son that looked just like his father, the man she had also loved unconditionally. Our brief but emotional reunion was interrupted when the Special Agent Bass ushered us back to this room.

  “Sir, are you okay?” The suited man standing next to me is giving me an odd look since I’m standing frozen before the conference room door.

  So I shake off the memories, nod, and turn the knob to open the door. The escort closes the door behind me. Special Agent Bass is sitting at the end of the table looking through a pile of papers. Two men sit on either side of her. The one to the left is older than I am and the one to the right appears about my age. They all rise when I enter.

  “Ben, I hope this wasn’t too short notice. But I really wanted you to meet Special Agent Gallant and Detective Keyes.”

  After a round of handshakes, Agent Bass sits back down and folds her hands. The older man’s smile is polite and anything but genuine as he shuffles his papers around once we’re all seated.

  “These two men have been working on the cartel case for over four years. They have some questions for you that I wasn’t able to answer.” Her eyes dart to the older man, the detective, and he clears his throat.

  “Mr. Covington, I just want to be blunt. We recovered the flash drive you gave to Caleb Holt and found nothing but a list of names and phone numbers that appears to be taken from a telephone directory.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I told Agent Bass I didn’t have time to decipher the information.”

  “Yes, we’re aware of that. But we have had the time. In fact we’ve spent an enormous amount of time doing just that only to come to the conclusion that the data means nothing.”

  There is a long pause as everyone stares at me. “Wait, you don’t think I still have information do you?”

  The younger agent clears his throat. “We believe there is information still out there that can help us convict Medina and Blanco. Right now if we proceed with the trial my best guess is they would end up convicted of smuggling. We have the 50-kilogram shipment that we intercepted the night Josh Hart was caught after he attacked Dahlia London and that’s it.”

  “They ordered more than 100 murders. How can that be all you have?” I ask.

  “We have houses purchased to store cocaine that are empty. That’s what we have.”

  “Fuck!” I yell. “I had it all detailed in the story . . . the routes, the houses, the people, the money trail.”

  “We know but without the data that supported the story we are at a standstill,” Agent Bass informs me.

  I shake my head. “I gave it all to Caleb. I told you that. I didn’t even keep a backup on my computer. I didn’t want anything left behind.”

  “That’s not entirely true, now, is it?” By this point the detective practically seethes in anger.

  “Phil, Ben has been through a lot. I think he’s given us everything he has.” Agent Bass defends me to the detective.

  Our silence takes over the room as I struggle to comp
ose myself and he does the same.

  Thirty minutes and a dozen of more of the same questions later, I’m walking out the door and being escorted back into the black SUV. As we drive back to my fleabag motel, we pass Beck’s.

  “Hey, pull over here,” I direct the driver.

  When he does, I hop out and slam the door. I’m pissed as hell that they think I might have held on to information and even more pissed that they can’t figure out what they have. Are they fucking imbeciles? I’d have offered to do it myself but there’s no way I’m opening that Pandora’s box again.

  “You okay, man?” Beck asks when I storm through the door.

  “Could be better.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  For some reason I do and for the first time in a long time, I open up and tell him everything I’ve tried to forget—and as the weight starts to lift, it feels so fucking good to finally breathe.

  Chapter 5

  Demons

  Friday morning comes way too fast. I feel hungover as shit and for the first time in a while I don’t get out of bed right away. Everything I worked so hard to move past is right back in front of me and I want to just forget it. When I finally wake up it’s after three. I roll out of bed and run down to the small coffee shop I’ve gone to every day this week. The girl behind the counter has worked every day since I got to LA. And just like the previous days, when I approach she smiles, almost like she feels sorry for me. And just before, I shrug off her attention with a smile in return.

  When I get back to the motel, I read for an hour or so and then grab my journal to write down everything that happened yesterday. A phone book directory? It makes no sense. All the other data I sorted through was pretty straight forward, but I don’t have time to ponder what Bass said. I have thirty minutes until I’m supposed to meet Christine and it’s at least ten blocks away. I take a quick shower and since Novels is nothing fancy I throw on a pair of chinos and a plaid button-down. I opt for my sneakers since I don’t have any dress shoes with me.