The Walking

by Bentley Little

  They were kissing each other good-bye, hugging their hellos, snuggling together on the couch when they watched TV, all actions that could be interpreted in a variety of ways. He knew how he wanted to interpret them, but that was precisely the way he was afraid to interpret them, and he chose to pretend that they were just friends, grown-ups who behaved in a civilized adult manner without ascribing emotional significance to every meaningless touch.

  Still, she was once again a part of his life, and they now had a relationship where before there was none.

  On Wednesday, they met at a restaurant after work. Matta's. The Mexican restaurant where they'd gone on their first date and many dates after and that had eventually become "theirs." He had not chosen it for that reason. He had merely wanted to take her out as a change of pace, to thank her for cooking him dinner so often over the past few weeks. He decided on Matta's because it was close, cheap, and he knew that they both liked the food. The sentimental symbolism of the restaurant did not occur to him until she showed up and they were led to one of the small back booths, just like the old days. The knowledge put something of a damper on the meal, inhibiting conversation, making them both uncomfortable, and they ate quickly, in a hurry to leave.

  After, it was still early, and Claire came back home with him. They settled in front of the television to watch the news. Their earlier awkwardness was gone, and once again

  they were close and comfortable with each other, commenting on the news of the day, making fun of the superficial anchors on the entertainment program that followed.

  Miles went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine. He handed one to Claire, and she sipped it carefully, smiling in thanks.

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Miles picked up the remote control and flipped through channels until he found something he wanted to watch, an old Humphrey Bogart movie.

  "You know," Claire said, "one of my clients should become one of your clients."

  "Yeah?" he looked over at her, and he could not help smiling. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the give and-take between them, these casual discussions of their work and their jobs that somehow managed to be more intimate and more interesting than any conversation he'd had with any other woman. Claire was a clinical social worker, and when they'd lived together, she'd often tell him about the drug-addicted single mothers she'd be trying to steer straight in order to reclaim child custody, or the develop mentally disabled she had to teach to shop for food and necessities so they could live on their own.

  He'd always enjoyed their talk of work, it had always made him feel close to her, and it was only after their breakup, during the bitter divorce proceedings, that he realized she considered this part of his pattern of avoidance. She'd wanted to focus on their lives together, not their lives apart. To her, their conversations were more proof, as if proof was needed, of how far they had drifted apart. But to him it meant just the opposite, and now as she told him about her client and talked of her work, he felt a pleasant sensation of deja vu, and he allowed himself to speculate that perhaps they would get back together again

  Maybe he had picked Matta's for some reason other than mere convenience.

  Claire finished her wine, put the glass down on the coffee table. "He's been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, a diagnosis he accepts, but he's still convinced that he's being stalked, even though he has no objective proof to back him up. He says he's been getting weird phone calls, he's been chased on the street, cars have attempted to run him down. We've tried to tell him that no one is stalking him, that what he sees as a series of interconnected events are, if they even occurred, random coincidences, but it seems like the only thing that would put his mind at rest would be to have an actual detective investigate whether someone's after him."

  Miles' heart had started to pound halfway through her story. "What's his name?

  Why?

  Hold on a minute." He got up, rushed out of the room to the den, and returned with a copy of Liam's list. "Is his name on here?"

  Claire scanned the paper, read to the bottom, shook her head. "No.

  Why? What's this about?" "Are you sure?" Of course I'm sure."

  He took the paper from her. "My current client is being stalked.

  Phones, cars, everything you described. He made up this list, and one by one the people on it are being picked off, killed."

  'fflaen, this is some kind of hit list."

  "Some kind. But not all of the people have been murdered. Some have died of natural causes. And some have died in ways that well, that can't really be explained."

  "And you thought my client might be connected to this?" 'fflae story's similar." "Yeah," she admitted. "It is."

  "So I thought this might be tied in."

  She nodded. "I understand why you might think that, specially after what happened to Bob, but you have to be careful not to start reading import into everything. Pretty soon you'll be seeing patterns in unrelated events, making connections where there are none. Don't let your father's situation color everything." this is something similar to the case I'm working on. That's all. It has nothing to do with my dad."

  "Doesn't it?"

  He turned away, folded the paper. "No. And I suggest you keep an eye on this guy. My list is not foolproof. Just because your client is not on the list doesn't mean that he's not a target. Don't automatically discount his fears."

  "I won't," she said.

  They were silent for a moment. "So what about Bob?" she asked.

  "Wasn't that a movie?"

  "I'm talking to you seriously."

  Miles took a deep breath. "What about him?"

  "Do you think--?"

  "I don't know what to think."

  "What are you going to do?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "What can I do? Wait until his body turns up, I suppose."

  "Do you think it will?"

  "It has to sometime.

  But he didn't sound convincing even to himself, and he was glad when Claire dropped the subject and put her arm around him and they settled back into the couch to watch the movie.

  Finally.

  One of the other men on Liam's list lived in the Los Angeles area, and with the help of Hal, who had a good memory as well as a recurring client who ran an adult bookstore, Miles found the work address of one Owen Brodsky.

  Brodsky was a porno distributor, one of the third-tier middlemen who sold videos through ads in raunchy magazines and smutty newspapers. His office headquarters was a two-room rental in one of the nearly condemned Hollywood buildings that was sinking thanks to the subway being dug under the street below. Subway construction was the bane of Hollywood's tourist office but a boon to small business owners like Brodsky, who could now afford rent in places that before would have been priced far beyond their means. A Hollywood zip code was all-important, and Miles understood why Brodsky would covet a Hollywood location, particularly in his business.

  Downstairs, Brodsky's building housed a movie-themed bookstore, a closed tattoo parlor, and an open-fronted shop carrying gaudy Mexican merchandise. The upper offices were reached by a narrow stairwell located behind a door sandwiched between the bookstore and the tattoo parlor, and Miles climbed up the steps, walking down the hallway at the top until he found the closed door with the cheap plaque reading:

  Brodsky Productions. He knocked, heard no answer, then tried the knob.

  It was unlocked, and he opened the door, stepping into the office.

  The room was crowded and messy and looked more like an abandoned storage locker that had been ransacked than someone's office. A grossly overweight man with a pile of Der Wienerschnitzel wrappers on the cluttered desk in front of him looked up when Miles walked in but did not stop sorting through what looked like a sheaf of order forms in his hands. Miles glanced around, saw stacks of videocassettes and their extremely graphic covers piled on tables, cabinets, and the floor. A doorway leading into another of rice revealed boxes and cartons and even bigger piles of


  stacked tapes, as well as a dirty floor littered with magazines and yellowed newspapers. = "Mr. Brodsky?" Miles said.

  The man's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

  "I'm a private detective. Are you Mr. Brodsky?"

  "Yeah, I'm Mr. Brodsky. What can I do for you?"

  Miles held out his hand. "Hi there. I'm Miles Huerdeen."

  The big man declined to shake, continued sorting through the forms.

  "Call me Fred."

  "Fred?" Miles frowned. "I'm looking for a Mr. Owen

  Brodsky." ::

  "You're looking for my dad

  Oh. Do you know where I can find him? "Forest Lawn."

  He had a sinking feeling in his chest. "You mean he's---"

  "He died about a year ago. Heart attack. Why? What'd you need him for?"

  Miles sighed. "I'm investigating a stalking case. My client's father has been threatened numerous times, and his life is possibly in danger.

  He drew up a list of names, and quite a few people on that list have died under mysterious circumstances."

  "I told you: my dad had a heart attack."

  "I understand that. But I was hoping to speak to your father, if he was alive, to see if he knew of any connection between the names on the list, if he knew of any reason someone might be going after any of them."

  "You might want to look up Hec Tibbert. He was one of my old man's buds. The two of them went way back. If anybody'd know about that kind of shit, Hec'd know."

  "You have any idea where I might be able to find him?"

  Brodsky shrugged. "Phone book, maybe."

  "You got one here?"

  "Yeah." With considerable effort, the fat man bent down

  and opened one of the bottom desk drawers. He took out the White Pages and dropped the thick book onto the desk.

  Miles turned to the T's and quickly scanned the row of names. "Is Hec his real name? There's an L. Tibbert in Torrance and a Peter Tibbert on Fairfax in L.A."

  "Naw. Hec lives in Monterey Park or San Gabriel. Somewhere around there."

  "Did your dad have a personal phone book? Someplace where he kept the names and numbers of friends and family?"

  "There might be one back at the house."

  "You think we could go over there and check?" Brodsky gestured at the mess around him. "I'm kinda

  'twenty bucks." The fat man scowled. "Look, I don't know you from Adam. I told you what I -know, let you look at my phone book, but that's it. It's time for you to go now." 'qTwenty-five bucks."

  "I've wasted enough time with you. Get the fuck out of my office. This conversation is over."

  Miles met his eyes. "Twenty-five bucks, and I won't report the existence of those golden shower videos"--he nodded toward a stack of pink jacketed cassettes--"to my friend Manny Martinez on the vice squad."

  Brodsky stared at him for a moment, as if gauging his seriousness, then shrugged and pushed himself away from the desk, making the Herculean effort to stand. He was almost as wide as he was tall, Miles saw, a physical attribute that gave him the appearance of a cartoon character.

  "Do you want me to drive?" Miles asked.

  "We'll take our own cars so we can go our separate ways afterward. No offense, but I don't want to spend my entire afternoon on this fucking thing."

  "Your call." Miles followed him out of the office and

  down the hall to a key-operated elevator. He'd been wondering how Brodsky would be able to manage the steep steps. The pornographer did not look like someone who had climbed stairs within the past decade.

  "Where're you parked?" Brodsky asked.

  "Out front."

  "I'm out back. I'll swing around the block and you follow me. It's a red Lexus."

  The elevator doors opened, and Miles took his leave, heading back down the stairs the way he'd come. A few minutes later, Brodsky's red Lexus made a slow crawl along the lane closest to the building, incurring the honking wrath of an impatient driver who swerved into the left lane around him. Miles pulled in behind the fat man's car, and the Lexus sped up, circling back around the block at the next intersection.

  They headed north. Brodsky drove like a maniac, imparting to his vehicle an agility he himself would never possess, darting in and out of traffic at speeds well exceeding the legal limiL almost dating Miles to keep up.

  The house was a generic tract home just over the hills in Studio City.

  The fat man took only a moment to sort through a pile of papers and notebooks in a cupboard next to the phone before he came up with a black-bound organizer containing his father's personal address book.

  Miles tried to call first, from Brodsky's phone, but there was no answer, so he wrote down the number and address, peeled off a twenty and a five, and thanked the pornographer for his generous help before setting off for Monterey Park.

  Hec Tibbert was waiting for him in a folding chair on the dead weed patch that was the lawn in front of his house.

  It had been awhile since Miles had driven through this area, and he was not surprised to see that the Chinese presence seemed to have increased even more. This section of

  the southland had become a major Chinatown--a real one, not the kind that tourists came to see. Now the population was so heavily Weighted toward emigrees that even American institutions like banks and gas stations had signs written in both English letters and Chinese characters.

  Brodsky must have called again after Miles had left, because Tibbert was clearly expecting him. The ramshackle house was sandwiched in between a run-down single-story apartment complex and a brand-new multi story office building. The old man stood and walked to the sidewalk as Miles got out of his car.

  "Mr. Tibbert?" Miles asked.

  "Hec," the old man said, extending a hand. "Freddy told me you'd be coming."

  Miles shook Tibbert's hand. "I'm sorry to bother you. I tried to call, but no one answered. I just have a few quick questions."

  "Don't apologize. At my age, I'm grateful for any visitors." He scowled at two cute little Asian girls skipping down the sidewalk, laughing happily. "Especially if they're white. Come on, I got some coffee on the pot inside. Sit a spell."

  Miles followed him across the nonexistent yard into the house. There were piles of newspapers in the hall, a leaning broken-legged table covered with overturned beer cans in the living room, but the kitchen was surprisingly clean, and at Tibbert's insistence, Miles sat down on one of the bright yellow chairs arranged around a sparkling Formica table.

  The old man stared out the window as he cleaned out two cups in the sink. "Get out of here!" he yelled at someone outside, and Miles heard the sound of giggles and running feet.

  Tibbert poured coffee and brought the two steaming cups to the table.

  "Damn slopes are taking over. Whose country

  is this anyway? I remember when this used to be a nice town to live in, before they ran all the white people off."

  Miles tried to smile politely. His gut reaction was to berate the old blizzard for his racist stupidity, but he couldn't afford to antagonize the man.

  "Owen used to say that the chinks weren't as bad as the niggers or the Mexicans, but living here sure showed me that ain't true."

  That was his cue. Miles cleared his throat. "Speaking of Owen, I'd like to ask you a few questions." He pulled out the list, scanned it quickly--and spotted Tibbert's name.

  He looked up at the old man in surprise. For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that Tibbert would be on the list, too, and he hadn't bothered to so much as look at the paper since he'd left for Hollywood.

  Miles thought for a moment. He wasn't sure how to bring up the subject, and finally he simply handed the paper over and said, "There's a list here. Made by the father of my client. You and Owen are both on it. Could you tell me why you're on it, or what you have in common with the other men on the list?"

  The old man looked at the piece of paper. There was no pause for thought, no racking of his brain, only a slight puzzlement. "Oh
, yeah," he said. "We all worked on the dam." She's going after the dam builders, too. ; He'd almost forgotten about the crazy old lady in the mall, but the words of the homeless woman came back to him now, and a chill passed through his body, a shiver of cold that began at the back of his neck, wrapped around his heart, and continued down to the tips of his toes.

  He stared stupidly at Tibbert, not knowing how to broach what he didn't even understand. A crazy old woman in a mall, a series of bizarre deaths, a list predicting the murder

  of men who worked on a dam but now all lived in different parts of the country.

  Montgomery Jones had been killed near a dam, he remembered.

  It almost made sense. Almost. But the connections were still not quite tangible, and he could not for the life of him figure out what was going on here.

  He was scared, though, and the most frightening thing was that the crazy woman in the mall had called him by his father's name.

  Bob.t

  Tibbert was looking down at the list, his finger following the silent movement of his lips as he read the names one by one. Every few seconds he would look quizzically up at Miles, but Miles stir did not know what to say.

  He gathered himself together, took a deep breath, placed his own finger at the top of the paper. "Several of these men," Miles said slowly,

  "have been killed recently. I've been hired by the daughter of one of them--Liam Connor-to find out why he is being stalked, why attempts have been made on his life. The list does not seem to be in any particular order, there's no way to predict what's going to happen, and that makes this whole thing a crap shoot That's why I have to try and get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. I can't just stake out someone's house or put a round the-dock guard on someone, because I don't know who's next or even if someone will be next."

  Tibbert nodded. "Liam Connor. I remember him." "What can you tell me about Liam? Do you have any idea why someone would be after him? Why someone would be after any of these men?" "Wolf Canyon," the old man said.