“When we saw Brenda dead,” she said, “it wasn’t that bad. It seemed awful at the moment, but I got over it. Because mostly she just looked asleep. There wasn’t any blood. But this was worse, even though nobody was killed. That’s right, isn’t it? Squig’s not going to die, is he?”
“No.”
“I mean, the blood. There was so much blood.”
“It looked worse than it was.”
“But what I saw was how it looked. Not how it was.”
Silence, except for rustling trees outside. It would be a blowy night, a clear morning.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” she said.
“It should be ready.”
“You made?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I love you.”
“Me too.”
I went in the kitchen and poured a cup. I turned off the burner, dropped a teabag in a mug, dumped barely-steaming water over it, and returned to the bedroom. Gina took her cup, sipped, sighed. “I guess I should tell you what happened.”
“When you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.” She took a bit more coffee, got up, put the cup on the nightstand. She pulled back the covers and climbed in, leaning against the headboard with a pillow behind her. “They were waiting,” she said.
“In what?”
“A Volkswagen. A Beetle.”
“Old Beetle or New Beetle?”
“New. Some dark color. When we got outside it started up.”
“How many people in it?”
“One. Or two. Maybe more. I don’t know.”
“How far away was it?”
“I don’t know that either. A couple of stores’ worth of alley, maybe. Joe?”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter how far. I’ve seen quite enough blood for a while. I don’t want you playing detective. So the gory details don’t matter.”
“Okay.”
“This is going in one ear and out the other, isn’t it?”
“It may be rattling around a little first.”
I got a millisecond of smile out of her. “The car started up and drove toward us and pow. And after that everything’s blurry. I think one of the bullets hit Squig, and he got turned around and stumbled into me. And I was holding him up, and then I realized what was happening, all the blood and everything. I got lightheaded. I never fainted before, have you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And Chloe was screaming. She had her hand over her mouth and she was screaming right into it. Then I saw the man who was guarding the door, he must have come running when he heard the shots. And then I went out. I think the doorman caught Squig when I let go, I don’t know, maybe he did and maybe he didn’t.”
“I think he did. He had blood all over him too.”
“I don’t think I was out more than a few seconds. I must have fallen on my knee, because when I came to it hurt like a bitch. When I tried to get up I got fainty again, so I just lay there, and then you were there, and I was so glad you weren’t hurt.”
“I wasn’t even there when it happened. I was in the women’s room.”
A look, much like the one Kalenko gave me when told the same thing.
“The men’s was occupied. Look, I’m going to ask something, and I don’t think it’s anything the average concerned significant other wouldn’t ask.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you think they were after Squig? I mean, it wasn’t a random drive-by?”
“I don’t think they were. Why would you think that?”
“I asked Kalenko if it was, and he said maybe, maybe not.”
“He didn’t want to commit himself. That how cops are.”
“I suppose.” I looked down at my untouched tea. Took out the bag, had nowhere to put it, dropped it back in. I took a sip. It was awful. I drank it half down anyway.
“Joe?” Gina said.
“Yeah, babe?”
“You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“In your poking around.”
“I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”
“No, you never actually said that.”
I looked for answers in my tea. Saw only slivers of reflection. “I’m done with that,” I said.
“Right.”
“I mean it.” I put down the mug and took her hand. “I promise, no trying to find who shot Squig. I’ll let the cops handle it.”
“Good.”
Silence, maybe a minute’s worth.
“What about your trip?” I said.
“What about it?”
“You still planning on going?”
“It hadn’t even crossed my mind.” She picked up her coffee cup, took a sip. “I’ll have to sleep on it.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“But I’m too hyped to sleep.” She looked around the bedroom like she’d never seen it before. “I wonder what’s on TV.”
I got up, put down my mug, held out a hand. “Let’s go see.”
The answer, basically, was nothing. So we watched nothing for an hour and a half, curled up together on her sofa under a blanket, until I heard her snoring softly. I picked her up, carried her into the bedroom, tucked her in. She half-woke, made kissing sounds. I gave her one, smoothed her hair away from her face. She was back asleep before I was out of the room.
I went back in the living room and muted the television. The wind was blowing stronger. Little branches tip-tapped on the dining room window. I returned to the sofa, turned the TV sound on low, clicked the remote until I got to Channel 6. They were running the late replay of their eleven o’clock news. There was another suicide bombing in the Middle East. The idiot blond anchorwoman informed us that it was a very sad thing, and said Channel 6’s heart went out to the victims. After that the weather guy babbled about the Catalina eddy and the offshore flow.
I flipped through some more channels and stumbled on another Dana Andrews noir. When justice had been served I turned off the TV and went to bed. The last thing I heard was leaves blowing in the wind.
Sleeping Man
It was a fitful sleep, one that ended at eight-thirty when a leaf-blower started up outside. They’d banned the things in L.A. because of the noise. Too bad Gina lived in West Hollywood.
I left her in bed, got up, threw the sweats on again. I started up the teakettle and turned on the TV. The station I’d left it on, the one with the movie, had an infomercial for something guaranteed to strip the years away. Face cream, herbal Viagra, something like that. I went back to Channel 6. A different weatherman above a map of the L.A. basin. Temperatures were going to be good. Smog was going to be good too, a consequence of the windstorm. Somebody named Louisa was having her ninety-seventh birthday, and the station’s best wishes went out to her. Back to you, News Guy Phil.
The top story was a murder-suicide in Hollywood. A couple of senior citizens, husband and wife, discovered by a neighbor who couldn’t stand the smell. The police weren’t sure yet who did who, but would let us know as soon as they did.
The next piece was on the Middle East. More on the suicide bombing. Shots of bloody people. Reaction from an Arab fanatic and an Israeli one. Balanced journalism.
The third story was ours.
They had a live shot of Terry Takamura, their star reporter, standing in the alley behind Paoletti’s. The wind was still up, the palms at the end of the alley were swaying in it, but Terry Takamura’s long black hair moved not a whit. Behind her a cop was taking down crime scene tape. In the middle distance someone in an overcoat was pushing a shopping cart laden with bulging garbage bags.
“Police are stumped,” Terry Takamura said, “regarding a motive for the shooting of this man.” A vague photo of Squig appeared on-screen, banging on an upright piano, with his face bearing a dopey grin. “He is Leonard ‘Squig’ Jones, forty-nine, of Hollywood. Police were unable to question him last night because of his injuries, but even now are in his room at Cedars-Sinai
.”
The sound changed subtly, marking a switch to something recorded earlier. “One ironic twist to this story is that victim Jones was in the company of this man.”
A photo appeared on the screen. Mine. It was a head shot, not the ancient one Elaine was using but one even older.
“This is Joseph Portugal, also forty-nine, who has twice been instrumental in helping police solve grisly murders.”
“They weren’t all grisly,” I said.
“It’s understood that Mr. Portugal is a boyhood friend of victim Jones and is now playing with him in a band. Police are unsure whether the shooting has any connection to this band.”
“Of course it doesn’t.”
Takamura went live again. “We’ll have further developments as they break. Back to you, Phil.”
The teakettle whistled. I ran in to shut it off. When I got back they’d gone to commercial, so I jumped to another channel. Then a couple more, but I couldn’t find anything more about the shooting. I turned off the TV and poured water over a teabag. The phone went off. After the second ring Gina yelled, “Could you get that? It’s probably my mother.”
It wasn’t her mother. It was my father.
“Joseph?”
“No, Dad, it’s six other guys.”
“My son, the comedian.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“I tried the house. You weren’t there. I thought, where else would he be? You were on the television.”
“I know.”
“Are you all right?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Again you get mixed up with people with guns.”
“I didn’t exactly get mixed up. I didn’t actually see any guns. Gina saw a gun, but not me.”
“You’re getting my future daughter-in-law mixed up with the guns now?”
Dream on, father dear. “She got herself mixed. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Oh?”
“I was in the bathroom at the time.” That ought to help.
“You want protection?”
“What, you’re going to get one of the Over-the-Hill Gang to follow me around like the other time?”
“It could be arranged.”
“No. I do not want protection. I didn’t even have anything to do with it.”
“The television said you did.”
“Fuck the television. I don’t know why they dragged out that old picture, but—”
“You say ‘fuck’ to your father?”
“You’ve heard me say it before.”
“And what did I do?”
“You washed my mouth out with soap.”
“So?”
“So I was six then, Dad. Talking to you is like falling through the looking glass.”
“I worry about you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Who is this Squiggy guy?”
“Squig. Without the -gy. He’s an old friend from when I was a kid. From when you were in prison.”
I could see him on the other end, pooching his lower lip out. “You be careful, is all I want to say.”
“How many times are we going to have this you-be-careful speech?”
“How many times are you going to get your head almost blown off? All I’m saying is, if you want help from your father, you can have it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I’ve got to go.”
We said our good-byes. Gina wandered in, wrapped in the dilapidated robe, a ravishing wreck. “I take it it wasn’t my mother.”
“My father. He saw a report on last night on TV and he thinks I’m in danger.”
“He means well.”
“I know. You want me to make coffee? Or breakfast?”
“No. You know me, I get barfy if I fly with food in my stomach.”
“Then you’re going?”
“Uh-huh. I think I have to. If I don’t go I’ll just sit around all day dwelling on what happened last night. I go up north and concentrate on business, I’ll be better off.”
“Sounds reasonable. I suppose your mother’s coming to take you to the airport.”
“Of course. God forbid I should take off without her praying to the Virgin for me at LAX. She’s supposed to be here at a quarter after nine. I better get moving.”
“I’m going to head out then.”
She came to me, put her arms around me, laid her head on my chest. “You’ll be careful?”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
She loosened her grip enough to look up at me. “I’ll call you.”
“I’ll be waiting.” I kissed her, gathered my bag of dirty clothes, and left.
Los Angeles after a windstorm. The smog’s as gone as it ever gets. You can see the mountains clearly, and even if you’re just looking across the street the air’s different, more transparent. The day looks bright and optimism abounds.
There was a gauntlet of fallen palm fronds on Crescent Heights, lying in the gutter like urban driftwood. The car in front of me swerved to avoid one and nearly ran over a Sikh on a bike. The Sikh fell into the street. His turban tumbled off. I pulled over and got out to help him, but by the time I got there he had things together. He thanked me for my concern and cycled off. Somebody yelled for me to get my car the fuck out of their driveway. Optimism bubbled away.
When I got home I threw my two sets of clothes in the hamper, fed the birds, and climbed into the shower. When I got out I looked up and dialed the number for Cedars. Mr. Jones, I was told, was in serious but stable condition. I asked if he could see visitors and was told it was only family until at least the next afternoon. Did he even have any family?
I threw on shorts and a T-shirt and went out back to the greenhouse. One of the echinopsis had aphids all over its buds. I let them be. They never did any real damage, sitting there with their miniscule hindquarters engaged in an insect ballet. Now if only the folks at Olsen’s Natural Garden Solutions didn’t catch wind of my kindness.
The phone rang. I ran inside to get it. “Hello?”
“Fucking assholes.”
“Morning, Woz.”
“Bastards.”
“I get the point.”
“We ought to get them.”
“Them? Who, them?”
“The guys who did it.”
“You have a clue who that was? Is this about some shady crap you’re mixed up in?”
“No. All I’m saying’s, they ought to be taken care of. Whoever they are.”
“Define ‘taken care of.’“
“You know.”
“No, Woz, I do not know. Tell me.”
“It’s an eye for an eye kind of thing. Bastards show up again, we need to be ready.”
“Next time? What next time? You know something about this, you better tell the cops.”
“No fucking cops. You in?”
“On what?”
“Whatever happens.”
“This conversation is way too theoretical for me.”
“Asshole.”
“Maybe you should call back when you calm down.”
“Maybe you should go fuck yourself.” He hung up.
I did too, and sat on the couch. What the hell was Woz talking about? I didn’t like this eye for an eye stuff. I didn’t know diddly about what the guy had been up to since we were kids. Maybe he was an NRA bigwig. For that matter, I didn’t know squat about any of them. Maybe Squig was a drug mule who’d taken a little off the top and gotten caught. Maybe—
No. It wasn’t anything as cinematic as that. It was just Woz being pissed because his little buddy had gotten shot by parties unknown. He was making big macho noises because that was the kind of thing guys like Woz did. Can’t let the other side, whoever they are, see you’re weak. Got to put up a brave front. Like a gorilla pounding his chest.
I went in the bedroom and fooled with my acoustic, but everything came out in a minor key and depressed me. I put the guitar away and fa
rted around the house until I could convince myself it was lunchtime. I drove to Baja Fresh and ate half a burrito. Then on to the Kawamura for a couple of hours repotting cacti. I came home and had another shower, pulled out the guitar again, put it back after ten minutes. I walked to Hollywood Video and found a Jackie Chan I hadn’t seen in a while. Watching it wasn’t the same without Gina. I was in bed by eight-thirty.
Another Tricky Day
Gina called in the morning, waking me. I don’t think I made a whole lot of sense. She asked if I’d been smoking dope again. I assured her I hadn’t and asked how the trip was going. She said it was okay, except that she missed me. I said I missed her too. She said she was going to bug out a day early and catch a flight around dinnertime. She’d already arranged for her mother to pick her up. I said to call me when she got back to her place. She said she would. And that she’d bought something, and that I would like it. I asked what it was, but she wouldn’t tell me. Said a woman had to have a little mystery. Added that she couldn’t believe she’d just said that. Then she said, Love you, and I said, Love you too, and we said good-bye and hung up.
I looked at the clock. Twenty after seven. I’d slept almost eleven hours. I went in the bathroom and waited for my plumbing to get going. When the last trickle was out I crawled back in bed and thought about Gina and me. When we were “just” friends, we’d sometimes say we loved each other. Kind of like the Hollywood love-ya-babe, but with a little more feeling. It didn’t indicate anything romantic. But once we started sleeping together again, the words never passed either of our lips. It wasn’t a conscious decision, at least on my part. We hadn’t used the L word in the three years since we’d jumped in the sack together. Until the other night, when I made coffee without being asked and Gina said she loved me and I responded with a chickenshit “me too.” And then this morning, when she said it again and I was too bleary to think about things and said, Love you too. Next thing you knew, I’d be saying it with an I in front of it. I wondered what it all meant, told myself it probably didn’t mean anything, didn’t listen to myself.
After I finished my morning routine I stared at the TV for a couple of hours. I thought about eating, but I wasn’t hungry. What I was, I decided, was depressed. This explained the eleven hours’ sleep. And the fact that I hadn’t done anything useful in over twenty-four hours. I tried to figure out why I was depressed and remembered there didn’t have to be a why.
One Last Hit (Joe Portugal Mysteries) Page 8
