"Jackie," Johnson said, "I have a present for you." He held out a small gift bag.
"Oh my gosh," Jackie exclaimed. "A Nintendo portable!"
"Now you can play Avatar anytime," Johnson said.
"Avatar?" Bienenfeld said. "That's already on Nintendo?"
"Yup," Johnson replied.
"Thank you, Johnson," Jackie said.
"No offense," Bienenfeld said, "but after dinner, we are going to leave you two alone to enjoy your Avatar. I’m having the limo pick me and Donna up for the return trip."
"We're going home to play adult games," Donna said.
"Jackie," Bienenfeld said, "you brought up Bout, so I may as well ask Johnson, here, how he identified this Bout insect."
"He got stopped for driving while text messaging. They found Jackie’s license in his car."
"Text messaging?"
"Yup."
"And they searched his car for that? Will that hold up when his attorney finds out?"
"Does it matter?" Johnson looked annoyed at the questioning, the annoyance directed at Bienenfeld, which seemed to reduce Bienenfeld to something less than substantial, as though his third dimension had somehow ebbed away.
The waiter arrived with Jackie’s Coke and a platter containing fried zucchini’s, and mushrooms stuffed with warm goat cheese.
"I’m concerned for Jackie’s safety," Donna said.
Johnson broke off a piece of pumpernickel and lightly moistened it in the saucer of herbed olive oil. "Not to worry. I’ve got a man keeping an eye out. And Bout’s a "Three-Strike" candidate. When convicted, he’ll have to do a mandatory 25 years. And if bail is set at more than fifteen grand, he can’t be set free unless he wins in court—which he won’t."
"I think you should let him out of jail," Bienenfeld said.
"Excuse me?"
"Let him out."
"Why, so you can go vigilante on his ass?"
"And that is wrong because?"
Jackie realized the truth. Bienenfeld had probably killed someone, or at least sanctioned it. She could see in his eyes an absolute certainty, as though he was staring across time and space to the gates of hell where his victim was languishing in the flames.
"He may get out," Johnson said. "His lawyer is pushing, and we don’t have the lineup to bolster our charge."
"Maybe you two jerks can stop playing God long enough to order a lady a drink," Jackie said. "Besides, if anybody’s going to get Bout, I think it should be me."
"Maybe you should wait until the steaks get here," Donna said.
"What, to kill Bout?"
"I’m talking about you having a drink. I thought you were going to lay off tonight. You just said you were powerless."
"I am, which is why I now need a drink. A double vodka rocks. I’m feeling a little breakthrough anxiety, I guess."
Donna frowned. "You’re not doing the Ativan, are you?"
"Nope," Jackie lied bravely.
Bienenfeld signaled the waiter who scurried for the double vodka.
"You look too beautiful tonight to be scared," Donna said. "Those dark, heavily-lacquered 'power lips' of yours should be smiling, not frowning."
"Jackie, you’re radiant," Johnson said. "In fact you’re sparkling."
"It’s only the shimmer powder," Jackie said.
"What?"
"Special body makeup. Donna’s idea. As well as this metallic backless top."
"Pinch me," Johnson said.
"Will you look at that," Bienenfeld said, "That weirdo over there? He’s eating out of the garbage can. What did I tell you? Johnson, sic the dog on that dude."
"Bienenfeld, you’re getting drunk and acting ugly again," Donna said.
"Speaking of in the garbage," Jackie said. "That’s where Bout’s going to wind up. He’s going to be sorry. He’s going to get his justice."
"You bet he is," Johnson said. "We’re gonna take Bout down."
"Oh yes. I’m scared of facing him, but I’ve decided I’m not going to let Viktor Bout destroy me. I intend to destroy him! I am going to do the lineup! I am!"
Everybody applauded, drawing well-oiled glances from the many eyes of the surrounding patrons.
"It takes a lot of courage to do what you’re doing," Donna said.
"Courage my ass. It’s you guys who keep me going. And as long as I have you all, I can stand proud. Good Lord, where is my drink?"
The waiter arrived with a Jackie’s double vodka and four embarrassingly large steaks piled high with ribbons of fried onions, the platters sizzling. A fifth steak, cut up, was delivered by Johnson to Heinz, who gobbled greedily the expensive cuts of broiled bovine.
"Is that legal?" Donna said.
"Sort of," Johnson said. "Of course tipping the captain 50 bucks helped. The health laws on patio dining aren’t really clear. Hell, if you think about it, Heinz is probably cleaner than the guy who served these steaks."
"You’re a class act, Johnson," Jackie said.
"Thank you," he said. So are you. And it’s good to see you not so scared."
"I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. But at least I’m feeling something."
Chapter 20
After dinner, they approached the Lexus. "You’ve had too much vodka to drive," Johnson said. "The keys please."
Jackie handed them over and he helped her into the passenger seat. Johnson put the car northbound on Ocean Avenue driving slowly up the four-lane divided highway which paralleled the park at the edge of the ocean bluff. They were down to a threesome, Donna and Bienenfeld having departed via limousine.
"Where to, Jackie?"
"Back to the Valley. I want to show you my house. But first stop somewhere along here. We’ll let Heinz sniff around the park for a few minutes."
They pulled in to a space on the bluff overlooking the Ocean at the spot where the mighty Wilshire Boulevard abruptly terminated. The focus of this terminus was the statue of Saint Monica, the city’s namesake. The statue, a concrete obelisk facing west and positioned at the tripartite juncture of ocean, earth and sky, resembled, in typical L.A. fashion, somewhat more akin to an alien interplanetary probe than a venerable saint.
The trio exited the vehicle. The play of light and shadows, originating from the light of a half moon, mixed with the flashing headlights of the passing cars, imparting to the arboreal venue a primitive feeling, accented even more by the sight of the wolf-like figure zipping back and forth.
Jackie and Johnson walked to the edge of the bluff and rested elbows on the white railing, allowing their senses to drink in the essence of the mighty Santa Monica Bay before them.
"Saint Monica bore a son," Jackie said, "who made Hugh Hefner look like a schoolboy. But she prayed for him for about a hundred years and he changed from his evil ways to became Saint Augustin."
"You’re Catholic?"
"Born and raised. I’m somewhat lapsed at the moment. Although I should start back in, seeing as how I have racked up considerable time living like a saint."
"Same here," Johnson said. "I was raised Catholic, but after Vietnam my fervor dissipated."
"When’s the last time you went to Mass? And I don’t mean for a wedding or a funeral."
"Uh. I think it was last Easter. Oh well. There’s always purgatory for people like me."
"No there isn’t. Because purgatory isn’t a make-over for lapsed Catholics. It’s actually for the good ones. You have to earn purgatory. People like you and me are going straight to hell."
"Not me. I have a priest on speed dial. If the end comes, I'm getting absolution and slipping in under the wire."
"It’s no joke, Johnson. Hell is real. I believe in it more now than ever. I am seriously thinking of going to confession."
"I understand. I’m a big believer in confessions. I like to beat them out of the perps."
"Is everything a joke with you, Johnson?"
"Sorry. Maybe I’m nervous, too. This is our first real date, you know."
"Do you believe in love, Johnson?"
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"Do I what?"
"Do you believe in love?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Making it last is the secret I haven’t mastered," Johnson said. "And neither have you. But I have heard that older people who marry may have a better chance."
"A better chance of what?"
"Of making it last."
"Sure they do, Johnson. Because for one thing, they don't have to make it last very long, and for another, they are too old to cheat.
He got down on one knee. "Jackie, I want you to marry me."
"Johnson, you’re making a complete ass of yourself. Now get up and call Heinz. It’s time to hit the road."
Heading back to Van Nuys, Johnson chose to avoid the freeway and cruised Sepulveda Boulevard, which paralleled the brightly lit freeway and yet somehow retained a spooky, dark, and lonely character as it curved and dipped into the recesses of the mountain pass.
"It was stupid of me to propose the way I did," Johnson said.
"It wasn’t stupid. It’s just ... I keep thinking how could such a thing come flying into my life at such a terrible time? Look, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You are an idiot and I’m an emotional cripple."
"Is there anything I can do to make up for my bad behavior?"
"Yes," she said. "You're a cop. I want you to drive like one."
He stomped on the accelerator and the car shot forward like a rocket. The tires began to scream as he headed up the onramp to the freeway at an insane speed.
Chapter 21
"I’ll never forget that ride as long as I live," Jackie said. "But I never want to repeat the experience."
It had been one of the greatest moments of her life, being forced back into her seat, passing cars on the freeway as though they were standing still, shamelessly swerving into the breakdown lanes to bypass the jockeying crowds at the interchanges. When she saw the speedometer hit 145, her soul had sprung forth from her body, shouting "Yes, I’m alive!"
After leaving the freeway, they proceeded down Orion Avenue, one of several named after heavenly clusters no longer visible through the neon-fortified smog, and into a warren of tiny box-like homes, the front elevations gamely attempting to break the monotony with faux ranch or hacienda trim. Diminutive front yards menaced would-be intruders with warning labels on sticks fastened to the turf like stakes driven into the heart of crime. The landscape was heavy with rat-infested ivy, disease-rotted walnut trees, and whatever additional flora could tolerate the near-drought conditions. Impatiens were popular in a few isolated patches, but on the whole, the area was hard-up for color. There were more than a few foreclosure signs scattered here and there.
"Pull in here," Jackie said, pointing to the only two-story in a row of single-story units, a somewhat disheveled Cape Cod number, white with contrasting green fake storm shutters astride a cracked asphalt driveway. Johnson and Jackie got out of the car.
"This is your old place, isn’t it?"
"Yeh. I lived here before I went into hiding from Viktor Bout."
She hadn’t seen the house in months. It looked small, and faded, lacking the warmth and light of happier times. Was this where she’d been planning to spend the rest of her life?
"I inherited this from my parents. But I will probably lose it to foreclosure. There’s a realtor next door who is dying to do something called a short sale. I just got a loan from Bienenfeld to catch up the back payments. But it's not enough to cover the underwater part of the loan. Screw it. I know I’ll never feel safe here again, not as long as Viktor Bout lives and breathes. Do you want to go inside?"
"Sure. I’ll leave Heinz in the car. He’ll discourage any punks."
She walked to the brick porch, put her key in the deadbolt and looked up at him. "You look kind of handsome tonight. But I think I like you better without the tie."
"The tie is coming off," he said, grabbing it with both hands and stripping it free with one well-practiced motion.
They stood in the small entryway. "The three choices from here," Jackie said, "are a straight shot down the hall to the living room, up these stairs to my bedroom, or left through this archway to the kitchen for a drink."
"I vote the stairs."
"Dream on. I’ve already decided on the kitchen." She led him into the tiny galley, the whole of which opened onto a breakfast nook. Johnson parked himself at the oak dinette.
Jackie opened a cupboard and took out a cocktail blender. From the counter, she selected a fresh pint of dark rum, cracked the seal, added five shots of the potent, almost syrupy rum to the blender, removed a plastic lemon from an otherwise empty refrigerator, squeezing the juice from the lemon into the shaker before topping off the mixture with a dash of powdered sugar—straight from the box—along with some ice cubes from the bin, which had frozen together in a clump and had to be whacked apart on the rim of the sink. She set out a couple of squat tumblers and strained the potent liquid into one of the glasses. Into the other she poured a diet Coke. It was a well-rehearsed routine, carried out with swift efficiency.
"It’s 151 rum so be careful," she said. "Sort of a half-baked rum sour. Like everything else in my life."
He took a sip. "Nobody can say you don’t know how to make a drink."
She took his hand. "I’m self-medicating, as my doctor likes to say. So here’s to self-medication."
"Cheers."
"We’ll go out by the pool." She led him past the living room and through the glass sliders. She flipped on the pool light and the shadows began to play on the surrounding grape stake fence. The sultry Valley air seemed to envelope them. Small talk was suddenly rendered impossible by the passage of a Jumbo Jet directly overhead, its huge bulk and winking strobes clearly visible in the soft, smoggy air.
"I can’t believe how clean your place is, since you don’t even live here," Johnson said.
"I hire a service to make it look lived in. They clean and mow the lawn and do the pool and even keep the sheets washed even though nobody sleeps on them. They have the lights go on and off randomly and stuff. Otherwise the foreclosure thieves would have stripped the place by now."
"Well it looks great," he said. "Like a nice bed and breakfast."
"So where do you live, Johnson?"
"Out by the Burbank Airport. Directly under the flight path, at the point where they reverse thrust as loudly as possible."
"That sounds ugly."
"It is. The neighborhood’s a dump. The place I inhabit—I won’t call it ‘living’—is an apartment above a garage. A friend of mine owns the property. There’s an undocumented family in the front house. They’re nice folks. We barbecue together from time to time."
"Do I dare ask why you live in a dump? I thought senior cops made pretty good money. Or are you some kind of loser like me, who’s closing in fast on retirement and has nothing to show."
"What can I say? I’m just a tiny speck embedded in the overall global financial meltdown."
She led him beneath her arbor, the scent of the guava tree heavy in the night air. "This is why I brought you here tonight. To show you what was once my favorite place in the world. It was a personal ritual of mine to have coffee out here every morning before going to my job at Washington Mutual, which is now defunct. I used to grind my own beans fresh. Every month I’d blow a fortune on a pound bag of Jamaican Blue."
"You can have the good life again."
"No. I can’t. Viktor Bout took that away from me. He took my favorite spot, my car, my job, my health and everything else. The only reason I’m able to be here tonight is because I’ve got enough alcohol and pills in my system, and because I’m with you and your man-eating dog. Johnson, can you teach me how to handle a gun?"
"Yeh."
"So what kind of gun do you think I need?
"Something small. A handgun," he said. "A revolver. I’ve got a small Charter Arms detective special you can try on for size. It’ll fit in your bag."
"Isn’t that illegal?"
&
nbsp; "It's only a misdemeanor-unless you kill somebody."
"There's just one small problem," Jackie said. "At the sight of a gun I pass out. Doctor Black showed me one yesterday and I just disappeared."
Johnson reached down to his ankle and produced a small revolver. Jackie stared at it, feeling a slight wave.
"You're not passing out now," he said.
"So I am not. Maybe doctor Black's methods have some merit."
"So there you are. You can start carrying a gun. I can loan you this one if you like."
"I'm not quite ready to carry," she said. "So what if someone attacks me? And that gun is in my bag?"
"When you approach your car, you keep your hand inside your bag and your finger on the trigger guard. If somebody makes a tricky move, you blast them right through the bag." He returned the gun to his ankle holster with a smooth practiced motion.
Jackie was momentarily staggered at this casual description of how to apply lethal force. He spoke of it in the same tone Rachel Ray might use if she were describing how to make a decent soup stock. On the other hand, Jackie couldn’t help wondering how different her life would have been if she’d had such an edge when Bout approached her last January.
Jackie stood up. "Let’s go back inside." She led him into the kitchen and began mixing another shaker. "I’m a decent woman. I think I’m worthy of a little serenity in my life, even if I have to carry a loaded handgun in my purse to achieve it."
Johnson placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. "I can think of something better than a handgun."
She pulled away. "Don’t. I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not."
"Yes you are."
"Maybe you’re right. Let’s find out." She stepped into his arms. Another jet cruised overhead, its gushing whine enveloping them in a wall of sound. For a moment, he was all she was and she was all he was. The great city revolved around them as though humbly acknowledging their position as the center upon which all else depended.
"Johnson, I want you to do something for me," she whispered.
"Okay. I’m game."
"I want you to tell me the truth about my hair. And I don’t want you to spare my feelings, especially about the gray."
Jackie's Week Page 9
