Mr. Nelson’s rage seemed a bit excessive for the simple gaffe of mistaking him for a servant, but Camilla did as she was ordered. She was led to a mahogany paneled room dimly lit by one small, round window, rimmed in brass to look like a porthole. Wave’s father sat in a leather chair behind a huge desk. She looked around for a place to sit, but there was no other chair.
“I’m so sorry Mr. Nelson—” she started to say.
“Captain Nelson!” His voice was something between a bark and a growl.
“Captain Nelson,” she said, wondering if she was expected to salute. “I’m terribly sorry if I’ve come at a bad time. Wave telephoned me—”
“Of course she telephoned you. I told her to telephone you.”
“I see,” Camilla said, but she didn’t. Her stomach was still feeling the effects of pudding abuse and her head hurt.
“Have you seen today’s paper?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“Read it.” He tossed a copy of the L. A. Times onto the polished wood of his desk. She could see a picture of Jon-Don Parker smiling seductively at the camera. A headline read: JON-DON’S DRUG ODYSSEY TRACED BY POLICE IN THREE COUNTIES
Camilla tried to focus on the tiny print of the article, but it only made her dizzy.
“Very sad,” she murmured. “I read about it yesterday. A drug overdose, apparently. A terrible tragedy.”
“Tragedy!” The Captain’s face went from red to purple. “I’ll tell you about tragedy! A tragedy is what would happen if they printed the truth in that goddam paper!”
“They lied?” Her stomach was not feeling at all well.
“It’s not exactly the whole truth, is it, Camilla?” His face lunged across the desk as his voice went quiet and menacing. “Did you happen to notice anything missing from that article, little Miss Debutramp? Any names or addresses that the press seems to have overlooked?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, sir.” If the man didn’t like debutantes, he shouldn’t have sent his daughter to Rosewood, for goodness’ sake.
“Cut the crap, lady,” the Captain said. “You and I both know that a couple of hours before this Parker character bought the farm, he was at a party at the house that you were sharing with my daughter.”
“Yes. But nothing happened at our house that the Times would be interested in…”
“Right.” His voice was thick with sarcasm. “I’m sure nobody is interested in the story of how a drug-crazed TV star spent the night before he died at a drunken orgy given by the nineteen-year-old daughter of a prominent local businessman. And I’m sure they have no interest…”
The Captain swiveled back and forth in his desk chair as he spoke.
“…no interest at all in hearing that the dead TV star spent nearly an hour of that time in the bedroom of a famous New York debutante. You know they wouldn’t be interested in that stuff, huh?”
What Camilla knew was that if Captain Nelson didn’t stop twisting in his chair, she was going to be sick. She leaned on the edge of the desk to steady her dizziness. A sharp stomach pain made her eyes water.
“Don’t you pull any of that crying crap on me, lady. If anybody should be crying, it’s me. She tried to raise her daughter right. I sent her back East to the best schools. And who did she meet there? Little sluts like you!”
On the Captain’s desk was a brass paperweight in the shape of an octopus. Its shiny head became the hub of a giant wheel as the room started to spin. She felt the Captain’s hands grab her shoulders as she started to fall.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, shaking her. He propelled her around the desk and sat her in his chair. “You stoop to every trick in the book, don’t you?” He sat on the edge of his desk, looming over her. “Your step-dad warned me about that.”
“Step-dad?” Camilla was shocked back into consciousness. “I don’t have a stepfather. If you’re talking about Lester Stokes, he is no relation of mine.”
“So he told me,” the Captain said. “In words I haven’t heard since I retired from the Navy.”
“I don’t understand why you talked to him.”
“Don’t you? Do you think I intend to pay for this all by myself?”
“Pay for what?”
“Buying off the papers. And the TV. And the radio, for God’s sake. Do you have any idea how much that cost me? How many favors I had to call in?”
At each phrase, he swiveled the chair one way and then the other, standing over her as he held the arms of the chair.
“If it’s more than twenty-four dollars and eighty-five cents, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She fought the returning nausea. “That’s all I have left in the bank. Plus a few dollars in my purse. And my mother’s broke.”
“No. You have nine dollars and eighty-five cents in the bank,” he said. “I’ve already checked. But you do have a car. And you’re going to give me the keys. Right now. Where are the papers?”
“Papers?” She clutched her Chanel bag close, as if she could protect the keys inside. She honestly didn’t know about any papers.
“The title and registration. To the damned DeLorean. Where are they? I assume the keys are in here?” He yanked away her purse and opened it.
“I don’t know,” she said, feeling violated. “Maybe the glove compartment?” She reached to take her purse back.
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re probably dumb enough to keep them there.” Clutching the keys in his fist, he stomped from the room.
As soon as he was gone, Camilla was sick in a large metal wastebasket with the emblem of the U.S. Navy on the side.
~
She was driven out of La Jolla in an elderly Ford pick-up truck by a silent old man who appeared to work for Captain Nelson. The man had a face like a dried walnut and seemed to understand no English, nor did he respond to any of the Italian or French that she could remember. From time to time, she glanced at his grim face, which seemed to grow grimmer as they progressed along the winding road, high on the cliffs overlooking the crashing waves of the Pacific.
Slowly, Camilla realized that absolutely no one knew where she was, or would even miss her if something happened. She looked down at the menacing waters and back at the strange old man, who broke the silence only to let out a rasping cough. Just as she was contemplating pushing open the door to make a run for it, he turned the truck onto a familiar-looking road, and in a few minutes, stopped in front of her house.
“Gracias,” she said, hopping from the truck as soon as it pulled up to the curb.
Making a hasty dash down the driveway, she headed for the front door, passing an unfamiliar yellow van parked by the walkway. The old man got down from the truck and followed her, but she tried to ignore him. She hated to be rude, but she couldn’t give him a tip. She had to hang on to what might be her last few dollars in the world.
As she opened her front door, she was almost relieved to see two muscular blond men in cut-off jeans. Jennifer must be home.
“Hold the door, will ya?” one of them said. They were carrying a TV set. The house TV set.
Camilla could do nothing but let them pass. The old man slid past her into the house, heading directly for Wave’s room.
The living room was almost empty. All that remained were two wicker chairs, some empty beer cans and a crate of LPs.
With a thump, the door to Jennifer’s room flew open.
“Shit!” Jennifer said. She dropped two pink plastic suitcases on the floor and readjusted a matching tote bag on her shoulder. “What time is it, Camel?”
“Two-fifteen.” Was it still that early?
“I’ve got to be at the airport in fifteen minutes.” Jennifer picked up the suitcases.
“Where are you going?”
“Like I’m really going to tell you, amoeba-brain.” Jennifer made her way to the door. “You’d be the first one to tell the cops.”
The two blond men reappeared. Each took one of Jennifer’s suitcases and disappeared again.
&n
bsp; “Damn!” Jennifer rummaged in her tote bag. “I can’t find my suitcase keys.”
“The cops?” Camilla said, still confused. “You mean because of Wave’s father? Does he want money from you, too?”
Jennifer stared at her for a moment. “Well, yeah, that, too,” she said. “The asshole wanted a thousand bucks.”
“Only a thousand?”
“Only? Shit, Camel, how much did he take you for?”
“He took my car.”
“You gave him your DeLorean?” Jennifer’s hand emerged from her tote bag holding two small silver keys. She jingled them triumphantly. “Poor Camel,” she said as she opened the front door. “You really do have Wonderbread for brains.” She went out and climbed into the yellow van, which took off with a squeal of rubber.
Camilla could do nothing but stare at the empty driveway. Nothing made sense.
She was startled by a voice grunting behind her. It was the old man, carrying Wave’s dresser. In a few minutes, he had Wave’s bedroom as empty as Jennifer’s and the truck rattled off.
Camilla was alone in the silent, empty house.
Chapter 11—Biting Burglars
Camilla sat cross-legged on the floor of the denuded living room, absently tearing at a piece of decaying shag carpet that had been ripped up in furniture-moving. She stared at a small pile of money that she had just finished counting for the third time. It was all the money from her purse, plus the dime and three pennies she found on the floor where the couch used to be. The total kept coming out to thirteen dollars and seventy-eight cents. That was all she had in the world, except for her clothes, a second-hand bed, a makeshift orange-crate desk, two Melmac cups, and a bent fork. Oh, yes, and the Tupperware bowl half full of chocolate pudding in the refrigerator. And most of a case of Olympia Light beer. She yanked at the carpet. A jagged piece came off in her hand.
For the tenth time today, she thought of calling her mother, but as she looked through the torn carpet at the moldy plywood floor in front of her, she pictured Lester Stokes’ puffed-up face, and heard his syrupy voice.
But after Captain Nelson’s phone call, he’d probably arrange for her to have a convenient accident with a hunting rifle, too. Or put her in some loony bin.
A mental hospital. She envisioned long, white corridors and bare little rooms. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. She wouldn’t have to worry about anything any more. And after all, how could she be sure she wasn’t crazy? Here she was, sitting on the floor of an empty house, wearing hopelessly wrinkled linen, tearing apart the carpeting. In the dark. It had got quite dark. The streetlights pierced the darkness outside the now curtainless front window. It must be past eight o’clock. She squinted to read her watch.
That was when she heard the noise.
It was sort of a thump, like the banging of a screen door. Then more thumps: footsteps. Not Jennifer’s. Not Wave’s. Not a woman’s. She felt sweat bead on her forehead. The woman next door had told her last week to keep the doors locked: there’d been a string of burglaries in the neighborhood.
Had the moving men left the back door of the house unlocked? She sat absolutely still, hardly breathing.
She clutched the square of carpet and took a deep breath. She must be hallucinating.
“Oh, God, I’m crazy!” she said out loud. “Do you hear that, Mr. Arkansas Chickenburger King? You were right! I am stark, raving, certifiably bonkers!” She hurled the carpet square across the room.
“Yeah, I’ll go along with that.” A deep voice spoke from the darkness.
Camilla froze as a man with huge shoulders appeared in the kitchen doorway, outlined by the dim light from the street. She struggled for breath. At the same time, she felt an overwhelming need to laugh: she was being burgled. But had nothing to steal.
The coins on the floor in front of her glinted as the man’s movement made a shift in the beam from the street light. She grabbed a handful of pennies.
“Thirteen dollars and seventy-eight cents!” she screamed. “Thirteen dollars and seventy eight cents! That’s all there is! Everything I have. Take it!”
With all her strength, she threw the coins at him.
“Hey, cut that out!” the voice said.
“I will not.” She grabbed another handful and threw as hard as she could.
The figure moved toward her.
She screamed and jumped to her feet. She tried to run, but two steely hands grabbed her shoulders. She struggled and screamed again. One of the hands clapped over her mouth.
She bit down on it.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” The man pulled his hand away. But the other still gripped her shoulder. She swung around to face her attacker.
“All right. Go ahead and kill me. For thirteen dollars and seventy-eight cents. And a case of bad beer. Don’t forget the light beer!” Her voice trailed into a squeak.
He released her shoulder, making an odd noise—like laughter.
“Beer?” he said. “Don’t forget the bad beer? OK, what the hell are you doing?”
“Doing? I’m not doing anything. Just standing here waiting to get killed. What do you mean what am I doing?” She was surprised to hear her own voice come out so loud.
“Standing here in the dark. Yeah. Did you ladies forget to pay PG&E? Electricity isn’t free, you know.”
“The lights might work. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.”
He walked to the wall and flicked on the light switch. The overhead light blazed. As he turned back, she recognized him. She was looking into the gorgeous face of Jimmy, the garbage man. He wore a frayed, double-breasted tuxedo jacket from another era. He held his hand to his mouth. He looked as if he was in pain.
“Jimmy!” she said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bite you—Oh, I can’t believe I was so rude. Wave’s not here.”
“I figured that out. What’s your name? I forgot.” He smiled. The faded face of The Incredible Hulk, printed on his T-shirt, peeked between the tuxedo’s lapels.
“Camilla,” she said, smiling back.
“OK, Cammie, so you didn’t tell me what you’re doing.”
“Yes. I did. I was waiting for you to kill me. I thought you were a burglar.”
He kept smiling and said nothing.
Apparently he wanted her to elaborate. “OK, before that, I was counting money.”
“Right. Come on. PCP? Crystal? Crack? What?”
“I don’t take drugs. I mean not usually. Just if I have to, you know, to be polite.” The memory of that night with Jon-Don made her shudder.
“Polite. Yeah. You sure are polite. Throwing stuff at me. Screaming bloody murder. Trying to chomp off my hand.” He studied his injury.
“I’m sorry. It was dark. I couldn’t see your face.”
“Dark, yeah. Because somebody forgot to turn on the lights. Somebody who doesn’t do drugs…
“Can I get you a beer?” She was embarrassed about the bite.
He laughed. “A bad beer? Sure, why not?”
She took the whole case of beer from the refrigerator and carried it back to him.
“Why don’t you take all of it? I know it doesn’t make up for me being so rude, but I want you to know I’m sorry.”
Jimmy popped open a can of the Oly.
“You are one weird lady. So’s your friend Wave. That’s why I came over. Some old dude brought this to my house.” He took a piece of paper out of a pocket of his jacket.
It was a note written in Wave’s childish scrawl:
“Dear J—sorry I had to miss the volleyball game. Hope we won! Had a totally gross scene with the parents. Grounded for the rest of the summer. How’s that for the pits? Maybe I can sneak out in a week or so. Wave”
“So what’s up?” Jimmy said. “She want me to take a hike?”
“Oh, no!” Camilla said. “I think she likes you a lot.”
“I like her, too. So what’s this about? She get busted or something?”
“It’s this Jon-Don Parker thing.”
“The Bozo that OD’d?” Jimmy’s eyes clouded. “What did that creep do to her?”
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s all stupid. It’s a long, stupid story.”
“Can’t be as stupid as the one about you not doing drugs. Try me.” Jimmy sat on the floor next to the case of beer.
Camilla sighed and sat, too. She tried to piece together the story of Jon-Don Parker and Captain Nelson. When she got to the part about throwing up in the Captain’s wastebasket, Jimmy roared with laughter.
“Way to go, Cammie. Way to go!” he said.
“It’s not that funny. My stomach still hurts.”
“My stomach would hurt, too, if someone talked me out of a thirty thousand dollar set of wheels. I bet Wave’s stomach hurts, too. She’s got that asshole for a father.”
“At least she has someplace to live. After her dad took my car, I came back here and found Jennifer moving out. The rent’s due on Tuesday, and—oh, God, the phone’s in Wave’s name so it’s sure to be shut off, and—besides, I lost my stupid job.”
Jimmy opened another beer.
“Sounds like it’s time to make a call to the folks.”
“I can’t. My father’s dead and my mother’s broke, and I’m not talking to her anyway. She’s going to marry the most evil man on the planet because he’s rich.”
“Bummer.” Jimmy put a brotherly arm around her shoulders.
Camilla felt her eyes begin to tear.
“Hey,” Jimmy said. “It can’t be that bad. There must be somebody you can call. A boyfriend? You’re a nice-looking lady. You must have a boyfriend.”
“No. I used to, sort of—not exactly a boyfriend, but…” She bit her lip to stop the stupid tears. “I went to see him yesterday, and he’s living with this woman. She’s rich and famous and beautiful and—older. Sophisticated, you know.”
“Sounds like a slimeball.” Jimmy patted her shoulder. “I tell you what. Just call him and say you’re pregnant. Tell him you know it’s his kid so he has to pay up.”
“I’d have hard time convincing him of that,” she said with a little smile.
Randall #01 - The Best Revenge Page 8
