Virtually Lace

by Uvi Poznansky

  “There you are!” he groused. “We rang the front door. Rang it several times. Then we heard you in here.”

  And the other cop narrowed his eyes. “What took you so long?”

  Michael shrugged. Knowing that the two cops couldn’t see, hear, or feel anything of the simulated scene amused him, but he didn’t allow himself to smile.

  “Sorry, sir.” He removed his headset. “Couldn’t hear you with this thing on my head.”

  “We met yesterday,” said the first cop. “Didn’t we?”

  “Yes,” said Michael. “When you shot the old man, who attacked me.”

  “He got out of the hospital already. Must be back by now to his usual bench. Now, back to the matter at hand. Did you lose something?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I asked,” said the cop, this time impatiently, “did you lose something, down by the shoreline, in Laguna Beach?”

  Michael had to think fast. Was this about his shoes, lost two nights ago at the murder scene? Had the shoes been identified by police as his, even though the old man had been wearing them?

  “Well,” said Michael, “I can explain—”

  Luckily, before he could say another word, the cop took a little thing, wrapped in plastic, out of his pocket. “This yours?”

  “Oh! My cellphone! Where—”

  “Where else? On the beach. The old man had possession of it. Said he found it. Said he collects things, all kinds of things that wash ashore.”

  Michael took his cellphone and examined it carefully. For the most part it looked intact, but the miniature omnidirectional camera attached to it had taken a beating. It was a clunky little thing to begin with, and now he would have to put it together all over again.

  Right away, he proceeded to do just that. He opened the cellphone cover, where its electronic board was laid out, and tested each one of its distinct functional areas. To his surprise, the receiver and transmitter worked fine. So did the digital signal processing and the analogue to digital conversion. The only two things he had to replace, to restore the device to its working order, was the battery.

  All the while, the cops were watching him.

  “Thank you,” he told them. “Is that all?”

  “No.” The first cop took a step closer to glare at him. “One more thing. I hear you work with Mr. Armstrong?”

  “Why d’you ask?”

  “Because, the footage from the security cameras at your workplace, which he resisted to hand over to us, shows him talking with a certain young lady. In it, she’s trying to stop him from rushing away.”

  “I saw them.”

  The cops gave a smug smile. “We know you did.”

  Michael blurted out, “Of course you do.”

  “Now, according to one of her girlfriends, Mr. Armstrong’s believed to be her father. Did he mention that to you?”

  “I’ve only known him for a couple of weeks. And no, he never mentioned anything to me about having a daughter.”

  Ash gave him a look, perhaps wanting him to mention the letter, snatched from the shredder at work. That letter was on his mind, all the while. In it, the murder victim had written,

  “Me coming here must be giving you some unease, mostly because having a lost daughter find you, after all these years, can cause a few bumps with your wife, your legitimate children... You’re a rich man, a resourceful one... Please, find it in your heart to help me. You can manage some way to do that, with not a soul knowing about all of this but us.”

  Had Mr. Armstrong construed this demand for money as a form of blackmail? Had he retaliated against this girl, who claimed to be his daughter? Had he hurt her, one way or another?

  “Well,” said the cop. “You’re awful quiet. Is there anything else you know?”

  On one hand, Michael was tempted to disclose what he had learned about Lace. On the other, he was reluctant to admit how he had come by this information. So for now, he took the easy way out.

  “Nothing to share,” he said. “Not really.”

  It was then that Ash came forward. “A question of parentage can easily be verified, can’t it? I mean, a DNA test—”

  “That,” said the cop, “wouldn’t be material to this case.”

  “It wouldn’t?”

  The cop turned around and mounted his motorcycle. “No. Even if there’s no blood relation, Mr. Armstrong can’t be cleared of suspicion.”

  Ash came out to the front of the garage. “Why not?”

  “Because, the real question is one of intent,” said the cop, over the roar of the engine. “Did he believe her claim? And if so, did he take actions to silence her?”

  ❋

  It was only the cops rode off that Michael noticed a man of small stature gazing at him from behind a car, at the other side of the street.

  Michael waved his hand. “Bull! What are you doing here?”

  Bull used a cart to wheel some object, wrapped in a linen cloth, across the street to him. “I brought you a gift, my boy.”

  Michael helped him push it. “A gift? You know me. I hate gifts.”

  “Do you?” Bull smiled, mockingly. “I think you’re just avoiding me, is all.”

  Meanwhile, Ash put on her high heels, straightened her midnight-blue dress, and pulled off her tiara. “I was just leaving.”

  Bull came uncomfortably close to her. Startled, Ash stirred away from him.

  His sneer was half-delighted, half-devious. “Who—may I ask—is this goddess, this heavenly goddess that you keep here all to yourself?”

  “My name is Ashley.” She flushed. “But I prefer Ash, for short.”

  “Charmed.” He bared his teeth in a mocking smile. “Manny Bullock.”

  “Sounds like a mythological creature. Half-man, half-bull?”

  “I prefer the bull part. Bull, for short.”

  Puzzled at the way the conversation took on a contrary tone, Michael tried to find something soothing to say.

  “My friend, Bull,” he said, in a manner of introduction, “is an extremely gifted artist.”

  “Don’t you undermine me,” said Bull. “I’m much more than that—I’m a prankster.”

  She said, “I hope to see your work one day.”

  “My work needs a seeing eye.”

  “My eye isn’t blind.”

  Disregarding what she said, Bull circled around her front to back, measuring her up and down all the while. “Blue—Ash! Whoever heard of that? The color reflects wonderfully on your skin—but it doesn’t fit with your nickname.”

  “Sometimes, what’s good for the body,” she countered, “is bad for the name.”

  “This woman is danger, I tell you! You be careful of her, my boy. Trust me. Red. That’s the color for her.”

  She gave him a cold look. “Shall I take it as a complement, or as professional advice?”

  Bull bowed over his thin legs. “Take it any way you like.”

  Ash took a little breath as if to say something, thought better of it, and went out the garage door, eyes blazing.

  Michael ran after her. “Wait, Ash!”

  She doubled up on her speed. “That man. He’s weird.”

  “Forget him. Shall we meet again, maybe for brunch?”

  She turned the corner to the next street, not before blowing a kiss to him. “Call me!”

  Then she was gone.

  On his way back, Michael cast an angry look at Bull, because if not for him, Ash would have stayed a while longer.

  “Really, Bull, why did you come?” he demanded. “And don’t tell me about a gift. We both know that’s just an excuse! Now what is it? What are we talking about?”

  “We’re talking about us,” said Bull. “You and I, and the good old times.”

  “There’s never been ‘good old times’ between us.”

  “We used to be friends.”

  “As a friend, you—of all people—should know how much I despise small talk—”

  “This is no small talk.” Bull clasped
his head in both hands, apparently pressing against some pain. His palm was bandaged. “How long ago did you see me?”

  “Don’t know.” Michael shrugged. “It’s been a while. Sorry, I guess I forgot to call you, lately.”

  “I guess you did.” Bull drew a deep breath. “I think you don’t care to remember. But sooner or later, it’ll all come back to you.”

  The conversation, Michael thought, was going nowhere. It was time for a change of subject. “What happened, Bull? I mean, to your hand?”

  “It’s the damn chisel. My hands are bruised all over, see? I’m carving in stone now. It’s a whole new idea for a sculpture. You ought to come down one day and see it.”

  “I will, Bull. One of these days.”

  “You’re avoiding me again. I know you are.”

  “I’d be afraid to do that.”

  Meanwhile, Michael brushed his fingers across the linen cover, trying to guess at the shape of the object underneath. “So, what did you bring me?”

  “My little gift to you, you who don’t like gifts.”

  Michael lifted the cover and took a step back in admiration. Carved out of a rough, grainy stone, there it was: a sculpture of a hand in the act of twisting. Every skin fold, every knuckle, every muscle seemed to move. Every vein seemed to throb. Inspired, no doubt, by the muses, Bull had blown life into inanimate matter. He used the natural texture of the stone, its pits and imperfections to make his creation real.

  “It’s called, ‘The Artist’s Hand,’” said Bull.

  “Wow,” said Michael.

  The stone fingers clasped a chisel. They turned it in the wrong direction, though, aiming it’s sharp point at the pit of the palm, where a wound mark was scratched diagonally.

  Michael couldn’t help asking, “Why did you point the chisel this way?”

  “Don’t you see?”

  “See what?”

  “The artist’s hand is really invisible. Hovering from above, coming at the sculpture. My hand, coming at you.”

  Michael was filled with a great sense of marvel. “It’s simply exquisite.”

  “I’m a bit like you, am I not?”

  “In what way?”

  “As an artist, I’ve conjured a world out of my imagination,” said Bull, with a smirk. “Isn’t that what you do, as an engineer: construct a world, virtually?”

  As he was talking, his mood changed. He wiped his forehead and seemed to turn his ear to a sound only he could hear. “Chisel away, my boy, chisel away at me!”

  “You’re the artist.”

  “You can be, too.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Come visit me in my studio. I’ll put a chisel in your hand, teach you how to break stone.”

  “I will, Bull, I promise.”

  Bull groaned. Then, with visible effort, he went back to acting friendly. “What did the cops want with you?”

  “They wanted to question me about a certain old man.”

  “Who’s that?”

  At first, Michael hesitated to share with Bull what had happened, but then he figured, why not? “Just an old man I saw in Laguna Beach two nights ago, at dusk.”

  “So, what happened between the two of you?”

  “He paid no attention to me. Instead, he seemed to be staring away at the faraway sailboats. But the next morning, when I came face to face with him again, he attacked me—”

  “Wait!” Bull raised his bandaged hand. “I have a sixth sense about such things. I can see the future, see it vividly. The old man’s about to die.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because that, my boy, is what happens to fools, old fools who gaze into lost horizons and don’t mind their own business.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “If you’re brave enough to hear my answer.”

  “That night, I found a body down there—”

  “Oh, did you?”

  “Yes. Now, on the one hand, I don’t want to talk to the cops. It’s just that I had a bad experience with them, way back when. But on the other hand, I need to make them aware of the facts—”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as,” said Michael, in a decidedly vague manner, “what I noticed two nights ago and what I’ve been learning since.”

  “You’re a good boy,” said Bull over his shoulder, as he turned to leave. “That’s why I’m going to tell you what I think.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “When you’re impaled—on the horns of a dilemma, like you think you are—there’s only one thing you can do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Find the bull’s-eye. Find it, and drive a stake through it.”

  Chapter 11

  That afternoon, Michael Morse arrived at Laguna Beach for a brisk walk, well ahead of his dinner date with Ash. When he got halfway down the trail, he spotted a familiar figure—his hair knotted, his beard silvery—standing there on the ledge with a wooden stake in his frail hand.

  “Away, you flies!” howled the old man. “This is mine! This piece of bread—this core, this bitten apple—away, foul flies! Away, I said!”

  With a groan, he plopped down onto the bench. Remarkably, he was wearing no shoes at all. A heavy cast encased one foot, a thick bandage wrapped the other.

  Michael slowed down to a stop by his side and gave him a nod.

  The old man grumbled at him, thick eyebrows gathering over his eyes. “Who have we here? The man of career is back. Away! Stay away!”

  Michael decided not to respond to that. Instead he said, “You must be in pain. I saw blood on your knee and on your feet, when the cops shot you.”

  The old man leaned on his makeshift cane. “My feet? They’re fine,” he said, this time in a softer tone. “Warmer than they’ve been in a long while.”

  “Are they?”

  “Oh yes! This cast—nothing better to fight the frost.”

  Michael couldn’t help but blurt out the question that had been on his mind for a while now. “Did the cops take my shoes from you? Did they ask where you got them?”

  “Did they ever! They interrogated me to no end. They pried into those damn soles, as if their salvation depended on getting the answer they wanted.”

  “So, did you—”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “No,” stressed the old man. “Cops be damned! They said the shoes belonged to a murderer, and wouldn’t I point out the owner to them—but ha! I know better! To spite them, I didn’t say a thing.”

  Michael was surprised. This fool had come close to slitting his throat, yet he put his neck on the line for him. “Really? You didn’t?”

  At that the old man gave an abrupt, violent shake of the cane. “By the accident of Life! What do you take me for?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know, sir. You tell me. What shall I take you for?”

  The homeless man rose up to his feet with great effort and leveled a look at him. “In my youth I was much like you. So, you know me. You are me.”

  Then, with a lamely executed step, he came opposite him. “Curse the damn shoes. They gave me nothing but trouble. I know they don’t belong to a murderer.”

  Before Michael could ask how, exactly, he might know such a thing, the old man raised a hand to his shoulder and brought him closer, as if to impart a blessing.

  Feeling the shiver in those wrinkled arms, Michael took off his raincoat and gave it to him.

  “I shall forever keep my silence.” The old man lowered his voice. “Don’t worry, son.”

  With that, he plopped down with a thud onto his bench and started screaming, “Away, foul flies! Away, I said!”

  ❋

  From the beginning of their love, Las Brisas was a favorite with Ash and Michael. Situated so as to have an expansive view of the ocean, the restaurant was known as a first class sea-to-table culinary destination, infusing the best of California cuisine with the bold flavors of Mexico’s West Coast.

  He stood by t
he entrance, waiting for her. Coming up the trail towards him, she wore a soft, flowery dress, with a velvet belt that gathered the folds around her waist. He kissed her on the cheek, close to her ear, catching a trace of her perfume, which made his heart quicken.

  They chose to sit outside on the terrace, where a single, long-stemmed rose adorned their table. The view was breathtaking. In the distance, the sky and the sea came to a gentle touch, lip to lip. The ocean rolled about, glittering in the sun, whisking away one surf after another. White spume came spreading like a sheet of lace from crest to crest.

  They sat across from each other, hands joined. His fingers wrapped around hers, tingling with the feel of warmth between them.

  “Hey there, lovebirds,” said a rusty voice.

  A chubby, double-chinned waitress approached their table. She smiled cordially, which caused her powdery makeup to crack in the corners of her eyes.

  “Would you like to start with a glass of wine?” She grinned. “We have an international wine list, with selections by the glass or the bottle, your choice. And our handcrafted cocktails are downright delectable.”

  “How about one of your specialty sangrias?” asked Michael.

  “Or better yet,” said Ash, “a strawberry margarita?”

  “Sure!” said the waitress. “It’ll pair perfectly well with any meal you choose.”

  She set the menus in front of them. “I’ll be back in a minute to take your order.”

  Michael set aside the menu. He already knew what he wanted. For him, it was prime New York steak, to be served with garlic mashed potatoes, charred asparagus, and jalapeño garlic butter. Ash took her time to decide. Finally she settled on pomegranate goat cheese tacos.

  Meanwhile, just outside the terrace, a cute little girl came running.

  “Mommy, Mommy!” She shook her little wicker basket excitedly.

  The waitress lifted a tray, loaded with soiled cups and dishes, to her shoulder. “I’m a little busy right now,” she said, through clenched teeth. “Go play now, be a good girl, will you?” And without waiting for an answer, she turned her back and went into the kitchen.

  The girl set down her basket, in which seashells were clinking against each other. She started hopping impatiently from one foot to another. Every now and then, she rubbed her freckled nose and glanced at the kitchen door, trying to catch a glimpse of her Mommy.