Try Dying

by James Scott Bell

“How?”

  “You know, odd.”

  She sighed and took a sip of wine. “Ty, you’re going to have to try to cast off that male reticence and lay it out a little more fully for me. I want to know how you feel. I want to get that in the book.”

  “I’m not sure I want that to be in the book.”

  “That’s the only thing that’ll set it apart. You are the book. Come on, try, will you?”

  The young waiter, some embryonic soap actor, chose that moment to take our order. Channing selected the chicken piccata. I went for the overpriced cheeseburger.

  The waiter poked everything into a handheld, smiled with perfect teeth, and walked away like James Dean.

  “So,” Channing said, “you were saying?”

  “I feel mostly a sense of loss,” I said. “A real deep sense, the kind where you know nothing will ever make up for it.”

  Channing was writing. “That’s right.”

  “You ever felt that way?”

  She looked up. “Is it my turn?”

  I nodded.

  “I was married once, right out of college. To a guy who went on to do sports at a local channel in Cincinnati.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was more successful than he was, and that he couldn’t stand. Anyway, I had a serious boyfriend for a while, but nothing . . . and why am I telling you all this?”

  “Because you want to. You’re building up trust.”

  “Let me ask you something, off the record. You ever think of—” she paused. “Doing yourself in?”

  “Doesn’t everybody at one time or another?”

  “No, I mean because of this. Don’t answer if it’s too uncomfortable.”

  “I hardly know you.”

  “I’m a reporter and I told you this would be off the record.”

  “Then the answer is yes. One time. It was the day before the funeral. That’s when it really hit me in the gut. I only thought about it for about five seconds. It was almost like . . . I was tempting myself, daring myself to do it. Does that seem strange?”

  “It is what it is.”

  And then she put her hand on mine. For one of those pregnant beats you see in Drew Barrymore movies, she looked me in the eyes.

  I slipped my hand away and said, “I have a question for you now.”

  “All right.”

  “You know anything about a group called Triunfo?”

  “A little. I mean, I’ve heard about it. A couple of the techs at the station are into it.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Some sort of self-help, I think. One of the techs told me he was going to use it to become a TV news anchor someday.”

  “Maybe he will.”

  “I doubt it. I mean, positive thinking is one thing. Having a face made for radio is another.”

  “You’re not saying it’s all looks, are you?”

  She stiffened a little. “You have to be good, too. Very good.”

  “I’m just saying, you don’t see many three-hundred-pound reporters.”

  “They couldn’t exactly run after a story, could they? Speaking of which, you owe me some stuff.”

  “Fine. I’ll give it to you. But I need to know about this Triunfo and the guy who runs it, Rudy Barocas.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there may be some connection with Bonilla and Jacqueline’s death. Maybe nothing at all, but at this point I’m not willing to look away from anything.”

  “That’s good.”

  “What is?”

  “Obsession.”

  “Isn’t that a perfume?”

  “That smells like a bestseller.”

  “Makes you a little nosy.”

  “Enough witty repartee. Were you ever married?”

  “Don’t beat around the bush.”

  “No time. Come on.”

  I shook my head. “Came close once, before Jacqueline, an MBA student at Pepperdine. After graduation she got a killer job offer with a dot-com in the Bay Area. We tried to keep it going. I racked up the air miles with Southwest. But in the end it was too much of a strain. I don’t think it would have worked out.”

  “Why?”

  “Me. I was too into myself.”

  “And now?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. How to get at the heart of what I knew but could not express: that Jacqueline had been the one. How do you explain something like that? To a near stranger?

  “Another time,” I said.

  “I so understand.”

  I was glad someone did.

  43

  I DROVE BACK to the office, taking Sunset to Landfair. That took me past the east boundary of UCLA and the law school.

  Whenever I could, I drove by the law school to remind myself of why I was doing any of this. When you get out into the working world, the law is no longer the pristine battle of ideals you once thought it was.

  In school, you read the great opinions. Holmes and Cardozo, Warren and Frankfurter, Douglas and Brennan.

  For that little three-year period of time you walk around in a bubble of high-mindedness and are awed by the great old volumes of law in the stacks at the library, even though everyone knows the end of the yellowed book road is supposed to lead to a pot of career gold. A few would take the academic path and stay lofty, but most of us hoped to grab the green.

  I liked the lofty part. Maybe in a way I thought it was honoring the memory of my father. He died for the law. If it wasn’t something worth dying for, then his death wouldn’t mean that much.

  I wanted it to mean that much.

  So I gave a respectful look at the law building nestled among the trees and drove on to the office.

  Kim brought a couriered package in for me. The envelope was card stock, about 9 x 12. Blank on the outside.

  I opened it and pulled out a smaller manila envelope. Written on the outside of the envelope in black marker was one word: HUNT.

  Now I knew who it was from.

  I sliced open the manila envelope and pulled out one page, on which was printed the following.

  Information is more valuable than a bank account.

  David Townsend

  Age 24

  22055 Cutler Avenue #301

  North Hollywood, CA

  Work:

  Stage Manager

  NoHo Theatre Center

  Lankershim Boulevard

  What are you waiting for?

  44

  NOHO IS A one square mile community just north of Universal City. Originally called Lankershim, the city changed its name to North Hollywood in 1927 to take advantage of its more famous neighbor to the south.

  It became a popular suburb post–World War II, but started showing its age in the eighties. Then the Chamber of Commerce got the bright idea of establishing an arts district, along the Lankershim Boulevard corridor and a few selected side streets. Officially called NoHo now, the district boasts twenty legit theaters, cafes, art galleries, dance studios, restaurants, and the obligatory Starbucks on the main corner of Lankershim and Magnolia.

  The NoHo Theatre Center was housed in what looked like a vintage movie house. There was an old-time marquee in front, the triangular kind that met at a point over the sidewalk.

  On the marquee it said, SWEENEY TODD—NOW PLAYING!

  The box office had a window with a little hole in it.

  On the other side of the hole sat a woman with short hair, a round face, and glasses with thick black rims. She was reading a paperback. Beckett.

  “A little light reading?” I said through the hole.

  She looked up. “Help you?” She kept the book open. She wore a gray hoodie with Stanford in scarlet letters across the front.

  “I was just saying, Beckett. Nothing like a little pessimism to lift your spirits.”

  She stared at me blankly.

  I said, “Maybe you’re waiting for good dough.”

  A major furrow creased her forehead.

  “Get it?” I said. �
��You’re sitting in the box office . . . never mind.”

  “Would you like to buy a ticket?”

  “I’m actually looking for David Townsend. Is he here?”

  She shook her head.

  “You expect him back?”

  “There’s a show tonight. He’ll be here. You want to leave your name?”

  “Vladimir.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, from Waiting for Godot.”

  No change of expression. “Funny.”

  “What time’s the show? I was hoping to catch him.”

  “Curtain’s at eight. You want a ticket? It’s a good show.” Her face did not match the words.

  It was only five-thirty and I didn’t feel like waiting around.

  Then she said, “You might catch him at Jeremiah’s.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s a bar. On Ventura and Tujunga.”

  “Thanks.”

  She looked back into her Samuel Beckett. The title was Krapp’s Last Tape. All I remembered about that play was there was an old man in it who liked bananas.

  “Keep smiling,” I said to the girl in the window. She didn’t.

  45

  I KNEW WHAT kind of bar Jeremiah’s was the moment I walked in. A dance floor flashed colors as a mirror ball spun on the ceiling, and the music was loud for the men dancing with other men.

  There were a few women, too, but the ratio was tilted toward same-sex preference.

  It was happy hour, too. A hot station with mini tacos, veggies and dip, and chicken wings was set up along one wall. Around the dance floor were high, round tables with candles in the middle. A full bar with a long mirror ran almost the width of the place. Two men in white shirts and black vests performed social chemistry up and down the crowded bar.

  I scanned the place for a guy in his mid-twenties who looked like he worked at a theater. That narrowed it down to about everybody. I wasn’t going to go table to table asking.

  A waiter with pad in hand walked by and I stopped him. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know a David Townsend? I’m supposed to meet him.”

  The waiter, short and with a buzz cut over an oblong head, said, “I don’t.”

  “Works up at the NoHo Theatre Center?”

  “We get a lot of NoHo traffic. Ask Arty.” He gave a nod toward the bar. “He’s the one looks like Joe Pesci.”

  Well, maybe a little. Joe Pesci in his prime, his My Cousin Vinny days. There was a little bit of the Italian hit man to him, too.

  “Arty?” I said when I managed to get his attention. I was at one end of the bar, near the register.

  “Can I get you?” He put a small square napkin on the bar in front of me.

  “I’m supposed to meet David Townsend. Waiter said you might know him.”

  Arty gave me a careful look. “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “I mean, maybe he doesn’t know you.”

  “Right. I’m here to introduce myself.”

  He paused, some gears meshing in his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “So you do know him.”

  “You ordering a drink or not?”

  “Here.” I took out one of my cards and handed it to Arty. “Tell him I’d like to buy him a drink and talk to him about a priest.”

  Arty looked at the card and frowned. “Lawyer?”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  The humorless barkeep said nothing.

  I spread my hands. “Arty, I got nothing to hide.”

  “I never met a lawyer without something to hide,” he said.

  “Good one.” I took out my wallet and got a twenty. “This transparent enough for you?”

  Arty wasted no time in accepting the bill. “I can see clearly now, the rain has gone.”

  “I’ll wait here,” I said.

  46

  “WHAT IS THIS about?”

  David Townsend had shaggy brown hair, some hanging over his eyes. The eyes themselves were grayish with light irises and small pupils. He had the look of a nervous point guard, ready to jump back or to the side the moment the ball came loose. And maybe for good reason. The left side of his face looked like it had been tenderized by a brick.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “I want to know what you want.” He held my card and looked at it again. “Buchanan?”

  “I wanted to ask you about Father Robert.”

  The gray eyes narrowed. “I’m not talking about that.”

  “I just wanted—”

  “Ever again. That’s over. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Wait a second—”

  “Who are you a lawyer for?”

  “I know the father.”

  “Oh yeah? He molest you, too?”

  “I just met him.”

  “Give him time.”

  Townsend’s rage was evident but also, I thought, practiced. Like an actor going over familiar lines.

  “I’ve also met some other people,” I said. “Like Dr. Kendra Mackee.”

  “You know her?”

  I nodded.

  “Why?” he said.

  “What’ll you have? I won’t take much of your time.”

  He thought about it a moment. “Kamikazi,” he said.

  I motioned for Arty, who was back on his step. I ordered the kamikazi for Townsend. The music was still a little loud and the place a little more crowded.

  “Have an accident?” I asked, looking at the discoloration on his face.

  “Why don’t you get to why you tracked me down?”

  “Just making some talk,” I said.

  “Look, I don’t trust you, okay? You’re a lawyer and you mentioned Father Robert, and that’s two strikes against you, far as I can see. You trying to get him back into the priesthood or something?”

  “He’s still a priest.”

  “Yeah, but they got him where he can’t hurt any kids again. But don’t worry, he’ll find a way.” He took another drink and it was a good one. I was hoping it would loosen his tongue, so I said nothing.

  “And if it weren’t for Dr. Mackee, the scum’d still be out there.”

  “She help you, did she?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. What of it?”

  I shrugged. “I just know that repressed memory stuff is controversial.”

  “Who you work for?”

  “Is it?”

  “Is it what?”

  “Controversial. Because some people say it’s just manipulation.”

  Arty put a shot glass in front of Townsend. I tossed a ten spot on the bartop.

  Townsend took a sip of his drink, thought about it, then downed the rest with a pugnacious turn of the hand. “I’m only going to say this once. I was having nightmares about Father Robert for years. And Dr. Mackee, after I worked with her, after she found out why, they went away. And they haven’t come back. And I don’t know who you are, and that’s all I’m gonna say to you.”

  He put the shot glass down and started away.

  “What about Lorimar?” I said.

  For the briefest moment he froze, as if responding to a loud noise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and—”

  “Davey, what if you were used?”

  “Where do you get off? I’m not—”

  “What I’m saying is, maybe Mackee did more than help you remember. Maybe she actually did a little creating. That’s what some people think.”

  “Who, that witch Lea Edwards?”

  “Among others.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “But what if this has some validity?” I said softly, trying to keep him talking. “What if all this resulted in an innocent man being implicated?”

  “You are so full of it.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  “I told you. What are you bothering me for?”

  “Just talking, Davey—”

  “My name is David. And I know yours, and if you ever say any
thing about me I’m going to come after you.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  He smiled. “This is the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘No, it’s a promise.’”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I’ve got one, too. I find out you made any of this stuff up, I come after you. Maybe the D.A. does, too.”

  He jumped me. Got his hands on my throat and I went down. Next thing I know I’m being choked by a wild-eyed stage manager. When air isn’t coming to your lungs a knee-jerk reaction sets in. I threw my leg up and managed to roll him over. I outweighed him so it wasn’t hard.

  But he kept his death grip. I sat on his chest and grabbed his wrists and pulled them off my throat. He wasn’t particularly strong, but he was wiry. His face got red, tears started spurting, and he screamed at me to get off.

  About five guys were on me, pulling me off Townsend. Yelling in my ear to leave him alone, give it up, get off, get out.

  On my feet I jerked my way out of the grips. Joe Pesci had arrived by this time and got his pinched face in mine and told me I better leave. I told him he should teach his regulars that attacking newcomers is bad for business. He said he didn’t need my business and I left.

  47

  THE DEPOSITION OF Dyan Trudeau, Jonathan’s ex, took place the next morning. As I was driving to Barton Walbert’s office, I tuned into KNX radio for the news. What I heard set up the mood for the depo to come.

  The night before, in South L.A., a man had barricaded himself in a house with a knife, his ex-wife, and his three-year-old daughter. The LAPD SWAT team had spent the night at the corner of Eighty-fifth and Hoover, negotiating with the man, to no avail.

  The standoff, the reporter said, was continuing.

  In Compton, a man was shot to death on the 400 block of Pear Street. That was Compton’s first homicide of the year, according to the story. The year before they’d had fifty-nine.

  Then there was the man stabbed on the 13100 block of South Largo Avenue in Willowbrook. He was the victim of a robbery. They caught the killer, who had managed to get the victim’s wallet and all seventeen dollars the guy’d been carrying.

  Another day and night in L.A., and now two lawyers were about to face off with questions and objections as weapons. That, along with a monumental mutual dislike, was a mix that just had to explode.