Try Dying

by James Scott Bell

  I nodded.

  “Didn’t you feel,” she said, “that you would gladly give up a lot of things to marry her?”

  “Yes. Anything.”

  “Same with me.”

  “So it’s like you’ve married God.”

  “Why do you put it that way?”

  “I saw Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison,” I said. “The Robert Mitchum movie.”

  “Do you learn all your doctrine from Hollywood movies?”

  “Deborah Kerr played a nun. She was going to get a gold wedding ring.”

  “She was talking about taking her solemn profession.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s the final vow. Right now I’m in a sort of intermediate period. A time of testing. To see if this life is truly what I am called to.”

  “You mean you can still opt out?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way, but yes.”

  “I admire you,” I said.

  “You do?”

  “You’re going for something, all out. Too many people pull their punches these days. Or commit themselves to nothing. They get more upset about celebrity breakups than the great questions. We’ve become a pretty surface-level culture.”

  “You’ve thought that through a little.”

  “Jacqueline was like that. She was searching for something.”

  “Maybe you’ll find it for her.”

  We talked for about an hour as I watched the other side of the street from the car. Talked about a lot of things. Even philosophy. I told her about a professor I had in college, John LaValley, who turned me onto the subject. Sister Mary had gone through the Great Books program at St. John’s College in Annapolis. She knew more than I did by about a factor of five.

  But it was good to think about things other than my own sorry station in life.

  Finally, a Jetta turned off of Topanga and pulled to the curb. Greg Beck got out and sat on the hood, looking around.

  “You mind waiting?” I asked Sister Mary.

  “Just call if you need me, Clyde.”

  106

  I CROSSED THE street and joined Beck. He didn’t recognize me at first. Then said, “What’s with the hair?”

  “Let’s get in,” I said.

  In the car, Beck said, “If you’re not guilty, how come you jumped bail?”

  “I didn’t. A guy tried to take my picture with his phone and I took it away from him. The court didn’t like that.”

  Beck smiled. “I probably would have done the same thing.”

  “So I’m getting pretty desperate here.”

  “You know, Scott Peterson changed his hair color once.”

  “I just love being compared to Scott Peterson. Only he was guilty. I’m not.”

  “I think I might be starting to believe you.”

  “Did Channing ever mention a guy named Frank Trudeau?”

  He reached to the backseat, brought back a file folder. “I found this on her desk after she was reported dead. I kind of took it for myself. Thought maybe I could find something to use against you. But there’s nothing bad about you in there.”

  “Can I see it?”

  He handed me the file. I started looking at the notes. Saw my name on there a few times, with dates. The times we talked. She wasn’t taking down things verbatim. One entry said, He seems hurt inside and I try to get him to talk. Male reticence. Make this a subtheme.

  “So I was a subtheme,” I said.

  “Hm?”

  “I guess she used everything as fodder.”

  “Fodder?”

  “You know, what they feed animals.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t like to be followed.” I went back to the notes. She’d done a web diagram, a sketch of possible relationships. My name was in the center of the diagram, with spokes going out to Triunfo, Lea Edwards, Kendra Mackee, Claudia Blumberg, Law Office, David Townsend.

  So she’d found Townsend, too. I never told her about him. She was killed before I could. She was doing that investigative reporter thing behind my back, delving into areas without telling me. Now I started to wonder. Did her interest in Triunfo get her killed? Had she asked one question too many of the wrong people?

  “She ever talk to you about doing a story on Triunfo?” I asked.

  Beck shook his head. “Never mentioned it to me. She always had two or three projects going.”

  “Did she have any other files? Maybe computer files?”

  “I didn’t get her computer stuff. The station took all that over.”

  “Maybe I can get my lawyer to subpoena all that,” I said. “Could be something exculpatory in there.”

  “I hope you’re telling me the truth,” Beck said.

  “About not killing Channing?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m not a killer,” I said. I cleared my throat. “I mean, I could never kill anybody in cold blood.”

  Hot blood maybe.

  I scanned the rest of the notes. Beck waited patiently, softly drumming the steering wheel. Made me think about going back in time, playing drums for Jacqueline. Going back and telling her not to get on the freeway that day. Getting in a car with her and driving someplace together, anyplace, and getting married, like they used to do in those old movies in the thirties. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. Us. Alive.

  On the last page I saw the word “Law” again and some scribbles below it that didn’t seem to mean much. But then I saw something that must have made my face pinch.

  “What is it?” Beck said.

  “I have to run a little errand. Thanks for showing up.”

  “What about the interview?”

  “You’ll get it, if I can get out of this.”

  “What if you don’t get out of it?”

  “I’ll give you the interview from prison.”

  107

  “KIM?”

  “Mr. Buchanan!”

  “Not so loud.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Did anybody hear you?”

  Pause. Low voice: “I don’t think so.”

  “How are you?”

  “Gosh, how are you? Where are you?”

  “I’m out and about.”

  “I’ve been so worried.”

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Yes. Of course. Anything.”

  “Is Al in?”

  “You want me to put you through?”

  “No. Just tell me if he’s in. Don’t let anybody know. Especially Al.”

  “I’ll put you on hold.”

  Sister Mary waited patiently as I made the call. Kim came back on and told me my friend Al Bradshaw was in a conference until 4:30.

  “Thanks, Kim.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to stay out of trouble if I can. I’ll be in touch.”

  To Sister Mary I said, “If I promise to take really good extra special care of this fine automobile, and pay for a full tank of gas, and—”

  “You don’t want me to drive you?”

  “This one I better do alone. I’ll give you a ride back.”

  “Would you do me a favor first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at me and tell me that you’re not guilty.”

  I looked straight into her blue eyes. “Sister Mary Veritas, I am not guilty. I did not kill Channing Westerbrook.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  108

  AL LIVED IN a nice neighborhood in Calabasas. It was an enclave for the upwardly mobile and family set, a burg of Mercedes SUVs and Priuses. Clean and smoke free. It was the first township in the United States to pass an ordinance banning smoking in public. What was next? Vote Democrat or be banished?

  I parked the Taurus at the curb of the house next door and waited for Al to come home.

  If I knew his pattern, and I did, he would stop for a couple of happy hour drinks and then, reluctantly, head back to what he called t
he belly of the beast. The beast being his wife, Adrienne. But he had two kids he doted on.

  And one friend he had lied to.

  I waited for two hours, until the sun was down and the neighborhood dark. It was almost seven-thirty when Al’s car came around the corner and turned into his driveway.

  When he climbed out I flashed my lights at him. He turned toward me and I flashed the lights again. I got out and said, “Al. Over here.”

  “Ty?”

  “Come here, will you?”

  He did. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Sure, just let me—”

  “Hop in.”

  We got in the Taurus and he saw me by the interior light. “What’s with your hair?”

  “I’m disappointed in you, friend.”

  “Huh?”

  “You lied to me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember when I was asking you about Channing Westerbrook? You said she looked good on TV?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wondered what she looked like up close?”

  He said nothing.

  I said, “Why, then, did she have notes of a face interview with you on January 10?”

  “What do you mean, interview?”

  “I saw her notes. So what were you telling Channing Westerbrook about me?”

  “She was doing some background on you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was supposed to be confidential.”

  I reached out and grabbed his shirt. “What are you holding back?”

  “Hey—”

  “I trusted you, man. I mean, I would have trusted you with my life.”

  He pushed my hands away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But we have to do what we have to do. McDonough wants me to steer clear of you. Maybe someday we can start up again.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “Good luck, Ty. I hope you get out of this.”

  I told Al exactly where he could go.

  109

  I DROVE TO the NoHo Theater Center and found a place on the street. It was eight-forty-five. The show, Sweeney Todd, would be well under way.

  The back of the theater edged up to an alley where a few cars were parked. That’s where I waited. And waited. It was dark and foggy in North Hollywood that night. The streetlights gave the fog a fuzzy luminescence. Cotton balls with lightbulbs. A kid’s dream. Or nightmare. It could go either way.

  At nine-twenty the back doors came open and a few people streamed out, a couple lighting immediate cigarettes. Intermission.

  One of them was David Townsend.

  He took a few steps away from the door, lit up, lost in thought. He never saw me come up from behind. “Hi, David,” I said.

  He jumped and spun around. “Hey!”

  “Easy,” I said.

  “What do you want?”

  “Remember me, Davey? From Jeremiah’s?”

  “Geez, man, what are you doing?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Forget it, man, I—” He started to move past me, but I stepped in front of him.

  “David, I have one question for you. Who is Lorimar?”

  He said nothing.

  “Tell me who he is, David. And what did you tell Channing Westerbrook?”

  “Man, I can’t—”

  “Listen to me. I’m not going to use it against you. I just want to find out what’s going on. I want to know why Channing talked to you. And I want to know about Lorimar. And I’m freaking nuts right now so I’m not sure what I might do.”

  He looked up at the night sky and then at me. “God, I hate you guys. All of you.”

  “All of who?”

  “All of you.”

  “Lorimar?”

  “Lattimore, jerk. His name’s Lattimore. I hope he gets you, too.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “I hate all of you.”

  “Why is he messing you up?”

  “Why else? To keep me quiet.”

  “Quiet about what?”

  “If I tell you then I’m not being quiet, am I?”

  “Tell me!”

  He stepped back. “What are you going to do, beat it out of me? You’re scum like the rest of them.”

  Standing there, rage coursing through me, I thought he was right.

  Then he took off running. Back to the theater. There was no way to run after him without a big public spectacle.

  I stood there a moment, feeling like Elmer Fudd after he’s just run off a cliff. Looks around. Realizes he’s standing on air. A big wrapper with Sucker covers his head. It’s nothing but down from there.

  110

  I CALLED MY lawyer from an all-night diner in Studio City, left a message. Had to wait out two cups of coffee before he called back.

  “Where are you?” he said.

  “You always want to know that,” I said.

  “Ty, you have to come in. This is ridiculous.”

  “I have a name to give you. Lattimore.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know what I’m talking about. All I know is a guy named David Townsend. Works at the NoHo Theater. I think there’s a connection with Channing Westerbrook somehow. He says a guy named Lattimore has been beating him up to keep him quiet about something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ty, you’re talking crazy.”

  “That’s right! I am talking crazy! I got nothing else!”

  “Calm down.”

  “This is as close as I get!”

  “Listen to me,” Latourette said. “I want you to come in. I want you to come quietly to my office tomorrow at ten. All right? Nice and quiet and we’ll talk about this.”

  “You gonna have the cops waiting?”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Trust me, I told—”

  “Here’s some news. I don’t trust anybody.”

  I slept in the car on a road in the Hollywood Hills. Maybe slept is the wrong word. Did the washing machine thing, tossing around all night.

  Was hoping when I got up that something would coalesce in my mind. That I’d have the whole picture. And that I’d be free.

  Not.

  A haze hung over Hollywood like a wet sheet. Couldn’t see much besides a Scientology sign and the murky shadows of cars haunting the freeway.

  I felt like Courtney Love’s ashtray. Clothes crusty with dried sweat. And knew at once I better go see the Silver Bullet. There was no way I was going to figure things out on my own. I needed a team, needed as many people on my side as I could get.

  But I wasn’t going back to jail.

  I breakfasted at the Burger King on Highland. Ah yes, so fine. Fugitives can live like princes.

  At nine-forty-five I entered the underground parking at the Silver Bullet’s building in Century City. Nice digs for a criminal lawyer. Big-time. I almost felt good about my chances as I took a spot on level two. What happens when a white-collar guy gets nabbed by the FBI or police? He gets the most expensive mouthpiece he can, and a mouthpiece only gets expensive by winning a lot.

  And the Silver Bullet was a winner, I thought, as I got out of the Taurus and started for the elevators.

  Then stopped.

  A guy in a leather jacket who did not look like he belonged was heading my way. Looking at me. He had his right hand in his jacket pocket.

  I started walking again, in a direction to make a wide arc around the guy.

  He started leaning my way. Studying me.

  “Mr. Buchanan?” he said.

  Maybe he was somebody who worked for Latourette. Knew my name, but was hesistant because of the new hair color.

  Or maybe he was a reporter, in which case my cover—such as it was—was blown.

  So I pretended like I didn’t hear him.

/>   “Mr. Buchanan.” More insistent.

  I tried to keep walking but he cut me off.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Mr. Barocas wants to see you,” he said.

  I looked him up and down. “How many days have you been scoping this place?”

  “Let’s go,” the guy said.

  “Tell him to send me an e-mail.”

  He shook his head. Made a come on motion to somebody. A moment later a red Thunderbird squealed up. There was no one else down here.

  “Get in,” the jacket guy said.

  The driver, I now noticed, was holding what I took to be an assault weapon. Balancing it on the window, smiling.

  “What about my car?” I said.

  “Leave it.”

  “It’ll get towed.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “You Catholic?”

  He just looked at me.

  “You’re gonna really hack off the church if you do this.”

  My cell played Flight of the Valkeries. Before I knew it Jacket Man snatched it off my belt and tossed it under a Civic.

  “That’s just mean,” I said.

  Jacket Man showed me the handgun he had in his pocket and said, “Get in.”

  111

  “SO YOU GUYS work for Rudy Barocas,” I said.

  No response.

  “He made you respectable, did he?”

  “Shut up, why don’t you?” the guy next to me said.

  “No need to be embarrassed about it,” I said. “You’re a great American success story. Former gangbanger. Gone straight. That about it?”

  Silence. They had their order to bring me to Barocas. They wouldn’t mess me up, I was sure. I should have been more deferential, if I wanted to keep all my teeth. But there was a river of ice in me all of a sudden. Like I’d used up all my fear.

  My legal specialty, even though it’s not recognized by the state bar, is knocking witnesses off balance, getting them to talk when they shouldn’t. Maybe I could get something out of these guys.

  I said, “And now all you do is spread love to the world, right?”

  The driver said, “Shut up.”

  “Your vocabulary could use a little work,” I said. “Please do not discourse further. Try that.”

  “How ’bout I break your face?” my backseat companion said.

  “Now there, you see that? Going back to the old ways. You’re a functioning member of society now. You go on Oprah and talk like that, she’ll slap you.”