by M. M. Mayle
He clears the terminal and picks up a rental car in record time. Low profile in a thirty-six-hour beard, cheap Ray-Ban knockoffs, torn jeans, and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, he parks the nondescript car several blocks from his ultimate destination and sets out on foot. Nothing can be accomplished before dark—at least an hour away—so to kill time he detours over to Ocean Front Walk, where he’s just another face in a Venice Beach crowd that’s already peaking in anticipation of a big Saturday night.
The passing freak show holds no interest, nor does grabbing something to eat, although his stomach is telling him it’s still on EDT and dinner’s long overdue. Toward the northern end of the boardwalk, he settles on the Fig Tree Café, where he nurses an iced tea and picks at a chopped salad until sunset is imminent. In the afterglow he retraces the quarter-mile to his starting point, then heads inland for three blocks until he’s aligned with the target, one street over on Venice Way.
The jungle of overgrown vegetation behind Cliff Grant’s bungalow resembles the sumac and pine scrub of far Northern Michigan only inasmuch as it presents a barrier to be broken through. That’s all, nothing more, nothing symbolic here. Similar can be said for holding a penlight in his teeth while he works a window screen loose and jimmies a window lock with the screwdriver he thought to bring. Nothing in this activity compares with wrenching the door off a crumpled pickup truck with little more than his bare hands. Plus, odds are a billion to one that still another headless corpse could be waiting on the other side of this window.
In the hour after dusk, Nate slips through what turns out to be a bedroom window and drops the few feet to the floor, where he pauses to listen for his own echoes. Satisfied that he’s raised no alarm, he adjusts to the sounds he does hear—distant feedback from the boardwalk and intermittent traffic noise from nearby Grand Boulevard—and moves in small increments into the next room, a living room of sorts.
The urge to make comparisons is again felt when the narrow beam of the penlight reveals the setting in a series of small patches, as was the case when uncovering damage done by a road accident nearly two and a half years ago. And again, there’s no real comparison because here there’s no need for that senses-sparing limitation; here, he’s prepared to take everything in all at once if necessary—even the overwhelming odor of putrefaction made no less cloying by the secondary odor of burnt paper.
In the kitchen, the area of bleed-out and blood spatter is extensive. He’s only too glad to proceed within the constraints of his light source to avoid stepping on any of the dried spill. In an extension of the kitchen, in what appears to be a tiled and glassed-in porch with metal miniblinds on all the windows, the penlight beam picks out several sections of five-drawer file cabinets. Many of the emptied drawers are open, some to the extent of undermining the stability of the cabinets themselves. As a precaution he gently pushes these drawers shut with either his foot or the handle of the screwdriver.
He’s about to move on to an area where the floor appears scorched when the penlight illuminates a sizeable curl of paper that was either hidden by or released by one of the file drawers he just closed. He picks it up without worrying about fingerprints. Whatever it is, he’s looking at the blank side. He turns it over and his awkward attempt to smooth it out with one hand releases a crumbling of charred edges. He goes back to holding the penlight in his mouth, shines it on the find at close range and sees that he’s inspecting the remains of a commercial photograph, a glossy. Enough is left of the photograph to reveal the subject matter and identify the subject. Even with her head thrown back in a posture of mock ecstasy, Aurora Elliot is spectacularly recognizable as the nude chick finger-fucking herself.
This he was not prepared for. His initial reaction is to toss the place from one end to the other in case a stash of this shit exists somewhere the crime scene investigators didn’t look. He resists that temptation, but not without recalling the last time he threatened to rip this place apart and Colin countered by blindly refusing to believe the fabled Aurora would ever resort to porn. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Nate mutters at confirmation of the old rumor and slides the remnants of the photograph into a jeans pocket.
Nate leaves the way he came in. On the walk back to the car he becomes more and more convinced that Grant’s archive had to have contained a section devoted to the Elliots; the partially burnt photograph is proof enough of that. But without further evidence, there’s no way of establishing whether the presumed files were deliberately destroyed or randomly chosen as fuel for the fire allegedly set to cover up the crime. He drives off, heading back toward the beach and an undertaking that can only be called Sisyphean.
THIRTY-SIX
Early morning, April 5, 1987
Hoop’s waking thought is of the one-of-a-kind truck parked next to a lamp-post in the middle of the motel parking lot. He can’t see it from his room, his gummy window looks out on the opposite side of the building, but he can see it in his mind’s eye when he stirs out of bed at the crack of dawn.
This must be what Christmas feels like when you know the thing you wanted most is under the tree. He heads for the bathroom with more enthusiasm than he’s felt in days—in weeks—and hardly notices the ring in the tub and the scratchy nonskid strips when he does a full bath that includes unplaiting and washing his hair.
After he’s finished in the bathroom and dressed in a new set of clothes, it’s time to think about his hair. He needs to ask himself whether the old woman who gave him breakfast yesterday would name plaited hair as his standout feature, or if she’d just call him Cuban and let it go at that. He could also ask himself if a customized El Camino would notch people’s memories, but he already knows the answer there and is willing to take the chance.
He delays a decision that won’t come easy and turns on the television for the first time since moving in. Religion programs are showing on nearly every station. That tells him it’s Sunday and that a calendar might come in handy now that he has a watch to track the hours.
With his new equipment, he makes coffee and prepares a meal of peanut butter and saltines. While he eats he leafs through the car-buying guide like he’s having second thoughts. But it’s his hair he’s having second and third thoughts about.
Once his mind’s made up, things go fast. He brings out the big knife from the new tool case, gathers his loose fresh-washed hair into a thick hank that he lops off with a single whack. By feel he can tell what’s left of it is squared just below ear level, a length he’ll have to live with even if it makes him feel like the Samson character out of the white man’s holy book.
Without looking in a mirror, he finishes dressing in a jeans jacket and a New York Yankees baseball cap pulled low over the rough haircut. He locks the knife away in the tool case he’ll be taking with him and leaves the rest of the gear at the mercy of the slovenly housekeeper.
As he approaches the El Camino in the motel parking lot, pride of ownership wants to swell him out like a courting bullfrog. He admires the slick lines, the unmarked condition of the bodywork, the made-to-measure cover on the load bed that came as a bonus, and the dark brownish-reddish-purplish color and silver trim. He approves everything from what rests under the hood to the depth of the tire treads and then praises himself for honoring the truck tradition he was raised with, although this truck is like nothing his family ever drove. They’d see it as fancified; he sees it as refined.
Today he doesn’t wait for luck or an unseen hand to guide him. This time he’s going to Old Quarry Court of his own accord, and this time he’ll hold out till there’s no doubt left about where the rock star’s new girlfriend lives—where there’s good reason to believe the rock star will show up sooner or later.
On the way there, he entertains himself with follow-up thinking of how well things went yesterday afternoon. Paying asking price with cash-money made all the difference in the world when it came to smoothing out paperwork with the seller of the El Camino. And surrendering the Jimmy to the half-abandoned Newark neighborhood
where the sale took place still strikes as the best idea for getting rid of the clunker. Stripped of license plates and other identifying tags, it was probably chopped up for spare parts before the sun went down, and set fire to soon after.
At the turnoff to Holbrook Road, he drops the window and hollers out “A wig and a wag and a long leather bag” in an overflow of high spirits. At the turnoff to the connector road into Old Quarry Court, his watch and the dashboard clock agree that it’s not even eight yet, too early in the morning for much to be stirring. But high spirits don’t let that bother him when he parks where he can see the entrance to the court and keep tabs on anyone coming or going.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Morning, April 5, 1987
Colin is only fifteen minutes early when he enters Old Quarry Court at eight-fifteen Sunday morning. Laurel’s instructions were precise; he found the street on the first try and number 13 would be hard not to find, situated as it is at the central point on the cul-de-sac. He eases the hired Jaguar into the driveway and makes no move to get out. Instead, he surveys from behind the windscreen what’s visible of the Chandler Family Shrine.
The brick-and-frame structure sparks no special interest; it’s the landscaping that has his full attention. Dark-leaved branches showing above the roof of a side porch can only belong to a copper beech tree, and the stand of growth along the other side of the property is unmistakably dogwood looking as though it could blossom yet today. In another direction, lilacs are heavy with buds and azaleas bordering the low dry-stone wall next to the driveway are ready to burst into bloom. Daffodils have the stage to themselves, flowering in organized beds across the entire front of the place instead of scattered through the lawns as his are at home. Noteworthy, all of it, but he could be reaching to make too much of these scaled-down similarities to his own gardens.
To avoid robbing Laurel of personal time again he decides to stay put till the appointed hour of eight-thirty. Yesterday jumps in to fill the waiting period, asking what might have been her reason for wanting to take such a prolonged and pensive look at the island of Manhattan and why she used that opportunity to get rid of her coat, of all things. What was that about? Was that a significant gesture or meaningless whim? Did that in some way symbolize the turning point he predicted for her? What of his own turning point? What will he have to toss overboard in order to achieve full independence?
Without warning the garage door goes up and Laurel appears. Her hair is loose and longer than guessed, reaching well past her shoulders. She’s wearing close-fitting trousers and a skimpy top of the sort worn under something else. She’s right next to the car now, playfully rapping on the glass and accusing him of having dozed off again. He has in a way; her effect on him can be stuporous even when he’s well rested.
He gets out of the car and wishes her good morning as a start on all the other good things he’d like to wish her. “Do you like to garden?” He goes with a safe follow-up, indicating the well-tended lawns and flower beds.
“Good question. I really don’t know. I’ve never gardened when it wasn’t just one more chore to be done and now I’ve hired a service to take care of it.”
She leads him through the garage where they both eye the door opener mechanism and exchange meaningful glances.
“I won’t butt in again. Promise,” he says
“You won’t need to, it’s working fine now,” she says.
They proceed into the house where his initial impression is all about aromas as she leads him along a wainscoted passageway. Whatever is cooking smells like everyone’s most idealized version of home. He detects the individual scents of apple, cinnamon, and bacon before he notices anything else. Then, in the kitchen he gets an impression of what estate agents call good bones and established character—the same indefinable quality that contents him with a hotel suite just this side of worn.
Appointments and furnishings that have all seen long and loving use contribute to an eerie sense of familiarity. Wide-plank flooring, copper kettles suspended above a center island, and a mass of white tulips drooping in informal arrangement on that island produce an unshakeable feeling of homecoming. As does a long farm table positioned adjacent a shallow bay window and served by an assortment of mismatched chairs.
Could there be a better place to make his appeal? He’d do it now if he thought there was any way in blue-bloody hell to ignore the fact they’ve known each other less than a week.
“Coffee?” Laurel offers. “I hope you’re hungry. That’s an apple pancake you smell baking, something of a Sunday tradition when there were more people to cook for and always a favorite of my father’s. I’ll be taking him a piece when I see him later, but if my brothers and sister want any they’ll have to come home to get it.”
She keeps up a steady chatter as she ties on an apron, minds the cooker, pours him coffee and just bustles about in general. He’s never seen her like this before, not this bubbly and twinkly, and he’s hesitant to name a cause beyond over-caffeination because sheer happiness seems like too simple a reason.
At her direction he takes up plates and cutlery and carries them to the table with its view of the gardens beyond. Whilst he’s laying the two place settings she excuses herself to see to laundry left in the washer since yesterday morning.
Assured that there’s no cookery to mind in her absence, he lets his interest wander to the large bowl in the center of the table. Instead of fruit, it holds an assortment of clutter amongst which are a matchbook from the Oyster Bar at The Plaza, a cork from a bottle of Orvieto wine, a napkin from the Stage Deli, and a creased brochure from the Circle Line outfit. If he saw other evidence of souvenir collecting lying about he might not place any great importance on this find, but since nothing similar’s in sight he could be onto something.
When Laurel reenters the kitchen she’s ever so slightly flushed and a bit out of breath. “Do you know what I’ve just realized?” She returns to the cooker to fuss with the bacon. “I need a wife.”
“So do I,” he says, the comment lost in laughter generated by her remark.
She briefly reenters his sphere, hands him two glasses of juice to take to the table and he’s grateful for anything to do that will keep him from advertising either his intentions or his little theft.
Now she’s busy taking a fantastic-looking inflated pancake from the oven and transferring bacon onto a platter. As she dusts the pancake with icing sugar she calls over her shoulder for him to be seated. He complies without offering to help carry anything because he still doesn’t trust himself not to provide a guaranteed buzz-killer by word or action.
However, when she brings the food and takes her place across from him it’s clear whatever buzz does exist in the room has been modified because no one needs to look as serious as she does about cutting into a pancake and serving a few rashers of bacon. An educated guess says she’s mired herself down again with the Nate issue.
“I know what you’re thinking and I’m telling you one last time that was a typical Nate tactic—creating smoke where there’s no fire,” Colin says. “Nate knew none of those messages needed my immediate attention yesterday. He knew there was nothing I could do about any of it and admitted as much to you. So, as I told you at least three times on the phone last night, you did absolutely no harm by withholding the information for a few hours. Reminding me—I never did hear why you didn’t drop it all on me straightaway, there in your office.”
“I . . . don’t know. Perhaps because you were sleep-deprived. Perhaps because I saw no point in stirring you up over things that were already beyond your control. Reminding me—have you talked to David since we last spoke?”
Did he actually think she was going to admit she didn’t want to tell him anything that might have prevented his going with her on the mystery cruise round Manhattan? “Yeh, David reached me late last night to say the Pinnacle label’s suddenly claiming I owe them another album.”
“You don’t, do you?”
“No, it’s their
last gasp. It’s Saul Kingsolver at his worst and David assures me nothing will come of it. Whilst we’re at it, I’d better mention I’ve confirmed as recently as this morning that nothing can be done about the leak to the press concerning Anthony’s mischief. Too late, it is. Too late to do more than brace myself and hope the story’s short-lived. As for the other record label, the rumoured offer from the Rajah label—I don’t respond to rumour. If and when an actual offer’s made, I’ll look at it. There, are we done with this, then?”
“What about the murder victim, the Gibby Lester guy?”
“That’s not a topic for the breakfast table. No, not whilst I’m scarfin’ down this fabulous food.”
“But you’ll talk about him later? About Lester, and about the other one you said was murdered in L.A.?”
“Yeh, I said I would, didn’t I?”
The rest of the conversation drifts off into a maze of subjects. As has so often been the case, they never quite finish one when another comes along. He helps clear the table and mainly gets in the way of the washing up.
“I have to finish getting ready, so please feel free to look around the house. I’m betting you’ll agree with David that the old relic should be pushed aside to make way for something new.” She strips off the apron and disappears towards the front of the house. Her footsteps creak on an unseen set of stairs.
He has no idea how long she’ll be gone, so he may as well have that look around.
In her absence he ducks in and out of rooms that more closely resemble stage sets—tableaux minus the people—than actual living spaces. In a large room he would call the lounge he encounters an upright piano and shelves holding board games, videotapes, and books. A table in front of the fireplace holds a chess set, arranged and ready for the first move; on the hearth, logs are stacked, ready for igniting. Magazines are available near an easy chair, and the couch cushions are plumped and ready for the next bloke wanting a lie-down. There’s something vaguely Pompeian about the whole setup, as though the inhabitants had suddenly dematerialized. But if that were the case, wouldn’t something be in disarray?
