by Alan Russell
Instead of turning on Curson for the museum parking, Graham continued on Wilshire past the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. He turned left on Ogden, found a metered parking space, and fed it quarters.
As Graham set out toward the tar pits, he wondered if he was already being watched. It was easy being paranoid; everyone was a potential suspect. He could be in someone’s crosshairs at that very moment. Graham figured he would be safe though, at least until they found out what he knew.
He walked along Wilshire and opted to bypass the museum’s western entrance. It was the least traveled part of the grounds, and Graham was looking for safety in numbers. There were those in plenty at the active loading zone. School buses were letting children out. Graham stepped around teachers trying to establish order, made his way through the schoolchildren, and started down the main path to the museum.
The Lake Pit was bubbling up in a number of spots, methane rising from the fissures below the lake. Oddly enough, Graham had come to like the odors coming from the tar pits. On more than one occasion he had even mouthed the line from the Robert Duvall character in Apocalypse Now: “I love the smell of napalm in the morning.”
Graham took some deep breaths, but not to breathe in the scent. He needed to look and act normal. If he was being watched, they didn’t have to know his heart was racing, and his mouth was too dry to even wet his lips.
At the east end of the Lake Pit, Graham stopped on the path to ostensibly take in the life-sized figures of an imperial mammoth family. But before looking to the past, he took stock of the present, swiveling his head in all directions. There were no familiar faces, and no one appeared interested in him.
His eyes drifted back to the mammoths. On shore, papa mammoth and baby mammoth were safe. Their attention was riveted on the water, where mama mammoth was trapped. Huge as she was, she couldn’t escape the grip of the tar. It had her in its hold, and it wasn’t going to let go. Her alarmed trumpeting wasn’t going to help, and the plaintive calls of her little one, at least relatively speaking, weren’t going to free her.
For thousands of years the pools of asphalt had claimed countless victims. In the heat of the summer, the asphalt melted to a viscous glue. Small animals became stuck like flies to flypaper. Larger animals sank two to three inches into the liquefied asphalt, enough to entrap many forever. Typically, it only took a little more than an inch of the sticky asphalt to trap an animal the size of a cow. To a small degree, Graham knew the entrapment process still continued at the tar pits. Liquefied asphalt oozed to the surface, trapping insects, lizards, birds, and small mammals. Inside the museum, one exhibit challenged children to test their strength against the pull of asphalt. Firsthand, they learned of its grip. They were allowed to escape its consequences, but the tons of bones in the museum reminded them of those that never did.
Graham looked around again. No sign of the brothers, or Smith, or Scar.
He continued down the path, stopping in front of a stone sculpture at the entrance that showed two saber-toothed cats fighting. Graham didn’t know how accurate that portrayal was. Some paleontologists believed the cats were social animals that lived and hunted in packs, even caring for the old and infirm. What the sculptor did get right was how large and deadly the cats had been. They were the size of modern African lions. With their huge canine teeth, the cats sliced open the stomach of their prey.
The teeth were enough of a grim reminder for Graham to survey the area around him once more. As far as he could tell, he was still alone.
Near to him was another statue that showed North American lions, and on the west side of the grounds Graham knew there was a statue of a prehistoric bear.
“Lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my,” he whispered to himself.
The LA Basin had been a tough place during the last ice age. Some things never changed.
Graham looked at his watch. It was ten minutes after one. His underarms were already soaked, and he had only been on the grounds for ten minutes. Time had never gone by so slowly. By now, he was sure they had him under surveillance. All he had to do was wait.
Wait while the dire wolves closed in.
That was the plan. His plan. It didn’t seem very inspired at the moment. But he had to get them out in the open, and the only way to do that was to use himself as bait. He was just another animal trapped in the asphalt.
Half a dozen times he withstood the urge to check his watch again. When he broke down, only another two minutes had passed. Graham stayed on the alert. He continued to study all the adults around him, but he still almost overlooked the wolf in sheep’s clothing.
The man was dressed like a tourist, had the obligatory camera around his neck and guidebook of Los Angeles in his hands. The book was written in French. The cane in the man’s hand, and his stoop, accentuated his years, made him appear to be about seventy. He was wearing sunglasses and a black beret covered his head. Graham would never have given him a second look if not for his scar.
Graham tried to hide his look of recognition. Scar wasn’t eyeing him, at least not directly, but he was staying close. Had Scar wanted to talk, he would have just walked up to Graham. He was up to something else. Graham edged away, pretending interest in some murals. Two could play at being tourist. Scar followed him, almost imperceptibly closing the distance.
For the kill? There were people around. But would that stop him? Dying wasn’t part of Graham’s plan. The tar pits had seemed like the right place for him to play tar baby. His enemies would come to him, show themselves, and then he’d stick to them.
He slowly retreated down the steps and headed west. From the corner of his eye, Graham tried to keep sight of Scar. For whatever reason, he didn’t seem to be following. At the bottom of the steps, Graham paused and surveyed the area around him. There were no visible threats, unless you counted the horde of elementary school children. He looked behind him. Scar was still at the top of the steps, pretending interest in a graphic.
Graham waited to see what would happen. If it was an ambush, it was slow to close in on him. Almost fifteen minutes passed, and no one drew near. Even Scar maintained his distance, perhaps sensing he was spooked.
For his own purposes, Graham decided enough time had elapsed. Smith wasn’t going to appear for their meeting, but that was no surprise. He had figured Smith for a no-show, had been certain he would stay safely in the background while others came for him. Scar was the only enemy Graham had identified. He wondered how many others there might be. Unhurriedly, he set out along the path that led to the western entrance, stopping to pause at the working dig. Every year scientists drained the pool and dug into the past. One of the paleontologists had described the animals as being “trapped in time.” That was much like his own condition ever since Paris.
Behind him, Graham heard approaching footsteps. Scar had reappeared and was walking at a brisk pace. Graham’s phone rang. He suspected Smith was calling. This was where they wanted him to stop.
Graham reversed his direction. His move surprised Scar. For a moment their eyes met, and then Graham was past him, suddenly running in an all-out sprint. In a footrace, there were few who could catch him. Besides, it was his home field. He had choreographed his escape route and was ready to shake the pursuit. One look back was all he allowed himself. Scar was watching him, but not following.
He ran through the side gate that led to the art museum. Graham raced along its patio, cut through its dining room, then exited through the gift shop.
The bike Ran had dropped off that morning was waiting for him outside in the bike rack. Graham felt like a Chippendales performer shedding his garb. He wasn’t quite wearing Velcro clothing, but his loose polo shirt and chinos were shucked and in his backpack in a matter of moments. Underneath he was wearing a form-fitting biking outfit. A flick of one digit, and he freed the lock. He threw on a bike helmet, one of those Jetsons designs that hard-core cyclists used, and doffed s
ome metallic shades. Even his father would have had a hard time recognizing him.
From start to finish, Graham was off in less than twenty seconds. It had been like a hurried pit stop. Now he was going for the checkered flag.
He pumped hard at the pedals and in a few moments was flying. Anyone trying to get a good look at him was only going to see a blur.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
“You should have seen them,” said Ran. “They looked like bridegrooms left at the altar.”
Graham had been waiting for Ran’s call for more than an hour. After hurriedly leaving Rancho La Brea, he had cycled four miles over to the posh Century Plaza Hotel where he had picked up his car rental. The rental clerk had been surprised at his appearance. Most of those who came to the counter wore business suits and didn’t wheel their alternate transportation up with them.
“What happened?”
“Scar made a few calls, and then he split out of there but fast. Like you figured, they had your car staked out. They were waiting for you to come back for it.”
“Who was there?”
“I assume it was the brothers, but the way they were dressed up, it wasn’t easy seeing their resemblance. One was watching from the lawn of the museum. He had his nose in a book and had on this long wig that gave him a surfer look. That didn’t hide the burns on his face, though. The other one had the jogging detail. He had on a fake mustache and was wearing a bandana. The guy kept jogging up one side of the street, and then down the other. He looked pretty winded by the time I left.”
“Speaking of disguises,” said Graham, “I never made you. What were you wearing?”
“I was the homeless guy with a very evident drinking problem. I kept tipping my brown paper bag up. Thing is, I wasn’t sipping, I was snapping. My brown bag had a hole in the bottom.”
“You get pictures of everybody?”
“Multiple shots of everyone. First-class close-ups even.”
“How did you manage that?”
“You ever notice Hancock Park’s got a lot of trash barrels? I got an up close and personal experience with most of them. I went all over digging through the barrels. It paid off, though. I got the shots. And I must have collected sixty or seventy aluminum cans.”
“You finally found your calling in life.”
“Fuck you very much.”
“I need those pictures as soon as possible.”
“You want me to send you the files? Or would you like them printed? Or should I bring you the memory card?”
“How about all the above?”
“I’m glad I didn’t offer gift wrapping.”
“Don’t let anything out of your sight, okay?”
“Stop worrying.”
“Let’s meet up at four, have a drink. You choose the place. I’ll set up an open tab for you and Jackie. You can be the last of the big-time spenders, get her a dinner with all the works.”
“You going to join us?”
“After I retrieve my car, I’ve got plans.”
“Seems to me you’ve had a lot of plans lately. You finally getting a social life?”
“I don’t know. I’ll fill you in over drinks. Where do you want to meet?”
Ran thought for a long moment: “Ivy at the Shore on Ocean Avenue.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then why did you pick it?”
“Because the food is supposed to be good. But that’s not the most important reason.”
“Which is?”
“You’re paying, and it’s expensive.”
“In that case, you want to loan me some of your aluminum cans?”
“The more you talk, funny boy, the more it’s going to cost you.”
“I’ll see you at four.”
“You got it.”
“Oh, and Ran?”
There was something in his tone that made Ran suspicious. “What?”
“Do shower before you show up.”
After Ran printed the photos he stopped by his apartment. The wiseass had told him to take a shower, and that’s just what he intended to do.
There were no neighbors around, which was just as well. Ran didn’t feel like explaining his look, and smell, and all the aluminum cans he was hauling in. That reminded him—he was going to have to crush the cans and put them away before Jackie came home. To him, the cans were trophies of his work. To her, they would be a disgusting reminder of his disgusting work. Jackie couldn’t understand why he got such satisfaction out of a job she considered demeaning. The more he explained it to her, the less she seemed to get it. She couldn’t understand the thrill of the hunt and how it gave him a rush outsmarting people. Jackie thought he could best show the world how smart he was by bringing home a fat and steady paycheck. But where was the fun in that?
Maybe she’d give him a little more slack after their night out. Ran had called Jackie from the road. She had been excited to hear where they were having a night on the town. He would surprise Jackie by dressing up, put on a blazer, maybe even a tie. The bum look was about to be a memory.
Ran entered the apartment, went straight to the bathroom, and started the water running in the shower. In a minute it would be nice and hot. He stripped off his clothes, opened the hallway closet, and dumped them in the washer. The amount of detergent he tossed in probably would have killed off the bubonic plague. Better to be safe than sorry. He wasn’t about to throw out the worn clothing, though Jackie had been lobbying him to do so for years. It was an essential part of his costume collection.
He always liked the water to be just right before getting in. Ran reached out with a finger and tested it. Perfect. He stepped into the shower, drew the curtain behind him, and started soaping up. God, the hot water felt great. He let it pelt him for a minute, a mini-massage that he reveled in. Now it was time for the shampoo. Usually he used baby shampoo, but decided instead to use some of Jackie’s expensive gel that smelled like cherries. The scent was enough to make him hungry. He was going to bring a big appetite to the restaurant.
The gel sudsed up real nice. He was lathering his hair when he felt the draft behind him. The damn bathroom door had worked its way open. Ran always hated when that happened. It was like waking up in the middle of a wet dream.
But this was worse.
The shower curtain wasn’t pulled back, it was pulled off. The violence of its removal almost broke the rod. Half blind, Ran had to wipe away suds to see the silenced pistol pointing at him. His eyes stung from the shampoo. They hurt even more when he recognized who was standing there.
Scar was smiling at him.
Ran tried to bluff it out. “Who the hell are you?”
Instead of answering, Jaeger said, “Push the stopper down.”
“What?”
His English was monotone and without accent. “Fill the bathtub.”
Ran didn’t immediately react. He was close enough to Scar that he considered lunging at him.
“I wouldn’t do it,” said Jaeger, leveling the gun in his gloved right hand at Ran’s privates. “I never miss even small targets.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
The gun didn’t waver. “Push the stopper down.”
Ran reached out with his foot, tripping it. The shower water started to accumulate in the tub.
“What do you want?”
“Oh,” said Jaeger, “I pretty much have what I came for. It didn’t take me long to figure out your game. The two of you must have thought you were so clever. The one paparazzo acting as bait, the other hiding in the bushes. By the way, where is your partner?”
“I think he’s shtupping your mother.”
“I’ve been checking on all his friends and acquaintances, you see, figuring he would show up at one of his usual haunts. The last few nights I�
��ve stopped by here, but alas, he was elsewhere. Do you know that you snore?”
“I know you probably enjoy talking with naked guys in the shower,” Ran said, “but it’s not my thing.”
The water continued to fill the tub.
“How were you able to identify me?” Jaeger asked.
“I have an asshole detector. The thing just about went tilt when you walked by.”
“Perhaps I should ask your woman that question. Jackie looked so nice last night in her black negligee.”
Ran’s face reacted to his words. Scar really had been in his apartment. And he knew things, like Jackie’s name. He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. “She doesn’t know anything.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s not like I know much either. Graham’s been working on this thing by himself. A few days ago he told me that two men took him for a ride and almost killed him. He was tipped off that they might be Mossad agents. Then he got a call from this guy and they arranged today’s meeting. Graham wanted some bargaining power, so he asked me to photograph anyone who came anywhere near to him. The only reason I recognized you just now is because of your scar. I remembered seeing a man with a scar like yours at the museum.”
The water was halfway up Ran’s calves.
“When was he going to get your photographs?”
“Five o’clock at his place. He figured the pictures would be his insurance that nothing happened to him.”
“Your friend is paranoid.”
“Yeah, he’s silly that way. He probably wouldn’t like a gun held on him either.”
Jaeger shrugged apologetically, and then lowered his pistol. “Your friend has stumbled upon some matters of national security. Today, had he not run, we would have explained that to him.”
