City of Mirrors

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  “They could be.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  “You said my mother was good to you. How?”

  His eyes shined with memories. He was having an affair with her.

  “Your mother talked about her career, about work, as if it could save a person. Make them whole. She never once asked about the war.” His brown eyes fell on Ryan. “That would be ’Nam.”

  “I assumed by the rifle.” Ryan crossed his bare legs importantly. “M-21, right?”

  Binder warily took in his curly red hair, Bermuda shorts, Hawaiian shirt, and Uggs. “Right. Sniper rifle.”

  “Accurate up to 750 yards. Light armor piercing and equipped with a Leatherwood 3x-9x adjustable ranging telescope.” Ryan sounded like a college student listing what he had memorized for a test.

  “You shoot?”

  “No. Only write about them.”

  “You write about guns, but don’t shoot?”

  Ryan nodded. “I write screenplays.”

  “Do you now?” Binder tapped an impatient, blunt finger on a pile of invoices.

  “Guns are props in my world,” Ryan continued blithely. “Sometimes I can even turn one into a metaphor. I just can’t use the word metaphor in front of the producers because it scares them. You know, it doesn’t matter what you do, just don’t scare the horses.” He laughed as if Binder shared his inside knowledge of the quirks of the men who got movies made.

  Binder squinted. “Well, this gun is loaded with a round of reality in case some asshole comes in here and tries to metaphorically rob me.”

  Ryan moved uneasily in his chair.

  “I remember she called you the ‘mislaid man.’” I hoped to get him back to Nora and maybe helping us. “She didn’t mean it in an unkind way.”

  “I never took it to be mean-spirited. She was my angel.” Reflecting, he stroked his beard. “She’d come down and talk to me while I was cleaning. Seems she couldn’t sleep either.” He began to restack the already neat pile of invoices, then cleared his throat. “It took me a while to realize that this beautiful woman, this movie star, was talking me back into the world.”

  “She never told me.”

  “You look a lot like her. Are you as good of a woman as she was?”

  “I try to be.” I suddenly felt this man could see right through me to the lie I had just spoken.

  He leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his belly. “So you’re probably wondering how the dead kid got onto the estate.”

  “Yes.”

  “And my connection is I have a key to the indoor swimming pool and I know the gate code.”

  “Exactly,” Ryan said. “And I might add that’s a very expensive car you drive.”

  I leaned toward Binder. “We’re not saying you’ve done anything illegal …”

  But Binder was fixed on Ryan. “You know, son, I’m sometimes at a party or one of my AA meetings and I find myself counting the number of people in the room. It’s almost habitual with me. Every time I do, it turns out I’ve killed more people in war than are in that room. So you in your Eskimo shoes means nothing to me.”

  Backtracking, Ryan said “BMW is a great car.”

  Binder ignored the comment. “And now, you, who mean nothing to me, is saying I sold some snot-nosed kid a key so he could make a copy of it, and then I could what? Buy my own building? Buy my Beamer? That’s a pretty magical key.”

  “I apologize for Ryan. He was out of line. In fact he’s always out of line.” Ryan snorted; I continued. “What I’m wondering is whether there’s a chance one of the men who work for you sold it for a little pocket cash. You do hire other pool cleaners, don’t you?”

  “I do, but I screen them thoroughly. Most of them are vets like me. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  “It’s important to me, Mr. Binder.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time and mine.”

  “My mother helped you in your time of need.” I’d always prided myself on being independent from her, and now I was relying on her, using her.

  He pursed his lips, thinking. When he spoke his voice was firm. “I clean that pool myself, not one of my guys. Except I get there now around three o’clock in the afternoon, not before dawn, like I used to. I need my sleep. Age has caught up with me, even tired out some of my demons.”

  “Isn’t that a lot of years to be cleaning the same pool?” I asked.

  “I have a few houses where I’ve stayed on for close to forty years. The owners have changed but I always get recommended to the new ones.” He adjusted his gaze to glare at Ryan. “And the reason for that is they trust me.”

  “Did you know the victim?” I asked. “His name is Zackary Logan.”

  “Never saw him before. Told the police the same. Why would anybody want a key, anyway?”

  “Access to an empty house. They could throw parties, deal drugs, or loot the place.” I decided not to mention that they could also video people having sex and then blackmail them.

  “I told you that I’m the only one with the key, and I never saw any evidence of such goings-on.”

  “Do you ever go inside the house?”

  “Of course not. So I can’t help you there. Except I did find a condom once.”

  Ryan sat up. “When? And where exactly was it?”

  “In the container for the garden waste about a month ago. I remember because I was wondering it if it should be put in the trash or the recycle. That just shows you how these environmental little bastards can get into your head.”

  “Didn’t you think it was odd to find a condom at a place that’d been empty a while?” I said.

  “No. Someone could’ve tossed it over the wall, and the gardener threw it away with his clippings.”

  “Did you tell the police about it?” Ryan gnawed nervously on his thumb as if were a drumstick.

  “Didn’t think it was important.” Binder grinned maliciously at him. “You want me to tell ’em?”

  I interrupted. “Did Celia Dario hire you?”

  “The real estate woman? No, the owners hired me.”

  Deciding I wasn’t going to get any more information from him, I stood and extended my hand. “It was nice to finally meet you.” We shook hands.

  “Same here. Too bad you brought the asshole with you.”

  “I’m not always like this, I’m under stress.” Ryan stood up just as the door opened behind us.

  We turned, watching the young woman with bleached white hair and cement-colored lips saunter in with a plate piled with vegetables and rice. She set it in front of Binder.

  “What’s this crap?” he demanded.

  “Your lunch, Daddy. If you don’t eat it Mommy’s going to be very upset with you.” She wagged a finger at him, then kissed him lustily on the mouth and swayed out of the room.

  Noticing our surprised expressions, he said, “I know I’m too old for her. When she told me she was a vegan I thought she said virgin.” He chuckled to himself. “What do I have to lose except eating meat?”

  We walked out past the receptionist’s desk and through the door into the blistering sun. Across the street, the paparazzi were waiting.

  “Ignore them,” I warned Ryan as we got into my car. I put down my window. “That was a bust. We didn’t learn anything that we don’t already know.”

  Buckling himself in, Ryan said “They didn’t take the money shot.”

  “What?” I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway past the two fame suckers.

  Ryan looked back at them. “They should’ve taken pictures of me, famous screenwriter, mooning them, and you, sexy actress, discoverer of dead bodies. They didn’t.”

  “You’re right.” I rounded the corner onto the main drag, heading back to the freeway.

  Ryan asked,
“Do you think that condom was mine?”

  “Did you use one?” I looked in the rearview mirror. No paparazzi.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “God, Ryan.”

  “DNA. My DNA is probably all over that sofa. The police are going to find it.”

  “They have no reason to check the sofa for your DNA. And even I know they have to match it to something to be sure it’s yours.”

  “Binder has to be lying,” Ryan decided. “He’s got a young girlfriend and a red Beamer. That’s called overhead. He’s got to be selling keys and codes.”

  “I don’t think he’s lying.”

  “Why?”

  “I just don’t think he’d take money for a key, especially that key.”

  “Why not?”

  “My mother.” I could feel my emotions coming undone.

  “You mean because she may have gone to bed with him?”

  “Because she may not have, Ryan.” I snapped. “She may have done just what he said—helped him.”

  I realized I wanted to think of her as caring for the “mislaid man.” I wanted to find a way to love her. I looked into the rearview mirror again. The guy wearing the white helmet was leaning low over his handlebars speeding close behind us.

  “What’s the word for a single paparazzi?” I asked.

  “Paparazzo. The term comes from a character’s name in the movie La Dolce Vita. Paparazzo was a photographer who took pictures of stars by hiding in bushes and stalking them. He was based on a real person Fellini knew. Why?”

  “Look behind us.”

  He craned around to peer out the back window. “There is only one.”

  “You’re right, Ryan. They should have taken the money shot.” I gripped the steering wheel more tightly. I checked the rearview mirror again. The guy on the bike was right on my tail.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Pressing down on the accelerator, the old Jag surged forward. I swerved into the other lane.

  Ryan clung to his seat belt. “So if they’re not fame suckers, then they’re … ?”

  “Parson’s men?”

  “Oh, shit, Diana. I am a dead man.”

  I made a sharp turn onto a narrow neighborhood street. The biker did the same. Small bungalows fronted by patches of brown grass lined the uneven sidewalks. Plastic tricycles stood in a few of the yards like lawn ornaments. I slowed down; so did he.

  “Where is the other guy?” Beads of sweat dotted Ryan’s forehead.

  “Maybe he wanted to find out from P. J. Binder what we talked about. He might still be back there.”

  The street emptied out onto a busy four-lane avenue. I sped up again, racing past old one-story stucco buildings housing barbershops, bleak bars, and bail bondsmen fighting for space with McDonald’s, Taco Bell and Burger King. I ran a yellow light and glanced in the rearview mirror. The biker was so close that he looked like he was connected to my bumper. Moving in and out of the traffic, I cut in front of a bus and swung a right, tires screeching, then quickly made a sharp left.

  “Not into an alley!” Ryan stiffened his hands pressing against the dashboard. “They always dead-end into brick walls.”

  The biker was still there in my mirror.

  “Look out for the garbage cans,” Ryan gasped as we careered by iron-gated back doors.

  “Oh God,” I blurted, slamming on the brakes.

  “Fuck, a brick wall! I told you. I told you.” Ryan braced himself against his seat.

  It rose up in front of us like a big you’re dead sign. I pressed the brake pedal to the floor. Rubber burned. The wall loomed closer. The Jag made a grinding noise as it veered and skidded to a jolting halt, its hood inches from the bricks. We pitched forward and then backward.

  Adrenalin pumping, my eyes darted to the rearview mirror again. I watched the bike tilt sideways, sliding down on the pavement as it flew toward us.

  “He’s going to smash into us,” I warned. There was a loud thump as the bike hit us and the Jag lurched again, bumping the wall.

  “Perfect. We’ve killed one of Parson’s men.” Ryan craned around, looking out the back window. “Unless he was paparazzi and then we could be sued.”

  “I don’t care anymore.” I flung open the car door and got out.

  His white helmet on and visor down, the man had been thrown against a pile of garbage bags. Grabbing at his leg, he writhed in pain. His bike lay half under the car.

  “Who are you?” I stared down at him. Ryan came up behind me, peering over my shoulder.

  “You fucking bitch. You broke my leg.” He struggled into a sitting position, leaning against the rust and piss-stained wall.

  Extending below the knitted cuff of his blue windbreaker, I could see two words tattooed vertically down to his wrist: With You. The thug at the yacht had had a tattoo that read: One Night With You.

  “Tell Parson to leave me alone,” I ordered.

  He lifted his face guard so I could see his cold eyes. “I should kill you right now.”

  “Diana, let’s not irritate him,” Ryan whispered in my ear.

  “What does Parson want from me?” I demanded.

  “What he always wants now. Information about his daughter,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “He left.”

  “He’s talking to P. J. Binder, isn’t he?”

  “Fuck off.” The guy squirmed and moaned, his right hand reaching behind him toward his lower back.

  Ryan bolted from behind me and stomped his foot down hard on the man’s arm. The biker groaned and swore. Ryan and I stared at each other, both of us startled by his bold action. Then I moved quickly and reached under the man and grabbed the gun from his waistband.

  “Glock. 47.” Ryan said, still pinning the man’s arm to the asphalt.

  “Move the bike, Ryan.” I pointed the Glock at the biker as Ryan loped toward the motorcycle.

  “I thought you guys were pros,” I said. “But you’re not even as good as Ryan and me.” I glanced quickly at Ryan. Grunting, he had the bike righted and was wrestling it toward the side of the alley. I looked back at Parson’s lackey.

  His emotionless eyes were riveted on me. “You’re dead,” he said in a flat voice.

  I knew he meant it, but I kept my voice and the gun steady, continuing to talk as if no threat hung in the air between us. “Rule number one in acting. If you’re playing a photographer, pretend to use your camera. You should’ve taken the money shot.”

  Turning on my heels, I got into the car and slammed the door. I stared at the thug’s gun in my trembling hand. The grip felt a little big and I wondered if they came in different sizes, like tennis racket handles. Ryan slipped in next to me. I put the weapon in the glove compartment and started the engine.

  “You’re going to keep it?” Ryan wiped sweat off his face with a crumpled paper cocktail napkin he’d found in his shirt pocket.

  “Yes.” I threw the car in reverse.

  “Can’t you turn the heat off?”

  “No.”

  As I backed the Jag slowly down the alley past the thug our eyes met for a chilling moment. And I knew he was watching me all the way, letting me know he would be seeing me again. Finding an opening in the traffic, I swerved backwards onto the street and put the car into drive.

  “Do you believe what I did?” Ryan beamed.

  “You saved us.” I smiled gratefully.

  “I did, didn’t I? Shouldn’t we be going the other way?” He shifted in his seat.

  “I’m going back to Binder’s place. We may have unintentionally gotten him involved in this whole thing.”

  “This is crazy, Diana. Turn around.” His bravery had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “We’re artists,” he pleaded. “We create situations like this, we don�
�t live them. That’s for… .” He waved a hand in the air. “Other people.”

  “Get used to it, Ryan. We’re other people now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I sped into the pool-supplies lot and slammed on the brakes. The red Beamer was still parked in its place, but there was no sign of a motorcycle.

  “The others guy’s not here. Let’s go,” Ryan said.

  “If you didn’t want to be seen, you wouldn’t park your bike in front, would you?”

  “Yes, I would.” He tried to look sincere.

  I retrieved the gun from the glove compartment.

  “Oh, God, Diana, don’t take the gun.”

  “Come on.”

  Squinting in the sun, I gestured to a narrow path that ran beside the pool supply store. “Check it out.”

  “For what?”

  “The bike.”

  Constantly peering over his shoulder as if an assassin waited on every roof, Ryan hurried to the path, then rushed back to me. “What if I told you there was no motorcycle hidden down there?”

  “Writers are terrible actors. What happened to your new-found bravery?”

  “An aberration,” he said as we headed for the entrance. “We could get killed! I mean with real bullets, real knives, real bombs, real fists, real pain. Keep that thing pointed toward the ground!” With his fingertips he pushed the muzzle down. “I need a drink.”

  I peered through the dusty front window; nothing looked disturbed. Slowly, I edged the shop door open. Inside, the whirring of the overhead fan was the only sound. The young woman with gray nail polish and lipstick was nowhere in sight, but Binder’s office door was ajar.

  Pulse pounding, I raised the gun and used my foot to open the door wider. Ryan pressed close. I could feel the tension in his body. Or was it in mine? I slid inside the room. A few feet away from me lay a black helmet and a gun. The biker, sitting up against the back wall of the office as if he had been blown there by a strong gust of wind, had a hole in his chest the size of a grapefruit. A bloody trail on the wall showed where he had slid down.

  “Oh, shit,” Ryan murmured, turning ashen. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  “We never were, Dorothy.”