by Unknown
‘Let me see the note again.’
He handed it to Spandau. Spandau held it at the corners, not that it would have done much good. Spandau held it up at an angle to the light. The letters were glossy and there were fingerprints all over them, but God knows whose they were.
‘How many people have seen this?’
‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Annie. Robert. Maybe a couple of others.’
‘What you mean is, it’s been handed around like a plate of cocktail franks.’
He laughed a little. ‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘You mind if I take it with me. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, I guess. Sure. You taking the case?’
‘I need to think about it.’
‘What are you doing? Playing fucking hard to get? Is this some kind of ego trip for you?’
‘I won’t take a case unless I’m sure I can do the job. That’s just the way it works. You can hire anybody you want.’
‘Robert says you’re the best.’
‘He’s right. I am the best. Which means you can take my word for things.’
‘Well don’t fucking lose it.’
‘I’ll try not to. Anyway, I’ll come back tomorrow.’ Spandau stood up and shook his hand. ‘And by the way, don’t ever speak to me again the way you’ve been speaking to me. Maybe some people will put up with it but I won’t. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Annie pounced on Spandau the moment he stepped out of the trailer.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘How did it go?’
‘Ask your client.’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘but I don’t work for you.’
Her first instinct was to unload on him, but she thought better of it. She smiled. ‘You really are an asshole.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘but I’m an old-fashioned asshole, and you people keep calling me names and I don’t like it. I’m sure it’s only a sign of affection but I want it to stop.’
‘Are you taking the job?’
‘I honestly don’t know. I have to check with my boss. I’ll let you know tomorrow.’
Spandau turned and walked away. He half expected a rock to hit him in the back of the head. When it didn’t come he kept on walking and tried to imagine the look on her face.
The office of Coren Investigations was on Sunset across from a Mercedes dealership and a French bistro. On clean air days you could open the window in the waiting room and smell the daube au provençal as you watched Iranians test drive the SLRs in circles around the block. The Coren office made an attempt at discretion – it was after all supposed to be a discreet profession – but allowed the vanity of a somewhat smug and successful brass name plaque next to the front door. The office itself was nothing more than the reception area, Coren’s office and a small conference room, but the carpet was thick and the furniture was heavy. Trust us, it said, and people did. Coren rarely had more than five operatives employed at a time – he liked to refer to it as a ‘boutique’ agency, with its implication of class and selectivity, as opposed to a large and impersonal outfit like Pinkertons.
Walter Coren had inherited the business from his father, an alcoholic old-school gumshoe whose favorite reading was Sir Walter Scott but who was beaten down by thirty years of sordid divorces and skipped husbands. Walter got a business degree from UCLA though paid for it working nights for his old man. By the time he entered college he’d already spent three years aiming cameras through motel windows and picking incriminating condoms out of trash cans. The bleakness of a sound financial education only quickened the demise of whatever romantic notions Walter had about life in the City of Angels. Walter buried the old man and his calcified liver about the same time he got his degree, then set about recreating his father’s legacy, turning down a shot for an MBA at Stanford. Everyone he knew thought he was nuts, since his father had never pulled in more than a subsistence wage his entire career. But Walter, unlike his father, didn’t feel himself crippled by the moral failures of the world around him. Walter was gifted with an early understanding that human beings are flawed creatures who, as a result of these flaws, frequently got their asses in a sling and needed help. In much the same way that entrepreneurs can make fortunes hauling off human waste – Walter had done an enlightening college paper on the economics of waste management – Walter realized that lots of people in Los Angeles were willing to pay big bucks to dispose of other kinds of inconveniently accumulated shit. He reasoned that while all classes of people are capable of fouling their own nests, it was the rich ones who paid better and were the most entertaining.
Walter went into hock to lease an impressive car, purchase a good suit, and rent an upscale address in Beverly Hills, on the theory that the well-heeled only trust people who resemble them. He set about cultivating the rich and famous, who appreciated his country-club tan, his nice teeth, and the fact that he was discreet and didn’t appear to make any moral judgments about them. The rich, too, wish to be liked. Within ten years, Walter Coren was a success and one of the best-kept secrets in LA society. He’d also accumulated three ex-wives, a peptic ulcer, a succession of young mistresses, and Spandau. Spandau was the only one he actually liked, and only Spandau knew that Walter Coren Jr. cared far less about making money than he did the vindication of a father he’d adored. In the end the old man had started a successful concern. A painting of Walter Coren Sr., the founder, hung in his office – Walter had it done from a photo – and every July 14 Walter got drunk in remembrance of his death. Sometimes Spandau went with him.
Spandau wedged the BMW into a rare space in front of the bistro and wondered if the paupiettes de veau was on today’s menu. He checked that it was and made a note to complain to the chef, Andre, about using red wine instead of the Madeira. When he walked into the office, Pookie Forsythe – whose name had been Amanda until she went to a good school back East – looked up from her perusal of Women’s Wear Daily. Pookie was a small and pretty brunette who believed in spiritual redemption through clothing. She also believed that one identity was never enough and changed hers daily. In this she was like most of Los Angeles. Today she’d decided to be Audrey Hepburn. She wore her hair up to show an exquisite pale neck, and if her pink suit wasn’t Givenchy it was a fair copy. Pookie was in LA determined to make it on her own, though the monthly check from Daddums eased the strain a little.
‘It’s back!’ Pookie announced. ‘So how was the vacation?’
Spandau held up his thumb, which was looking more and more like an eggplant. Pookie wrinkled her face at it.
‘What in God’s name did you do to it?’
‘I roped it.’
‘It was my impression,’ she said in her best Barnard voice, ‘that you were supposed to rope the cow or something.’
‘I missed. Is he in?’
Pookie nodded. Spandau went to Coren’s door and knocked. Coren opened the door and looked surprised to see him. But he recovered quickly and said, ‘Turn in your gas mileage.’
Walter Coren Jr. was tall and thin, and had the sort of good looks that age well but misleadingly suggest Old Money. His tan was still good though the fair hair was thinning and it was an effort to maintain the size 34 waist these days. He was just past fifty but looked near Spandau’s age. Women found him attractive enough to keep him in trouble, and men liked him because he could stoke their vanity without coming over as a homo. Still, underneath all that he was in hock to all his wives and his liver was on its way to matching his father’s.
‘I just got back,’ Spandau said.
‘You never turn in your gas mileage, then you bitch that we don’t pay you enough. We are here to help you.’
‘You the Man,’ Spandau said, dropping into the chair opposite Coren’s desk. ‘The Man is only capable of exploitation, never true understanding.’
‘What is that?’ Coren said admiringly. He’d been a radical at UCLA in his youth, one of the few with a stock portfol
io. ‘Is that Eldridge Cleaver?’
‘Mr Rodgers.’
‘How’s the thumb?’
Spandau exhibited it. Coren flinched. ‘Jesus, that’s ugly. Why don’t you put some makeup on it or something. It makes people uncomfortable . . . So what about this Bobby Dye thing?’
Spandau showed him the note. Coren looked at it and handed it back.
‘Any idea who it’s from?’ Coren asked.
‘He says not.’
‘So what does he want us to do?’
‘Investigate. Somebody told him we did that sort of thing.’
‘And did you patiently explain the odds on tracing this.’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘He still wants us to investigate.’
‘To which you replied?’
‘I said I’d check with my Lord and Master.’
‘You think there’s any point?’
‘I think the whole thing’s bullshit. I think it’s a fake.’
‘You think he sent himself a death threat? Why would he do that?’
‘I have no idea. My first thought was publicity of some sort, but he doesn’t want it to get out, and he doesn’t want to go to the cops. And he doesn’t need this sort of notice anyway.’
‘You think maybe he’s trying to lead up to something, working up the nerve?’
‘That seems likely. He’s looking to trust somebody.’
‘Like you and your St Bernard face.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I agree. It sounds like bullshit and a great waste of time. There are a dozen other things you could be doing.’
‘I’m still on vacation,’ Spandau reminded him. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here until Monday, remember? And by the way, I’m on the clock for this, right?’
‘I’ve never understood the concept of vacation,’ said Coren, skillfully gliding over Spandau’s pathetic attempt to extract money from him. ‘People ought to seek fulfillment in their work. That’s what’s made this country great. You think Thomas Jefferson sat around pissing and moaning about getting to Myrtle Beach for his mandatory two weeks every year? And anyway, you’re utterly bored already and like an idiot you’ve bulldogged your own thumb. You’re practically begging for something to do.’
‘Thomas Jefferson had a hundred slaves and spent an inordinate amount of time trying to foist the tomato off on the American public,’ replied Spandau. ‘He farted around in his garden and never had to deal with agents, actors or the Ventura Freeway at six in the evening. I’ve got three more days.’
‘Okay, what is it you want to do? You actually want to pursue this?’
‘I’m going back over there tomorrow and talk to him.’
‘Fine, but it’s on your dollar. Like you say, you’re still on vacation. I’ll pay you for today but until you’ve got an official case you’re on your own, sweetheart. I run a business.’
‘And what a business it is.’
‘There’s no money in pretending to be a St Bernard. And turn in your goddamn mileage sheets, will you? I’m not putting up with any more of this crap where you guys hoard them like it’s a goddamn savings account and expect me to come good on it.’
Spandau got up.
‘Monday,’ Coren told him. ‘Bring me a case by Monday or I find you something else to do.’
Three
They buried the girl in the sand outside of Indio. When they finished it was nearly daylight and Potts was increasingly nervous about being spotted, though they were way the hell off the main highway and they’d dragged her up into the rocks. It was a full moon and they dug mainly without a flashlight. Potts thought several times he heard rattlesnakes but Squiers reminded him that snakes were cold-blooded and active in the day. Or maybe it was the other way around. Squiers was huge and strong but a lazy motherfucker. They were supposed to be taking turns but Squiers’ turns kept getting shorter and shorter until Squiers was sitting there and it was Potts digging in the sand. They thought because it was sand the digging would be quick, but after a foot and a half the sand kept pouring back in. The hole was shallower than they’d hoped and the body made a huge lump. Potts reasoned that nobody would spot it in the rocks and even like this it couldn’t be spotted from the air. There was the worry that coyotes would come along and dig it up but in the end they agreed it only made identification all that much harder. Soon enough there would be nothing but bone. Squiers wanted to strip the girl but Potts stood his ground about that.
Potts got back to his house in Redlands at mid-morning. He was tired and dirty and he wanted a shower and a cold beer. He’d sleep and have a late breakfast and then go out somewhere. He lived out of town at the edge of the desert. Underneath the yellowing stucco was crap cinderblock. It had been cracked innumerable times by earthquake and plastered over and every so often a bit would fall off to reveal a deep fissure where insects lived. Potts tried not to think of what went on under the floor beneath him. Off to the side there was a wooden garage that leaned slightly and let sand and wind in through the chinks. Potts had wanted a better place, maybe even an apartment, but the bastards all did credit checks these days and Potts’ credit was shit. There was one small bedroom and a tiny kitchen and living room. A fucking crackerbox. But it had a yard.
Potts parked his truck in front of the garage and went inside the house. He’d forgotten to leave the a/c running and the place was hot. He turned it on and went into the kitchen for a cold beer. He opened the beer and took a sip and then downed the whole thing. He opened another. It would help him sleep.
Potts went into the living room. He sat in his easy chair and looked around. It wasn’t much but it was something, and Potts was happy to be back. The place was furnished mainly from Goodwill with accents from Target. Maybe it was cheap but nothing like the shithole he’d been brought up in, or the shitholes he’d lived in often enough. There was a big painting hanging on the wall of somebody called Blue Boy by somebody called Gainsborough. All in all it was a pretty faggoty painting, but Potts liked it. He liked the soft colors and the way there were no hard lines in it anywhere, everything kind of blended together. It relaxed him, and, anyway, he never brought people here. In the year he’d lived here nobody else had been in the place except the landlord and a guy to fix the toilet. There was a word for what the place was. Sacro-something or other.
The telephone answering machine was blinking. Potts played it back.
‘Mr Potts, this is Gina Rivera from Consolidated Credit. We’ve been trying to reach you concerning your account, which is seriously past due . . .’
(beep)
‘Mr Potts, this is Kevin Pynchon again. I’ve come by about three times now for my rent . . .’
(beep)
‘Mr Potts, this is Leslie Stout from McCann, Pool and Foxle. In regards to the appeal we filed for you about visitations to your daughter, it’s been denied. If you’d like to call me I can give you the details. We can try again of course, but it would require additional fees . . .’
Potts went over to the sliding patio door. As usual he had to wrench it open. Potts would have preferred a real door with hinges and all, since he knew how easy these were to break into. All it took was a jimmy. God knows he’d done it often enough himself back in Texas. The door led out to the backyard and sometimes you could sit in the living room and look out and watch the sky change colors.
In the backyard, mainly sand with clumps of crabgrass, was a barbecue grill and a plastic table and chairs. Potts had strung up Christmas lights and sometimes he turned them on when he got drunk. There was a birdfeeder birds ignored and a jerry-rigged horseshoe court. He went over and picked up a rusty horseshoe and threw it. He missed. He sat down in one of the plastic chairs and for a while looked out at the desert. He finished the beer and dragged himself out of the chair and went inside. He got another beer and then he went into the bedroom and emptied his pockets onto the dresser, tossing the thick wad of bills Stella had given him into his sock drawer. He undressed
and got sand all over the floor and cursed but he didn’t have the energy to clean it up. He went into the bathroom and took a long hot shower and tried to think about a woman but he couldn’t do that either. He felt like breaking something so he got out of the shower and put on his kimono and drank two more beers.
He woke late that afternoon on top of the bed in his dressing gown. His mouth was thick and his head throbbed. It might have been the beer but more likely it was because he’d forgotten to eat. He shuffled into the kitchen and made some instant coffee and took it with him into the bathroom while he had a watery shit. His guts were churning and he felt weak. He’d dreamed, in flashes, of the dead girl’s face.
Potts dressed in jeans, boots and his ragged leather bike jacket. He went out to the garage and unlocked it and lifted the door. The large classic Harley-Davidson sat in the middle of the garage, surrounded by spare parts and boxes of tools. Potts went over and ran his hand along the bike. He straddled it and rolled it outside, then got off and closed the garage door. He put on his skid-lid – the minimum the law allowed – and kicked the bike to life. When Potts rode he forgot about everything, which was the reason anybody rode. The fucking world was everywhere but when you rode you broke free and skimmed over the top of it.
Potts rode to Kepki’s Roadhouse. There were a dozen or so bikes outside and a few trucks from guys just getting off work. Potts knew some of the people and when he went inside only a few said hello or waved even though he’d been coming here regular for a year. Potts went up to the bar and sat on a stool. Kepki was behind the bar.
‘Beer?’ said Kepki.
Potts nodded. ‘And some of that chili, if you got any. And a bunch of crackers.’
Kepki brought him a beer and Potts drank it quickly. He held up the bottle for Kepki to bring him another.
‘You starting early or just keeping one going?’ Kepki asked him.
Potts ignored the question but attacked this beer a little slower. He turned around and checked out the room. A couple of bikers were shooting pool at the table in back and a few people were standing around watching. One of them was a woman in her thirties wearing a tight blue dress and drinking a beer. She looked up and saw Potts watching her. Potts turned back around.
