Let There Be Linda

by Rich Leder

  He’d dialed down his detective tone one click for the improvised yoga and plastic surgery comment because Greenburg looked like he was going to pass out and he needed the dentist to stay with him a few minutes more. He wanted Greenburg to understand the seriousness of the moment but to also know that Gary appreciated the craziness of it all as well, that they were both just a couple of addicts on different sides of the fence.

  Greenburg nodded, and the left corner of his mouth even tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. “She’ll deny it with her last breath,” he said without humor.

  “And I know you own a silver Lexus LS 600h L, license plate RNB1807, though I didn’t see it parked in the driveway. I’m guessing the rental car is in that spot. Enterprise. We’ll pick you up. So where’s your car, Dr. Greenburg?”

  “Somebody stole it,” Greenburg said without conviction.

  “And whoever stole it threw your dog out the window?”

  “Seems like that’s what happened.”

  “From the back seat doing eighty?”

  “Could have been two of them. I don’t know. It was stolen.”

  “How come you didn’t report it?”

  “Maybe I didn’t know it was stolen until you told me.”

  “Then why did you rent a car?”

  Greenburg’s coke-infused brain circuits were overloading. He couldn’t think it through, and now his legs were wobbly. He sat in the leather lounge chair and put the black bag on his lap. He started to pet it but then stopped and gripped the armrests.

  “Where’s your car, Dr. Greenburg?”

  “Chachi’s dead.”

  “It wasn’t stolen was it?”

  “I pawned it in Pacoima.”

  “You pawned your Lexus?”

  “Poor Chachi,” Greenburg said, and right in front of the detective, as if he’d completely forgotten Gary was there, he leaned forward and snorted two lines.

  Gary watched Greenburg suck in the powder, rock his head back, and vanish into a cocaine-fueled bliss zone, and he thought about the Oreo four-pack in his pocket.

  SUFFERING TO SERENITY

  It was one thirty-five in the morning, and Danny couldn’t sleep. For one thing, his mother’s hospital room was a freaking meat locker; for another thing, the reclining chairs were uncomfortable to the point that Danny thought they were engineered to keep family members awake so if something happened to their ailing relative overnight, they wouldn’t miss it; for still another thing, Mike snored and snorted like a hog, something he had done since they’d shared a bedroom as kids; and for another thing, the hospital didn’t carry TVG, the Television Games Network, so there was no way for him to watch the horses, and he had missed his race.

  He liked to bet on the races, liked to learn about the horses and the jockeys and the owners and the trainers, liked to study the bloodlines and watch the interviews and the race analysis and the handicapping tips, liked to make educated hunches before sliding his money through the window, virtual or otherwise. It wasn’t an obsession or an addiction, Danny told himself—and anyone else who inquired—it was a hobby, like golf. He liked to go to the track when he could, Hollywood Park near the airport or Santa Anita by Pasadena, and watch the horses run, buy a few drinks, win a couple bucks. Maybe he lost sometimes, but he won more than he lost when he added it all up, which he never did.

  This morning, he had gone all in on a Superfecta in the sixth at Santa Anita, the most educated hunch he had ever made, and then his mother had a heart attack, and he couldn’t watch the race, and then his phone died, and then he didn’t have his charger, and then Mike wouldn’t let him borrow his phone because he didn’t have his charger either and was waiting for Marcy to call, but she sometimes forgot to check her phone, and so she could call at any time, and now he was just going to wait until tomorrow to find out how his horses ran, though he’d never felt better about a bet in his life, and now it was tomorrow, and he couldn’t sleep.

  His asshole brother would never bet a nickel on anything. He didn’t see the sport in it, couldn’t feel the adrenalin rush as the odds unfolded in real time while horses ran around the track. Danny imagined that Mike was born without adrenalin or had drained the pool dry after fifteen years of stultifying marriage to Marcy.

  Spending the day here in the meat locker with him, waiting for their mother to die, had been miserable, the longest dose of Mike he’d had in years. The ego, condescension, and chronological rank Mike threw at him like rocks off an overpass took Danny back to when he and his brother were boys and their father left for New Orleans.

  Right up to that afternoon, as best he could recall, they were normal brothers—with normal defined as fighting, laughing, running, pretending to be heroes and monsters and cowboys and soldiers, riding bikes, chasing ice cream trucks around whatever neighborhood they were living in, watching cartoons, playing baseball, being kids in a family that moved around a lot. They were like an Army family, their father told them, and Danny and Mike were like Army brats.

  The day after Jeff drove to New Orleans, Linda had sat the boys down at the kitchen table. She was signing up for classes at Pierce College and knew she would be home less than she had been, less than she wanted to be, less than they needed her to be.

  “Michael,” she had said, “you’re the oldest. You’ve got to take care of Daniel while I work and go to school. Make sure he washes his face and eats his dinner and brushes his teeth and does his homework and goes to bed early.”

  Mike’s messed up sense of moral superiority started that very minute, Danny thought, and then kept on going every minute of our lives after that, including right up to these last miserable sixty seconds.

  “Michael.” It was Linda, conscious and calling out in a weak and dying voice. She had taken the oxygen mask off her mouth with her hand but beyond that could not move. Her eyes were open.

  Danny got out of the recliner, crossed to Mike, and shook his arm. “Mike.”

  Mike snorted and came to life. “What?”

  “Mom’s awake. She said your name.”

  “What?”

  “Mom said your name.”

  Mike looked at his mother and saw that her eyes were open.

  “Michael,” Linda said again.

  “Mom, you’re awake,” Mike said, climbing out of the chair and hurrying to the bed.

  Linda nodded weakly, and even that took tremendous effort. “Is Daniel here?”

  “I’m here,” Danny said, moving to the opposite side of the bed from Mike.

  Linda shifted her eyes that way and saw Danny standing over her, then turned her eyes back to Mike. “He looks thin. Is he eating?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike said.

  “Make him eat,” Linda said.

  “I’m standing right here, Mom,” Danny said. “I’m eating like a horse. It’s my metabolism. I’m the thin one; remember? Mike’s the fat one.”

  “I’m not fat,” Mike said.

  “You look fat,” Danny said.

  “I’m losing weight this summer,” Mike said.

  “I was walking into the light,” Linda said.

  “What light, Mom?” Mike said.

  “The white light,” Linda said, “and I saw my brother, Brian, and he told me something very bad was going to happen, so I came back to tell you so you could promise me something.”

  “Uncle Brian’s dead, Mom. He died ten years ago,” Mike said.

  “That’s why he was in the white light,” Danny said in a voice that implied: what an idiot.

  “She’s delusional, Danny,” Mike said with no small amount of professorial condescension. “It happens when there’s not enough oxygen in the brain. If you read anything about heart attacks, you’d know that.”

  “White light or low oxygen, he still said something bad was going to happen,” Danny said.

  “Something very bad,” Linda said.

  “What is it, Mom?” Mike said. “What did Uncle Brian say was going to happen?”

  “He cou
ldn’t tell me,” Linda said. “He was sworn to secrecy. He said that’s the problem with the white light—everything’s a secret.”

  “A bad secret,” Danny said.

  “Very bad,” Linda said. “That’s why I came back. I told Brian to save me a seat on the bus.”

  “They have buses in the white light?” Mike said.

  “It’s a figure of speech,” Danny said, and this time it wasn’t just the tone of his voice. “Jesus, you’re an idiot.”

  “I’m comforting her,” Mike said, doubling down on the condescension. “If you read anything about hospice, if you read even one thing, you would know that making the patient feel comfortable eases the transition from suffering to serenity.”

  “I read,” Danny said.

  “The Superfecta at Santa Anita is not reading,” Mike said.

  “Picking the first four in order is like reading ten tax returns,” Danny said.

  “You don’t know anything about accounting,” Mike said.

  “You know less about horses,” Danny said.

  “I want you to promise me something, Michael,” Linda said.

  “Mom, you should rest, save your strength,” Mike said.

  “Soon I’ll be resting a very long time,” Linda said.

  “On the white light bus, Mom?” Danny said.

  “You’re a douchebag,” Mike said to his brother.

  “I’m comforting her,” Danny said.

  “I want you to promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll take care of Daniel,” Linda said.

  “I can take care of myself,” Danny said.

  “No, you can’t,” Linda said. “You’re my son, and I love you with my last breath, but you’re a flim-flam man and a mooch, like your father, except there’s a good and kind soul somewhere inside you waiting to come out, and your father had the soul of a jackass.”

  “I’m not a flim-flam man. I’m a talent agent,” Danny said.

  “She rests her case,” Mike said.

  “Promise me, Michael,” Linda said.

  “He won’t listen to me,” Mike said.

  “I’m not listening to him,” Danny said.

  “He hasn’t listened to me since he was seven years old,” Mike said.

  “I’m never listening to him,” Danny said.

  “Promise me,” Linda said.

  “I have a life,” Danny said.

  “I have a life too, Mom,” Mike said. “I don’t want to take care of him.”

  “I don’t want anyone to take care of me,” Danny said, “especially him.”

  “Stop this nonsense,” Linda said. Her voice was barely audible now, and the brothers had to lean over and put their faces close to her mouth so they could hear her. And what they heard was that she was as serious as a, well, heart attack. They knew that particular tone of voice no matter how soft and weak it was. It was the tone of voice that made them seven and ten years old in an instant. “Give me your hand, Michael.”

  Mustering what little strength she had left, she lifted her hand and gestured for Mike’s hand. He gave it to her, and she guided it to her chest, to her heart, and put it there. Mike became very still, and Danny watched the emotion of the moment overwhelm his brother. Something powerful and solemn, something spiritual and profound was happening to Mike and, son of a bitch, to him too.

  “Swear to me, Michael. Swear to me that when the very bad thing happens to Daniel or to you or to you both, that you will watch over him and take care of him, whatever that means, whatever is necessary. Swear to me that when the very bad thing happens, anything you can do you will do. He is my son and your brother and you must swear this to me on my dying heart, on my deathbed. Swear it now and forever.”

  Danny watched his brother hold his breath. He could almost see the hurricane of thoughts blasting through Mike’s head, could almost hear the war raging in his brain. He didn’t want to do it; he couldn’t imagine doing it; he wasn’t going to do it.

  After an eternity that took two seconds, Mike dropped his head forward in defeat, the war lost, his hand still on Linda’s heart, and said, “Jesus, Mom. Okay, I swear.”

  “Swear what? Say it, Michael,” Linda said.

  “I swear to you that no matter what very bad thing happens to Danny or to me or to us both, I will watch over and take care of my brother,” Mike said, “whatever that means, whatever is necessary. Anything I can do, I will do.”

  “Good. I love you both with all my soul,” Linda said.

  And then she died.

  WEDNESDAY

  HOW MUCH DO YOU KNOW ABOUT JUDD MARTIN?

  It had been a hellacious day and night for Mike Miller, and the replay was running on a loop in his head. It was noon, and he was seated alone in the Wasserman and Waddell conference room, waiting for Stan Wasserman and Ira Waddell to give him the good news of his promotion to partner. But all he could think about was that though it seemed like ages ago, it was only yesterday that Judd Martin had bullied and bribed him to falsify the rental numbers so that the bank would give Martin the money to finish his office buildings. Mike had said no, and while he was standing his ground, his mother had a heart attack, and he’d spent the rest of the day in her hospital room with his brother, watching her drift in and out of consciousness until the early hours of the morning, at which time she woke up and made him swear an oath upon her dying heart that he would take care of Danny no matter what the hell happened to either of them, since her own dead brother had told her, in the white light of Heaven’s bus stop, that something bad was coming down the pike. And then she’d died.

  He had grieved by her bedside until four thirty in the morning. It was a deep and terrible loss for him. She’d been his saint, for God’s sake. She’d taught him everything about everything. He was an accountant because of her skill and determination as a country club bookkeeper. He was a loving and patient parent because of her example. What he did, how he lived, what he knew and thought and believed was all a result of her love and strength and guidance. And now she was gone. His grief poured out of him, but he did not share it with his brother.

  Danny had stood by the window, looking out at the Northridge night. If he’d cried at all, he’d done it quietly, not that Mike would have noticed through his own sobbing. They did not console each other. They were separate planets in different orbits.

  It was Mike who had made the arrangements with the hospital and the mortuary, which made sense since he knew many mortuary managers by name. He had chosen George Edwards Mortuary in Mission Hills because George had kept a consistent profit margin, a clean ledger, for the fifteen years Mike had been doing his tax returns. It was George himself, not some outside bookkeeper, who had placed a steady hand on the mortuary monetary tiller. It stood to reason that he would be an unwavering emotional guide in the difficult days ahead.

  At four thirty in the morning, as they were leaving, Mike thought maybe their mother’s death had created an opening for him and Danny to connect.

  “Now what do we do?” Danny had said.

  “We try to pull together,” Mike had said. “We try to give each other support when we need it.”

  Danny had looked at his brother like Mike was from Mars. “You’re an idiot. I mean, what do we do right now? Do we get breakfast on Ventura somewhere? Do we go home and sleep for a few hours? What do we do right now?”

  Mike had nodded. The emotions of the night had momentarily clouded his judgment. “I know it’s hard for you, Dan,” he’d said, “but if you can manage not to be a douchebag for the next few days, while we eulogize and bury Mom, that would be swell.”

  And then the door swung open and Stan Wasserman entered the conference room. “Mike, thanks for waiting. Sorry we’re late. Last minute crisis on the Cushing account.”

  He was fifty-seven years old, tall and marathon-runner thin, the poster boy for both midlife fitness and male pattern baldness. His sleep-away-camp buddy and partner Ira Waddell, a five-foot-eight-inch block of triathlete granite, followed him i
nto the room and shut the door behind them. The partners sat across the conference table from Mike.

  The room was decorated with framed photographs of iconic Los Angeles landmarks. A credenza that housed a bar was at one end of the room; a large, flat-screen monitor wirelessly connected to a computer and used for client presentations filled the wall at the other end. The table was cherry. The chairs were red leather.

  If I had a dollar for every meeting I’ve attended in this room was the first thought Mike had while Stan and Ira got settled. But that thought, and the emotional turbulence of the past twenty-four hours, was washed away with the excitement Mike felt at finally being tapped for partnership. He wished Linda had lived just a little longer so he could share this moment with her. She would have been so proud of him. He was proud of himself. He had earned this promotion. He could feel himself smiling.

  “Mike,” Ira said, “we have to let you go.”

  “Excuse me?” Mike said.

  “We’re firing you,” Stan said. “Bonnie’s packing your office right now.”

  Mike had the feeling that someone had pulled his shirt up over his head and was spinning him around and around the conference room. He could feel nausea rising up from his knees.

  “You can’t fire me, Stan. You’re promoting me to partner,” Mike said.

  “We’re not promoting you. We’re expelling you from the firm,” Ira said. He had muscles on his muscles, and Mike knew that he disapproved of employees who were overweight and out of shape. That can’t be it, Mike thought, there’s no way they would fire me because I’m twenty-five, okay, thirty pounds heavier than I should be.

  “I’m a good accountant,” Mike said, “maybe your best accountant. You know I am. I’m accurate and honest and hardworking and loyal. Fifteen years.”