Let There Be Linda

by Rich Leder

  “Jap car, right?” Maggie said.

  “Mother,” Jenny said.

  “Yes, Nissan,” Danny said.

  “They use metal or crepe paper?” Maggie said, and she kicked the door with her Croc hard enough to leave a dent.

  “Mother,” Jenny said.

  “Hey,” Danny said, and he took two steps toward Maggie, who swung the grass whip like a weapon. He stepped back, ducked in time, and felt the angry whoosh of air as the blade went by. In that moment, he had no doubt Maggie’s intent was to decapitate him right here on the walkway.

  Jenny stepped between Danny and Maggie and said without fear, “Go in the house, Mother.”

  “Just playing,” Maggie said.

  “Go in the house now,” Jenny said.

  Maggie waited ten seconds and then started up the walkway. “Make us some money, Pretty Boy, or you’ll be solly, Cholly.” And then she cackled at her own joke and was up the steps and in the house.

  “What the hell was that?” Danny said, turning to Jenny. It seemed to him that she was measuring her mother, gauging her, taking a temperature of some kind.

  “Sorry, Charlie,” Jenny said. “The StarKist commercial. She does it with a bad Chinese accent.”

  “She kicks my car, swings that thing at my head…why would she do that?” he said.

  “It’s a mystery,” Jenny said, heading for the house. “See you at Greenburg’s.”

  FECULENCE MOST FOUL

  Judd Martin had disappeared into the shadows and sewers of the San Fernando Valley. Most cops would have written him off and closed the case, assuming they’d have taken it in the first place, which they wouldn’t have—and didn’t. A real estate zombie stalking his accountant? Give it to Gary Shuler.

  It was a beautiful Thursday afternoon in Sunland-Tujunga. Sure, the temperature was pushing a brutal one hundred ten degrees, but Gary had signed with a talent agent this very morning, so his career was cruising right along. A spot on Conan was around the corner. All he had to do was finish writing his new act. And though on first glance the zombie was unrelated to the poodle, the accountant in question, the stalkee, had turned out to be the brother of his new talent agent, who was the patient of Greenburg, who was the owner of Chachi, who was tossed from the Lexus by Harvey and Omar, who’d recommended his agent. He had a hunch, Gary did, that these disparate factoids might find their way into his new routine as one long hilarious story, that they were a loose affiliation of threads to be tied together, and that he was the one to do the tying.

  That’s why he dug deeper when the normal LAPD shovels didn’t turn over the rock under which Judd Martin was hiding. Apartment complexes, construction offices, a list of banks, the post office, bars, coffee shops, food trucks, building sites, Home Depot, Lowes, gas stations, all of Martin’s regular haunts—a zombie with haunts, he wrote that one down for his act—had not seen him for days and had no idea where he was.

  He was gone; that’s where he was. But Gary had inherited his father’s scientific mind and knew that some investigations required another round of research, further experimentation, a reexamination of the data. Martin’s family was out of state and out of touch; they had no idea where he might be lurking. He had few friends, actually no friends, so that was a dead end too. There were no credit card charges. There was no cell phone to trace. No vehicle in his name. He had not used an ATM anywhere in LA since he fell off the radar.

  There was no flame to fan, not an ember or a spark. Judd Martin had wandered off into the woods; that’s how cold the trail was. So how would he disappear, Gary asked himself, if he had no friends or family to help him? He would call in favors. And who would owe a contractor a favor? His subcontractors. So Gary got busy. Police work wasn’t glamorous. It was ditch digging with a phone. You kept at it until you hit gold.

  He called Martin’s subs—electricians, framers, drywallers, painters, roofers, truckers, masons—until finally, on his last call, he found a plumber who stammered in fits and starts when Gary asked him about Judd Martin.

  The plumber’s name was Buddy Morris, and Judd had thrown him a job when Buddy’s business was going under. The job was big enough to save Buddy’s ass. It was a hell of a favor because there was another plumber who was supposed to get the gig. But Judd enjoyed having people in his debt and, like a Mafia Don, had told Buddy there would come a day when he would have to repay the favor. Buddy had given his word that he would. Anyway, that day had come, and the reparation was a vacant rental trailer Buddy owned in the Little Valley Trailer Park in Sunland-Tujunga.

  Though it spilled into the northern edge of—and was considered to be part and parcel of—the San Fernando Valley, Sunland-Tujunga was actually nestled in the Tujunga Valley, bordered by the dramatic San Gabriel Mountains to the north and northwest and by the Verdugo Mountains to the south, which separated the little valley from Burbank and Glendale and all points southward. It was a valley within the Valley, known for being in the shadow of Mount Lukens, the highest peak in Los Angeles, and for having the cleanest air in the city—people came here to ride horses or just to breathe. But for Gary, Sunland-Tujunga was special because Pat Paulsen, his favorite comedian, once lived and laughed in this land.

  Located on Sherman Grove near Foothill, the Little Valley Trailer Park was a run-down, low-rent place to park a mobile home, unattractive and worn out. The trailers were old and used up. There was cracked concrete everywhere. Struggling trees and shrubs were an afterthought.

  Gary parked the Impala in a guest spot by the office, checked his pocket pad, found trailer seventeen on the map by the office door, and set off to find the real estate zombie who was stalking his agent’s brother.

  Between trailers sixteen and eighteen was a 1980s Airstream in poor condition, rusted and beaten and neglected, left to die in this Godforsaken place. Buddy Morris had bought it for cash as an investment property, had lived in it when he got divorced, then got remarried and moved out and couldn’t find a tenant, and finally had repaid his debt to Judd Martin by letting him live here for free.

  There was a beat-to-hell Ford pickup parked in front. Someone, perhaps the zombie, was home. Gary knocked. No one answered. He knocked again.

  “I’m not here,” said a voice from inside.

  “Yes, you are,” Gary said to the door.

  “No, I’m not,” said the voice.

  “Yes, you are,” Gary said. “Open the door. I want to talk to you about Mike Miller.”

  “Don’t know the name,” the voice said, “because I’m not here.”

  “I’m talking to you, and you’re talking to me. We’re having a conversation.”

  “We’re not having a conversation.”

  “What do you call this?”

  “A bad dream.”

  “This isn’t a dream. It’s two people talking to each other. That’s the definition of a conversation. Even one person talking to one zombie is a conversation. Open the door, Judd. I’m a cop.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Detective Gary Shuler. Open the door.”

  “You going to arrest me?”

  “How can I arrest you? You’re not here.”

  A lock clicked, and Judd opened the Airstream door. Gary looked at him and had three immediate thoughts. One, Holy shit, Judd Martin is a zombie. Two, Holy shit, Judd Martin is insane. Three, Holy shit, Judd Martin is dangerous.

  Martin was big and powerful and strong and looked to be completely out of control. His skin was ruddy-red-on-fire. His hair was madness. His eyes were bloodshot. His blue jeans and camo hunting vest and work boots were caked with dirt. He was unshaven for days. He wore no shirt. His hands and nails were black with filth. He teeth were crusted and yellowed. He was on the wrong side of human.

  Gary reached back and took his gun out of its holster.

  “You going to shoot me?” Judd said.

  “I hope not,” Gary said.

  “Fair enough,” Judd said, and he moved aside, and Gary climbed up into the trailer
.

  It was a wreck, like the inside of a rancid dumpster, filled with fast food wrappers, newspapers, cardboard boxes, empty beer cans and booze bottles, reeking litter boxes, and mold and muck and slime and sludge and feculence most foul.

  “I hope you didn’t clean up just for me,” Gary said, wondering where he could sit and not catch a disease. He put on the latex gloves he had in his pocket and cleared a spot on a couch. Judd leaned against a cabinet across the living area. He was physically too large for the Airstream.

  Immediately beside him, duct taped to the wall, was an enlarged image of Mike Miller seated behind a desk, wearing a suit and tie, hands folded, hair brushed back, tax returns to one side, accounting calculator to the other. It was Miller’s Wasserman and Waddell staff photo, lifted from his online company bio and blown up as big as a Dave Matthews poster. Gary knew it was Mike Miller because under the picture were the words Mike Miller, Senior Accountant. Judd had stabbed a hunting knife in the middle of Mike’s forehead—it stuck out of the wall at a jarring angle—and had written Die Accountant Pig Fuck and other happy-go-lucky phrases all across Mike’s face and body.

  “You got skills,” Gary said, gesturing at the poster with his gun.

  “I’m a zombie,” Judd said.

  “I’m a comedian.”

  “You said cop.”

  “Day job. Miller called the police and said you were stalking him. I caught the case. Coincidentally, his brother Danny’s a talent agent, and I just signed a ninety-day representation deal this morning.”

  “He called when his brother was gagged and duct taped to a chair, so I told him I was Mike.”

  “You duct taped Mike Miller to a chair?”

  “After I knocked him out and stripped him to his boxers, yeah.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “So I could beat his ass.”

  There was a fleeting moment where Gary thought, This maniac might be the funniest man in America. But then the moment was gone, and Gary pointed the gun at Judd Martin’s chest, and this time he thought, It might take three or four or five shots to bring this beast down.

  “Oh, well, then, yes, of course, makes perfect sense,” Gary said. “So Danny thought you were his brother?”

  “Seemed like it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Said he met with Greenburg, whoever the fuck that is, and someone named Jenny, whoever the fuck that is. Said Greenburg had a dead goldfish on his desk, and Jenny breathed on it, and then it was swimming in the bowl, whatever the fuck that means. Said Greenburg was going to pay seventy-five grand cash tonight for something about his wife’s dog, whatever the fuck that means. Said Greenburg had to do it before his wife got back. If I knew where Greenburg lived, that’d be my money.”

  Instead of thinking about arresting the violently crazy Judd Martin for stalking, gagging, and duct taping Mike Miller, Gary thought, Judd Martin is going to bring the two cases together; he’s the missing link. He isn’t a zombie; he’s Bigfoot.

  Gary’s cop radar clicked off, and his comedian radar clicked on, and he said, “Here’s what I’m going to do, Judd. I’m going to make you my deputy. You stay close to Mike Miller and find out what’s going on with this Greenburg guy and his dog. As long as you do that, I won’t arrest you. But you can’t kill Miller. No killing Miller.”

  “Can I hurt him bad?”

  Gary knew he had crossed a line as precarious as the San Andreas. He saw the line and walked right over it. In his own way, he was as crazy as Judd Martin. But that’s what artists did for their art; they crossed lines. He would cross back one day…or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was his act. He had ninety days.

  “You’re a zombie cop,” Gary said. “Use your judgment.”

  “Don’t have any,” Judd said.

  AHAB, ISHMAEL, AND THE WHITE WHALE

  I was the voice of reason, Mike thought as he drifted in the middle of his backyard pool, suffering through the residual pain of the duct tape that had ripped clumps of hair and swaths of epidermis from his body when Mrs. Alemi had pulled it off. He’d told her a real estate zombie was stalking him under false pretenses and had followed him here and stripped him and duct taped him to the chair, and she had looked at him with a cocktail of doubt and concern and pity and recommended he speak to a professional about his grief, as if he had duct taped himself to the damn chair. After making sure he wasn’t seriously injured, she had told him to wait for her and hurried off to reconfigure her security procedures and call the police (and maybe the psyche ward).

  Instead, he’d gotten dressed, carried Linda’s burial clothes to his car, and driven to the Fatburger in Granada Hills, where he’d inhaled two chili cheese dogs with bacon, an order of onion rings, an order of fat fries, a Maui-banana shake, and a Diet Coke. In the middle of the second dog, he’d realized he had become the voice of unreason.

  I was the normal one, Mike thought as he floated on a Hello Kitty inflatable, a pink lounger that featured the kitty surfing somewhere swell. He was the one who got married and had a family and became an accountant and a grown-up. He was the one who followed Saint Linda’s footsteps and built his career—his life—on hard work, accuracy, honesty, and proficiency. And yet he was the one who’d been fired, painted with the Embezzlement Brush, and banished from the Accounting Kingdom. And he was the one whose wife and children had flown to the planet Paramus at the far end of the universe, leaving him to face the ignominy of his reality with no family. And he was the one who had sworn The Oath on his mother’s dying heart, which had led to his asshole brother moving into his garage, which had led to his firing up the chainsaw and nearly shredding his brother’s guts all over the garage floor and walls and doors and himself and the perverted clown who smelled like a shithouse cesspool. Somewhere between his brother and the clown and the chainsaw, he realized he had become the abnormal one.

  I was the moral compass, he thought as his body baked in the one hundred nine degree heat. As boys, he had told his brother it was wrong to blow up a neighbor’s mailbox with a M80, wrong to leave a flaming bag of dog crap in front of a neighbor’s door, wrong to climb through a neighbor’s open window, take their car keys, and joyride the Valley. As men, he had told his brother it was wrong to run his talent agent business as a scam, a sham, and a con, wrong to bet everything on the horses, wrong to mooch off their mother. At work, he was the one who kept the firm on the up-and-up. If there were a question as to the legality of a deduction, Mike would make a stand because the fact that there was a question to begin with was also the answer: it was wrong. And in the name of Right versus Wrong, he had turned down Judd Martin’s two-hundred-thousand-dollar bribe to cook the books. And yet he had agreed to bilk a dentist with his flim-flam man brother by hysterically lying that they could bring the dentist’s dead dog back to life. Somewhere between the dentist and the dog, he had become the amoral compass.

  “Hey, Moby Dick, wake up,” Omar said, tossing a river stone from the garden into the pool and splashing water on Mike.

  Mike opened his eyes, shaded them from the sun, and saw two silhouettes by the side of the pool closest to the house, one giant and one miniature.

  “We’re looking for Danny Miller,” Harvey said.

  “Who the hell are you?” Mike said, annoyed at having his privacy compromised.

  “Ahab and Ishmael,” Harvey said.

  “Who the hell are you, Moby Dick?” Omar said.

  “I’m Mike, Danny’s brother. This is my house,” Mike said. “Stop calling me Moby Dick.”

  “Ahab, Ishmael, and the White Whale,” Omar said.

  “Are you saying I’m fat?” Mike said.

  “Have you ever seen a skinny whale?” Harvey said.

  “Where’s your brother, Moby Dick?” Omar said.

  “I don’t know,” Mike said, “and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. And stop calling me that. I’m not fat.”

  “Perhaps a harpoon,” Harvey said to Omar.

&nbs
p; Omar nodded, lifted a handful of multi-colored river stones from the garden, and threw one at Mike, a fastball. The stone nailed Mike in the side with a thud.

  “Are you crazy?” Mike said, and his heart rate rose. These were not nice people.

  “Where’s Danny?” Harvey said.

  Omar fired another stone. This one hit Mike in the leg and stung like a bitch.

  “Ow, shit, stop doing that,” Mike said. “Who are you?”

  How could it be possible, Mike wondered, that his life could spiral so utterly out of control in two days? He was tired of being put in coffins, duct taped to chairs, and pelted with river stones from his own garden. He considered paddling the Hello Kitty lounger to the side of the pool and making these two assholes, whoever they were, leave his property, but he knew Ishmael would crush him like a bug.

  “Your brother is involved with a dentist whose dog died a dire death,” Harvey said. “Both the dentist and your brother are business clients of mine, and my money is financing whatever idiocy these two morons have concocted concerning the dog.”

  A river stone zinged by close to Mike’s head, and as he moved out of the way so as not get hit, he rolled off the raft into the pool. He came up for air and put his arms across the kitty so that he was treading water in the middle of the deep end, facing the dwarf and the giant. He debated telling them about the scheme to scam the dentist so they would leave, but he needed the money and decided to outlast them—as a teenager, he had passed the lifeguard test and could tread water for a very long time. “I don’t know anything about a dead dog,” he said. “My brother’s a con man. I have nothing to do with him or his client or his dentist.”

  Omar whipped a handful of stones at the same time, a machine gun spray of projectiles that flew across the pool toward Mike’s face. Mike ducked under water, stayed down until he thought it was safe, and came up gasping, clinging to the kitty.

  “He knows about the client who came out of the fog,” Harvey said to Omar, referencing the phrase in Greenburg’s limerick.