Romeo's Rules

by James Scott Bell

“Where’s the money?” Saul said.

  “I’ve got it,” Ira said. “You have the pink slip?”

  “What, you think I got a hot car or something?”

  “I’ll help you with the transfer,” Ira said.

  That seemed to please him. He handed me the key. He ran his left hand over the roof like he was petting a dog. “Be good to her,” he said.

  “Like she was my own sister,” I said.

  WHEN I GOT in the car I thought for about two seconds of killing the deal. It smelled like old Vienna sausages. It’s the kind of smell that stays in the fabric no matter what you do. I made a mental note to grab half a dozen air fresheners and a toxic air detector.

  But now I was mobile, and the first stop was the home of Natalia Mayne.

  I parked half a block away from the house. I wanted to see who was coming and going, or doing what I was doing—watching. I will say that being in a 1980 Dodge was not the best undercover idea in this neighborhood, but at least the radio worked. I listened to a jazz station that came in a little fuzzy but was better than any of the other options.

  Half an hour went by, then a black Town Car drove by me and stopped at her gate. It idled there for about a minute, little puffs of exhaust churning into our Los Angeles airspace. I couldn’t see the gate itself. Someone could have been talking into the box.

  Or trying to figure a way in.

  Then the car backed out of the driveway and continued on, away from my position.

  I switched the radio to the news station for a while. Listened for another half hour or so. Nothing on any killings in East Los Angeles. No mysterious assassin being searched for. That the public knew about, anyway.

  And then another car nosed out of the driveway. This was a luscious Caddie and I could make out the head shape of Natalia Mayne. She turned right and headed away from me, so I fired up the Dodge and limped after her.

  She went to Beverly Hills.

  I held back, wondering if a cop would stop this old car just for having the temerity for being on Rodeo Drive. But all was well. Natalia stopped at a place where a black-vested valet took her wheels, and she walked into a boutique.

  At that same moment a Hummer pulled away from the curb, leaving both a parking space and some time on a meter. It was like a sign. I belonged here.

  I pulled in and parked and told the Dodge not to let the other kids make fun of him.

  I entered the boutique. It smelled like lilacs and cinnamon. A honey-blonde in a black dress as tight as snake skin smiled and said, “How may I help you today?”

  I was tempted to ask her to solve Golbach’s Conjecture, but instead spotted Natalia with her back to me on the other side of the store. “I’m with her,” I said.

  The blonde said, “Of course.” Then added, “She’s beautiful.”

  No argument.

  I walked across the store and softly said, “Hello, Natalia.”

  She spun around as if a gunshot had gone off.

  “What!”

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” I said.

  She put her hand on her chest. “What are you doing here?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “You followed me?” Her eyes flashed.

  “I didn’t want anybody seeing me at your place.”

  She looked down. “What happened to your hand?”

  “Let’s talk about it.”

  “Where?”

  “Name the place.”

  “Not here. I need you to meet me somewhere.”

  “You have a place in mind?”

  She thought about it. “There’s a Mexican restaurant on Western. El Cholo. You know it?”

  “I do.”

  “Meet me there in an hour. Go get a table in the back.”

  I DROVE OVER to the place, a landmark of sorts. Nondescript Spanish-style building with a modest sign. But within some of the best Mexican food in the city. I parked around the corner, on the street.

  I went inside. My eyes had to adjust to the dim lighting. A friendly hostess greeted me and I told her I was meeting someone and could she put me in a nice, quiet corner near the back.

  She did.

  I sat. In a minute or two a waiter appeared and put a basket of tortilla chips on the table along with a small bowl of salsa. He asked if I would like to order something to drink. I told him I wanted a Corona and a shot of Cuervo Gold.

  I ate some chips. They were the good kind, warm and salty and a little oily, but still with a satisfying crunch.

  So much happiness in life comes from a satisfying crunch. Be it a chip or the cartilage of a bad guy’s nose.

  The waiter came back with my drinks. I told him I was waiting for a woman. He smiled and said that was a good thing to be waiting for.

  Then I stuck the wedge of lime into the bottleneck of the Corona. I put my thumb over the top and turned the bottle upside down. I watched as the lime floated upward through the beer, then turned the bottle back over. It was good to have one working hand. I picked up the jigger of tequila, downed it, and chased with the lime-flavored lager.

  Then sat there like a barfly waiting for Natalia Mayne to join me.

  She did, about ten minutes later. She sat across from me, looking like she’d just come off a movie set. I’m sure the waiter thought this was a very good thing indeed.

  He wasted no time in coming over. Natalia ordered white wine.

  And then we were alone.

  “So what is all this about?” she asked.

  I said, “I don’t think you’ve told me everything about your ex-husband.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Like his trafficking in drugs.”

  She didn’t move. Not even an eye blink.

  “Is it true?” I said.

  “Why?”

  “So it is true.”

  “I don’t want this coming out,” she said. “I don’t want the children to be hurt by it.”

  “How well-known is it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s as secret as anything. I barely even know about it. I think it’s one of the reasons he started hitting me. A warning.”

  “Just tell me everything you know about the drug connection.”

  “What happened to your hand?”

  I looked at my oven mitt. “Some nice people your husband hired, or somebody who works for your husband—”

  “Ex-husband, please.”

  “—got to me again and cut off one of my fingers.”

  She put her hand to her mouth.

  “A nice doctor stitched it back on for me. I may get the use of it again. But I’m going to do something to the people who did this to me. Your ex-husband is at the top of that list. And there may be some drug dealing going on and I think maybe you better tell me about it.”

  Her eyes opened and closed like signal lamps.

  “You can talk now,” I said.

  “I honestly don’t know that much. I got some information once from one of his men, somebody saying something he shouldn’t have. Later Mark asked me how much I heard. I told him I didn’t hear anything and he slapped me. He knew I’d heard something.” She paused. “What are you intending to do?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “I’m making this up as I go along.”

  And then she put her hand gently on top of my mitt. “I’m so sorry I got you into this,” she said. “You didn’t know what you were doing when you helped me that day.”

  “I’m not always sure I know what I’m doing even when I know what I’m doing.”

  “I’ve never met anybody like you.”

  “Why hasn’t law enforcement caught up with your husband? I mean ex-husband.”

  “He’s very good at what he does. And what he does is keep a layer of people around him. Are you going to try to—?”

  The waiter chose that moment to deliver Natalia’s wine and ask what we’d like to order. I told him to come back in a few minutes. He smiled knowingly at me, walked away.

  The strains of piped-in
Mariachi music started up in the place.

  I looked at Natalia. “I’m not a murderer. If he tried to do something to me I would react in a way that was justified by the ancient laws of self-defense. If I happen to react a little strongly and he were not to wake up …”

  She took her hand away then and put both hands in her lap. She looked down and said, “I’ve got to get the kids away from him. They’re young enough that they might be able to recover from not seeing him again.”

  “That’s going to be a pretty tall order, considering where the courts are, considering how rich your husband is. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep calling him your husband.”

  She put her head back and smiled. It was unexpected and intoxicating at the same time. “I wish I had met you ten years ago. What were you like?”

  “A little less than what I am now.”

  “I mean, where were you? What were you doing? Did you have a wife, a girlfriend?”

  “My life’s not that interesting.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  We locked eyes. She was the first to break the look. She glanced at the meaningless activity of the restaurant.

  I heard some commotion near the front doors. Somebody running in and chattering that there was a car on fire.

  Somehow I knew it would be mine.

  I got up and went out the front door and around the corner to the street where I’d parked. Sure enough, Saul’s pride and joy was in flames.

  A crowd of people from the street and some from the restaurant gathered around to gawk.

  Natalia ran up beside me. She took my arm. “What is it?”

  Instinctively I looked up and down the street. There were a few cars parked at the curb. There was one car that had two heads in it, behind a slightly tinted windshield.

  I started for it.

  Natalia said, “Wait.”

  I didn’t. The car, a steel-blue Audi sedan, was facing my way. As I approached both doors opened. Two men got out, looking muscled and employed. Both wore sport coats. Both looked like they could have done some fighting in their time. Was there no end to these people?

  The guy from the driver’s side was slightly older, slightly more weathered than his companion. He pulled aside his coat enough for me to see the butt of a handgun in a waistband holster.

  “Trouble?” the driver said.

  “You burned my car,” I said.

  The driver smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but can I give you a lift somewhere? A gas station maybe?”

  “I just got that car,” I said.

  “Driving in Los Angeles is pretty hairy sometimes. Why don’t you let me give you a lift?”

  I looked back over my shoulder and saw the burning Dodge and Natalia standing off to the side, looking my way.

  “Listen,” the driver said. “I really mean it.”

  “I need a car,” I said. “Can I have yours?”

  In the split-second the driver’s eyebrows narrowed, I drove my good hand into his throat, pulled it back and thrust upward under his chin with my elbow. There was a satisfying crunching noise and in a continuous motion I pulled the gun out of his holster.

  A revolver. My mind zapped me that it was the kind of piece an ex-cop might carry, double-action. I cocked it anyway.

  The other guy reached for his piece. I shot him in the chest.

  I got into the Audi, put the gun on the floor, started the car and did a U to where Natalia was standing, along with a few of the curious and the scared.

  “Get in,” I shouted.

  Natalia said, “But my car—”

  “Get in!”

  She got in. I tore out of there.

  “We haven’t got much time,” I said, “so listen. The cops are going to want to know what happened. You’ll tell them.”

  “Me?”

  “I just kidnapped you. I pointed a gun at you and made you get in the car.”

  “But we were eating together. They know me there.”

  “I’m someone who called you and told you I knew where your kids were. So you met with me in a public place. It was extortion. I wanted money. Then the fire happened and we all tromped outside. You didn’t want to me to leave. You wanted your kids.”

  She was listening.

  “I drove away with you and made you give me all the money you had on you. Do that now.”

  She hesitated.

  “Now,” I said.

  Natalia reached in her purse and took out her wallet. She removed the bills.

  “Put it on the floor,” I said. “Now, I told you not to talk or your kids’ll get it. You’re too scared not to believe me. Can you sell that?”

  Her voice trembled with, “I think I can.”

  “It’s okay to be a little confused. That’s the emotion to grab onto. Those guys outside, you don’t know who they were but you think they might be with me. I’m not me, by the way. I want you to describe me in detail to the cops. Only give me green eyes. I like green eyes. And a scar on my left cheek like I’d once been in a knife fight. Those two things you especially remember.”

  “Mike, what is this all about? Who were they?”

  “Have to be from Mayne. You didn’t recognize them?”

  “No.”

  “He’s probably hiring out-of-town contractors. Here …” I pulled to the curb. We were about a mile from the restaurant. “Sorry you have to walk. The cops will want to know why I let you out. Hold out as long as you can telling them about the kid angle. Let them drag that out of you. Beg them not to let your kids get hurt. You won’t have to do any acting for that.”

  I DROVE DOWN Sunset. I didn’t have much time. Somebody would be telling the cops about the make of the car and somebody else would probably have a picture of it, plates and all.

  At Cahuenga I took a left and kept driving until I came to a big, gray windowless building with a convex roof. There was no mistaking the old sound stage look. Good. Nobody inside would be staring at this slice of street. I pulled to the curb directly across from the blank wall and parked in front of a weathered, wood-paneled building with square-shaped glass block windows. There weren’t many cars on the street.

  I got out and popped the trunk.

  Inside was a black canvas gym bag, perfect for carrying guns and ammo.

  I unzipped it and looked.

  It had gym clothes in it.

  It was sort of a letdown.

  Until I dug a little further.

  Under the strata of T-shirt, shorts, sock and shoes, at the very bottom of the bag, was a stack of green.

  Neat and tidy, bound with a thick, blue rubber band.

  Riffling the edges I saw a set of Ulysses S. Grants followed by a set of Ben Franklins.

  Approximate value, three grand.

  I looked at the label on the bag. It said Cameron Lette. There was a Los Angeles Athletic Club tag attached to one of the handles.

  I took a white towel out of the bag, removed the bag and closed the trunk using the back of my hand. I got back in the car and put the revolver in the bag. I took the bills Natalia had left on the floor and put those in the bag, too.

  I used the towel to wipe the steering wheel, gear selector and door handle. I took the keys and put them in the bag.

  I got out and wiped the outside door handle, then put the towel in the bag and zipped it up and carried it with me to Hollywood Boulevard. I sat on a bus bench and let my thoughts coalesce.

  I’d made sure no one followed me to El Cholo. That meant those two guys had followed Natalia. To get at me. Mayne was closing the net.

  Also, as a footnote, I’d probably killed another guy. My attempts at becoming human again kept running into obstacles.

  Maybe I should get to the obstacles first.

  So I was to back off and stay away from Natalia.

  I would stay away from Natalia.

  But I was not about to back off.

  And then I got a very interesting thought.

 
What if I took his kids away?

  Yes, what if I risked a kidnapping rap?

  What if I was certifiably nuts?

  What is the nature of nuts?

  Buddha and Mahavira said life was suffering, but neither one of them knew how to get out of it without losing everything that was human. The Stoics figured out how to think about it all. But thinking leads to reflection which, if you don’t watch out, leads to madness, which leads to me.

  So why not take the kids?

  And then I saw someone who almost made me believe I really was insane. It was a man who looked exactly like my father.

  For a fraction of a moment I thought I was hallucinating, that I’d gone over the edge. The nerves in my spine tightened into a frozen rope.

  He was lean and tall with a full head of gray hair. He wore wire-rim glasses and a sport coat and tie. Just like my dad.

  I couldn’t get my breath for a second. I stood, walked, sucked in oxygen, while tourists flowed into candy shops and jewelry stores and movie theaters and eateries. I walked down to a cheap costume store. I bought an inexpensive Sherlock Holmes Disguise Set, some spirit gum, and black horn-rims with plastic lenses. I thought about throwing in a Precious Princess jewelry box, but decided that would be gilding the lily.

  The only problem with a disguise was my freaking oven mitt.

  I went to a CVS and got some gauze, big bandages, hydrogen peroxide, Bactine and Tylenol. I walked back to my motel and unwrapped my hand. My finger looked like last year’s Fourth of July bunting. It throbbed and pounded when it moved. But it did move.

  I cleaned it as best I could and put on a crude dressing that was half the size of the one I took off.

  I flicked on the TV and sat on the edge of my bed. I took all the bills out of Cameron Lette’s bag and laid them on the bed, counted them. Three thousand and fifty bucks.

  On TV was a show hosted by some guy with a really bad dye job on his hair, standing on a stage while an overweight woman and a scrawny guy with beard stubble screamed at each other at the top of their lungs.

  The host let them do this. There was an audience in the room that kept screaming things at the couple who were screaming at each other.

  In the final hacking and wheezing of ancient Rome’s slow death, it was bread and circuses that lulled the people into somnolent decay. People just wanted to be amused and distracted, and gladiatorial games were one of the things that amused and distracted them most. They would go to see the blood, and cheer for the disembowelings.