Jason shoved the straw aside and lifted the glass to his lips. The tap water tasted of iron, but it was cool.
“You tell me you haven’t seen your brother. You don’t know if he’s out or in. I can tell you’re lying. Don’t ask me how exactly, but I know.”
The waiter was back with a plastic basket filled with steaming fries glistening with oil. He put them in front of Hathaway and set a ketchup squeezer in the center of the table.
Hathaway never took his eyes off Jason. “So then I have to ask myself, why would this guy lie? Maybe he’s trying to protect his little brother. Or maybe he’s just in a hurry. Or maybe he doesn’t want to get dragged into anything. He’s got a reputation to protect. Or it could be he’s got something going with his little brother.”
Jason snorted. “You’ve got quite an imagination.”
“No. No imagination.” Hathaway sprinkled salt over the fries and stuffed a trio of them into his mouth. He breathed in open-mouthed. “Hot.” It didn’t stop him from following up with another bunch of them. “Help yourself.” He pushed the basket toward Jason.
“I told you—I haven’t seen him. Your knack must be on the fritz.”
“No, no. That’s the thing, see? That’s what makes it a knack. If it ever went on the fritz, it wouldn’t be a knack. It’d just be luck. It’s never been luck. It’s always right. I can tell. Just now, when you said you haven’t seen him, I had all kinds of buzzers and poppers going off in my head like an alarm system or something. You’re lying. Have some fries.”
Jason folded his arms. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Try the truth. Here, we’ll work up to it. I’ll help. You and Flip, you grew up in Inglewood. That right?”
“You know it’s right.”
“Good. Good. That’s a start. Tell me about that. Give me some truth, just to prime the pump, get you used to talking straight.”
“I don’t want to talk about my childhood.”
“Mom split when you and Flip were just kids, huh?”
Jason fought an urge to stand and walk out of the coffee shop. But he couldn’t have this guy snooping around the office. Not with everything else going on.
“Why’d she leave, Jason? Flip too much to handle?”
“Get off her.”
“Oh, so it wasn’t her fault. What were you, nine? Ten? That’d make Flip seven or eight. Tough to have two boys around causing trouble all the time.”
“We weren’t causing trouble.”
“Got it. Not your fault either. That leaves the old man. I know how that is. I’m divorced myself. You still married, Jason?”
There was a piece of dead skin on Jason’s lip that he bit off.
“I see you got no wedding band,” Hathaway said. “But your finger’s slick there. You just take the ring off for special occasions, or are things a little rocky on the home front?”
Jason shook his head. “You’re a real treat.”
“Anyhow . . .” Hathaway brushed his hands together.
Grains of salt bounced onto the tabletop. “Back to Mom and Dad. So Mom heads for the hills, leaves Dad to raise you and Flip. How’d that go?”
Jason looked at his watch. 5:30. “I’m going to give you another five minutes. I’m already late for an appointment.”
“An appointment? At this hour? Wow, you bankers sure keep different hours than the old days. Oh, it’s a personal appointment.” Hathaway sucked down some Coke. “Seems like I’ve been doing all the talking. You want to open up, go right ahead. I listen good too.”
Jason watched Hathaway smack his lips. They stared at each other until the waiter returned with the check. Jason reached for it, found a ten dollar bill, set it on the table. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, but I have to get going.”
“No. Not yet. One more thing. Your secretary. Kathy something.”
“Russell. Kathy Russell.”
“Right. Her kid got murdered.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Right after your little brother got out on parole.” Jason didn’t speak.
Hathaway smiled. He pointed at Jason. “You see there? It’s a knack, I’m telling you. And the best part? I can tell somebody’s lying even when they don’t talk.” He snickered to himself. “No. You know what? I just decided. It’s not a knack. It’s a gift. That’s what it is. From now on, it’s a gift.”
“How can I be lying if I’m not talking?”
“I want to know what you’re hiding, Dunn. Why you’re protecting him.” Hathaway squinted, tilted his head back, eyes still on Jason. “You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?”
“I have to get going.”
“Just a minute. Let’s get this covered. I don’t want to have to bother you during business hours. You’re afraid of Flip. I can understand that, the stuff he’s done. He’s a bad dude, man. I looked at his C file.”
Hathaway paused. Jason didn’t even want to ask what a C file was.
With an open mouth, a hand to his chin, thumb stroking underneath, Hathaway said, “That rap sheet. Started when he was seventeen. Makes you nineteen when Flip got sent up the first time.”
“That’s right.”
“Must’ve been pretty embarrassing, having a brother get sent up.”
“We managed.”
“Sure. You and Dad. You and Dad.” Hathaway seemed to be thinking over the words. “Always you and Dad against Flip, huh?”
“No. It wasn’t like that.”
“I think it was. I think Flip was the outsider. You and dad connected. Flip, not so much. It happens in families.” Hathaway held up his glass and rattled it around and got the waiter’s attention so he didn’t have to resort to the whistle.
Jason slid to the edge of the booth. “Enough. I’m late.”
Hathaway set the glass back on the table. “What I don’t get is, what was Flip doing in that bar down there at the age of seventeen?”
Jason watched as a grin crept across Hathaway’s face.
And then an accusing finger pointed at him again, and the PO said, “It had something to do with you.”
27
The new moon like a hammer ding in black iron was wedged in the corner of the sky. Only the lights along Venice Boulevard cast Flip’s shadow, multi-parted, circling around him as he moved over the concrete.
Cars streamed endlessly past him on the boulevard. From underneath the bill of his cap, Flip watched them pass, his eyes the only part of him shielded from the offense of the streetlights. A constant rushing droned behind the noise on Venice—traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway two blocks away, the volume of engines and tires, cargo, exhaust, Harleys, semis, never ceasing.
He needed one of these cars. The city was choked with them, every asphalt artery clotted with them. They darted across intersections and crowded one another through veins of pavement without a heart.
With a car, Flip wouldn’t be so conspicuous. Anonymous behind the glass and metal, he could be like the rest of the Angelenos, hurtling from light to light, shouldering and bumping in and out of lanes. Driving was the means of escape.
That’s what he needed. Lurking the streets, ducking in and out of bars and motels, he felt the shape of his body and the contours of his face as betrayals. Somewhere, Tom Cole looked for him. LAPD would be after him. Every cop in the county would have him on some kind of list. He needed to get out.
And money was becoming a problem. The few bucks Diane shoved in his pocket were gone the next day, and he refused to ask her for any more.
Diane. How could he leave without her? His mind orbited around her constantly. Visions of her drifted in and out of his awareness through parting clouds of the reality that surrounded him, taunting him with a desire that seethed in his every cell. Nothing could snuff it out. He woke with it in the morning. It was in every morsel of food he tasted. Every step across a floor or sidewalk brought a thought of distance lengthened or shortened from her. A glimpse of a blonde on the street or in a car—any appearance
marginally close to hers—would stir him to follow until he exhausted the possibility it was Diane. Then his excitement would turn plain mean.
He marched in this state down Venice Boulevard. A sole pedestrian in a city of drivers. The faces behind the wheels of passing cars would look in his direction, superior glances at the man on foot.
He hated them.
A door stood open on his right. Next to it, a man taller than Flip guarded it, hands in the pockets of his slacks. He watched Flip, his lip curled, eyes squeezed by brows intended to look fearsome. Or maybe his eyesight was bad. Music and laughter bounced through the doorway. Someone shouted inside.
Flip looked at the passing cars. Ahead, a light flashed from green to yellow. He could walk up to the intersection and see if any of the drivers had left their doors unlocked.
But this guy standing there like he could stop somebody from entering, this was tempting.
Flip stood across the sidewalk from him.
The bouncer let his hands drift out of his pockets and crossed his arms. Flip looked more closely at the man’s face. On the left, under the eye, where the bone should cut a neat angle, swelling puffed the skin. And a scar pocked his jaw under his left ear.
“This your full-time job? Standing out here?”
The bouncer let one eye narrow. Another menacing look. It made Flip want to grin.
Flip pointed toward the scar. “Guy wore a ring—guy who caught you on the jaw.”
“You should see how he looks.”
Now Flip did grin. “Why’d you let him hit you twice?” A couple of girls stepped out of the bar: twenties, dressed for clubbing, showing leg. They glanced at Flip and the bouncer, dug into their purses, found cigarette packs, and stepped along the wall just a few paces from the door.
The bouncer looked back to Flip. “I can’t let you in.”
At the intersection, the light turned from green to yellow again. Flip held his eyes on it until it switched to bathe the street in a red hue. Back to the bouncer. Flip took a step toward him and sensed the eyes of the girls on him. Closer now, he could see the stubble poking out of the bouncer’s cheeks and chin. He ran his gaze over the guy’s chest and arms, back up to the eyes, and spoke low. “If I wanted in, I’d be in already.”
One of the girls whispered something, and they giggled. Flip looked at them and they looked away.
Time to move on.
He was nearly past the girls when the bouncer spoke up. “Hey. Come here a minute.”
A Buick whispered along the street. The driver’s gray hair shone in the lights from the dash, and Flip saw the lock button extended high on the passenger side. The car slowed for the red light ahead. But he couldn’t jack it with the bouncer and the girls so close.
He circled back. “Yeah?”
“You got any better clothes than that? Something make you look a little more presentable?”
“Why?”
The bouncer didn’t look sure about this, but he went on. “Mr. B, he maybe could use you. But you got to dress different if I’m going to introduce you.”
“You think I want a job taking punches?”
“Looks like you’ve taken a few. Why not get paid for it?”
“Not interested.”
“Mr. B’s got other stuff happening. But if you’re not interested, keep on walking. I can see you’re pretty busy.” Flip watched a Honda pass, then an Expedition. That Expedition would be some wheels for him. Take him far away.
Diane’s face surfaced in his mind. Her eyes, her lips. He turned to the bouncer. “What’s your name?”
“Ronny.”
“I come back here later, you going to be around, Ronny?”
“Sure thing. Mr. B’ll be here by midnight. But dress good.”
* * *
“Jason, please call. Just let me know you’re okay. That’s all I need now. I’ll stop bothering you if you’ll just let me know you’re okay.” Brenda’s recorded voice paused.
His eyes trained on the road ahead, Jason listened for background noises but heard nothing. Then the message ended. The automated voice of the attendant came on, and Jason spoke the voice command to delete the message.
He glanced up to the cars ahead of him and had the auto-attendant retrieve Brenda’s number and call.
It rang just once. “Jason?”
“Yeah. Look, Vince cornered me when I was trying to leave. Then this . . . this other . . . I couldn’t get away. I’m sorry.” The words gushed out. His voice sounded miserable. He took a breath. “Where are you?”
“I’m glad you’re okay. I thought you had second thoughts. About us. Then I thought maybe something had happened to you, and I got scared.”
Jason slowed for a light. The thought of Brenda worrying over him brought a smile to his face. “I’m fine. No second thoughts at all. Anything but. I’m heading east on Wilshire. Where are you?”
“I’m home. Do you know the way?”
“I’ve got your address here, I think. Hold on.” Trying to look back to the road every few seconds, he brought up the phone’s contacts list. Here it was. He read the address to her.
“That’s it. You probably need to turn around.”
She was right. He looked over his shoulder, checked the distance of oncoming traffic, and downshifted. Cranking the wheel to the left, he swung the Bimmer across Wilshire and left a screaming driver leaning on his horn.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Do you want me to bring anything? Dinner?”
“I couldn’t eat. How far away are you?”
“Just coming up on La Cienega.”
“Jason—hurry.”
“You’re going to make me start running red lights.”
She only paused a moment. “Run them.”
He slowed for the red light at the intersection. A freight truck was ahead of him, the flat rectangle of the panel shouting at him with an advertisement for shellfish. The left turn lane was empty. Cross-traffic was thick. He moved into the left turn lane, saw his opening, and downshifted to blow through the intersection.
Horns blared, but he was through. “One down.”
“Be careful. I hear horns.”
He was ten feet tall in the car, chest big as a house. A grin spread uncontrollably across his face. “The lights are stacking up ahead of me. I’m getting off this street.” On the other side of the road, a metro bus lumbered in his direction, behind it a wave of cars and SUV’s. Jason floored the gas and crossed the lanes to speed ahead of the oncoming bus. The horn was an animal growl behind him, receding.
“Jason!”
“Just a bus, honey. No worries.”
“Honey?”
“You don’t like that?”
“I like it lots.”
Jason sped through the residential neighborhood south of Wilshire like he was being chased. There was barely room for his BMW between the parked cars on either side of the street. “I’m coming down Swall. How much farther?”
“I don’t know where Swall is.”
He blew through a stop sign. Another. “Coming south. Olympic’s coming up.”
“All the way up past Olympic still?”
He gunned the engine. Olympic came at him, six lanes of it, traffic scissoring in both directions. He slowed, downshifted, saw an opening in the westbound lanes the size of a go-cart and gunned the Bimmer to wedge in. More horns.
“Jason, get here safely. But hurry.”
Another red light mocked him ahead. He slid between the slow drivers on the way to the intersection and knifed into a break southbound.
“I never knew there were so many different horns out there,” he said.
“Where are you?”
“Coming down Doheny.”
“You’re getting close. Hurry.”
Another five minutes, and he was there, cursing the lack of parking. He found a spot a block from her apartment and started running, his cell phone still live.
“I see your building.”
“I’m
buzzing you in.”
He hit the front of the building, yanked the door open, found the stairs.
A door opened in the stairwell above. “Jason!”
He took the stairs two at a time. “Yeah!” Her footfalls beat toward him. Then he saw her. First her feet, bare, padding on the concrete stairs down to him from above, slender feet, pale, nails clear and shining. And then he could see the rest of her, her skirt flapping around her knees. One hand slid down the banister. That face. Those eyes.
“Brenda,” was all he could say before they collapsed into one another. He couldn’t breathe. Her heartbeat fluttered against his chest. Her hands moved over his neck and caressed his head, and he held her there in the silent concrete stairwell.
28
At ten till midnight, Ronny the bouncer watched the guy come up Venice Boulevard from the same direction as before. His walk hadn’t changed. It still looked like he was angry with the sidewalk the way he lurched along, hands swinging at his sides, busy, flexing, as if they wanted something to do other than hang there. It was what Ronny had first noticed about him. It had set him on edge, expecting trouble.
But now that he was coming back, Ronny was anything but edgy.
He came close enough for Ronny to make out what he was wearing. No jacket, replaced with a sweater that didn’t look like too many moths had feasted on it. The faded black jeans had become a pair of tan cotton pants with folds in them showing that they’d just come off a rack someplace. Apparently the work boots were the only shoes he had.
It would have to do.
He approached Ronny, gave a look around, swiped his cap off, bunched it, and stuffed it in his back pocket. He stared up at Ronny’s face. “I see you haven’t stopped any more punches the last couple hours.”
It would be hard to tell if this guy had. His nose looked like a mushroom. With the cap off, Ronny could see the scar that ran above his right eye up to where it disappeared into his hairline. His black hair was a mat, short enough to stay uncombed.
“You better tell me your name.”
The guy took a second. When it came, it would be a lie. Finally, he said, “Frank. Frank Duncan.”
“Uh huh. All right. Come on.” Ronny led him into the club. As they moved inside, the beat of the Velvet Underground pulsed louder against his eardrums and flesh, Lou Reed’s vocals swooning through the room.