‘‘Just a moment . . .’’
Maran came on ten seconds later, his voice, dry, reedy, like he might have spent a childhood in Oklahoma, a long time ago: ‘‘This is Rik . . .’’
‘‘Call Tony now, on his cellular,’’ Anna said, and punched off.
A minute later, Tony’s phone rang, and Harper picked it up. ‘‘He ain’t here . . . who’s this? Okay. We’re at the courthouse, we got a big problem, but I ain’t got time to talk about it. There’s a guy coming over, he’s got a box for ya . . . I can’t talk, this fuckin’ thing’s a radio, man.’’
Harper punched out without waiting for a reply.
Anna said, ‘‘I don’t know what I’m doing. If I had any brains, I’d bail out of this now. This whole thing is not right; we’re running in the wrong direction.’’
‘‘We don’t have any other direction,’’ Harper said. ‘‘This is what we’ve got.’’ A few seconds later, he added, ‘‘You’re pretty smart, this phone thing. Thinking of it like that.’’
The Marshall Hotel was one of the older buildings on Pico, a four-story hollow cube with a brick front and stucco sides, outdoor walkways on the inside of the cube, and windows that looked like holes in an IBM punch card. The bottom floor had a small diner, a check-in desk, and an open courtyard with an above-ground pool and a patio, with a scattering of tables on the patio.
Anna went in first, wearing her sunglasses and a scarf as a babushka, walked through to the courtyard and took an empty table where she could see the desk. A waiter came over and she said, ‘‘A menu? And a white wine . . . Anything good.’’
Harper followed a minute later, carrying a briefcase. He stopped at the desk, exchanged a few words with the deskman, shook his head and walked out to the patio and took a chair near the pool, on the other side of a clump of palm.
Maran came out a few seconds later, looked around, spotted Harper and his briefcase, and went that way. Anna watched him and dug into her memory: Maran was sandyhaired or blond, but the hair was cut so tightly to his head that she couldn’t tell. His face was skeletal, his body wraithlike, his gestures tired, almost languid. He looked like one of the late, hard self-portraits of Vincent Van Gogh, and she thought: AIDS. Maybe. But he moved smoothly enough, he wasn’t shaky, as she’d expect if he were dying.
She’d never seen him before, she was quite certain of that.
She took out her cell phone and called Tony’s number, heard it ring thirty feet away. Harper answered, and she said, ‘‘I don’t know him—I’ve never seen him.’’
‘‘Okay. Stay where you are. We’ll be right back.’’
‘‘Where’re you going?’’ she asked, alarmed.
But he’d rung off. A moment later, on the other side of the patio, Maran and Harper headed toward the hotel.
She had only a moment to think about it, but something in the way Harper moved brought her out of her chair. She took just a second to drop a twenty on the table, to keep the waiter off her back, and followed them. They stepped inside an elevator and as the doors closed, Anna stopped, watched the indicator light. The light stopped on three . . .
She turned the corner, started down toward a gift shop, swerved into a stairwell and started running. Ten seconds later, she stood at the door on the third floor, pushed carefully through, listened . . . and heard a door shut down the hallway.
But where, exactly? The doors on the hall were identical, the hallway carpet unexpectedly thick, sound-deadening. She walked slowly down the hall, listening: took a small notebook out of her purse, and a pen; if somebody came along, she’d stop and write in it, as though she were making a note.
But there was nobody in the hall, nothing but silence and the smell of old tobacco smoke.
And then an impact.
Not a sound, exactly, more of a feel; then a sound, muffled, anguished, and another impact. Up ahead, somewhere . . . she hurried down the hall now, but as quietly as she could, listening. Where was it coming from . . .
She passed a door. A possibility. Listened. Another impact, a groan: No. Somewhere ahead, the next room.
Another impact, an animal sound, a wounded animal. Across the hall now. Another. She pressed her ear to the door: and with the next impact, she could feel it.
She tried the knob: locked. Hit the door with her fist. ‘‘Jake! Jake! Jaaake!’’ Her voice rising. She’d scream it, if she had to.
The knob turned under her hand, and Jake was there, on the other side, a dazed, crazy look in his eyes. He held what appeared to be a broken chair leg. One hand was covered with blood, and there were spatters of blood on his golf shirt.
‘‘Ah . . .’’ she said, involuntarily. She put a hand on his chest and pushed, and he stepped back, and she went into the room.
Maran was on the floor, face up, bleeding from the nose: he was conscious, but just barely. There was no blood at all on his upper body, but his legs looked wrong. He looked like a paraplegic whose legs had withered . . .
Anna shut the door and said, ‘‘What’d you do?’’
‘‘Hit him,’’ Harper said. He seemed confused, uncertain of where he was.
‘‘Is he gonna die?’’ She looked toward the phone.
‘‘No, I just . . .’’ He drifted away, and she caught his arm and squeezed.
‘‘What? Jake?’’
‘‘Broke his legs,’’ he said. He looked at the chair leg in his hand. ‘‘A lot.’’
‘‘So let’s get out of here,’’ Anna said. Maran was trying to roll, but there was no leverage in his hips and legs, and he flailed weakly, futilely. He tried to turn himself with his arms, and he moaned again.
‘‘Call an ambulance,’’ Harper said.
‘‘We can do that outside,’’ she said, and she pushed Harper toward the door. Harper dropped the chair leg. Anna said, ‘‘God, wait a minute,’’ carried the leg to the bathroom and quickly, carefully rubbed it down with a towel, then dropped it in the bathtub and turned the hot water on it.
‘‘Now,’’ she said.
Harper followed her dumbly through the door, down the stairs, out past the gift shop. She stopped him at a bank of phones, dialed 911, and said, ‘‘There’s a man hurt really bad in room three-thirty-three at the Marshall Hotel on Pico. Hurt really bad. Better get an ambulance here fast.’’
On the street, she could taste the bile at the back of her throat: ‘‘That the guy?’’ she asked. She looked up at him, his eyes clearing a bit, and then at the blood splatters on his shirt.
‘‘He sold the stuff to Jacob and his friends. He didn’t know Jacob, but he described the whole bunch of them.’’
‘‘Jason?’’
‘‘He had no idea who Jason was.’’
‘‘Maybe he was lying,’’ Anna said.
‘‘No. Christ, he was bragging about it. I asked him if he’d seen the kid who tried to fly off the Shamrock, and he was laughing about it in the elevator. You know what he told me? He sold to the kids because ‘That’s my market.’ That’s what he said, like he was some kind of toy-company executive.’’
‘‘Ah, God.’’
‘‘ ‘That’s my market,’ for Christ’s sake. That was in his room—that’s when I hit him in the face. He was still smiling when he went down.’’
‘‘Jake . . .’’
‘‘I feel like I should have strangled the miserable little motherfucker,’’ Harper said bitterly, as they got to the car. He looked back up the street.
‘‘I wish I’d killed him.’’
‘‘So why’d you want the ambulance?’’
He looked at her, shook his head: ‘‘Because I’m fucked up.’’
fifteen
Back on the street, moving quickly, Harper still shaky: ‘‘You drive,’’ he said, tossing her the keys. ‘‘I’m not functioning too well.’’
‘‘All right.’’ She opened the car, climbed in, adjusted the seat. As she pulled away from the curb, she heard the siren: There was usually a siren somewhere in the L.A.
background, but this one was closing in. As they pulled away, she saw the flashing lights a few blocks down Pico, headed toward the hotel.
‘‘Ambulance,’’ Anna said. She looked at Harper. ‘‘If that makes you any happier.’’
‘‘I dunno.’’ They spent the next five minutes in a ragged silence, Harper staring out the passenger window, away from her. She took the time to think, working over the logic of a connection between Harper’s son, a high school kid from the southeast burbs, and Jason, a street kid from Hollywood and UCLA. Where was the connection? And it would have to be a massive coincidence . . .
The lightbulb went on.
‘‘I’ve given you a hard time about this connection between your son and Jason,’’ she said. Harper turned toward her; he was still off track, almost uninterested. ‘‘I couldn’t see how there could be a connection. But I let you do all the thinking about it. I had too much other stuff to worry about.’’
‘‘Has to be a connection,’’ he said. ‘‘The paper was torn, and it matched—I saw the two ends, I put them together.’’
‘‘There is a connection,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s been staring us in the face.’’
‘‘What?’’ Now he turned to her.
‘‘When your son jumped, Jason was right there, almost underneath him. I didn’t see it, because I was in the hotel, but Jason was close. A few yards away. He was hanging out before your son jumped, he was planning to ride with us all night. But right afterwards, he couldn’t wait to get away from us. Like something had happened in that few minutes. Like he got some drugs.’’
Harper thought about it, then closed his eyes and said, ‘‘Goddammit.’’ And then: ‘‘We’ve got to look at the tape.’’
‘‘You’ve seen it?’’
‘‘I saw it a half-dozen times before Ellen called and said it was Jacob. The tape was all over the TV, I didn’t know, just some jerk flying off a building.’’
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Anna said, aware of the hollowness of the sentiment: this was what she did. ‘‘Look, I’m gonna call Louis. I never really looked at the raw tape. I was busy selling while Louis did the editing. I looked at Jason’s at the time, but didn’t see anything unusual.’’
‘‘So where does Louis live?’’
She slowed, looked at him carefully: ‘‘You sure you want to look at this stuff?’’
‘‘I have to.’’
‘‘If there’s something on the tape, it means . . . I mean, there’d be no real connection. So my problem wouldn’t have any connection with yours. Or you.’’
He smiled, just faintly, then leaned a little closer and patted her on the leg, just once: ‘‘ We’ve got a connection now. Whatever’s on the tape. You’re not sliding away that easily.’’
Louis’ apartment was a nerd’s nightmare—or maybe a dream—a jumble of Domino’s pizza boxes, empty Fritos bags, a fat blue plastic garbage can marked ‘‘Aluminum only’’ with a backboard behind it, half-full of Diet Coke cans.
A projection TV sat in the middle of the front room, showing a severed power cord sticking out from beneath it, like a rat’s tail. The longest wall was dominated by industrial gray steel racks full of stereo, computer and telephone equipment, all of which seemed hooked together.
Louis met them at the door wearing a ketchup-stained t-shirt, gym shorts and a stunned look. He’d been up all night, he said, working, and had just gotten to sleep when Anna called.
‘‘I got the tape set,’’ he said. He kicked through the litter in the front room. ‘‘You guys want some Fritos? I got some somewhere. I got coffee going.’’
‘‘Coffee,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Wash the cups.’’
‘‘I already did,’’ he said, unconvincingly. He was back a minute later with the coffee, saw the cut cord on the projection TV and said, ‘‘Oh, shit. I forgot about that. I’ll have to put it up on a monitor.’’
‘‘What happened to the cord?’’ Harper asked.
‘‘I needed a plug last night,’’ Louis said. ‘‘I mean, it was convenient, and it’s easy enough to put back on. If you’d rather see it on the big screen . . .’’
‘‘Monitor’s fine, probably better,’’ Anna said. To Harper: ‘‘You’re sure you want to watch?’’
‘‘I’m sure.’’
• • •
Louis pulled the drapes to sharpen up the monitor, and started the tape. He caught the last few minutes of the animal rights hassle, the guy knocked over by the pig, then a few random spacing shots inside the truck, then suddenly the bouncing run across the patio of the hotel. Anna caught a glimpse of herself running toward the entrance, and then the lens steadied, swung up and fixed on Jacob. They could see his face, a confused smile, the boy’s head bobbing as the camera tried to orient itself.
‘‘Aw, Jesus,’’ Harper said, involuntarily turning away, closing his eyes.
‘‘Get out of here,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Naw.’’ He turned back, transfixed, as Jason zoomed in on Jacob’s face. The camera hung there, staying with the face, suddenly pulling back to get some perspective, then closing in again, getting tight, catching expressions.
Professional, Anna thought: very, very good.
At one moment, Jacob looked as though he might be dreaming. At the next moment, he seemed confused, or happy. He reached out once and Anna thought, ‘‘Here it comes,’’ but he leaned back, seemed startled to find a wall behind him, and Anna blurted, involuntarily, ‘‘No, no . . .’’
Harper stared. The kid started talking, maybe back to the window he’d climbed out of. The camera view pulled back: yes, he was talking to the window. He looked down at the pool, then back at the window. A pale schoolboy face appeared at the window, then a girl’s face, then the boy again, and the kid looked at the pool again.
‘‘He thinks he can make the pool,’’ Harper said.
The camera closed in on his face, and suddenly, Jacob shook his head, said something, and the first faint wrinkle of fear crossed his face. He turned to the window, and one hand went out, touching the wall behind him. He took a step back to the window, but his right leg had to pass his left, and there was nothing out there, and suddenly, he was leaning over empty space: he was falling, and at the last possible instant, he tried to jump, to propel himself out toward the pool . . .
Jason stayed tight, the face and the trailing body, so close, the feet almost behind the head as Jason stayed with it . . .
‘‘Stop!’’ Anna shouted.
Louis cut the tape, looked at her.
‘‘Back it up, rerun in slow motion. Look at his right hand.’’
In slow motion, Jacob almost seemed to be swimming in the air. And at one point, a white, almost formless shadow seemed to pass out of his right hand. It stayed in view of the camera for only an instant, but it was coming at Jason, possibly passing over his head.
‘‘That’s the paper,’’ Anna said.
‘‘You can hardly see anything,’’ Harper said shakily.
‘‘There’s something there,’’ Anna said positively. To Louis: ‘‘Let’s see Creek’s stuff.’’
Creek had been further away, going for a longer perspective—but the paper coming out was clearer. The paper itself was no longer than a dollar bill, and only half as wide, and it fluttered, twisted, and landed behind Jason’s leg.
Jason stayed with the body for five seconds, zooming close; and Creek was still on the scene when Jason turned, almost stumbled, looked down, looked up and around, then stooped to pick something up.
‘‘That’s it,’’ Harper said. He stood and turned away from the television and said, ‘‘There’s no connection: none. We’ve been chasing a wild goose. Goddammit, I’m dumb.
Goddammit.’’
‘‘God,’’ Louis said. ‘‘We should’ve looked . . .’’
‘‘No connection. I didn’t see how there could be no connection. I thought Jacob had to be part of something bigger, that it couldn’t be that simple, that he just took some bad
shit and flew off a ledge . . .’’ The words were coming in a bitter torrent. ‘‘He was my son. If he was dead, it had to be important . Instead, it’s just . . . this fucking everyday ratshit life. No reason, no plot, nothing important, he’s just fucking dead.’’
‘‘Ah, God, Jake.’’
‘‘What can I do? I thought I wanted to kill the guys involved, and it turns out, nobody really even knew what they were doing. So I break a guy’s legs . . . Fuck it,’’ he said. ‘‘Let’s go see Creek.’’
Creek was dopey, but awake. He smiled, a lopsided smile, and mumbled something.
‘‘He’s much better,’’ Glass said, almost domestic. Anna thought he still looked caved-in. They sat for a while, Anna and Pam talking at Creek like he was a child. Harper sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Anna wasn’t sure how much Creek understood of what they were saying, and she was as worried about Harper as she was about Creek. When Creek drifted off to sleep, they left.
In the hall, Harper said, ‘‘I’m sorta impressed by Pam. She’s really taking care of him. How long had she known him? Couple days?’’
‘‘Creek makes an impression,’’ Anna said grudgingly. She didn’t want to, but she was starting to like Glass, brittle as she was.
Harper said, ‘‘What next?’’
Anna shrugged. ‘‘Well . . . I don’t know.’’
He picked up her tone and said, ‘‘Listen. I’m sticking with you. No way you’re gonna get rid of me.’’
‘‘You really don’t have any obligation . . .’’
‘‘Yes, I do.’’
‘‘No, you don’t.’’
‘‘Look, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you’ve really got your head up your ass,’’ he snarled at her.
She thought about that a minute and then said, ‘‘We go to BJ’s and start tracking the sex story. But that’s later on—it doesn’t get started until late. Until then, I don’t know. I’m numb.’’
‘‘So am I.’’