"Oklahoma?" She made a sour face. "Will you just give me $300 instead? I really want to go to Vegas."
"Sure. Okay. If you promise to leave southern California."
"Can I stay here tonight?"
"Just tonight. And head for Vegas in the morning."
Clendon slept on the couch and made sure Tricia was on the road before noon.
* * *
A month raced by like a parked car. On day thirty, Clendon packed his change of clothes, his maps, and the money he had made selling shoes. The $600 roll had gone for food and expenses and what he'd given Tricia. He now had enough money for a flight to Mexico City and a few days in a hotel there. He left the apartment at nine in the morning, got on a blue Santa Monica bus, and headed for the Santa Monica post office.
After he got off in downtown Santa Monica, he called Shelley's phone number one last time from a pay phone. He let it ring thirty times. He told himself it meant something that her phone was not disconnected yet. Then he went to the post office and stood in line for ten minutes and picked up his self-addressed letter. In a new envelope Clendon mailed the key to himself, general delivery, Mexico City. He decided to take a final walk through Palisades Park and smell the eucalyptus, then head for the airport, give Wylie Cobb's name at the ticket counter, pay the cash, and wing off.
When Clendon reached the park, he turned north and crossed Wilshire. He noticed that a tall man with a long raincoat, golfer's hat, and pop bottle glasses had been following him from the post office. Clendon stopped at the railing and gazed down. The cliffs of the palisades fell away a hundred feet to the traffic below on the Pacific Coast Highway. He took in the white beach, blue ocean, and the waves breaking. The tall guy walked past him, then stopped and turned back toward him. Clendon took a long look at him when the man removed his glasses.
"Diedecek!"
"Yes."
"You crazy fucker-- "
"Not so loud."
"How'd you find me?"
"I talked to Madeline last week."
"Let's walk," Clendon said. "I'm nervous."
A cheap dark wig stuck out from under Diedecek's hat. They started walking north again, toward the place where Brooks had liked to meet. They walked past picnicking families and strolling lovers. A few joggers huffed past them all.
"Madeline doesn't know where I've been staying."
"To figure that is not that hard," Diedecek said. "It was either an empty apartment that you had the key, or a freeway underpass. An easy choice. I watched for you there for two days and I followed you this morning."
"You know anything about Shelley?"
"No."
"Did you find the briefcase?"
"No."
"You'll help me get out of L. A."
"I already tried that."
"Then what do you want?"
"Clendon, I don't think there's any thing such as a missing briefcase."
"Don't tell me that now."
"The Eskimo shoes are probably not in a briefcase and therefore must be somewhere else."
"So you know where they are?"
"I have a hunch."
Clendon stopped walking, leaned his back against the railing, and waited for Diedecek to tell him. Diedecek didn't.
"All right, I am leaving town. And fuck you, too. I wish I had never heard of any damn Eskimo shoes."
"Wait, Clendon."
Diedecek gripped Clendon's arm.
"Let go or I'll get violent."
Diedecek's hand dropped away.
"Tell me something worthwhile in the next ten seconds," Clendon said. "The only person this landman has been conning has been himself, and it's damned time to stop."
"Clendon, you've been playing possum. I love the American expressions. You've been playing possum and now you're ready for movement."
"A move to Mexico City, you're right."
"I think if I tell you how I know where the computer disks are, you'll help me get them."
"Maybe."
They started walking north again, along the railing.
"You've said 'maybe' before," Diedecek said, almost to himself, "and you went forward and did it."
"Cut the high pressure sales tactics bullshit."
"Asp interrogated me after we were picked up at the restaurant. They took Shelley and I haven't seen or heard from her since. I told Asp straightly: if I had the disks, I wouldn't be still around. He acted like he didn't believe me."
"There's lots of things you can't convince Asp of, and the truth is one of them."
"Ah, Clendon, my friend, you are prejudiced, but I offered to prove it to him. I gave him a number to call in Washington, D. C. But when Asp dialed, the number had been disconnected."
"Some proof."
"Then Asp showed to me a briefcase that he said you had been given at a house in Beverly Glen."
"What color was it?"
"A dark gray Samsonite."
"That could've been the one," Clendon said.
"Asp showed to me the briefcase, then tells me he has enough evidence on me to put me away at Marion penitentiary for life." Diedecek paused. "No one has ever escaped from Marion."
"So why aren't you on the way to Marion right now?"
"Because Mr. Asp has no evidence beyond his own bullshit. He couldn't connect with me this particular briefcase. Just then he got a phone call, talked for several minutes, his voice hushed, then he hung up and left the room. When he came back, he had another briefcase. This one was also dark gray, looked like the other one, and it was empty, too."
"That could've been the one I sold to D. C. Lyman. Asp could have only gotten it from Lyman."
"If Lyman ever actually got it from your drop. Asp may have picked it up. Asp may have showed me a fake decoy briefcase himself."
"Jesus Christ, Diedecek. My head is spinning."
"You feel dizzy?"
"Do you think Asp personally kept the money that was in the bag I picked up at the airport?"
"I do not know. I have been trying to obtain access to the evidence logs through my contacts, but I have not so far."
"So what did Asp say next?"
"He didn't say anything. He just showed a briefcase to me and I saw that it was empty. Then he said I was free to go."
"Free to go?" Clendon stopped and stared at Diedecek. "You look really stupid in the hat and wig. Take them off so I can have a straight conversation with you."
"Sorry, can't."
When they reached Brooks's favorite spot at the eucalyptus grove and picnic tables, they stopped and gazed at the ocean. Sailboats dotted the ocean, catching a good wind. In the last month the dry winds had come and gone and come again and now they were leaving again as a fresh, humid breeze kicked in off the ocean. It blew Diedecek's wig to a funny angle. The eucalyptus trees didn't smell like money anymore.
"So for the third time, Diedecek, where do you think the disks are?"
"They could be only in the one place that Asp and D. C. Lyman don't know about. What place is that, Clendon?"
"Brooks's apartment."
"So what did you do with them, Clendon?"
"You think I found them?"
"What did you do-- "
"Do you think I'd be trying to get to Mexico City if I had those goddamn computer disks?"
"I don't know, Clendon."
"Why haven't you just gone over there and broken in?"
"It's not my style."
"Oh, hell, Diedecek, oh, hell." Clendon started pacing. "Goddamn it, I talked to Shelley the day after Asp picked you both up. She said she told Asp where the briefcase was."
"If she did, I'm sure Asp doesn't have it. Therefore, she lied to you on that point."
"I never even thought of looking any more in that apartment, but we'll go back over to that goddamn place right now and tear it to pieces if we can find those disks and fix those bastards-- Asp, D. C. Lyman, whoever the hell you say. Let's go."
&nbs
p; Clendon tugged at Diedecek's arm.
"I never dreamed Shelley would say those things," Diedecek said and looked out toward the ocean.
For an instant Clendon thought Diedecek might cry. A strong gust whipped up, blew his hat away, and shoved his wig sideways.
"She didn't mean it," Clendon said. "She was forced to."
"I don't know, Clendon. Maybe she was not."
"No, wait," Clendon said. "I just remembered-- she didn't tell me about the briefcase-- it was Asp who told me she had told him about the briefcase-- "
"Aaah," Diedecek said. "I have someone who told me some information from the police. But maybe I should not tell you."
"Tell me."
"Do you know what they found stuck to the handle of the pistol used to shoot Brooks Boyd?"
"No."
"A single strand of blond hair."
Clendon could think of nothing. Diedecek kept looking at the ocean.
"How is it Americans say it? I am a sucker."
His ears stuck out extra wide under the crooked wig. Out past where the waves began to break, a hundred yards off shore, Clendon watched a big powerboat bounce and lurch over the high waves, shooting past the small sailboats. Then, over Diedecek's shoulder, he noticed two large white men dressed in jogging suits coming up the path through the palm trees. The two joggers suddenly sprinted up and pointed pistols at them.
"Diedecek-- " Clendon shouted.
There was a muffled, zipping sound. Diedecek let out a "Huh-- " and threw his arms out and stumbled toward Clendon. The same muffled sound came again and then Diedecek fell on him. Clendon lost his balance, looked at Diedecek's whitening face, and rammed his back against the railing.
"Diedecek-- "
The two men shoved Diedecek down. They grabbed Clendon, lifted him and turned him away from the ocean and Diedecek. Clendon felt warm blood on his hands. They stuffed a rag in his mouth. His sunglasses got knocked off. They threw a blanket over him and carried him on a dead run to the curb where they tossed him in a car. They jumped in, the door slammed, and the car peeled away.
* * *
They kept a blanket over his head and held him down with their shoes on his back. There were four of them jabbering in "viches" and "vachovs." The car smelled like a new Mercedes spiced with body odor and garlic and fried onions. After two hours of driving around, the car stopped. They dragged him out inside a warehouse that echoed from footsteps and slamming car doors. They hustled him across a dirty concrete floor and into a small room where they tossed him on a foam pad covered with a dirty sheet. They left him and shut the door. Clendon wiped his hands on the blanket and threw it off. The room was dark and smelled of mold.
In an hour the four of them came back. When they opened the door, there was enough light to see a toilet in the corner. They all looked the same and Clendon thought they were jabbering in Russian. They closed the door and turned on a black light. One turned to him and spoke in an accent so thick Clendon could hardly get it.
"Where briefcase?"
"The FBI has it," Clendon said.
"How F-B-I have it?"
"I don't know."
The man translated for the others and they argued for five minutes in Russian.
"How you know F-B-I has it?"
"Diedecek told me that today."
The man translated again and they argued for five more minutes.
"You have seen briefcase at F-B-I?"
"Hell, no, I don't go near the place. I hate that cocksucker Asp."
"What is cocksuck-off?"
"Asp."
They talked for two minutes.
"Diedecek tell you he has hide where briefcase."
Clendon asked him to say it again so he repeated it with the same thick accent and grammar.
"No, Diedecek didn't have it. It's at the FBI."
"F-B-I not have! You bullshit!"
"I'm telling you Commies that the FBI has all the goddamn briefcases!"
They went off in a corner for ten minutes and yelled at each other and waved their arms. Two of them smoked nasty smelling cigarettes and the smoke hung in the closed room. Then two of them left.
When the two came back, the platinum blonde was with them. She was smoking a long cigarette and held it in an affected European manner. She bent close to Clendon's face. A few strands of black hair stuck out from under the wig.
"Eskimo shoes," she said. She had an East Coast American accent.
"Talk sense," Clendon said.
"Where are the Eskimo shoes?"
"I don't know-- on the Eskimos, I guess."
She held up his driver's license.
"Mr. Clendon Lindsey."
"Where did you get your accent?"
"Mr. Lindsey, if you do not tell us where the Eskimo shoes are, we will give you something that will make you tell us. The side effects are not pleasant."
"I'm sure whatever you want, the FBI has it already."
She leaned forward and French-kissed Clendon for a long minute.
"You're so handsome."
She patted his face and left. One of the men pulled out a black shaving bag and opened it. He took out a small cellophane package, ripped it open, and slid out a hypodermic syringe and needle. He took two hypo bottles from the kit, stuck the needle into each of them one at a time, and sucked the bottles dry into the syringe.
The other three men held Clendon down while the hypodermic man stuck him in a vein inside his elbow. There was a sting, then an icy shiver shot up his arm. As it hit his brain, Clendon fought it. When he stopped fighting, a roller coaster somersault passed through him and then all was puffy and silky. The voices of the men were distant foghorns, slowed down, echoing, split in half. A briefcase opened and out rushed oil fields, elephants, roses, bears, a Mercedes, tigers, a handgun, computer disks, and stairs, stairs, stairs, lit by a dark blue light. He felt willing.
"Where briefcase?"
Red and green sparkles floated around his head.
"Asp has them all."
"How you know?"
"Diedecek."
"You go to house in Beverly Glen?"
"Yes!"
"Who live at house?"
"Adolfo!"
"Who Adolfo?"
"He's a Mexican transvestite."
"What in that briefcase?"
"I don't know. I never saw inside it."
"What in briefcase he give you?"
"I don't know. I never saw inside it."
A green inky swirl spun around him.
"Who killed Brooks?"
"I don't know."
"What Asp tell you?"
"Asp said I should turn myself in, I should give up, give in, quit."
His tongue felt thicker and thicker. They started over with the same questions, but he was dreaming on the stairs with the buckets and the wind, up and up. The biggest bucket slapped him hard like the wind. The stairs were coming faster. If Clendon ran fast enough, he could take off and fly. They all talked at once in Russian, their voices carrying farther and farther away, far below, an echo, a murmur, a quiver.
* * *
Shelley and Clendon were walking through a vast mausoleum built of polished marble. It had many foyers and corridors. Sealed vaults that contained the dead rose to the ceiling. On every vault was a name carved in bronze. They went into a central library that had the life story of every deceased person in the mausoleum. Clendon was hoping to find a map there. Shelley searched and thumbed through books and manuscripts, each one with a dead person's name on the cover.
"Who are you looking for?" Clendon asked.
"Mine."
Shelley pulled out a typed manuscript, bound with a leather cover and cotter pins. On the cover was the name Shelley Symmes, embossed with gold medieval lettering. She looked at the cover and smiled before opening it.
* * *
It was black and quiet. His bladder was heavy and he was thirsty. His mouth was fu
ll of rust. He had no clothes on. He crawled toward the toilet and groped for it, shaking as goose bumps ran up and down his legs.
Clendon found the toilet and sat on it. The inside of his head felt stuffed with broken glass. After the relief, he felt around for his clothes, but couldn't find them. The foam pad and sheet were gone, too, even the blanket. He got to his feet and walked back and forth in the black room, cold hard concrete under his feet. He jogged to warm up as a shivering fit seized him and his teeth clattered. The jogging brought back warmth and circulation and his legs felt stronger, although lights flashed in his head with each step.
When he warmed up enough to stop shivering, he sought the door. It was unlocked from the inside and he opened it. The faintest light leaked through the roof onto the floor of an empty warehouse. It was cold. He left the door open to use the light to look for his clothes, but they weren't in the room. His wallet lay unopened on the floor in the middle of the room.
They left everything in his wallet-- his driver's license, his money, pictures of his parents and Louis. He folded one arm across his chest and gripped his wallet in one hand and his balls in the other. If he could get used to walking naked across an empty warehouse, he could get used to walking naked down the street. He crossed the wide concrete floor to a translucent glass door, opened it a crack, and peeked out.
It was night. A long, dark alley that smelled of decaying garbage ran between two big brick buildings. The alley connected to a side street where cars were going by underneath a street lamp. Another smell of an older, stronger decay lingered, a smell of something dead.
Clendon needed a quarter and a phone booth. He stepped outside, keeping in the shadows along the wall as he watched for broken glass or nails under his bare feet. His head pounded like it was being squeezed by a metal compactor. A man lay in the alley, covered with newspapers, sleeping, smelling of alcohol. He peered into a dumpster, hoping to find some newspapers or rags to cover himself. It stunk like dead fish. The next dumpster was empty.
Huddled at the end of the alley where it opened onto the street were several ragged men passing around a wine bottle.
"Can one of you guys spare me a quarter?"
"Hey, bud, you forget your clothes this morning?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. Come on, you guys must have one quarter so I can make a phone call."
"Who you going to call? The cleaners?"
"One fucking quarter. Please."
"We don't have a quarter, man. We wisely spent it on this bottle. Sit down and have a drink, bro. Things will look up in the morning."
Clendon kept walking and passed by a row of darkened and battered apartment buildings. The street was narrow and jammed with parked cars. He caught a trace of ocean in the air. He read the street sign. Brooks Avenue.