"No, it’s fine."
"Then get out.”
"Thanks, we’ll see ourselves to the door."
"Get out, get out, get out."
Jenkins stopped at the door.
"Oh, one thing," he said. "The BMW in the garage-- it’s a rental car."
"Brooks rented it for me."
"The smashed window-- "
"Damned vandals," Clendon said.
"And Mrs. Boyd," Jenkins said, "we know you have a Volvo registered, but we noticed it’s not here. Do you know where it is?"
"What do you mean?" Shelley asked. "It’s not in the garage?"
"No."
"Then it’s been stolen."
"Stolen? Would you like to make out a report?"
"No," Shelley said. "The only possibility is that one of your men stole it and I want it back."
Jenkins frowned and stared at her before he finally turned to go. Clendon went to the front door and peered out. Crawford was smoking a cigarette in the yard. The other cops had driven off. The fog thickened around Jenkins and Crawford as they got in their car. Before they hit the end of the block, they had vanished in it.
* * *
Shelley took two reds.
"At least they didn’t carry off my pharmacy. I guess it was the prescription bottles that fooled them."
"What did they take?"
"Stuff. Things. At random."
Clendon also took a downer. Shelley idly rinsed drinking glasses in the kitchen sink. Steam rose from the hot water.
"Someone should call Brooks’s folks," Clendon said.
"I’m not. I’ll do it in the morning."
"I’m going to check the doors and windows again and then I’m going to sleep. I’ll take the couch."
"No—"
Shelley touched him with her fingertips. Her silver-blue eyes glimmered, and her breathing jumped in gasps. She kept rinsing the glasses. Her hands turned red from the scalding water. Clendon reached over and turned the faucet off. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her without squeezing and rubbed his face against the side of her head and smelled her hair. After a long minute, she broke. She trembled and tears splashed on his wrist and cloggy noises rose through her chest and throat. At first she gripped the sink edge, then she placed one hand on his arm and held on. Fine sweat formed on her neck. Clendon held her for a long time.
"The bastard," she said.
* * *
After checking all the doors and windows and dousing all the lights downstairs, she led him upstairs to her bedroom. The cops had torn the covers away from the bed, trashed the closet, and spilled dresses and blouses on her neatly aligned shoes. Her dresser drawers were yanked at odd angles. An album of pictures lay spread open, its binding torn and pictures askew, showing Shelley and Brooks smiling at the beach. She remade the bed and ignored the rest.
"Would you stay in here with me tonight?"
"Whatever you want."
"I just want someone near me."
She was shaking.
"Get in bed. Get under the covers. I’ll tuck you in."
Shelley slid under the sheets and comforter. Clendon sat at the edge of the bed and tucked the covers up to her chin. She smiled although her eyes were still red, wet, and puffy, and Clendon wanted to tell her that she looked so damned beautiful he could hardly stand it. She took her clothes off under the covers and dropped her skirt and blouse onto the floor.
"Do you feel the downers yet?"
"No," she said. "Turn off the light."
Clendon caressed the top of her head as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. The glow of a street lamp seeped through the window. The dimness brought relief to his grainy eyes.
"I feel so stupid crying over that bastard Brooks."
"You were married to him for years."
"What a mistake that was."
"Did you know about my brother, Louis?"
"I don’t remember much. He died in Vietnam?"
"Yes. I was nine. I only knew I couldn’t stand it and didn’t want to feel it."
"You went numb?"
"I cried and cried the night we got the news. We’d gone fishing the day before he left to go over. On the day of the funeral, it was like I was drugged. The flag, the honor guard, the seven gun salute, the folding of the flag, ‘Taps’. . . It was June, very humid, and nearly a hundred degrees. There was a hot canvas tent covering the grave site, young girls bawling, offering flowers, the minister tried to comfort through words from the Bible, my parents, their lives mashed into pulp. Front page news in the local paper, first local boy killed, he volunteered, a college graduate, Louis Lindsey, Specialist Third Class, threw himself on a land mine to save his buddies, awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, posthumously. Came home in a body bag. They all blamed those goddamn Communists, but after Louis was lowered in the ground, blame didn’t matter. I felt only despair, like staring up at a cloudless sky at midnight somewhere out on the plains where there’s no lights, there’s only the thousands of needlepoint stars millions of light years away, and all that black universe between me and those stars, and it’s all rushing towards you, engulfing you. . . " Clendon trailed off. He tried to think of something else. "Would you like a back rub? It’ll fight the despair."
Shelley rolled over on her belly. He pulled the comforter away and massaged her back. Her breathing eased. He bent close to make sure she was sleeping and kissed her on her cheek. Clendon undressed and lay outside the sheet with the comforter over him, and rested his arm lightly on her hip as the downer rushed over him.
* * *
He was climbing the stairs again, but now the buckets were full of money—loose currency, $20’s, $50’s, and $100’s. The stairwell was dim and enclosed. He stubbed his toes and nearly tripped. After hours of stair climbing, he finally had gotten close to the top. It was windy and city lights sparkled across a vast plain to the horizon.
Brooks was standing at the top, arms outstretched, wearing a baby shit green Italian suit and a wide grin. He waved Clendon up. Something was stuck to his forehead. It was the $100 bill with a red hole in the center, blotting Franklin’s portrait. Brooks motioned for the buckets and Clendon held them out. Brooks’s face was gray-blue. He yanked the buckets from Clendon’s hands and tossed the money over the side of the building. Then Brooks shoved Clendon hard. Clendon tumbled in reverse somersaults down the stairs, but at the bottom of the first flight, Shelley caught him.
* * *
Clendon woke up shivering and shaking at gray dawn. Cool ocean air drifted through the window. He had kicked the comforter off and was lying uncovered on his back. Shelley snuggled against him, warm, most of the sheet still between them. Her hand lightly cradled his morning hard on. Clendon moved and slipped out of bed. She shifted and never woke.
* * *
When Clendon rolled over, Shelley was gone. Bright sunlight forced him awake. The bedside clock radio said it was past ten a.m. He looked out the window. Beyond the house tops and trees, the ocean gleamed silver-blue. He heard feet puttering downstairs, so he dressed in his stale clothes and went down.
Shelley was cooking breakfast in the kitchen and the aroma of percolating coffee, toast, frying eggs, potatoes, and sausages made him salivate. He mumbled good morning and Shelley smiled.
"I’m cooking this cholesterol mess up for you. I figured you’d eat it."
"You’re right. I’m starving."
"I normally never eat this, but I’m hungry this morning, too."
"How are you feeling?"
"I’m feeling alive. I’ve been jogging and went by the supermarket. I figured you’d be hungry."
"I never turn down home cooking."
"Sit down. The coffee’s ready. Orange juice, too?"
"Sure."
Clendon sat down in the breakfast nook. Shelley brought the coffee and juice over. He thought that there was something very erotic about a good-looking woman in tight pa
nts fixing him breakfast.
"Why don’t you go over to the hotel this morning, get your stuff and bring it over here," she said. "I want you to stay here."
When breakfast was ready, she brought the hot food over and joined him. Clendon ate and watched her eat. He liked the way she put the fork in her mouth and chewed her food.
"You have a small bruise over your eye this morning," Shelley said. "Does it hurt?"
"Only when I blink. How did you sleep?"
"Reds are wonderful. You?"
"I woke up once. From a dream. Do you know about dreams?"
"Some things. What about your dream?"
"I’ve been having it for over a year. I never told anybody before. Last night, it was the same dream, only different."
"Are you ever going to tell me about it?"
"I may have to."
* * *
After breakfast, Clendon called Brooks’s parents in Oklahoma. They were retired in a small town. Their number was written on the inside cover of Shelley’s phone book in Brooks’s penciled scrawl. Harv and Alice Boyd. Clendon wished he had a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him, half of it drunk. Shelley sat in the breakfast nook, sipped a third cup of coffee, and tried not to look at him as he used the kitchen phone. He touch-toned the number and it rang four times.
"Hello."
"Hello, Mrs. Boyd?"
"This is Mrs. Boyd."
The connection was excellent.
"Mrs. Boyd, this is Clendon Lindsey, an old friend of Brooks’s. Do you remember me?"
"Oh, yes, Clendon, of course, how are you?"
"I’m fine, Mrs. Boyd, fine. Is Mr. Boyd home?"
"No, Clendon, I’m sorry, he’s not home right now, he ran into town to go the post office. I expect him back in about half an hour."
"Ohh— " Clendon paused, wishing he hadn’t drunk all that coffee. "Mrs. Boyd, are you sitting down? I’m afraid I have some very bad news."
Silence.
Then, "I’m sitting. What is it?"
"Mrs. Boyd, Brooks has been killed in Santa Monica."
A longer silence. Then in a cracked voice, "Brooks has been killed?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"He was shot."
"Sweet Lord Jesus!"
There was a loud clunk from the other end, as if she had dropped the phone onto the floor. She came back on the line moaning “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus."
"Could you have your husband call me as soon as he gets back?"
Clendon gave her the number and made her repeat it back.
"That’s Brooks’s home number,” she said. “You’re at his house in California?"
"Yes."
* * *
Shelley and Clendon waited in silence, staring at nothing. Mr. Boyd called back in twenty minutes.
"There’s no way we’re taking Brooks back to Oklahoma for burial. He’s staying here," Shelley said when the phone rang.
Clendon picked up the phone.
"Hello, this is Clendon Lindsey."
"Clendon, our son’s been killed?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Boyd."
"How did it happen?"
"He was shot, Mr. Boyd, but the police don’t know much yet. You could call them, the Santa Monica Police Department."
"When are they sending him back to us?"
"Mr. Boyd, the plans are for services and burial here."
There was muffled talk with his wife. She said in the background, "My baby’s not coming home?"
"We just wanted Brooks home. He was our only child."
"I know. One moment, Mr. Boyd."
Clendon covered the mouthpiece with his hand and told Shelley what they’d said.
"I’m not going back to Oklahoma and go through all that hell," she said. "Let’s get it over with here."
"Jesus, Shelley, what’ll I say?"
"You’ll think of something."
Clendon spoke back into the phone.
"Mr. Boyd?"
"Yes."
"Shelley is destroyed by this too, and she’s been put under sedation. Maybe this afternoon she could talk to you."
Shelley widened her eyes and she violently shook her head "no."
"We’ve got to have Preacher Flood," Mrs. Boyd called out in the background.
"Mr. Boyd, I only came out here a few weeks ago to work for Brooks and I’m trying to figure out something that will satisfy everyone. They have to do an autopsy this afternoon so there’s nothing we can do for a while, anyway."
"We always liked you, Clendon."
"Thank you, Mr. Boyd."
"Let my wife and I talk this over and we’ll call you back in a few hours. Tell Shelley we love her."
When Clendon hung up, sweat was trickling from his armpits and down his sides. His fingers shook. He wanted a shot of good liquor.
"They said they loved you."
"The liars. They never liked me."
"They want some guy named Preacher Flood."
"I need a Valium."
"Shelley, are you addicted?"
"If I’m not, I should be. I have the legal rights to the body. We weren’t divorced."
"They have a simple need."
Shelley softened. “I know they’re in pain-- I’ll tell them I want Brooks buried out here close to me."
* * *
Clendon took a long shower in the downstairs bathroom. The pine scent was strong. A shower massage hose hung across the shower curtain so he hooked it up and blasted hot water against his face, eyes, forehead, and skull, as if that would bring him some insight. It didn’t.
He studied his stubbled face in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He decided to shave at the hotel where his kit was, so he put on his stale clothes one more time.
* * *
Shelley’s silver Volvo sat under the palm trees on a residential street, six blocks from where Clendon had found Brooks shot. She drove away with a grin and a wave, gunning her car around the corner. Clendon headed for the Santa Monica Freeway. The freeway was clear and he shot along at eighty. The BMW liked that speed, too, even with the busted window.
At midday the Hilton lobby was thick with businessmen. Clendon’s room had been made up, and it had that crisp hotel smell. He changed into the last clean shirt and pants that he had. He knew he should’ve sent his laundry out two days ago. He shaved, then collected his stuff, including his snakeskin boots, into his new travel bag.
Clendon avoided the bellmen and carried his bag out to the BMW, then returned to the front desk to check out. The desk clerk, a young blonde, presented him with the bill. Brooks’s American Express voucher was neatly filled out for the amount and the desk clerk waited for him to sign.
"Any problem, sir?"
"I’m not Brooks Boyd. I don’t think I can sign this. I was staying in this room, but he was paying for it."
"No problem. You’ve returned the key. We’ll just call for a signature-on-file authorization."
"Mr. Boyd couldn’t make it today."
"No problem. Here’s your receipt. Thank you for staying at Hilton and have a nice day."
"I’ll try."
Clendon folded the receipt and put it in his pocket. Standing twenty feet away and staring at him stood the tall man with the big ears he had seen talking to Brooks in the park. The man came up to him with a grin and an extended hand.
"You are Mr. Clendon Lindsey?"
The tall man stood about six foot four. Clendon thought he sounded Russian.
"Yes."
"Mr. Lindsey, I have a great need to talk to you, and I think you have a great need to talk to me."
Clendon’s getaway was blocked by a group of Japanese businessmen. They moved in slow unison, all wearing dark blue suits and carrying cameras around their necks.
"May we talk?" the tall man asked.
"A lot of people in this town know my name and I just got here. It makes me nervous."
"You d
on’t need to be nervous around me."
"Buy me a drink then, and we’ll talk."
They found a table in the bar where Clendon had drunk with Brooks. He looked around for the platinum blonde, but didn’t see her. He ordered a Jack Daniels straight up and drained it. The tall man sipped a glass of chardonnay. He was about forty. He had short, sandy hair, big, floppy ears and burning hazel eyes. He wore a dark sports jacket that didn’t fit him right.
"Mr. Boyd’s murder is a shock and it makes things very complicated."
"Yeah. Who did it?"
"Mr. Lindsey, I don’t know who did it, but I believe that you may know where the next briefcase is."
"I don’t know where the last briefcase is. Why do you think I know where the next one is?"
"There’s a difference between the last one and the next one."
"I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name."
"Fred."
Fred pulled out a small Manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket, took one 3 x 5 black and white glossy photograph out of the envelope, and showed it to Clendon.
"Do you know this man?"
The photo looked like a publicity shot of a corporate executive. The exec was about fifty, graying a bit, cheery, confident, and almost handsome.
"Never saw him in my life. Who is he, the richest cocksucker in town?"
"This man’s name is D. C. Lyman. Have you ever heard that name?"
"Never."
"If you are lying, Mr. Lindsey. . . "
"I don’t like being threatened."
"I am not threatening you. I need your help. I’m just giving you a friendly message."
"I bet you know what’s in the next briefcase."
Fred smiled. "Mr. Lindsey, you act cocky, but I think it is an act. If you don’t want to talk to me now, that is fine. I’ll be in touch."
Fred finished his wine, put a five on the table, and left. Clendon sat there, stared at his empty shot glass, and was glad he had already shaved.
* * *
When Clendon returned to the Palisades, he had no appetite. The Volvo was in the garage so he left the BMW in the driveway. Inside, Shelley was hanging up the phone after talking to her mother.
"My dad and mom are coming out," she said.
"That’s good."
"No, it’s not. My parents both drink like fish and there’s always a lot of screaming and yelling. That’s why I’m in California. I have to have the distance."
They sat in the breakfast nook. Clendon put his arm around her. After a minute, she pulled away and said, “It’s okay.” She went to pour them some iced tea.