A Good-Looking Corpse (25 page)

“You better hope that death tour business has a boat,” I gasp.

Mikey, his face a wrecked ball of meat, drops down forward onto my legs and sickeningly, I feel the blood spilling into my jeans, sliming against my skin. I use my free hand to push the body off as Ivy runs to me.

“Tom, Tom, Tom” it sounds like she is saying, but I realize she is just crying in great, sucking sobs. “Please be okay,” she begs, steadying me upright. I hadn't even realized I'd slouched over.

“You know,” I say, “I'm thinking you should meet my parents after all. Suddenly, my family situation doesn't seem quite so fucked up.” I gasp, trying for a reassuring smile. Ivy lifts my shirt up and away from the wound, kneeling in the muck from Mikey's excavated facial cavities, not caring that her bare legs are soaking in the mess of brain bits, skin, and body fluids. “Bad day for short shorts,” I try again.

“Just shut up, Tom,” she says through her tears. She wipes at the blood on my side, but more replaces it. “How do I stop this?” she asks.

“You don't,” I say.

“You can't leave me, Tom, tell me what I can do to stop this,” she begs.

“No, I'm serious,” I persist. “The bullet is stuck in there, probably cauterized the wound. Looks bad but the blood isn't flowing near fast enough to be fatal. As long as we don't fuck with it, it should be okay.”

“But there's so much coming out,” she says, not buying my explanation.

“Gunshot wounds tend to bleed,” I say, but am in too much pain to shrug. I actually don't know the severity of the wound. It hurts but I can also tell that I am in shock, and can't feel the real extent of it. I really could die from this, I know, but there's no sense in Ivy spending this time with me frantic and worrying.

“I need you to go up to the radio,” I say, effecting a calm but stern demeanor, uncertain if it will really matter for me in the end. “Call the Coast Guard. Channel 16—it's like 9-1-1 on the ocean. Tell them to get a helicopter out here. Tell them time is a factor.”

She returns after a bit, and seems hopeful. “They're on their way.”

“Hold my head,” I ask her. She does so, putting her bloodied hands up to guide me down onto her shoulder, the mess getting into her hair and onto her face. “One last thing…for me. Whether I make it out of this or I don't.”

“What's that?” Ivy asks, anxious.

“Detective Stack. Get ahold of him. Tell him I want the favor he owes me to be keeping you and me out of this. Whatever he has to do, I don't want the reporters finding out we were involved. At all. Tell him to make our names disappear from the reports.”

“I'll do that, but only if you promise not to die here.”

I feel myself beginning to lose consciousness but there's no reason that should come into play now. “We'll let things happen and go from there,” I tell her and then change the subject to something I can control. “So we have a name if it's a boy, but what do we do if the baby's a girl?”

A calming haze settles over me as we sit there, my girl and I, the salt air thick in the cabin, the stink of things not yet permeating my nostrils. I smile, happy it's over, maybe all of it. I don't really know—it's not my problem anymore, at least. Ivy is talking but I don't hear a word of it. Outside of my control, my eyelids flicker and close, leaving me to dream of what comes next.

Death, which I always imagined as a stopping of consciousness—merely ceasing to exist, instead looks a lot like the stark white confines of a hospital room. I attempt to move and there is surging pain from my side, so I content myself to remain in one position and let my eyes scan the room. There are two people, a man and a woman, having a lively discussion at the foot of my bed. My eyes water and I move my hands to clear them, producing an excited gasp that is instantly recognizable to me—
Ivy
. The man, an older gentleman, stands over me as well now, observing me through eyes that are less foggy than my own. He seems pleased by what he sees, but it's less Ivy's squeal of excitement and more an officious “Welcome back.” The doctor no doubt, because who else would it be wearing a long white lab coat, but this voice too seems familiar. As my eyes focus further, the features of my father, aged considerably since I last saw him ten years ago, become apparent.

“What the hell?” I murmur.

Ivy laughs happily, anxiously, and moves forward to softly rub at my cheek. My right hand, searching, finds hers and grasps it, holding it tight. My other hand slides down to force against the pain and push my body up into a seated position. “What is this?” I persist, grimacing from the belly wound.

“It's a hospital,” she explains. “You've been shot.”

“What hospital?” The bank of fog settled over my brain is stubbornly refusing to dissipate.

“Cedars-Sinai. I demanded you be airlifted here. You kept mumbling that name when you were passed out on the boat.”

“Sensible choice.” My father nods. “The best surgeons in Southern California operate here.”

“Did you operate on me?” I ask my estranged dad, feeling nervous through my drowsiness.

“Medical ethics dictate that I can't operate on family members, but then, I don't exactly have a son,” he says soberly, and I recall enough of his dry commentary to know this is about as close as he gets to a joke.

“Thanks,” I offer.

“Can you believe this is your dad?” Ivy gushes. “He's been in to check on you constantly.”

“That's what I would do for any patient,” Dr. Stanley Tanner chides Ivy. “That's proper bedside protocol.”

“Christ, you two are similar,” she retorts.

“Not too similar,” both my dad and I say in unison.

“Your mom wanted to come in and see you, but she wasn't sure if you wanted that,” my dad continues. “I figured I'd let you decide. She's in the waiting room, worried about you though, if that matters.”

“I must be dead,” I mutter and feel at the bandaged area on the side of my abdomen. “How's the baby?” I ask, the motion jogging a memory.

“It's fine. It's part Tanner, so it is tough,” Ivy says happily. “Too tough, maybe.”

“I've got other patients to check on,” my dad interjects, obviously still uncomfortable with the potential for a nice family moment. “What should I tell Judy?”

I look to Ivy, who is clearly beaming about the potential of this family reconciliation that she gets to be involved in. “Send Mom in.” I nod.

He exits, his hand grazing my foot in a sort of reassuring way—at least, that's how I choose to take it.

“I'm glad you're alive,” Ivy whispers to me, putting her face right down to mine. “This is all so exciting.”

“Glad you're having a good time.” I lift my lips into a pained smile. “I kept my part of the deal and didn't die, right?”

“And I kept my part too.” She nods. “Detective Stack said we're out of it. There won't be any mention of us connected to any of this in the official reports or the papers. He also said that this makes you two even—and now you can leave him alone.”

“Crime in L.A. is too messy for that; I'm sure he'll need us again—or vice versa. But it's nice to not have to worry about the media and whether they think I'm a good guy or a bad guy.”

“Yeah, you're just a regular guy for now,” she says, kissing my forehead. “You can just be this city's hero in secret.”

“Until the next time the shit hits the fan, that is.” I smile.

“Let's turn the fan off for a while,” Ivy says. “At least until you get better?”

“I couldn't have said it better myself.” I lie back down on my pillow to relieve the pressure on my wound.

“Do you want to watch some TV while you rest?” Ivy asks, reaching for the TV remote connected to my hospital bed.

“Don't,” I implore her. “I'm over Hollywood for a while.”

To Ben, the kind of brother who'd help you bury bodies

First, I absolutely have to thank my beautiful, wonderful, caring, and patient wife, Kerry, who puts up with my narcissism and golden-hued centaur-like awesomeness.

And a big thank-you to the readers who have returned to continue reading of the adventures of Tom Tanner. You are some of my favorite people and I can't speak highly enough of you. Obviously my agent, Ann Collette, gets a big shout-out for her continued dedication to helping me learn not to suck at writing. I've come a long way, I promise.

In particular, I need to give high praise to my two editors on this project—first, Dana Isaacson, who believed in the adventures of Tom and Ivy, probably more than I did. He was the architect, shepherd, and gatekeeper for
A Good-Looking Corpse
and I am thrilled that I know him. Anne Speyer had the thankless task of getting this manuscript into fighting shape and she did so terrifically. I hope I get to continue working with both of these people in some form or another for years to come.

Here I have to give a special shout-out to Steve Hamilton—he loves reading more than anyone I know and he deserves to see his name in print as much as any of us. Thanks, boss. And what the hell, Luke can have a mention as well.

A Good-Looking Corpse

L.A. Rotten

The Dead Janitors Club

PHOTO: MAC APPLEBAUM

J
EFF
K
LIMA
knows more about dead matter than is probably healthy. A lover of cigars and danger, he will probably be dead matter soon enough. Having previously written for NewMediaRockstars, the Huffington Post, and Girls and Corpses, among others, Jeff honed his knowledge of all things morbid by cleaning up crime scenes for a living. He sometimes misses the work.
A Good-Looking Corpse
is his third book.

jeffklima.wordpress.com