Hard Bite (10 page)

Unnoticed, I watch the choreography of the girls and boys laughing, running, pushing and playing in the schoolyard. The scene takes me away to the time before... Damn it, I'm sinking into the past. I'm powerless to stop it. The time before...

My wife, Sarah comes up behind me as I'm working on the computer and leans against me. I can smell her shampoo, the clean soap on her clothes, warm and female. I inhale to make it last.

She sees what I'm surfing on the internet and her body stiffens, No, it's not porn. It's the Los Angeles news, traffic reports section. "You need to stop this," she says.

I don't say anything. I click to a new screen.

Her voice rises, "I said you need to stop."

"Why. It gives me something to do."

"Because you need to move on." Her voice gets shrill. "We need to move on."

I pull away from the screen to look at her. I don't say, "I can't" but she already knows. That I can't rest until I find that man. Until I hunt him down and make him pay. I didn't know at the time, that I'd get to a place where other people would pay too. Any hit and run drivers. Anybody I could make pay, would pay.

She searches my face and then her voice comes low and bitter—more than I've ever heard from a woman before. "She's dead, Dean, she's dead. Revenge won't bring her back."

My wife sees the brick wall behind my eyes. A realization sweeps over her—I can't let go. I'm not the same man. Her husband doesn't live here anymore. Sarah runs from the room with a hand over her mouth.

Sarah still tried. The next morning out came the packing boxes. She wasn't leaving. She was packing Heidi away.

I wanted to grab the toys from her hands, but I didn't. I didn't let on. The frilly canopy bed that I had thought ridiculous before, during and after purchase, was stripped of its pink bedspread and ruffly pillows. Every picture, every figurine taken down and wrapped in paper was a piece torn from my chest. By the time the room was dismantled, so was my heart. I still lived and breathed, but the feeling part of me had been taken out and packed in one of those boxes, with the ribbons and china dolls from a little girl's life. It's a good thing. At least I know where that part of me is.

The school bell brings me back to present tense, and like a strip of film in reverse, the spilling, laughing children line up and disappear back inside the school. The doors clang shut and I'm alone once more on the sidewalk.

I really need to kill again. Soon.

I wheel a few blocks away to a quiet cul-de-sac. I hadn't planned on making the call right now, or even today, but I've certainly rehearsed it in my head a hundred times. With difficulty I maneuver the phone by myself. A woman picks up. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Marshall? Marilyn Marshall?"

"Yes."

"You don't know me, but I want to say how sorry I am about your husband. I feel your loss... from the day it happened."

I can hear her breathing. She's listening and I'm speaking from my heart. "Mrs. Marshall, would it give you some peace if they caught the man who hit and killed Dan?"

A light gasp. "Yes, but the police said—"

"The police don't know." I can hear her mind turning over in the silence. Is this a nut? No, he sounds real. He doesn't sound like he means harm. He knows Dan's name. "Tell me," she says with finality. "Please."

"The man who killed Dan is dead. He can't hurt anyone ever again."

She doesn't weep. She is not shocked. A small comfort settles into her voice. "Thank you.... How do you know?"

"Because I did it. Goodbye Mrs. Marshall."

An hour's gone by since Blattlatch dropped me off. Cinda is probably at the apartment by now. I roll for home and cross at the light so I'm on the same side of Washington as the Baja Cantina, a local watering hole and eatery. Right behind the building is a tiny, rehabbed slum from the 1950s now featuring some of LA's most exclusive real estate called the Venice canals..

All of a sudden there's a "ping" on the back handle of my chair and a chunk blows out of a giant palm tree. Behind the palm is the cantina. Patrons on the patio scream and throw themselves every which way. In the street, a Silverado fishtails around and I see two guys silhouetted inside, one with a rifle—just before the truck leaps the sidewalk headed right at me. Unbelievably, the rear bumper hooks a parking meter and stops it cold. Inside the truck cab, the rifle goes off, blowing a hole in the roof.

Driver throws the truck in reverse and rocks the tranny back and forth to unhook the bumper. The passenger-sniper jumps out, stalks to the side of the truck and aims his AR-15 at my head. This is it. I close my eyes to make it easier. For him not me. Instead of a gunshot there's a great, grinding scrape. My eyes open as the truck leaps free and catches the front of the rifle. It throws the sniper to the ground and another shot goes wild, prompting a fresh chorus of screams from the restaurant. KEERASHHH! The Silverado plows through empty tables and chairs, deadheading into the palm with the chunk already blown out of it. Driver abandons ship, hauls the sniper to his feet and both men take off on foot toward the canals. Sirens scream in the distance.

I haven't had time to panic, but the sirens remind me maybe I don't want to hang around. Nobody's crawling out from inside the restaurant quite yet, so I roll for home. I know two things:

Somebody is trying to kill me.

Cinda is going to be pissed.

***

"SOMEBODY'S TRYING TO KILL YOU??!! WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE."

"I think we should stay in. Listen to the sirens out there. What if we get stopped?"

"Who ARE those guys?"

"They didn't leave a card."

She's overwrought and I'm obviously not helping. Cinda goes to the window and peers both ways.

"What are you looking for?"

"To see if they're closing the street. I CAN SEE COPS."

She wants to see farther in the direction of the cantina and before I can say, "Don't touch the window," she throws it open. A streak of fur flashes past her, takes a giant leap off the sill and lands on the phone wire that extends from this building, right outside my window, to the telephone pole across the street. The wire bobbles under Sid's weight.

"Sid, NO," Cinda wails.

Hearing the word NO, Sid pirouettes to face us, stretches his body erect and raises both arms. He jumps on the wire, defiant. For good measure he rolls his lips back and sneers.

"Sid, Sidney come here," I say in a calm voice, rolling closer to the window. I use the same calm voice to say to Cinda, "So the cops come here, so what? We'll deal with it."

Cinda slides cross-legged to the floor and holds her head with both hands. "Talk! I can't talk, I got priors." A summer storm of tears.

It's true what she said about cops coming. Two patrolmen are pounding the sidewalk headed this way. My eyes fly back to Sid, bouncing like a maniac over traffic five stories down. One slip and Sid's road kill. He sees me looking and shows his behind before venturing farther out on the wire. A cream-colored convertible Mercedes is approaching from the beach, and a thought occurs to me.

"BAD MONKEY," I say, shaking my finger.

Sid hops further along the wire, out over traffic and right above the oncoming path of the Mercedes. The driver, a west-side type in Grace Kelly headscarf and dark glasses slows down, confused by the sirens and cops on the sidewalk.

"Sid, get back in here, you little SHIT," I holler. The magic word. Holding the wire with just one hand, Sid lowers his whole body down, dangling over the cars. As the convertible glides underneath, he lets go a load of monkey-poop. The poo plops onto the passenger-side cream-leather seats spattering the driver. She slams on her brakes and a 20-year-old battered Camry with a surfboard on the top climbs up her bumper. CRAAK! Sid turns tail with a screech and scoots back in the window. I slam it shut.

"LET'S GO," I bark.

One final glimpse out the window. The Camry's hood is smoking, the Mercedes lady is screaming. Cops hustle across the street to take names.

Cinda wipes her tears, looks at me. "Throw monkey chow in a sack," I order. "Grab my pills. We're gone."

***

Nobody's in the elevator. Enough mischief made for now, Sid is silent inside his canvas carrier with the flaps rolled down tight. He can't see out, nobody sees in. We ride silently to the parking level where Cinda's '98 Trans Am Firebird sits in a guest spot. I slide in the front while she breaks down my chair and loads it in the truck. Sid and the carrier go on the floor of the backseat. The trunk closes with a thunk, and Cinda hustles around to the drivers' side. I steal a look at her face as she jabs the key in the ignition. Eight cyls rumble to life.

"Just take it slow," I murmur.

Thankfully the garage exits onto a side street. We make a left on Clune, heading north. We're going away. I have no idea where, but we're going.

***

By Ocean Boulevard the breathing is easier. I know better than to ask questions. Cinda probably needs time to think and I have no ideas. In a while we're on the outskirts of Beverly Hills. Then we're
in
Beverly Hills. Houses morph into estates and grand palazzos. We turn into Bel Air and climb into palace territory. Unimpressed, I know we'll be pulling into an empty lot with a tent and a porta-potty any minute. The Firebird slows and takes a hard right at the gate of Pebley Mansion.
The
Pebley Mansion. Where they film movies. Where old man Pebley throws fancy balls that raise hundreds of thousands for charity. There are photos of Jennifer Lopez and Arnold Schwarzenegger quaffing champagne in the great hall.

Cinda pulls up to the callbox. My mouth drops. Instead of buzzing she digs in her purse and pulls out a makeup bag. She smooths powder over her nose and glosses her lips. Then she puffs her hair with a comb. Then she punches a code into the discreet callbox. My mouth drops lower. Nothing happens. We wait.

My eyes roam over the grey Welsh slate of the mansion's turrets. Didn't I read old man Pebley made his money in armaments?

The callbox snaps. "Si Miss Cinda. Helloooo."

Iron gates swing wide. The Firebird crackles onto gravel. Over the velvet lawn a custodian approaches. Cinda throws her elbow out the window and dazzles with a smile. "Hi Juan."

"Miss Cinda,
com estai
? Mr. Pebley no here. He in Tuscany."

"I know, Juan. I'm going to be in and out for a few days. Got some new stuff for the room." She puts emphasis on the room like it's a secret handshake. Then she pops out of the car, fishes around in the backseat and pulls out Sid's carrier. She sets it on the roof of the car and rolls up one side of the canvas so Juan can look through the mesh window underneath.

"This is Sid," she purrs. Sid blinks bleerily.

The custodian lifts his chin and drops it back in place. His eyes roll from Sid to me and back to Cinda. He waves his hand like he's chasing away a bad smell.

"Welcome to Pebley Mansion."

The Firebird crunches ahead on the gravel, past the entrance with its double staircase made of stone, past the east flank of the house twinkling with lead-pane windows. We drive all the way around to the back where a plain wooden door is set in a limestone wall. Cinda rummages through her bag. Down in the depths she finds a skeleton key.

Sid and I get ourselves unloaded with Cinda's help and the skeleton key unlocks the door. It creaks open like the lid on Bella Lugosi's casket. It's pitch dark and instead of flicking a light switch, Cinda dives into the purse, again, brings up a lighter and fumbles with some kind of torch affair on the wall. Firelight glances off the walls and there's a lot to see. Shackles and weapons on the walls, a medieval torture rack, a human-sized cage, a medical gurney with a strait jacket laid out and plenty of whips and chains lying around. This is old man Pebley's personal play dungeon. Cinda tosses a smile over her shoulder at me. "Hi honey, we're home!"

***

Midnight. Neck deep in water under a boat slip in one of the Venice canals, Luis takes a deep breath and nudges Mateo.

"Think it's safe now."

"What about the truck?"