L.A. Rotten (13 page)

I stay defiantly in my seat. “And go where? Do what? We're safer here in public than anywhere else, and he's holding all the cards. He could snipe us off anytime he wants. We can worry all the time, or we can choose to play the game and not worry about every little thing. I told you—he gave me dope. If he wanted me dead, he would have done it that way.”

She drops back down in her seat. “You got high again? I thought you were going to quit!”

“What's it matter to you? I'm an asshole anyways.”

“Quit using that as an excuse.”

I turn my attention back to the game but I can feel her eyes on me still.

“How can you be so calm about all this?” she asks.

“I think a part of me wants him to kill me.”

She looks away but evidently finds me to be the only thing worth looking at.

“You hurt my feelings so fucking bad that morning. Normally when someone fucks me over like that, I get angry, I punch shit, I break stuff—but not that morning. When you left, I cried my fucking eyes out. So much for my dad's lessons, huh?”

I turn back to her. “Look, you don't want anything to do with me—just let's leave it at that, okay?”

“You made me feel like it was my fault.”

“It wasn't.”

“I don't believe you,” she huffs.

“I'm a mess.”

“I believe that.”

“I mean, really.”

“I know, Tom—but do you think I'm any better off?”

“I think you're a lot better off than me.”

“Do you know what these tattoos are all about?” she asks, lifting her arm.

“Well, hmm…your name is Ivy, and that looks like a shitload of ivy…so I'm gonna guess…you're desperate for strangers to think you're edgy.”

“Shut up. Besides, my name is Nicole.”

“Doesn't anybody in this town use their real name? I really am Tom, for the record.”

“Ivy is my stage name.”

“See, that's funny—Nicole is my stage name.”

“Remind me why I like you?”

“I didn't think you did after you punched me.”

“I'm here, aren't I?”

“Alright, so what's with the tattoos?”

“It's something my dad used to say when I was growing up—instead of saying he had ‘skeletons in the closet,' he'd say he had ‘spiders in the ivy.' ”

“What are your spiders then?”

“I moved out here when I was sixteen. Got a fake ID that said I was eighteen because there was no way anyone would believe I was twenty-one. I wanted to get a job dancing in rap videos.”

“How lofty.”

“Fuck you. It seemed like the most girly thing I could do—that's where my mind was. I wanted as far away from my dad's memory as I could get. Anyways, that shit didn't work out, but the girl I was rooming with at the time, the peanut butter girl, she was a photographer for a porn site. She talked me into posing for her one month when I was short on the rent. It was easy, so I did it. She turned around and sold them for more than she thought she could, so I suddenly became ‘in demand.' Somewhere along the way, I did a movie.” She points to an orange spider with black zigzag stripes near her wrist. “I was so ashamed; I said I wouldn't do another one. But then I came up short on rent again—way short. Each one of the spiders represents a film I did, eleven in all. The last one—it was even called
Anal Fissures #11
—they weren't kidding. I had to go to the emergency room and have my asshole sewed back together after my scene. That's why eleven is my unlucky number. Fuck eleven. Afterwards, I couldn't walk, sit, or lie on my back for weeks. They needed to do reshoots, but I couldn't, so they scrapped my scene and didn't pay me. It was the last time I cried—until I met you.” Ivy extends her arm to showcase a fresh-looking black widow spider that instead of an hourglass has a biohazard symbol emblazoned across its abdomen. “This one is new,” she says. “It's you.”

I don't let that sink in. “If you want to be so far from your dad's memory, why all the spiders then? Don't you think of him every time you look at your arm?”

“Some things you learn you just can't escape—you know that. Besides, I have memories of my father permanently on my arm already. The tattoos do their part to cover those up.”

“I got nothing.” I shrug.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what can I say after an admission like…all of that?”

“How about ‘I'm sorry I left you'?”

“I'm not.” I take one of her peanuts and crack it, then throw the whole thing down.

“That's why you're a spider.”

“You know what? I don't think I'm a bad person.”

“Bad people never do.”

“Do you think I am?”

“No.”

I reach for another peanut but she pulls the bag away. “Are you going to waste it?”

“Probably. I do that a lot.”

“One day, Tom, you're gonna realize that I'm good for you.” She offers the peanut bag, but I don't want one now.

“One day you'll realize I'm not good for you.”

“I hope that day doesn't come for a long time.”

I shake my head. “You forgive too easy.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Sounds like we'll find out.”

“Don't act so cool.” She squeezes my arm.

“So, do I call you Nicole now?”

“No, Nicole is dead. It's just Ivy now.”

The Dodgers miraculously win one and Randy Newman's “I Love L.A.” blares over the loudspeakers.

Ivy wants to come home with me; I tell her it's not a good idea, but that doesn't mean I don't want her to. She persists, though, and I am quietly relieved. I pass the freeway exit for her apartment and keep driving until we pull onto my street, which is lit up in flashing reds and blues.

“Fuck.”

“Turn around.”

“No, I gotta see what this is about.”

“He set you up!”

“Maybe.”

I park a block away and tell Ivy to take my car. “If I go down on this, you can keep it.”

“I'm coming with you. I'm your alibi.”

“Guys like me don't get alibis.”

“Don't be macho.”

Detective Stack is waiting for me in the lobby with a police sergeant. It's a good bet that the other officers are upstairs, turning out my room.

“See, Sergeant? I told you he'd show up,” Stack says to the officer when I walk in with Ivy beside me.

“Does she need to come too?” Stack asks me.

“No,” I tell him, and shake free of Ivy's grasp.

“He's innocent,” Ivy snaps at the detective.

“Now, why would she say that?” Stack asks anyone but Ivy.

“Everyone's going,” the sergeant decides, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

“Separate cars.”

“You heard what he said,” Stack sneers coldly, pulling out his own set of cuffs. “You couldn't resist, could you? You killed the daughter and you had to have the father as a notch on your belt too, huh? Tom Tanner, you're under arrest for the murder of Hank Kelly.”

Stack sets me up in a room that is two parts thin blue carpeting, one part table and chairs. “You going to beg for an attorney?” he carps as he turns to leave the room.

“No.”

“Good.”

He comes back after twenty minutes and takes the seat across from me. “Anything you say or do…” he reminds me, pointing to a mounted security camera in the corner that is also wired for sound.

He turns professional for a moment. “Tom Tanner, you have been placed under arrest on suspicion for the murder of Hank Kelly. Have you fully been advised of your rights, and do you fully comprehend them?”

“Yes.”

“Yes to both?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He spreads his hands before me. “So you killed a cop tonight—a major boo-boo. If I were you, I'd start talking.”

“Ex-cop. And the girl was right, I'm innocent.”

“You know a trixie like her isn't going to work as an alibi. All tatted up like that? What is she, a hooker?”

“How did Hank Kelly die?”

“You tell me.”

“I have no idea.”

“You realize that—not that it matters—but I'm going to tell the DA that you're being a hardass.”

“That's fine. I'm innocent.”

“So you said. Hank Kelly was shot outside his home tonight by a…masked assailant.”

“Tonight?” I try not to visibly relax. “What time?”

“Eight forty-seven p.m. I've got several witnesses who heard the shots, and one lady who saw everything.”

“Is Julie Kelly alright?”

“How kind of you to ask. She's fine. Don't dance around this one, Tanner. Just confess and make everyone's life a little easier.”

“Except Hank Kelly's.”

“Keep jawing, numbnuts.”

“Go and get the broadcast tape of tonight's Dodger game. Me…and…my girl…we were there all night. Right behind home plate.”

“Don't feed me this shit,” Stack grumbles. “You sneaky cunt. Wait here.”

I can feel the agitation exuding from the detective as he bangs up from the desk and out of the room. Unable to help myself, I look up into the video recorder and smile. The whole ride down to the station I'd been sick to my stomach for trusting A. Guy. Now, I can't help but admire him a little bit; he is damn good at being creepy. Sure, the cops will fuck me over on my drug habit, but a parole violation is shit compared to what I'd been facing. And besides, when they find what is left of my rig, they will also find all A. Guy's letters. Hell, I might even walk on the drug charges.

It is three hours later when Detective Stack walks back in to find me just as he left me. “Was I lying?”

“I'm not letting you off that easy, you smug cunt.”

“You use that word too much…it's probably why you're not married.” I nod to the absence of a ring on his left hand.

Stack momentarily and instinctively balls the hand and then releases it. “Think you're smart, huh? What, you have one of your jailbird buddies pull this off in exchange for some head?”

“If this goes to court, I'm going to make my attorney replay that last line over and over. It'll fly real well with a jury.”

“How'd you pay for those tickets?”

“I didn't—I was the lucky tenth caller on a radio show. Look, I didn't have shit to do with this; I proved that to you already. So do you have anything else you need to talk with me about or can I go?”

“It sure is convenient that you happened to be seated front and center on national television when the guy that you alone have a motive for killing gets gunned down.”

“Well, now that you mention it,” I say, nodding, “yeah, it is pretty convenient. Can I go?”

“I'm going to bury you for this, you realize that, right?”

“Don't let this vendetta against me shade your judgment, Detective. There's a bad man running around out there right now, and it sounds to me like you don't have shit on him.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you right back.”

His calculated policeman's rage is replaced with genuine seething dislike. It's fine; I don't like him either. And if he isn't smart enough to find A. Guy's letters, I'm not going to hand them over. Finally, Detective Stack holds the door open to let me out. “Oh…and can that ‘my girl' shit, slugger,” he sneers as I walk past. “We found your stash. Prison can change a guy, right?” I stare quizzically, but he doesn't elaborate or try to detain me, so I keep moving.

Ivy appears casual when I find her sitting in the lobby. “How'd it go?” I ask.

She stands, nonchalant, and slides her arm into mine. “Beats a Pap smear.”

I insist that the cabbie drive Ivy to her apartment, against Ivy's protests. “My place is going to be a mess,” I tell her somewhat tongue in cheek, but she doesn't know this. “And I'm going to flip out about it. When I do, I want to be alone.” She insists on kissing me goodbye, but I turn my head at the last second so she can only connect with my cheek. “Fucker,” she chides, and stays in the cab. “Call when you're done freaking out.”

My apartment is just as pathetically ravaged as I figured it would be. The kitchen drawers are pulled out of the counters to reveal their barren shells, cabinets are splayed open to reveal I have no dishes, and the ice cube trays that came with the refrigerator that came with the apartment are tossed carelessly on the counter, the ice within now just a wet memory. I'm sure if I had a goldfish, the cops would have tossed it in the garbage disposal. The living room is even worse: they unscrewed the glass lampshade on my overhead light and left it, with the bolt, next to a couple of old books they'd leafed through. I am a ghost of a person living in a cave with no personality and few possessions other than those on my back and the equipment it takes to inject poison into my veins.

In the bedroom, my clothes have been pulled from the drawers and closet. The thick, unpainted dowel that serves as a crossbar in my closet has been popped free and inspected to ensure it is, in fact, whole. My mattress, akimbo from the box spring, hangs off just enough to reveal a stack of gay porno mags piled beneath it. On the cover of the top one, someone has drawn a telltale happy face over the man's head.
Motherfucker
. So that's what Stack meant about finding my “stash.”

Curiously, my cigar box and any trace of my habit are not to be found. I move into the bathroom, where I've stockpiled A. Guy's previous letters in a drawer next to the sink. The drawer has been pulled out in the search and left upside down on the bathroom rug. When I flip it over, it's empty. Either the cops seized them or A. Guy did. Neither scenario makes me particularly happy. I'd anticipated being embarrassed from discovering my home in this state and knowing that the cops knew just how empty my life was; instead, I find I am just curious about what A. Guy is up to with all of this, and what he is planning next.

A sudden, frenzied knock on my front door kicks me back to consciousness and I realize there's daylight outside my window. I'd only managed to throw the mattress back on my bed before I'd evidently fallen asleep on it. The minimalist “mess” of my living room shocks me back to the events of the previous evening. “Who's there?” I ask, and stand, barely awake. My pants and shoes are obnoxiously out of reach at the moment, and so I attend to the knocking in my boxer briefs and a T-shirt. A quick glance through the keyhole tells me nothing, and I've got a very simple choice to make.
Is this the police? Or is it A. Guy?
I swing the door open wide and am suddenly inundated by the unblinking focus of a video camera's flood lens. A wispy man in tweed steps in from the left and places a microphone before my mouth.

“Tom Tanner, what can you tell us about Hank Kelly's death?”

I slam the door forcefully, before the reporter can jam his foot in to block it, and, for good measure, lock the security chain. Through the wood, I can hear the man running spiel for a bullshit news piece. I am fully awake now and want to do something—throw water on them or yell “Fuck off” through the door, but I will be mercilessly crucified in the court of public opinion for it. Not that it matters, I suppose. Every pundit who will weigh in on the matter will decide that I orchestrated the murder of an innocent, God-fearing family man.

In the end, I begin cleaning up the dissected remnants of my apartment and let the reporters do their job. It's times like these I'm happiest I never bothered to shell out for a television.

After a couple minutes of putting my apartment back together, I lean up against the door and take a listen—nothing. Slowly I pull open the door and take a glance; the hallway is empty and they've gone.

Pulling up short of the Trauma-Gone office, I find that the news crew has only relocated—and multiplied. Several news vans await my presence with their cameramen and reporters standing around chatting, bored. Among them, I recognize the duo from my hallway. I park down the street and keep a low profile as I move behind the vans and toward headquarters. I emerge briskly into view and there is a murmur into a roar as the news folk scramble to get activated. Bulky, shoulder-mounted video cameras switch on as the reporters, gripping wireless mikes, move to intercept me. Male and female voices call my name, pleading for me to look in their direction, answer their questions, make a statement, but I am inside the office and pulling the sturdy door shut behind me before anyone can intercept. Harold looks up from the computer.

“What you do to me, Tom?”

“I didn't do anything!”

“We didn't even get contract for cleanup here. This job go to CleanMasters.”

“I don't think the Kellys would hire us, regardless.”

“Tom, did you do this?” It was the most clear and articulate English I'd ever heard out of the little Asian.

“No.”

“I don' know what to do now. I said I'd fight for you…this puts me in bad place. People call all morning—they want me fire you. They call me bad man. Me!” He rubs his head with his hands and I can see he is severely affected by the public's perception of him and his business. I have the sudden inkling that he
is
going to fire me. After a moment of quiet introspection, Harold finally looks back up at me.

“I stick with you, Tom. Since you have come, you do good work. Make this company grow. I believe you, Tom.” Harold makes it a point to come around the desk and offer me a big handshake, which I accept gratefully.

“We'll get through this,” I find myself saying, and I am genuinely glad to have him in my corner.

“Of course.” He suddenly continues, eyes downcast and ashamed, “We have to take some off you paycheck…help with new expenses.”

I don't know what new expenses could be accrued from all of this, but I nod. “I understand.”

“Oh, yes,” Harold exclaims, hurrying back around the desk, the shame completely vanished. “Your parole officer…he call here. He want you to call right away.”

Fuck
. It isn't yet time for my monthly check-in with Duane, so that means he evidently has been watching the news. There is also a very good chance that Harold's continued faith in me might be moot—Officer Caruzzi can revoke my parole anytime he wants; I could be headed back to jail.