McKuen’s Revenge (2 page)

Eddie sat up straight and squared his shoulders. A plan was coming together. Whatever the obstacle, that money was
his
.

2

Oblivious to the freeway racket below, Courtney Perez walked through Sears’ parking lot. Spring was only three weeks away. What she hoped was the last rainstorm of the season had passed. She smelled ozone, the day might be warm. She fingered her sweatshirt, tempted to take it off.

Courtney pulled open Sears’ back door. DeWalt tools were probably better than Sears’ Craftsman brand but Sears was here and waiting wasn’t an option. She needed a hammer drill and she needed it right now.

Her ceramics work had become famous and her efforts at metal sculpture equaled it.
Last
, a bronze colossus of hanging shapes with Courtney’s trademark—faces hidden under enamel finishes—graced the lobby of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

Celebrity was a nuisance. Her psychiatrist said she should work through public encounters, but seeking solitude in her studio was easier.

Maybe she could use her fame. She raised a finger at a lone salesman and frowned when he dashed past. She turned to the shelves, in disarray, boxes scattered. Slowing, she studied each.

Someone cleared her throat. Courtney looked over. She forced a smile, more like a grimace. She was working on it.

“Aren’t you Courtney Perez?” a young black woman said. Courtney looked down then forced her eyes higher.

“Yes,” she said in a small voice.

The young woman clasped her hands together. “
Last
is so beautiful.”

Courtney saw the nametag. “Do you work here?”

“Yes, yes I do.” The woman extended her hand.

Counting to three as her psychiatrist had asked her to, Courtney started to raise her hand. She couldn’t do it and tried again, pushing against Asperger’s syndrome and a lifetime of unease.

So hard. I can do anything I want, she repeated silently for the hundredth time. She touched the woman’s hand for half a second.

“Please, can you help me?” she said. “I just need a hammer drill. I need the best one. And I need to go.”

“Sure, sure.” The saleswoman scooped up a box and paraded to a register. “You know, if it wasn’t you, I couldn’ta helped you,” she said. “We’re not supposed to.”

Courtney was busy looking for her credit card. It was somewhere. Back pocket. She pulled it out and handed it over. The young woman smiled wide.

“Can I please have your autograph?” she said.

Courtney took a mental snapshot. The face would be embedded in a work of art someday. She scribbled her name on a piece of paper, then hurried to the exit carrying the box and receipt. She was doing better with people, but it was hard.

She hadn’t been paying attention when she parked. Maybe back toward the fence above the freeway? She walked that way, scanning the rows. She stopped to look for her key. A man brushed past. She followed him then wandered up another line of cars.

To her left she saw a flash of bright blond hair, a young woman cutting through the lot. With a severe ponytail, not a hair out of place, she wore a lightweight suede jacket and expensive jeans.

The man bleeped a remote. Courtney looked back at him. He slid behind the steering wheel. The blonde followed him and stood next to his car. He sensed somebody and looked to his left. Young and trim, the blonde was smiling. She motioned for him to roll down his window. He did, and smiled back.

Courtney was only a row away, direct line of sight.

The blonde pulled a gun from the small of her back, held it behind her and squatted. The man leaned toward her.

She raised the gun and shot him twice. Two neat red holes appeared.

The man’s head fell and banged on the window frame. Blood dripped.

Courtney dropped the box. Her legs had no feeling. She leaned on a car.

The blonde stood up, unscrewed something and pocketed it. She walked away, cut a diagonal route between cars and went into Sears.

Courtney saw the whole sequence. Just ten seconds but it seemed like an hour.

A storm of flashing images and fear crackled. She struggled to focus.

Her eyes jiggled and jumped but tracked the woman into Sears. She tried to get hold of herself.

Frozen, she debated. Tell the parking guard? Call 911? Her phone was in her car.

She turned, stunned. At the far end of the parking lot she saw the young blonde walk across the freeway bridge. Without thinking, she memorized the face. Then she memorized the outfit and gait—precise.

Her head was tight.

Oh, oh, oh! I need to lie down.

Courtney somehow found her car and unlocked it. She sat behind the wheel and stared at the sky, not seeing. Disoriented and dizzy, she wondered what to do.

_____

Steve McKuen ambled down the sidewalk on Lincoln, restless. He stopped at a liquor store for a licorice stick and strolled back to Tony’s.

Almost eight, a band was setting up. Dennis was negotiating with the guitarist. McKuen gave him a nod and headed for the office. A minute later, Dennis popped his head in, scanning.

“Seen my keys?” McKuen looked around. Dennis spotted the keys and walked in. His phone rang in his hand.

“Dennis.” McKuen saw his eyes go wide.

“When?” Dennis listened for thirty seconds. “OK, I’ll tell him.” He clicked off and faced McKuen.

“You know Jerry Esterhazy.”

“Florida Grill. Oh yeah, he picked up Terri’s a couple months ago.” Dennis nodded.

“That’s him. Shot in his car yesterday.”

“Shot? Like dead?”

“Like real dead.” Dennis’s mouth pulled to the side. “Don’t know if we got a problem.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you.” Dennis sat down. “That was a…confidential source, OK?”

“Yeah.” McKuen blinked, not sure if he wanted to know more. “SMPD?”

“Not Coil.” They both had history with Charlotte Coil of the Santa Monica Police Department. McKuen rolled a hand.

“Why me?”

“With Esterhazy buying Terri’s, now he had two bars going head-to-head with Tony’s and Bart’s.”

“Yeah right, like I’d shoot a guy ‘cause he’s a competitor.” McKuen almost laughed, but Dennis’s expression stopped him.

“Wait, they’re not serious.” McKuen was still adjusting to the shooting. Being a murder suspect was too alien.

“We might get a visitor, or we might just get scoped out,” Dennis said. McKuen looked at the floor, and nodded.

“Oh well, nothin’ I can do. What time yesterday?”

“Mid-afternoon.”

“Mmm, we were out in the Tesla.”

“No witnesses.”

“You’re my witness.”

“What if I supposedly helped you pull it off?”

“Oh, guess there’s that.” McKuen felt a small bead of sweat roll down his back. He stood up.

“Like I said, nothing we can do,” he said.

Dennis stood, too. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” McKuen looked him in the eye. He would count on Dennis if his life depended on it.

“Thanks, man.”

Dennis walked out the back door.

_____

The next morning Amy McKuen bustled into the kitchen.

“OK, I’m off. With any luck, I’ll finish writing midterms, oh, sometime tomorrow. What are you doing today?” She hooked her dark brown shoulder-length hair over her ear and made a face at her phone.

McKuen was finishing his coffee, looking out over Santa Monica Canyon; peaceful, serene, blue sky. He smiled at her.

“I could just sit here all day.” She looked up and laughed.

“Doubt it, you’ll think of something.” She mimicked his constant operating, adjusting and fine-tuning. “‘Oh, I forgot to do this. Oh, Dennis needs to do that.’”

Six feet tall, still wiry, he stood up. On tiptoe for a kiss, arms around his neck, she was grateful for the attention. It’s the little things.

“You really have to go to work?” he whispered to her cheek. She sighed.

“Yeah, Lee’s gotta take the kids to Disneyland, some special deal.”

“But she works for you, right?” He nuzzled her neck.

“I know, but…” She broke away from the heat. “You give your people all kinds of breaks.”

“I’ve seen you with the orchestra, The Boss.” He grinned. She put her phone in her briefcase.

“Going along works for me.” She looked up and smiled. “You like it, anyway. It’ll be OK.”

Hand on the doorknob, she glanced back. In tune with his feelings, she prayed his pain was fading. He might never get over it, but hopefully he’d moved on. She stepped into the garage, started her car and drove to UCLA.

A few hours later she drove into Westwood Village, humming one of the Eroica Variations. She’d been dreaming of a slice of cheesecake all day. She pulled into a parking garage. A van pulled into the next space, too close. She flattened herself against her car.

The van door slid open. A man in a ski mask pointed a gun.

“Get in,” he said. She raised her hands, purse dangling.

“I’m not screwing around,” the man said. “Get
in
.”

No options. She stepped up into the van. He moved back, pointing the gun, reached over and slid the door shut. She stood hunched over. Hands still raised, she looked around.

“Sit on that.” He gestured at an upside-down crate.

Amy sat, lowered a hand and pulled her skirt down. Trembling, she started to open her purse.

“I, I—”

“Stop it. Don’t move.” The gunman backed into the passenger seat, gun still leveled.

Nothing like this had ever happened. Steve’s past? He had told her some vague stories. Not a lot of detail, just enough to be scary. Those days were over, he said. Though she knew him as a kind, honest person, he admitted that years before he was technically a criminal.

She peered at the disguised man. He was wearing gloves and a cap. Maybe his eyes were brown.

“I have some questions,” he said. “The gun is to make sure you behave.” A faint accent, maybe U.S.-born, but he grew up in a Mexican-American community. Gun steady, he seemed to be in no hurry.

He squinted, inspecting the neckline of her cashmere sweater. “You wearing a necklace?”

“You want my jewelry?” She really didn’t want to hand over her wedding ring, her marriage to Steve hard-won.

“Are you wearing a necklace?” he said through clenched teeth.

Better not make him mad. “No.”

“Where is it?”

“At home,” she squeaked.

“We may go get it.”

They sat in silence. He turned the gun sideways and rested it on his knee. It looked like he was thinking.

Steve had insisted Amy learn to shoot. It took several arguments. She wasn’t convinced but he wore her down. She hated it, but he always went to the range with her. The safety was off. Better cooperate.

He raised his chin. “Have you opened the locket?”

She had a glimmer of understanding. Well
yeah
. She nodded.

“What was inside?” he said.

“An old picture.”

“Who was in the picture?”

She couldn’t help it. “Old people.”

The man sighed. “You need to take this seriously. I don’t want to shoot you.”

“OK OK,” she said. “It’s a picture of my husband’s former wife’s grandparents.”

“What else was in the locket?”

Now she was sure, definitely Steve’s past. He’d told her about a criminal who acquired the necklace and had it for years. The guy probably hid the slip of paper she found in the locket. She might stay alive if she were truthful.

“A piece of paper,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

“What was on the paper?”

“Letters and numbers.” He tensed.

“What did they say?”

“Nothing, it was just a bunch of letters and numbers.”

“OK, I want it. Your life depends on it. Let’s go get it. Sit in the passenger seat.”

“Wait. The paper isn’t in the locket. I gave to Steve, that’s my husband. He said he would put it…”

She didn’t know where he put it.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. He said he would put it in a safe place.”

The man was silent, thinking again. He raised the gun and pointed it. There was a cylinder at the end of the barrel.

A silencer. She started to shake.

“I’ll shoot you,” he said. “I will shoot you if I think you’re lying. I know who you are, I know who your husband is. So think carefully. Where’s the piece of paper?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t know!”

The man lowered the gun. He rested it on his knee again and glared at her. It seemed like an hour passed.

“Move to the door,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be right behind you.”

Back aching, legs stiff, she nudged herself up and moved a few feet.

“Open the door. Step out and wait,” he said.