No Cure For Love (35 page)

Zak’s grey Toyota was already in the carport just off the driveway. The motion-detecting lights came on as Stuart pulled to a halt outside the front door. Inside the house, some of the lamps were lit, all synchronized by a complicated system of timers to make it always seem as if there were someone at home.

Sarah turned her back on Stuart to get out of the car and immediately became aware of a sudden flurry of activity behind her. The next thing she knew, Stuart had slumped back in over the front seat, groaning.

She was on her feet by the passenger door, which she hadn’t closed behind her yet, and now she saw the figure standing back in the shadows near the trunk of the car, simply beckoning for her to come, crooking his finger.

She screamed for Zak, but nobody came.

She jumped back in the car as quickly as she could, pulled Stuart all the way in and locked the doors. When she looked through the back window, the figure was still there, all in black, standing completely motionless, as if rooted to the spot, waiting for her to get her purse or something.

Sarah could feel her heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst. Christ, how she wished that she could
drive
. She had to do something; she couldn’t just fall apart. Stuart was groaning beside her clutching his stomach, maybe dying, and she was sitting there like a fool waiting for the cavalry to come.

There was no cavalry. Where the hell was Zak?

And still the dark figure stood there behind the car, watching. All she could make out was that he was medium height, fairly muscular, and blond-haired. Christ, she thought, could it even
be
Zak?

The car doors were locked; the phone didn’t work; the key was still in the ignition. There was only one thing she could do.

Turning sideways, she dragged Stuart over towards the passenger side. It took all her strength, but there was a lot of room to manoeuvre inside the Caddy, and she finally did it. When Stuart was half on the passenger seat and half on the floor, she climbed over the back and into the driver’s seat.

Her hand slipped on the leather and when she saw the whole seat was glossy and slippery with blood, she almost lost control.

She pounded the wheel and screamed, shutting her eyes and praying all the horror would go away and she would wake up to the sun on the Pacific. But Stuart was groaning on the floor, curled in the foetal position. She had to do something
now
.

Then Sarah looked out of the window to the passenger side and saw the face of her tormentor staring back at her. She couldn’t make out his features clearly because they were superimposed on her own reflection in the glass, but she could have sworn he was smiling at her.
He looked pleased with himself
.

He tapped on the window.

Sarah took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition.

35

Arvo waited for the stoplight at Broadway and Columbus, breathing out plumes of fog and holding his jacket collar closed around his throat to keep out the chill.

There was an Italian restaurant near here, he remembered, where he had dined with Nyreen on their one and only weekend in San Francisco last March. What a weekend it had been: glorious sunshine, walking, eating, shopping, making love, a ferry ride to Sausalito and deli sandwiches and wine on the beach looking back over at the San Francisco skyline.

No, he mustn’t get caught up in those memories again. While cops can enjoy beauty as much as the next person, given the right circumstances, the job often alters their perceptions, and they don’t always see things the same way other people do.

Cop vision, Arvo had often thought, compares more to those heat-sensitive photographs that describe the world in reds and greens and oranges, the way he remembered seeing the city spread out on the monitor during a night ride in one of the LAPD helicopters. In vivid, shifting primary colours, they see the dark side, the predators and prey, losers, grifters, the starving and the desperate, the con men, the lost souls and the psychos.

Finally, Arvo was able to cross. He started down Columbus, passed the City Lights Bookstore and found Vesuvio’s, directly across the garbage-strewn Jack Kerouac Alley.

Inside was almost as colourful as the mosaic-like stained-glass and tile exterior, with local artworks on the walls, along with a framed set of W.C. Fields playing cards, each with a photo and a legendary saying from the old curmudgeon himself. The place was crowded and noisy, but at some of the tables, people were ignoring the clamour all around them and sitting hunched forward, hands over their ears, concentrating on chess games. Around the top was a gallery with more tables looking down on the bar’s main floor. Dress styles and ages varied, Arvo noticed, but there was a general air of youth and artiness.

The small area behind the bar was cluttered, too, and most of the stools were taken. A small canvas screen hung high on the wall above the ranged bottles, and a slide show of old Victorian nudes and music-hall personalities flickered over its surface.

When he had got his glass of Anchor Steam beer, Arvo asked the woman behind the bar if she had ever heard of Mitch Cameron, and gave as good a description as he had. She said he sounded vaguely familiar but it would be better to ask Cal over there, because Cal had been around for ever and knew everyone.

Cal was a modern beatnik of about fifty, with a beard and wispy grey hair poking out of a black beret cocked at a rakish angle. He was sitting at the bar reading a book of poetry written in lower-case letters with lines of wildly differing lengths. Beside it was a notebook and a chewed yellow HB pencil stub.

When Arvo tapped him on the shoulder, he turned his head slowly. His eyes were as grey as his beard and attempted – but didn’t quite manage, in Arvo’s estimation – a look of infinite wisdom and compassion.

‘I’m looking for someone who knows a guy called Mitch Cameron,’ Arvo said, without introducing himself as a cop. ‘The bartender said you know everyone.’

Cal smiled. ‘Guess that’s true. Mitch Cameron, you say?’ His face darkened a little. ‘Sure, I know him. He hasn’t been around here for a year or more.’

‘Any idea where he might be?’

‘No. And I can’t say I care, either. I didn’t really know him well. What happened was, one day he showed me his poems and asked me what I thought.’

‘What
did
you think?’

‘They
rhymed,
for Chrissake!’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That they were full of clichés and pious platitudes masquerading as philosophy, and that he should send them to those greeting-card people. What’s their name? Hallmark?’

‘How did he respond?’

‘Punched me in the face, picked up his folder and walked away. Why are you asking? You a cop or something?’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Arvo.

‘I knew it. I can spot cops a mile away, man.’

Good for you, Arvo thought. ‘Some people say he’s a scary character.’

‘Maybe they should’ve told me that before I said what I thought of his poetry. He damn near broke my jaw. That’s scary enough for me. The man’s crazy.’

‘Know where he might be right now?’

‘Nope. Sorry, man, I can’t help you, but there’s one of the chicks used to run with his crowd upstairs. Can’t miss her. Ditzy looking brunette, strictly space cadet, nobody home.’ He tapped his skull. It didn’t echo, but Arvo got the point. ‘Hangs out in the lady psychiatrists’ booth.’ And he turned back to his poetry book, scribbling something illegible in the margin.

Arvo hadn’t a clue what Cal meant, but he made his way up to the gallery, which turned out to be less crowded than downstairs. Then he saw a little nook with a joke sign reading ‘Reserved for Lady Psychiatrists’ hanging over it, and two people at the table.

He walked over, told them his name and said he was looking for Mitch Cameron.

‘Mitch?’ said the woman. ‘Oh, yeah. Shit, Mitch. Right. Sit down, sit down.’ A long skinny arm shot out of her baggy sleeves and she gestured for him to sit. She had rings on all her long, thin fingers, including the thumbs. ‘This is Brook,’ she said, introducing the angst-ridden young man next to her, with his pale complexion and lock of hair falling over his eye. ‘He’s working on a movie screenplay and he wants me to be in it, don’t you, Brook?’

Brook glared at Arvo and grunted. Wants to get laid, more like, thought Arvo. Screenplay. Jeez, some things don’t change even north of Santa Barbara.

‘I’m Candi,’ she said. ‘With an “i.”’

At last, the elusive Candi. Exotic dancer and blow-jobber
par excellence
. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Arvo said. ‘Is there a little heart over it?’

She frowned. ‘Over what?’

‘The “i”?’

Candi just looked confused. Maybe she hadn’t seen
LA Story
. She had long straggly brown hair that looked as if it could do with a good wash. Her face was pleasant and open, free of make-up, but it had that blurred, unfocused quality, like her eyes, and probably like her life. Drugs will do that to you. Arvo didn’t know if she were drunk or stoned right now, but she was something. He hoped she was older than she looked.

‘I’m trying to find Mitch,’ Arvo explained slowly. Candi’s eyes were on him but not quite fixed. She had a mixed drink in front of her and sucked it through the crushed ice as he talked, making a slurping sound. Brook lit a cigarette and stared at the slide show. Arvo decided there and then it would be best not to tell them he was a cop. Maybe they’d guess, like Cal, but he wouldn’t put money on it. He probably looked like a tourist. Or a bookie.

‘He’s gone,’ Candi said finally.

‘Do you know where?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘He owes me some money.’

‘Huh. Good luck.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘LA. We went down there with Gary Knox, you know, the rock star, the guy who died of an overdose last year.’ She nudged Brook. ‘I fucked him, you know,’ she said to him. ‘I fucked Gary Knox.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Brook. ‘What was he like?’

Candi frowned, then giggled. ‘Well, would you believe it, I can’t remember. Maybe I just blew him. What the hell.’ She waved her arm and almost knocked over her drink.

Better work quick while she’s still on her feet, Arvo thought. ‘So Mitch stayed in LA?’

‘What? Oh, yeah. Well, like, I had this new dancing job to come back to and all, but Mitch, he didn’t have nothing. He’d gotten fired. You know why, man?’ She nudged Brook.

‘No. Why?’ he mumbled.

‘For protecting me from this drunk asshole who was, like grabbing my tits, that’s why.’ She looked at Arvo, eyes burning briefly with excitement at the memory. ‘Broke the guy’s fucking arm, Mitch did. And his face. His nose, I mean. Got himself fired. Shit.’ She giggled. ‘He was my knight in shining armour.’

‘So Mitch stayed in LA?’

‘Uh-huh. Said it was his big chance.’

‘Big chance? How?’

‘Mitch wanted to be a rock star. Didn’t you know that? He played guitar, wrote songs and poetry and stuff. Gary Knox said he liked them and Mitch thought maybe he’d record some. Maybe he’d even let Mitch be in his band. But he died.’

‘Do you remember Gary’s girlfriend at the time? Sally?’

Candi screwed up her eyes. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Hey, is that the one who’s on that TV cop show? I had this argument with a guy—’

‘That’s the one,’ Arvo said.

She banged the table and made the glasses rattle. ‘Whoo-ee! Holy shit! I knew I was right. That’s twenty bucks Pete owes me.’

‘Did you know Sally?’

‘She was a cold one. Spaced out most of the time. No, we never talked. I fucked Gary, though. Did I tell you that?’

‘You did,’ said Arvo, smiling. ‘What about Mitch? Did he like girls?’

‘Pants or skirt, it didn’t matter to Mitch. If it moved, he’d fuck it.’ She laughed.

‘He was bisexual?’

‘Like a pendulum.’

‘Did you notice how he got along with Sally?’

‘Did he fuck her, do you mean?’

‘How did he treat her?’

‘He called her his Little Star. I don’t think he fucked her. She was a cold one, man, did I say that already? Prob’ly like fucking an iceberg. But what would I know? I don’t do girls. A girl’s got to draw the line somewhere, don’t you think?’

Arvo took a deep breath. He asked her if she knew what kind of car Mitch drove.

‘A red one,’ she said. ‘Or it might have been blue. I don’t know.’

Her head was starting to droop and loll onto her chest now. Brook seemed to be getting impatient beside her, Arvo thought, if indeed that was what the occasional tics and sighs coming from his general direction meant.

‘Do you know where he might be living in LA, anyone he might be staying with?’

She shook her head without looking up.

‘What about money? Work? He’d need a job. What kind of work does he do?’

At this she looked up. ‘Security,’ she said. ‘’S’all he can do apart from write songs. Bouncer. Bodyguard. Do you want to know the truth?’ She wrinkled her nose and crooked her finger at Arvo to come closer. He did. Close enough to smell the gin on her breath. ‘They sucked,’ she whispered. ‘His songs sucked. But don’t you tell him I ever said that or he’d kill me.’