Revenant Rising (8 page)
His stomach’s growling now as more and more cooking smells reach him. There are things in this market he can’t even name, so the safe and easy choice is to go with a food he knows—like French toast—and yet it seems a terrible waste to have come all this way for something he could eat at home.
He’s drawn to a walk-up style restaurant that’s doing a good business. Going by the name and by the appearance of the counter help, he guesses it to be Mexican. The customer ahead of him points to an entry on the menu board and mumbles something when it’s his turn to order. When it’s Hoop’s turn to order he does the same thing, points at the same selection—the one that’s spelled “huevos rancheros”—but doesn’t say anything. The mumbled part must have been important, though, because now the counterman is asking him a question in a language he guesses is Spanish. Hoop shrugs the standard response for not understanding and the counterman replies in heavy-accented English: “I thought ya was one a us. I asked if ya wanted fries with that.”
Hoop goes for the fries and when his order is up, takes it to one of the tables out in the open, where he shrugs off being taken for a Mexican. All that’s on his mind is how good the food is and how deserving of it he is after nearly four straight days of living on bologna, saltines and peanut butter. He finishes off what he’s figured out was mainly eggs, giant corn chips, mashed beans, chili sauce, and cheese, then hesitates about one second before he goes back and orders another serving, this time with a beer on the side.
The table he had before is now occupied, so he goes to another that hasn’t been cleared off. There he finds a newspaper someone left behind and leafs through it after he finishes eating. Nothing catches his eye till he reaches the entertainment section that’s full of reports about who the front-runners are in tonight’s Icon race.
“Tonight’s?” he says under his breath, then checks the date on the paper to see if it agrees with the information he got from the car radio earlier. It agrees: Monday, March 30, 1987 it says, so it’s not an old issue.
At first, he’s hard on himself for being unaware tonight is the night. Doesn’t he still have the clipping in his wallet that gives the date of the awards ceremony along with the list of nominees—the clipping that brought his mission back to life? And doesn’t he also have in his possession a newer clipping, picked up along the way—one that supposes Colin Elliot to be a sour-grapes no-show because he wasn’t invited to perform at the ceremony? After a while and a couple of long tugs on the foreign-type beer they sold him, he convinces himself this fresh information has no more importance than being mistaken for a wetback.
With still another hour to kill, Hoop chances another of the Corona beers he’s fast developing a taste for. It’s not like he’s drinking on an empty stomach, he tells himself and settles down to make this one last longer than the first. This second beer brings on the temptation to get reflective like he was on the last day at the tavern in Bimmerman, and that’s uncalled for because he hardly needs reminding of why he’s here in California. He takes a measured swig from the longneck and prides himself on sense of purpose while soaking up the unaccustomed warmth of a late-March sun.
After a visit to the men’s room, he returns to the parking lot and checks his estimate of the time against the clock on the tower. He’s not off by much; the clock reads quarter to eleven and his wishful thinking has it closer to eleven a.m., the earliest he can be sure Cliff Grant will answer his phone.
Hoop kills the final fifteen minutes with a routine inspection of his truck and its contents. He kicks each tire in turn, although he’s never understood what that was supposed to prove. Then he checks water and oil levels and makes certain no one has siphoned off any gas while he wasn’t looking. Inside the car, he tests the seal on the paint bucket, checks the clasp on the tool chest, satisfies himself everything is in order before smoothing out the makeshift pallet of old quilts that saw little use on the trip west.
At the stroke of eleven by the clock tower, he beelines for the nearest phone booth and calls Cliff Grant. A few bad moments go by before Grant answers on the fifth ring, and a few more go by when Hoop, for want of a pencil or anything to write on, is forced to memorize the driving directions Grant gives him. Afterwards, Hoop has the sharp feeling that if he’d asked Grant to repeat anything or wait till pencil and paper was found, the phone call would have ended right then and there.
On the drive to the city of Venice Beach where Grant lives, it’s only natural to ask himself why he’s remained loyal to the bad-mannered, smart-alecky reporter for so long. And while he’s at it, he might as well ask himself why, if he has such a terrible crime to report, he’s never gone to police officials in all this time. Both questions have answers—answers he could say out loud if he wasn’t so busy watching for signs pointing to Santa Monica and trying to guess what kind of trees he’s looking at that have smooth silvery bark, leathery-looking leaves, and roots that coil around aboveground like tentacles.
He makes the first three turns according to the directions he memorized and homes in on Venice Beach sooner than expected. A few more turns and he’s on the street where Grant said he could leave his car. He finds a place to park between two other cars with out-of-state plates, gathers up his goods and sets out on the last leg of the journey.
The footpath he’s supposed to use doesn’t show itself right away and that could be because he’s distracted by sight of the Pacific Ocean in the near distance. As he gets closer, he’s even more distracted by the honky-tonk nature of the place. There’s almost too much to take in where every third person on the wooden walkway looks like some sort of freak. And the half-naked roller skaters whizzing by on a paved path must be shameless drugged-up lunatics; there can’t be any other excuse for the way they’re flaunting themselves and tainting his first-ever view of the ocean.
The only good thing, if there is any, relates to his own appearance. If he was concerned with standing out, he can put that worry aside. In a place where anything seems to go, his flannel shirt, Big Yank dungarees, and engineer boots are only too warm for the surroundings, not too queer. The paint bucket and tool chest don’t make him unusual either; he could be just another vendor bringing trashy trinkets to market in whatever receptacle’s handy, like the guy he just passed who’s selling refrigerator magnets out of a tackle box.
Done with the two minutes worth of sightseeing, Hoop concentrates on finding Grant’s place. When he does, he concentrates on what he wants to have happen there. It’s not like the evidence won’t stand alone, he tells himself as he steps up to the porch of a neat-enough-looking bungalow. And it’s not like he needs a prepared speech. He already spoke his piece on the phone, way back when he first called Grant to say he had something of interest without saying exactly what. He’s as ready as he’s ever going to be in that department.
He doesn’t see a doorbell button, so he raps on the door. After a half-minute or so the door opens. The short bald reporter, dressed in cutoff pants and a sleeveless undershirt, is recognizable from the many times Grant himself was target of photographers for defying one restraining order or another.
“Jakeway?” Grant says, and without waiting for an answer, signals Hoop to follow along. Grant leads the way through a nice-enough-looking sitting room to the back of the house, where it’s hard to tell where the kitchen ends and the glassed-in porch begins because the whole area is crowded with metal filing cabinets and camera equipment. No pleasantries are exchanged; no hand is offered for shaking and that’s fine. This isn’t a social call, after all.
“Lemme see if I got this right.” Grant digs at his crotch then scratches an armpit. “We go back a coupla years to when you tipped me that the runaway Aurora Elliot was holed up in a hunting cabin somewhere and about to drop her kid.”
Hoop nods and sets down the bucket and tool chest without being asked.
“And that woulda been when I conveniently made my deal with Elliot that went to shit when the bitch got herself killed.”
The crude language and distorted fact give Hoop a twinge that he doesn’t let show on the outside.
“Did I ever know what your interest in all this was?” Grant busies himself at the far end of the porch section, unclipping photographs from a wire strung from kitchen wall to a window frame. He goes at it like he’s taking down wash, except he’s careful not to fold anything.
“Didn’t you have a beef with Elliot or somethin’?” Grant asks, then answers his own question: “Oh yeah, now I remember. Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re the one that blamed Elliot for Aurora’s carryings-on and
there’s
a case where you coulda believed the tabs because the cunt was every bit as bad as claimed—and I oughta know—and you oughta know, because reliable sources tell me she was seriously bad news before she ever left the fuckin’ north woods.”
Grant gathers together the photographs and moves back to the kitchen area. His rubber gook shoes make slapping noises on the clay-tile floor. “Y’know though,” he says, “you shouldn’t be out to get Elliot—the two of ya oughta be best buddies because you’re the only two jerks in the world that ever saw anything good in Aurora—good other than for cadgin’ headlines, I’m sayin’.”
Hoop holds back a grimace and lifts up the tool chest. He makes room for it on a kitchen counter, then moves the paint bucket into full view.
Grant sets the stack of photographs down next to the tool chest where Hoop can’t miss seeing the subject matter. He looks away as fast as he can, but he’s not fast enough; the image is burned onto his eyeballs. He blinks several times like that would do any good and when he looks again it’s out of the corners of his eyes.
The swine that dares call himself a photojournalist, fans the pictures out like a giant deck of filthy playing cards, and indicates with flicking finger and droning voice which of these views of Audrey will bring the most money from porn collectors.
“These’ll be hot again because Colin Elliot’s hot again,” Cliff Grant says as he moves his attention from the wicked display back to Hoop. “Not ten minutes ago I got a call from one of my regulars that Elliot and a bodyguard’ll be checkin’ into the Royal Poinciana within the hour. That tells me he’s attending the Icon show tonight and my bookie tells me he’s odds-on to win, so it appears we’re back in business. Now, let’s see what you’ve got that’s gonna cause Elliot all this major grief you’re hopin’ for.”
Hoop opens the tool chest—just the lid, the drawers he leaves closed—and selects a flathead screwdriver with a broad blade to serve as a pry bar. He’s holding it by the blade when Grant interferes.
“What the fuck? What’s with the tools? And the paint can? When you brought that in I figured you had a job in the neighborhood or somethin’. Are you sayin’ that this evidence you told me about on the phone—this evidence you say’ll make Elliot look like a monster—is somethin’ that has to be carried around in a fuckin’
paint
can? Do I really wanna know what this is?”
Grant backs off a ways. Hoop frowns his serious intent and explains what’s inside before he starts prying open the tabs on the lid of the bucket. Grant doesn’t react the way most people would to this news; he doesn’t get all horrified or roll his eyes or throw a hand across his mouth like he’s getting ready to puke. Instead, he laughs. He laughs a laugh without any fun in it that sounds for all the world like the laughs Hoop used to hear when he had to ride a girl’s bike or else depend on shank’s mare.
“Sonuvabitch! This is better than double-jointed cheerleaders from Mars or six-titted two-headed pygmies from the back alleys of Bangkok. And I suppose you’ve got Elvis waitin’ in the car.” Grant bends almost double with his mockery. Then he straightens up and holds his arms out wide like he’s reading from a regulation newspaper. “
Severed Head of Rock Star’s Rebel Wife Delivers Damaging Message from Beyond
,” he blares in a breathy voice. Then, in a more normal voice, he says how he ought to have his own head examined for messing around with the certifiable lunatic fringe.
Hoop quick tamps down the two tabs he just pried open. He uses the thick handle of the screwdriver and makes sure the paint can is sealed tight before he tamps Cliff Grant right between the eyes and jumps aside so as not to be hit by his falling body.
While he finishes up with Grant, he can’t help be disappointed he never got the chance to point out the petechiae on Audrey’s neck, even though he doesn’t know how to pronounce the word for the little pinprick hemorrhages that result from applied pressure—like from a stranglehold, according to the forensics book he looked at in the backroom of the Bimmerman mortuary when he stole the embalming fluid. And he’s a little sorry the question never got asked about why the evidence was never taken to the cops. There are several answers, but the simplest one, the one he would have used today, has to do with any jackassed-fool knowing journalists don’t have to reveal their sources.
An hour or so later, when everything’s been made right that can be, Hoop sets out from Venice Beach in search of the Royal Poinciana Hotel.
