Reverb (13 page)

“Yes, James. That’s right. But that’s not what I’m talking about right now. You’re using too much so you can work too much. You need to take a break from your muse for a while.”

His expression softened. “I’m sorry I’m hurting you, Julia. Not my intention. It’s true we used to have more time together. But things change, and we both have to deal with other commitments, which doesn’t mean I love you any less, I'm just less available.”

She sighed. “You know, James, love, like intention, is meaningless unless put into action.”

He just stared at her.

“I admit I want more of your time and energy. And I’ll even confess to being jealous of your passion for and commitment to music. It will always be the mistress between us. But this conversation is not about
us
. Using speed allows you to cross the event horizon and get sucked inside. And you can’t be with me when you’re making it with yourself.”

He bent his head to one side, mulling over what she’d said. Then he looked back at her, half-smiled apologetically, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Touché.” He sat up straight in his chair. “I’m sorry I can’t give you all you need. I understand that you want more from me, but I just don’t know how to give you more right now. You deserve to be with someone who can give you what you want, and I think you should pursue it, if that’s what you need to do, Jules.”

She wanted to roll into a ball and right off the face of the earth. “God, all I’m asking is that you stop using. Why can’t you just make that commitment to me?”

“Because that’s not all you’re asking and you know it. Think about it.” He stared at her for a moment, studying her, and she felt raped.

She blushed, shamed, then got up and walked out of the studio. She didn’t want him to see her cry. She went into the kitchen and started making coffee but got lost in the view of the sun rising over the L.A. basin. The Santa Anna’s were up, the strong, hot winds out of the east churned up the coastline, the sun lighting up the foam of the whitecaps all the way out to the horizon. Julia kept waiting for him to come into the kitchen after her. She kept waiting…then hoping. By the time the sun had arced over the Huntington Hills, she went looking for him.

He was still in his studio, still on the computer playing with the waveforms on the monitors. That son of a bitch had compartmentalized their discussion already. Julia was waiting to continue their conversation, and James was back to fucking working.

She left. She slammed the front door on her way out and went home.

He was gone before noon that day. She had not seen him, nor heard from him until he walked into Stephen’s door this morning. And though she thought about going to London, imagined showing up at the studio where he was working a thousand times, she never would have followed through. Julia was too busy mentally tormenting herself with what she did to chase him away.

Chapter Eight

“Have some numbers for me?” James comes into Steve’s office, sits on the tan, crushed leather couch and puts his coffee on the chrome and glass table in front of him.

“Yeah. Almost.” Steve sits at his glass top drafting desk and adjusts the monitor so he can see it amidst the glare of sun. Through the glass wall behind him, and in the reflection of the enormous O’Keefe print on the wall above the couch, he watches orange sunlight spread across the tall buildings of San Francisco, lighting up Alcatraz, and the Golden Gate beyond. Only Tiburon afforded this view, which was why he had to live here. “I set up an email account— [email protected].” He grins at James. I’ll stick the accounts and corresponding numbers in there so you can access them anytime, from anywhere. Thirty days without logging on and the email account disappears.”

“Good. Great. Thanks.” James picks up his mug, cradles it with both hands, and takes a drink of his coffee. “I appreciate this, Stephen. You have what’s left of my assets. Turns out you weren’t so whacked setting me up under a pseudonym to cover my ass, though at this point I’d preferred to have been sued.” He scoffs, shakes his head. “They seized everything in my name. And they took the Zuma house—the studio, the equipment, most everything.”

“Who?”

“The DEA. Once Due Process is complete, and the States uphold my UK conviction, they’re going to auction it off. And the Justice Department walks away with an easy seven million. Poof. No more house.” He gets up, walks over and stands in front of the glass wall.

“I’m sorry, man.” It feels awkward getting personal. Their only connection outside of business, other than surfing, was Julia. And though Steve is curious for the details of the bizarre situation he’s been drafted into, he wants to keep it about business, especially now. “Well, the good news is you have close to fifteen million. As a matter of fact, at this very moment, the computer says your portfolio is worth $14,659,265.35. Close to two million is tied up in long term T-Bills and Muni's, but the rest is in various securities and liquid for trading.”

Steve isn’t sure James is listening, but keeps talking anyway. “We can set you up with six or seven million in the offshore account, back that up with another four or five in a Swiss account, and you can personally open as many accounts in Europe as you need them. The interest should be enough to live on so you don’t have to touch the principal. What do you want me to do with the rest of your assets?”

He doesn’t answer. He stares out the window.

“I can leave your remaining securities exactly where they are, under Stephen Kennedy LLC in trust for Michael James Edison, or transfer it over to your new I.D.” Steve picks up his driver’s license that says the man he knows to be James Michael Logan is now James Matthew Pierce.

He stands perfectly still, watching the sunrise through the glass wall. “I’m sorry I lost it up there.” He speaks softly. “It’s just… I’m not feeling well. I’m really very tired...”

“I get that. Look man, I’m really sorry for whatever is up with you right now. I hope money will help you out. It can fix a lot, but not everything.”

James looks at him. “It’ll give me a chance to breathe.” Darkness surrounds his eyes making the green of his irises radiate. His unruly hair shadows his brow and hangs in his eyes. He looks like a runaway teen. “Feels like I’ve been suffocating forever,” he whispers.

“Relax, James, we’ll get you set up.” Steve looks back at his monitor. As with all his clients, he’d spread James’ holdings across a fairly wide range to keep him diverse. “I’ve killed most of your popular tech stocks, Cisco, Oracle, Samsung, Google and the like. That gives you close to four million. We can raise the rest of the cash with your Diamonds and Spyders. Want me to hold on to your long-term stuff, or cash out now and you take the hit?”

“Keep it. It’s yours. Payment for services beyond the call. It’s the only way I’ve got to repay you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. It’s your money, James, much of which has helped me make mine. You have every right to claim it.” Steve retrieves a tablet and stylus from his desk, gets up and hands them to James then points where to sign. “Full signature on pages two, four and five, and initial pages six through ten, then sign and date at the end. And remember to sign Michael James Edison. You’ll have two million plus left. What should I do with it?”

James scrawls his signature on the screen repeatedly. “Do whatever you want with it.” He puts the tablet and stylus back on the desk. “Donate it to a worthy charity before the Feds find it and take it. I don’t care. If twelve million can’t salvage me, a couple more on top of that sure as hell won’t.”

There’s something in the finality of his phrasing Steve doesn’t care for.

“I just need the accounts set up as soon as possible. And I need some cash, Stephen. I have like ten bucks left on me.”

“I’ll give you the cash I have here, but it’s not much. A few hundred maybe.” He goes to the wall safe behind the Monet print, spins the dial four times and opens the safe. “I’ll hold on to the rest of your money, James, invest it, hopefully multiply it, do my job.” He pulls out a small stack of cash and counts it, then hands it to James. “There’s only four hundred and sixty dollars here. You need more, I can go the bank.” Steve lifts the license and social security card off his desk and hands them to James.

“This’ll do. Thank you.” James retrieves his wallet from his back pocket, inserts the cash and I.D., then slides the billfold back in his pocket.

“I’m taking you out of the original pseudonym we set you up with, and putting your remaining assets in a living trust under your new pseudonym. When, and if you need it, it’ll be here for you.” He pauses, swallows back his trepidation. “But Julia won’t be. I’m going to ask her to marry me, when the time is right. If you’ve got a problem with that, James, we ought to work it out now.”

James stares at him, it feels like probes him, then he manages a quick smile. “You really are one of the good guys, Stephen.” He bows slightly then straightens, winces. “Are we done?” He holds his side, breathing in quick gasps like he’s trying to catch his breath.

“You okay?” Steve has to ask. The man looks like he’s about to pass out.

He nods. Steve sees him swallow, his jaw line tighten. “Fuck,” he whispers. His skin tone goes ashen. Sweat trickles down his cheeks and neck. He runs both hands through his hair then clasps them on top of his head. His sleeves pull back a bit with his motion, and Steve notices chaff marks and bruises on his wrists, like scarring from restraints. Jagged red scars at the base of his wrists continue up his forearms under his shirtsleeves. James catches him looking, folds his arms across his chest, tucks his hands under his arms, turns away, and freezes.              

Julia stands on the stairs a step from the bottom, three feet from him.

“What did you do?” She glares at him, her brown eyes wide, her brow narrow. “Come here.” It sounds like she’s commanding a dog.

James stares at her wide-eyed, frozen like a deer in the headlights. Julia moves on him, comes off the stairs, grabs his hand and pulls his shirtsleeve back exposing his forearm.

Steve literally gasps. An ugly red scar runs along the full length of James’ forearm.

James pulls his hand away, moves back, but she stays on him, grabs his other wrist but he pulls his arm away before she can pull up his shirtsleeve.
“What did you do!? Why!?”

He just stands there staring at her, shaking his head.

She begins slapping him about the arms and face. He moves back, but doesn’t try to stop her, as if he deserves to be hit, like he’s a child being scolded by a parent, but he backs away from her until she has him up against the glass wall.

“
Stop
, Julia.” Steve moves to pull her off him.

“You lied!” she yells at James.

“I didn’t lie, Julia!” James yells back, finally grabbing her wrists and holding them.

“You weren’t institutionalized for killing someone. They locked you up for trying to kill
yourself
, didn’t they?” She pushes Steve back, glares at James a foot from her. He stares back at her but remains mute. “
Talk to me
,” she screams. “And I want the truth this time!” 

“What is going on!?” Steve interjects, but they ignore him.

“I swear, everything I told you is the truth—”

“Omission is a
lie
, James. You didn’t tell me everything.” Julia’s crying now. Tears streak down her face while she glares at James, outraged, undermined, afraid. She yanks her wrists from his grasp and turns away.

James winces, grabs his side again. “I tried to kill myself in
Langside,
Julia. I was in hell and it was intolerable.” He speaks only to her, as if Steve isn’t there. “They messed with my head. They screwed with my body, and I couldn’t get out of there, couldn’t get away from them—it was my only way out
.
” Tears streak down his gaunt cheeks. He holds his ribs, his eyes fixed on her. He’s begging her for absolution.

“I didn’t know,” Julia whispers. “I thought we were through.” She turns to face him, all the blush gone from her tear-streaked cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t go there, Jules.” James shakes his head, glances at Steve.

Julia finally looks at Steve, and her eyes fill with tenderness, he’s sure of it. “He’s sick, Stephen. You can see that. He needs more than money. He needs professional help,” she says softly. “Now. Today.” She turns back to James and he recoils, bangs his head into the glass wall behind him.              

“Don’t talk about me like I’m one of your fucking psychotics, Julia.” He glares at her then moves past her to the center of the room, holding both sleeve cuffs in his fists, hiding his scars. “And I sure as hell don’t need some academic prescribing me meds. I’ve had enough of those already. Money’s the only help I need.”

“Ultimately not, James. Unless you deal with what happened that allowed you to justify taking your life, you will forever stand on the precipice of that exit,” Julia says rather clinically.

James stares at her and shakes his head, then looks at Steve. “My humblest apologies for all this, Stephen. And profound gratitude.” He wipes the tears from his eyes and cheeks with his shirtsleeve. “surfmavericks@hotmail, right?”

Steve nods, suddenly exhausted, drained of all anger, resentment, jealously of James, watching the broken man before him. “I’ll set up the accounts with your liquidated securities as we discussed. You can expect them to top out by the end of the week.” He looks at Julia. She glances at him, her expression more defeat than anger, then she turns away, goes to the glass wall and stares out. James watches her, but Steve talks to him anyway. “My suggestion would be that you invest a good portion of it in real estate, bonds, stocks, whatever—be good cover to have a strong portfolio under your new I.D.”

“Yeah. Good idea. Thanks again, for everything.” He looks at Julia. She turns around to face him, and Steve feels them connect with an intensity he knows he’ll never share with her. “Did you know that even though she professes to be an atheist, she prays.” James keeps his eyes fixed on hers as he speaks. “You’re a lucky man, Stephen.” He finally looks at Steve, gives him a pensive smile and extends his hand.

“Good luck, James.” He grips James’ hand firmly and shakes it.

James releases him then fixes his eyes back on Julia. “In a different life, my dear...” He whispers. “Have the time of your life in this one.” He doesn’t acknowledge Steve. He stays on Julia, and she on him. A moment passes between them, as if they are the only two people on the face of the Earth, then James turns away and disappears up the stairs.

Julia stares at the staircase a moment, as if hoping he’ll come back, but then she looks down, seemingly, consciously, avoiding Steve. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you, Stephen. I’m sorry I made this hard. You deserve better, better than me.”

“I want
you
, Jules. Unless you can’t get him out from under your skin. I want a lifetime with you, without James between us.”

Steve hears James padding across the wood floor of the living room above his office. He watches Julia as he hears the front door shut.

“James is gone, Stephen. He’s not coming back. He’s no longer between us. The truth is, he was never really here at all.”

She looks at him then, her eyes still wet with tears, shakes her head slowly and looks down again. After a moment Steve moves to her, lifts her head with his forefinger, cups her cheek in his hand as she looks up at him. His eyes connect with hers, and he feels her sadness, confusion, doubt, fear. He extends his love, his longing, his desire for her as he moves his other hand to her face, lets his eyes travel to her lips, hesitates for her response then catches the hint of her smile, then pulls her to him halfway, and kisses her.