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“Well, be happy, my man. All’s well.”
Daniel nodded, stepped out.
“Oh, and hey. I’m sorry about your dad.”
“Thanks,” he said, and walked through the dark parking lot to his car. Feeling rotten for the lie, but worse for the truth. He was fine, physically, and that should have been a relief.
The problem was, something had made him take this trip the other direction. Judging by the empty blister packs of ephedrine, he might have made the whole damn distance in one brain-rattling sprint, chewing the bitter tabs so they’d kick in faster, washing them down with Jack Daniel’s and gas station coffee. The lines in the road blurring solid, trees a green wall, “reality” less dependable with every exhausted moment. A mad dash into the eastern sky.
Which does beg the question: If it’s not physical, what is it?
What would make someone run that hard, that fast?
T
he chunk of shiny pink flesh slipped from his grip and splashed dark fluid all over the table.
Be
The taste of fall was in the air, but the afternoon was still warm enough to sit on the patio of Takami, twenty-one stories above the stark clatter of downtown L.A. The small outdoor area was packed, mostly men and women in sharp suits and pricy watches. He leaned back, took in the buzz of conversation.
“. . . market is overextended. I’m telling you, we’re headed for a double-dip, and that’s if we’re lucky . . .”
“. . . it’s yoga, but you do it at 105 degrees. Thing is, you’re sweating a lot, and then bending over and spreading your legs, and, well . . .”
“. . . shot one pilot, now she thinks she’s Je
“. . . the problem with looking for your glasses is that you don’t have your glasses on while you’re looking . . .”
“. . . you know they’re sleeping together. Which is so stupid. How does that work? I mean, she has everything, and yet . . .”
It was fu
Everybody had multiple identities. They were different people alone than with friends, different with friends than with family. There was the part of them that si
That’s how it worked. She could be honestly devoted to husband and children, because the woman getting plowed in a motel room was a different person.
People liked to pretend that wasn’t true, and that was how he made his living.
“Can I get you anything else, sir? Maybe some green-tea ice cream?”
Be
When the man answered, Be
There was a long pause, and then the man said, “Yes.”
“You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”
“Fuck off.”
Be
“And I need a blowjob from—”
“Do you really want to go down that road?”
“The statute of limitations is up.”
“Maybe legally.”
There was another pause, then, “What do you want?” “I need an inventory manifest from a crime scene.”
“Which one?”
Be
“Were you involved?”
“Not personally. This is a favor for a friend.”
“You don’t have friends, Be
“Very poetic. I’ll wait.” The waitress brought the check, and he nodded to her. He laid down cash enough cover the tab and 18 percent—leave 10 percent or 30 and you might be remembered— then put his foot up on the opposite chair and enjoyed the view.
“I give you this, we’re through.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Don’t call me again.”
“You got my word.”
“Owner’s manual. Canvas shopping bags. Jumper cables. GPS. Zagat’s, Los Angeles, 2007 edition. Sunglasses. Pepper spray. Lipstick. Mascara. Hand lotion.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else.”
“No.”
“And no purse?”
“Did I fucking say purse? No? So then there wasn’t a fucking—”
Be
He pressed the button for the elevator, rocked back on his heels.
It’s still out there.
Let’s go look for it.
5
It wasn’t the most expensive block of Malibu real estate. Not even close, really, considering the wealth concentrated in this little section of heaven half an hour west of Los Angeles. But that was a relative way of looking at things. The house, modern and bright, hidden behind a security fence, cost more than something ten times the size in the parts of the country where Belinda Nichols had grown up.
She was parked down the block, sitting in the back of a van she’d bought the day before. The classified ad had described it perfectly: “1995 Dodge Caravan, solid not pretty, $2200/obo.” She’d offered $1500, not because she cared about the money but because not haggling would have made her more memorable. They’d settled on $1800; Belinda had counted bills into his hand, he’d passed her the keys, and voilà, she was the proud owner of a piece of shit. “Not pretty” was an understatement; the thing had been used hard, the exterior a dull white except for the crumpled side where a collision had banged the metal inward and left long tears of naked steel glinting through.