A Good-Looking Corpse (14 page)

It's an odd spectacle, the tour. In addition to looking at buildings and locations where death scenes happened, we also make several stops at places where the infamous buildings no longer exist. We see the spot where Brittany Murphy's condo
used
to be, where O.J. Simpson's house
once
was….I understand people have a fascination with death, but this shit is more in line with closing your eyes and picturing all the cavemen who might've died where you were standing. More incredulous were the people who actually took pictures of the dirt on the hillside where Brittany Murphy's condo once was…
imagine being stuck watching that slide show
.

I finally decide to press the issue a little bit. “What would it take for you to help me with this Mikey issue?”

“What do you mean ‘help you'?” he asks, furtive.

“I need someone who has evidence of Mikey's crimes—something that we can use against him.”

“But what could you possibly do to Mikey? You gonna make the public care? He's too savvy. He'd find a way around it. Guys like him don't go down that easily. Or are you gonna kill him like you did what's-his-name? Andy?”

“I don't know what I'm gonna do yet. But he's gotta go down. And I can't do it without your help. I was trying not to involve you—that's why I went to Brandon Craig. But you're in Mikey's inner circle and I feel like you're the only one I can trust.”

“You trust me?” Ramen says, seeming genuinely touched.

“I didn't trust people—ever. But Ivy wormed her way in there and I guess you're starting to as well.”

“Best death bus ride ever,” he exclaims loudly and several nearby people, minus the goths, cheer as well.

We're paused outside more tall gates, these are protecting the shuttered fortress where Phil Spector killed Lana Clarkson, and Ramen turns to me. “You asked me about the Mikey Echo issue—how can you stop him?” He points at the jailed music producer's Alhambra castle-like structure that we could peer at through our heightened vantage point atop the bus. “I say, you don't have to. This is what happens to people like Mikey Echo, the crazy-powerful. Eventually time marches on and they just don't matter anymore. They stop being all-powerful and just become forgotten celebrities. It's then that they get taken down by their own megalomaniac's view of the world. Phil Spector was a has-been who shot a never-was because he thought he could. Once upon a time he could have gotten away with murder. Now is a different story. In twenty years, Mikey Echo won't be getting away with murder. In twenty years, Mikey is going to crash down upon the hard reality he has managed to live above his whole life. And he's gonna die in a prison cell, shocked and confused about where and when it all changed. When he stopped being a demigod and started being a mortal.”

“Twenty years is too long for a guy like Mikey,” I say, clenching my fingers into a fist. “There won't be anyone left in Hollywood for him to murder.”

“Sounds like you're definitely doing this, then,” Ramen says frankly.

“I am. It all stops here. Going forward is you're with me or you're against me. No more playing both sides, Ragdesh. I'm going to take down Mikey Echo. Will you help me or not?”

Ramen smiles, as if amused by the whole crazy idea of it. “Take down my boss? Usurp his throne? That's how
legends
are minted in this town. Besides, I'm likely next on his chopping block anyhow. Fuck, let's do it—let's take down Mikey Echo.”

Ivy is still sullen when I get home, as she has been the last two days. Even after I'd attempted to surprise her at the office, she'd pretty much come home, crawled into bed and stayed there for the rest of the night. I find her back in bed, watching
Three Men and a Baby
. “This is a nice change from the crime shows,” I try, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“I'm bored of crime right now,” she says, listless. “I just want to laugh.”

“You want to hear a joke?” I ask.

“You know a joke?” she says, actually lifting her head off the pillow to glimpse at me.

“Ramen just told me one today, actually. So there's this guy…” I start, joke-telling not my strong suit, but at this point I'll do anything to make her less melancholy. “He's tired of screwin' his wife…so his friend says to him, ‘Hey, why don't you do it like the Chinese do?' So he says, ‘How do the Chinese do it?' And the guy says, ‘Well, the Chinese, first they screw a little bit, then they stop, then they go and read a little Confucius, come back, screw a little bit more, then they stop again, go and they screw a little bit…then they go back and they screw a little bit more and then they go out and they contemplate the moon or something like that. Makes it more exciting.' So now, the guy goes home and he starts screwin' his own wife, see. So he screws her for a little bit and then he stops, and he goes out of the room and reads the TV Guide. Then he goes back in, he starts screwin' again. He says, ‘Excuse me for a minute, honey.' He goes out and he smokes a cigarette. Now his wife is gettin' sore as hell. He comes back in the room, he starts screwin' again. He gets up to start to leave again to go look at the moon. She looks at him and says, ‘Hey, what's the matter with ya? You're screwin' just like a Chinaman!' ”

Once my attempt at a joke is completed, Ivy merely drops her head back down on the pillow and resumes watching her show.

“What's this really about?” I demand, standing up to block the TV.

“I want to meet your parents,” she repeats, flat.

“Where is this coming from?”

“I don't know.”

“You're lying,” I say, and though I don't want it to, the anger is leaking out of me.

“I've decided it's what's going to make me happy now. It's the only thing that's gonna make me happy right now. That should be enough.”

“You don't understand how they treated me…what they did…”

“They disowned you because you drunkenly killed a little girl. I think I understand perfectly well. Did you ever consider them in all of this? Maybe it was just too hard to process at the time? Maybe they couldn't deal with visiting you in prison and that was the easiest way to make the separation? Right now, for me to not be upset every second I'm in the same room with you, I need you to go stand on your parents' doorstep, reach out to them, and have them shut you down cold. Because maybe they don't? Maybe they've softened or come to terms? Maybe they want to be a whole family again.” Ivy is up in the bed now, full of heated emotion to match mine. “I can understand that you're scared and that you're reluctant. But I need to see that you have it in you to try and be a human being. I need to see you be vulnerable. If they shoot you down, so be it. If they spit in your eye, I can accept that. But do you care enough about me? That's what I want to know.”

“Do you care about
me
?” I seethe. “If you do, you won't make me do this.”

She shakes her head, refusing to be mollified. “This is it, Tom. If I know you—and I do—this will be the hardest thing you've ever done. Harder than prison. In fact, I'm almost willing to bet that you'd dump me, throw me out in the street before you do this one thing. Is it that hard for you to be a human? To offer your own parents a second chance?”

“They don't deserve a second chance.”

“You got one. More than one. And spin it any way you like, anything they've done to you is less horrible than what happened to Holly Kelly.”

“Don't you say that fucking name to me,” I explode finally, bursting rage out through my pores to flood the dead air of the room. “You have no idea how impossible it is for me to feel normal. How to feel at all, for that matter! I've spent the last ten years on autopilot because there is no way for me to be normal. How can I grieve for a girl I can't remember? I don't have some image of the scene flashing in my head to be erased. I was blacked out. I have nothing. That was what prison was supposed to be—my penance, my chunk of life rotted away, and I did it in a special wing with child molesters and crooked cops. When I got out of jail, I was supposed to be free. But there isn't any freedom—not from that. Not ever. I can't ever be normal again. And so I live in this bubble with my puddles of blood and what's left of my life. Assholes like me don't live long—in prison or out of it. And now you've come along to fuck with my everything. So you're right! It would be easier to throw you the fuck out of my life. It would save me a whole fucking shitload of headaches to bounce you off the pavement, back where I found you. But I want to show you how little you know about me. I want to prove you wrong. So, I'll do what you want.”

I sit back down on the bed, heated, and stare at her, daring her to spew anger right back at me. Instead, it's like her detached melancholia was all a fucking act. Leaping across the bed to hug-tackle me, she throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek. I hope it burns her lips. “Thank you,” Ivy coos. “And I think you just started on the path to being normal, even if you don't know it yet.”

I fight the urge to look at her, determined to stay furious.

She slides her arm down to grab at the fabric of the slacks hugged around my crotch. “I also think you've started on the path to a blow job,” she tries, fiddling with my zipper. Still incensed, I push her off me and stalk out of the room. Somewhere near the front door I stop and realize she's right. About everything. And though I want like hell for that to not be the case, being angry doesn't seem logical anymore. It almost seems silly. I can't believe I threatened to break up with her…over what? Having my parents tell me to fuck myself? Holly Kelly?

Resignedly I march back into the bedroom, where she is still seated at the edge of the bed, as if waiting. As if she knew I'd come crawling back. I feel almost sheepish as I ask: “Is that blow job still on the table?”

She smiles at me, sincere, loving. “Pull the fucker out.”

I expect some indication from the Sureño Lowriders at the garage when I arrive on Thursday morning, but the parking lot is empty. No Ramen, no Mikey, no Coco. I even inspect the locks on the front door, seeking out evidence of tampering, but there is nothing.

It's a slow morning so far, and I almost wish there was some action to stir up the day. By 11:30
A.M.
, I've paid all the bills and done everything conducive to running a business. It's actually pretty basic, I've learned in the last few months since I took over. Harold would moan and rub at his head when he was agonizing over invoices and bookkeeping, but with the software he'd installed on the office computer before his murder, it is fairly self-sustaining. And with the glut of deaths in Los Angeles, accidental and otherwise, I wasn't too worried about having the income for the business. If anything, I probably need to hire an employee, but considering the hostile nature of the workplace at present, with threats of gang violence and a murderous producer hanging over my head, a new hire would have to wait.

My phone rings. Ivy. “What's up, you?” I ask.

“I ditched out on work to go dress shopping for the premiere. Don let me go with the caveat that it be a sexy dress and that he gets to see me in it. What are you going to wear?”

“I dunno, some slacks, maybe a nonwork polo or something,” I say, giving the comment the vocal inflection of a shrug.

“Oh, no you are not, mister. This is a big night for us—a date night—a real one. I'm determined to look amazing and the guy on my arm is going to look equally good. Or at least nearly as good.”
It's good to see she's back to her old self
.

“I don't even own a suit,” I whine.

“Get one. And choose a color that isn't black for once.”

I sigh, putting the phone on the desk and staring at it, trying to will it to ring with a crime scene that will keep me busy all afternoon. Nope.

Resigned to my fate, I close up shop and climb into the Charger, but Ramen's Ferrari yanks into the lot behind me abruptly, and seeing that I'm about to leave, he blocks me in.

“Crime scene?” he asks excitedly, climbing out of the car with a large envelope in his hand.

“Worse,” I say, killing my engine and climbing out as well. I'm weirdly feeling actually happy to see the man. “I gotta buy a suit.”

“Suit shopping? I fucking love suit shopping. I'll buy one too. What's the occasion?”

“Ivy says I have to look presentable for the movie premiere. I blame Mikey Echo for this one.”

“Yeah, he's the worst. Speaking of”—he hands me the envelope—“your invite. I'm supposed to be in meetings again today, but I used that as an excuse to escape. Where are you thinking of going?”

“Does Walmart sell suits?” I ask.

“That's it,” Ramen announces. “We're taking my car, I'm driving.”

“Where to?”

“Well, Pretty Woman, there's only one place to shop in this town. A little street called Rodeo Drive.”

“Is that still a place? I thought that was just an eighties thing.”

“That's the problem with young Hollywood, Tom. They've got no respect for heritage. They think they need to develop their own scene. They all wanna be photographed on West Third and Robertson. But Rodeo Drive has the history, the panache. Rodeo Drive is Beverly Hills, but it's pure Hollywood, star watchers and all.”

“This isn't going to be a thing like your Sunset Boulevard tour, is it?”

“Not with that attitude, it isn't.” He grins.

We park in front of the Gucci building, a giant gold-fronted facade that seems to sum up most of what I've already assumed about Beverly Hills: I can't afford anything. Surprisingly, Ramen's car doesn't stand out on this street. Behind us is a canary-colored McLaren and Lamborghinis troll the street in both directions. Japanese tourists, their women wearing face shields to keep the sun from darkening their complexion, seem to populate the street along with sharply dressed Middle Eastern men, and seemingly everywhere I look there is someone stopping with their camera on a long metal pole to take a picture of themselves.

“It's something, huh?” Ramen volleys.

“Not the word I'd use, but it'll do until I think of that word,” I return.

“I think we'll start at Tom Ford and go from there,” Ramen insists. “Much more your style than Dolce and Gabbana.”

“I can't afford this,” I promise him. “Or at least don't want to.”

“I can afford it and I want to.” He smiles at me. “It's my fault you're wrapped up in this. Let's call it an apology. And it will make your girl happy.”

He's not wrong about that, but more accurately it will make her jealous. I can already foresee an expensive return trip with her. I follow Ramen along the street as he walks out into traffic, oblivious or indifferent to the traffic.

“Don't we gotta feed a meter?” I ask.

“Nah” is all he says in return, not breaking his stride.

“She doesn't want me in black,” I remember as I catch up to him.

“I promise, for you, Tom, funeral gray,” Ramen says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

My new friend apparently has in mind a specific style for me because he rejects suit after suit modeled by men with great cheekbones. I sit awkwardly beside him as he nitpicks the suits apart with great inconsistency. “Every guy should own at least one really great suit from a name fashion house,” he tells me. I grip my phone and hope for an opportunity to leave.
Surely someone just died somewhere?

Finally, at Ramen's hands, my look for the premiere begins to come together—shoes from one store, a shirt from another, and finally a suit, appropriately gray with good stitching and stylish lapels, is produced that Ramen approves of. “You don't want to wear a tie,” Ramen informs me but I am not sure if it is a question or a directive.

“Sure,” I agree.

I am offered a variation of the suit to try on and then Ramen directs an effete older European tailor how it should be cut, with the man making chalk marks on the fabric as I stand there, arms outstretched like a Ken doll. “We want these alterations done today,” Ramen insists. “And leave a little room in the breast,” he adds, holding up his fingers shaped like a gun, which he points skyward. The man seems to understand completely. “Yes, sir.”

I leave the store my address, which the clerk seems to acknowledge with a haughty sniff. “Further than we typically deliver to on short notice,” he says.

“I will pay what it takes to have you walk the suit to his door,” Ramen warns the clerk. “You sell clothes to rich people because you are not rich. You're basically a glorified Gap employee, so drop the attitude.”

Attitude adjusted, the clerk assures us it will not be an issue.

“What was that about?” I ask Ramen as we leave.

“I apologize if that embarrassed you. There's a demeanor that is cultivated from being around rich people too long. I hate when poor people forget they aren't rich. Me included, but he was snotty about it.”

“No, I meant the ‘finger pistol' thing. Was that a threat?”

“Tom,” Ramen says and turns to face me. “I don't know what Mikey has planned for you at that premiere, but I know him well enough. I was telling the tailor to give you a ‘security cut' on the jacket. It's so the bulge of your gun won't be visible.

“Gun?”

“Yeah, if you have a gun, I suggest you bring it. If you don't, I can get you one.”

I nod slowly. “I have a gun.”