Beware Beware (28 page)

I caught Arturo in the late afternoon. He kept his door closed, but he bade me come in when I knocked. I hadn't spent much time in his office. It was a handsome, orderly place without a single wall hanging or picture frame to make it feel homey. Arturo was a bachelor, a sort of classic lone-wolf private detective. I couldn't imagine Spade or Marlowe putting up posters in their offices.

“How's everything going?” he asked.

“Terrible,” I said.

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Chaz hasn't been filling you in?”

He shrugged. “I've had plenty to worry about on my end.”

“In that case, I'll spare you. It's a long story.”

He looked at me with a bland smile on his face, waiting for me to state my purpose.

“I need a sort of history lesson,” I said.

“Oh?”

“What can you tell me about gangs in L.A.?”

He ran a hand across his hair. “They exist. We're the gang capital of the U.S. Do you want to be more specific?”

“Like, what's the structure?”

“Of organized crime in L.A.?”

“Sure.”

He smiled. “You're asking about the structure of a tangled web of societies. I can't exactly give you a flow chart.”

I tried again. “You know the Rampart Boulevard Gang?”

“Of course,” he said. “They're one of the biggest and most troublesome.”

“Are they mainly drug dealers or what?”

“They aren't mainly anything. They started as a Mexican gang, but now they've got everybody. They started in L.A. but now they're all over the world. There are tens of thousands of them and they do every criminal activity you can think of on every single level.”

“In other words, they're a whole society.”

“Look, Song. You're a smart girl, but you're asking questions on the wrong scale. Every crew is different, and every gangster is his own problem.”

“Are there a lot of them getting away with murder these days?”

“Every day,” he said, wearily. “Every damn day.”

*   *   *

I got home close to seven, and Lori was waiting in a sweater dress and tights, with full makeup and a smile on her face.

“Date?” I asked.

She blushed. “Yeah.”

“You worked things out with Isaac?”

“Yeah. I called him today. We're going to dinner.”

“Good for you.”

“I'm really happy about it,” she said. “I feel kind of guilty.”

“Don't. Have fun.”

She nodded and heated up my dinner. She sat with me while I ate and we talked idly about safe topics. I didn't want her to go—I was tired and sad, hitting up against a wall, and all I wanted to do was have a peaceful night without any need for thought—but I didn't say so. When Isaac called, she went down to meet him, and I faced the silence of evening alone.

*   *   *

I was mixing myself a drink when I heard a sound like pebbles hitting my window. It didn't register for a few minutes—it was just background noise, until I heard the pattern, a slow rhythm like a patient man, knocking. I got up to investigate and opened the curtains that shielded my kitchen from the street. I squinted into the dark and saw a man in silhouette, and behind him, a silver car.

My heart jumped and I hurried downstairs to the front door. Jamie was already walking up the driveway when I swung it open.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you were…”

“In jail?” He smiled. There was no sharpness to his tone. He was worn down and wasted, like a dollar bill put through the wash. “Can I come in?”

I hesitated. It was stupid of me to bound down to greet him, like he wasn't a murder suspect who had showed up unannounced at my house in the dead of night. It had been less than forty-eight hours since his arrest—how was he even here?

I had my phone in my pocket. I would need a half second to speed dial Chaz, thirty seconds tops to get to Veronica Sanchez. I had heavy objects and knives in my apartment. I looked at Jamie, and calculated my risk—his blank, tired face made me feel paranoid.

His shoulders fell forward and his jaw went slack. “You don't trust me, do you?”

I waved a hand to dismiss him. The seed of suspicion lost out to the thought that I might hurt this boy while he was writhing on the ground. “I'm just surprised to see you. That's all. Come in.”

I led the way upstairs and he followed dutifully, his footsteps unassertive. The light was out in Lori's room, but I decided it was late enough that she could be in there, sleeping. It felt strange to volunteer that we were alone, and I didn't think he would ask.

We sat on the couch in silence for a while. He laid his head back against the cushion and stared at the motionless ceiling fan. I glanced in his direction every now and then to see if he'd budged. I sat still until I got restless, and then I walked to the fridge for a beer.

“Can I get one, too?” he asked.

I uncapped both beers and carried them back to the couch, where Jamie had lifted his head and hunched forward. He took the bottle with a quiet thanks.

“So why are you here, Jamie? Or I guess I should ask how. I'm not harboring a fugitive, am I?”

He shook his head. “Daphne posted bail for me.”

“When?”

“Earlier today.”

“What have you been doing since then?”

He shrugged, slugged a long gulp of the beer. “Trying my best to keep a low profile,” he said. “I've had people on me all day. Press, I guess. Just on my ass every goddamn minute.”

I remembered the crowd around Tilley's house. Vultures in news vans and baseball caps, salivating at the gory remains of a fresh death.

“I went home, but my roommates were acting pretty weird. I could tell they were trying to be cheerful, avoiding the topic and acting like normal. And that, of course, meant they thought it was possible I did it.” He smiled, a pointy, garish smile that betrayed no mirth. “I apologized for not being able to walk the dog, and Neal actually stood up and waved his hands around to say, ‘No problem! No problem at all!' Might as well have added, ‘Don't hurt my dog, man.' Fucking asshole. You know his dad died in March, and I drove him to the hospital every day so he wouldn't have to sit in traffic alone. You'd think that would count for something.”

I didn't say anything. I was happy to see him, happier than I thought I could be, but I couldn't pretend I was completely comfortable with him sitting inside my house.

“Do you think I'm a killer, too?” he asked.

I couldn't contain the whole flinch. The question unnerved me, as did the apparent fact that he could read my mind.

“No,” I said. “I don't.”

He stared at me, his mouth an inch open, looking grave and disappointed.

“I
don't
,” I said. “You asked if I thought you were a killer. You didn't ask if I thought it was impossible.”

“Do you think I could be a killer?”

“I don't think it's impossible.”

He drained his beer with a gleam of hurt in his eyes. I didn't backtrack. I had nothing to feel guilty about.

“Are you scared of me?”

“Not really. Even if you did kill Joe Tilley, you wouldn't have much of a reason to hurt me.”

“And you really think I could've done it.”

“Look, Jamie. I like you. I think, fundamentally, you're a good guy. Would I be surprised if you were the murderer? Sure, I might be pretty damn surprised. But I've been surprised before.”

“Well thanks, I guess. For at least being straight with me.”

I finished my beer and went to the fridge for another round. Then I looked at the handle of rye on the counter and thought that was a better idea. I poured out two glasses and brought them back to the couch.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” he asked. His tone was slightly playful, to my relief.

I shrugged and sat back down. The silence was a little more comfortable, and I lit up a Lucky Strike.

“So why are you here?” I asked.

“I couldn't stand being at home.”

“But why
here
? You have a lot of friends in L.A., and I know this specifically because I was hired to spy on you all around town.”

“Do I really have a lot of friends? I mean, sure, I know a lot of people. If I just wanted company for a beer, there are a couple dozen people I could call—there were, anyway, until last week.” He shook his head. “And you know what, I think most of those people even like me, casually. They'd definitely party with me, and they might even get my back in a Facebook argument. But damn it if I can't think of one person in this whole fucking city I could
lean
on. I haven't built a single strong foundation. I'm learning that all too fast.”

“Have you tried? Leaning?”

“You don't lean on sand castles, Song.”

“I take it you haven't gotten a ton of supportive e-mails?”

“Not one,” he said, enunciating bitterly. “The thing is, most people here know me as Joe Tilley's friend. That made me someone worth knowing. Being just a nice guy or whatever wouldn't have gotten me anywhere. And now I'm not even that, apparently.”

“And who am I supposed to be? Your friend?”

He reached out a hand so that it arced toward my face. I felt a rush of blood anticipating the touch, but he only plucked the lit cigarette from my fingers. I watched him take a long draw, and he held my eyes and smiled.

“I needed to go somewhere, and when I ran through my options, I just got fucking depressed. Then I thought about you, and the other night, how fun that was in spite of the bullshit around it. And I thought, well, maybe you'd save me again. Maybe you'd help me ignore rock bottom.”

“All I did was pump you full of whiskey, man. Cheers.”

As we clinked glasses, he brought his face close to mine, and I responded to its pull in a way that seemed almost involuntary. The kiss was inevitable. Our nerves were high and the room pulsed with a chaotic energy that demanded release. He kissed me with a zeal that edged on desperation, and the sirens in my head sounded like music for that minute. When we separated, I excused myself to use the bathroom.

I stood at the sink and took a long look in the mirror. I hadn't seen my face since much earlier in the day, but as suspected, I wasn't looking my best. My morning swipes of eyeliner were day-old and smudgy. I looked as tired as I felt, maybe more so. I wet my thumb and cleaned the skin under my eyes, but I knew that no matter what I did, I wasn't about to rival Daphne.

The thought of her made me feel guilty, and I resented Jamie for his cavalier intrusions, for all but assuming I'd be game for his advances. Despite his boyishness and self-effacing manners, Jamie was a good-looking, confident man with a bounty of natural charisma. I, on the other hand, was gloomy and scornful, and most of the few fierce connections I'd made in my life had dissolved, leaving sadness, barrenness, waste. My romantic life had never been lush, but in the last year it had become almost nunnishly celibate, with brief flare-ups of lust unaccompanied by affection. The truth was Jamie had picked the loneliest girl at the dance, and I was this close to surrendering my heart into his hands.

I flushed the toilet and walked out feeling firm, in control of my body and emotions. I rejoined him on the couch and he handed me back my drink with a brilliant, loving smile. The world strobed black after that.

*   *   *

I remembered the next few hours in snatches of light, in pictures snipped from fevered, color-rich dreams. We were laughing, drinking and smoking, snuggling and kissing on the couch. Some time later, minutes or hours, we were in my room, and this, I retained—the fumbling struggle at the catch of my jeans, my hand swatting his, ineffectual as the paper wings of a moth. There was my heart racing, faster and more alert than the rest of my body, paralyzed in the brief moments when I felt awake. And then Jamie, shirt open, briefs tented, hovering over me with a dazed grin on his face, one hand pinning my shoulder to the bed.

Lori's voice, calling
unni, I'm home
, then
unni?
and louder,
unni?
punctuated now with a door hinge and a scream.

*   *   *

I woke up with a gasp and sat up in my bed. Lori was next to me, and when she felt me move, she snapped awake with me.

My head throbbed and I felt soaked through with sleep. Lori was looking at me with wide-awake eyes, ringed red and stinging with a watchful panic.

“
Unni
?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

I ventured a nod, but I felt terrible. I'd had a lot of hangovers in my life, but this one felt different, like a recovery from hibernation. I'd been sleeping, it seemed, for a long, long time.

“
Unni
?”

I imagined myself talking, moved my tongue in my mouth. It felt enlarged and chalky, and it took me seconds to make a sound. “The fuck happened?” I finally managed. “I feel like I traveled through time.”

Lori's eyes filled, and she fell across me like a puppy climbing her owner. “Do you remember me coming home?”

I tried, and I retrieved the sound of her voice, calling after me from another dimension. “Vaguely,” I said. “What time was that?”

“Around two,” she said. “I'm so sorry. I was out with Isaac and he dropped me off. He's here now, too.”

“Isaac slept over?”

She nodded. “In my room. I mean somebody—” she hesitated, looking to my closed door. “Somebody had to keep an eye on
him
.”

All the heat in my body disappeared at once when I heard her pronounce that word. The fragments of the night came forward and arranged themselves to tell one inevitable story, like single points that defined a line. It took me a minute to speak.

“He's still here?” Rage displaced some of the drowsiness vying for my body. “Where?”