Crush (12 page)

“Did you lose something?” Rush asked.

Trask looked up in mild surprise. “I'm going to have it filled in. Too many memories.”

Wearily, Trask walked up to the shallow end and climbed the ladder. Rush offered him a hand but Trask brushed it aside. “Where's my daughter?”

“Safe.”

“No more explosions, I trust.”

“Not around her.”

“Then to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I had a couple of questions I wanted answered.”

Trask sat in wooden deck chair and waited. “All right.”

“When Amelia found your brother, after she screamed, who came out first?”

“Tony Guzman. He jumped in and tried to save him. Too late.”

“One more thing,” Rush said. “Guzman. What did he drink?”

“Tequila. Patron. Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

Rush looked down at the empty pool. He could see it. Guzman diving into the dark water, swimming toward Walter Trask's lifeless body. A dramatic moment.

Except Rush knew full well that Tony Guzman couldn't swim.

ELEVEN

T
he years had been kind to Tianna, and she didn't look any older than she had that day on the yacht a few years back, when Stanley Trask had slapped her around. In fact, she looked younger. She looked like all those years of abuse and sex for hire had never happened. As if she'd come over from the Ukraine on a work visa and actually found work as a model instead of being sidetracked into prostitution. Not that she'd had any illusions about what Tarzan had in store for her once she got to the States. She knew just what she was getting into and considered it a fair trade to reach the land of opportunity. What she hadn't counted on was it lasting more than a few years. Five max. Then she'd be on her feet and married to a rich man, supplementing her income by being a supermodel. Why not? In America, anything was possible.

Anything, unfortunately, included Tarzan Ivankov refusing to let her keep any of the money she earned until she paid back her travel expenses and visa costs.
She wasn't sure what the total amount came to, and Tarzan wouldn't tell her, but he made it clear that she'd be working for him for a long time before she made good. In the meantime, he'd be happy to loan her some money, at his rate of interest, of course. And if she wanted some drugs to ease the monotony, he could arrange that, too. For a nominal fee. The end result of this was that she was in the employ of Tarzan Ivankov and anyone he loaned her to until approximately 2035.

That was until she met Tony Guzman. Tony had been given the job of getting her weeping body home after the incident on Trask's yacht. She had shown her gratitude the only way she knew how. But unlike all the others, Guzman hadn't scrubbed himself off, thanked her very much, and left. He had stayed to talk—about where she was from and where she was going. About her dreams and aspirations. He told her about himself, too. About how his parents had made the hazardous journey from the Dominican Republic to Puerto Rico in a tiny
yola
and spent years paying the “trip planner” back for the privilege of working non-union construction jobs and changing the diapers of the offspring of the well-to-do. He'd joked about it, but she could tell it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

And when he came back the next night, and the night after that, she didn't even think to charge him. He was a friend, and what else did she have to give? All in all, it was a nice time. When she was with other men, she just closed her eyes and imagined she was
with Guzman, and the time passed much more pleasantly. But when he asked her to marry him, she had to take stock of her situation. And her situation was this: She couldn't marry anybody, because she belonged, lock, stock, and pussy, to Tarzan Ivankov.

She explained this to Guzman, teary eyed, one night and he didn't react at all like she'd expected. He knew what she did for a living. He knew what kind of pressures she was under. He also knew that Ivankov didn't want trouble. And Guzman was the kind of man who could give him plenty of trouble. So he went to Ivankov with a proposition: If he'd tell them the total amount Tianna owed him and allow them a year to pay it back, Guzman wouldn't start killing off his men. Ivankov took this with good humor, like it was a joke, and agreed. Tianna was old merchandise by now anyway. One whore wasn't worth the loss of however many men Guzman could kill.

So Guzman worked double shifts for a year, and Tianna did a few movies, and, somehow (Rush didn't quite know how) they paid off the debt. Then they got married, Tianna retired, and they lived happily ever after. Until Walter Trask went and drowned himself.

“Where's Guzman?” Rush asked Tianna when she opened her front door.

They must have been doing well the past few years, Rush thought. This little bungalow in Manhattan Beach was close enough to the water to cost a million and change. She let him in, and they sat in the dining
room, with its white table and picture-perfect view of the ocean across two blocks of rooftops.

They could have done a lot of catching up. Rush had always liked Tianna, and Tianna had always liked Rush, only partly because he was one of the few men she knew who didn't put the moves on her when Guzman's back was turned. But now wasn't the time for a reunion.

“I don't know where he is, Crush,” she said, and he knew she was lying. She'd never been good at faking it. That was why she hadn't made it in the movies.

“Tell him I need to talk to him,” he said and left.

TWELVE

R
ush sat behind the wheel in front of a rundown church on Fairfax Avenue and watched a group of middle-aged men walk out of the rectory door, chatting. One of them, with a mop of white hair above an incongruously youthful face, spotted Rush and moved to him. He moved rapidly, too, with a little skip in his step. Everything about Bill Ingol was youthful except for his age. He rapped on the window of the GTO and waited with a wry smile for Rush to roll it down.

“Caleb,” he said. “Missed you at the meeting. Haven't seen you at one in a while.” It was actually a long while, but he didn't have to say it.

“Been busy.”

“Did you get yourself a new sponsor?”

“I'm kinda working the program on my own these days.”

“Yeah. You know what they call people who work the program on their own, don't you?”

“I know. Drunks.”

“As long as you know.” Bill was a retired screenwriter. Retired not by choice, but by the unwritten law that if you were old enough to remember seeing the original
Star Trek
in its first showing, you were too old to write the remake.

“I'm all right. Listen—do you still sponsor Tony Guzman?”

Bill nodded.

“How's he doing?” Rush asked.

“Good. His eighth sober birthday's next month. Wanna come help blow out the candles?”

“So he's not drinking again?”

“No. Somebody say he was?”

“Tell him I need to see him. You know, if you happen to speak to him.”

Bill nodded. “I'll see what I can do.”

Camphor-tree branches reached toward each other across the street, and the leaves met overhead, making the road into a beautiful green tunnel, but Stegner didn't notice that. The street in South Pasadena was so picturesque that twice a month it was invaded by film crews in search of the perfect suburban neighborhood. Stegner didn't appreciate that either. He was too busy casing the house across the street.

A huge Craftsman bungalow—all heavy wood beams and dark green shingles—was the address the
agency had given him. Someone had spent a lot of money in the past few years restoring that big old house and, right now, a horde of eight-year-olds was doing its best to destroy it. Balloons festooned the trees, streamers entwined the porch, and a banner ran across the front of the house: HAPPY 8
^TH
BIRTHDAY, EVAN!!!

Stegner felt a little pang as he watched the bounce house rock back and forth in the side yard. He hadn't seen his own son for, what was it, three months now? Why didn't he miss him? Was it his fault that Lydia was a total bitch, taking Richie to Connecticut without so much as a by-your-leave? What was he supposed to do? Move to Bridgeport and start over from scratch? Just so he could be close to that conniving cunt and her whining brat?

Appalled at his inner monologue, Stegner checked himself in the rear-view mirror to see if he'd grown horns and a pointed goatee. Okay, that was an evil thought. But when it came down to it, did he really feel anything but relief that Richie was out of his life? He knew that men were supposed to love their sons no matter what, but he also knew that his own father had barely tolerated him. Why should he be any different?

As he climbed out of the car, mostly to leave these taboo thoughts behind, and walked up to the house, a trio of screaming kids covered in some sugary substance nearly collided with him. A harried mother ran after them, apologizing, “Sorry! We shouldn't have done this in the front yard, but the construction.…”

She didn't have to say anymore. There was always construction going on in these big homes. They reminded Stegner of the Winchester Mystery House—that place up north that had belonged to the widow of the inventor of the Winchester rifle who believed that, if she stopped building her house, the ghosts of those killed by her husband's life-work would come get her. Stegner wasn't sure what ghostly curse compelled people in the L.A. area to keep adding on to their houses, but the effect was the same.

“No problem,” he said, smiling affably. “I'm looking for Justin. Do know where he is?” Stegner didn't know any child named Justin, but he felt it was a fair bet that there were as least two at this party.

The mother looked around the chaos. “Um, you might try inside. With the magician.”

Bingo.

Bob Steinkellner was dying. He was dying in the show business sense, since his balloon tricks had already cleared half the kids from the room. And he was dying in the spiritual sense, since he was performing magic at children's parties and living in a studio apartment off Yucca that his parole officer called “the worst piece of shit place” he'd ever set foot in. (And presumably a parole officer's feet knew shit when they stepped in it.) And, finally, he was dying in the literal sense, since
he'd been diagnosed with a particularly virulent strain of follicular lymphoma, which, his doctor assured him, could be treated by chemotherapy—chemotherapy that Steinkellner couldn't afford and that he didn't really want. Right now, his full head of hair was the only blessing he had.

He finished two tricks early. The kids, looking slack-jawed and bored since they couldn't control him with a remote, ran off to beat a SpongeBob piñata to death, and Steinkellner packed his scarves and cards and Dove Pans and Chinese Wands and Rubber Ropes and Professor's Nightmare and Milk Pitcher and Needle Thru Balloon Trick and Hippy Hop Rabbits and Torn and Restored Newspaper and Mouth Coil and Egg Bag and Breakaway Wand and Magic Coloring Book neatly in his black carrying cases. He had another party to perform at in an hour. In Alhambra. Death couldn't come soon enough, he thought.

And he was only partly joking.

“Mr. Steinkellner?” The man who addressed him was a very unpleasant-looking fellow indeed. Dressed in a dark blue windbreaker, black slacks, and white shirt, he looked like a rent-a-cop who'd just taken off his tie to try to blend in with the crowd.