Jackie's Week (12 page)

"I am, which is why I now need a drink. A
double vodka rocks. I’m feeling a little breakthrough anxiety, I
guess."

Donna frowned. "You’re not doing the Ativan,
are you?"

"Nope," Jackie lied bravely.

Bienenfeld signaled the waiter who scurried
for the double vodka.

"You look too beautiful tonight to be
scared," Donna said. "Those dark, heavily-lacquered 'power lips' of
yours should be smiling, not frowning."

"Jackie, you’re radiant," Johnson said. "In
fact you’re sparkling."

"It’s only the shimmer powder," Jackie
said.

"What?"

"Special body makeup. Donna’s idea. As well
as this metallic backless top."

"Pinch me," Johnson said.

"Will you look at that," Bienenfeld said,
"That weirdo over there? He’s eating out of the garbage can. What
did I tell you? Johnson, sic the dog on that dude."

"Bienenfeld, you’re getting drunk and acting
ugly again," Donna said.

"Speaking of in the garbage," Jackie said.
"That’s where Bout’s going to wind up. He’s going to be sorry. He’s
going to get his justice."

"You bet he is," Johnson said. "We’re gonna
take Bout down."

"Oh yes. I’m scared of facing him, but I’ve
decided I’m not going to let Viktor Bout destroy me. I intend to
destroy him! I am going to do the lineup! I am!"

Everybody applauded, drawing well-oiled
glances from the many eyes of the surrounding patrons.

"It takes a lot of courage to do what you’re
doing," Donna said.

"Courage my ass. It’s you guys who keep me
going. And as long as I have you all, I can stand proud. Good Lord,
where is my drink?"

The waiter arrived with a Jackie’s double
vodka and four embarrassingly large steaks piled high with ribbons
of fried onions, the platters sizzling. A fifth steak, cut up, was
delivered by Johnson to Heinz, who gobbled greedily the expensive
cuts of broiled bovine.

"Is that legal?" Donna said.

"Sort of," Johnson said. "Of course tipping
the captain 50 bucks helped. The health laws on patio dining aren’t
really clear. Hell, if you think about it, Heinz is probably
cleaner than the guy who served these steaks."

"You’re a class act, Johnson," Jackie
said.

"Thank you," he said. So are you. And it’s
good to see you not so scared."

"I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my
life. But at least I’m feeling something."

Chapter 20

After dinner, they approached the Lexus.
"You’ve had too much vodka to drive," Johnson said. "The keys
please."

Jackie handed them over and he helped her
into the passenger seat. Johnson put the car northbound on Ocean
Avenue driving slowly up the four-lane divided highway which
paralleled the park at the edge of the ocean bluff. They were down
to a threesome, Donna and Bienenfeld having departed via
limousine.

"Where to, Jackie?"

"Back to the Valley. I want to show you my
house. But first stop somewhere along here. We’ll let Heinz sniff
around the park for a few minutes."

They pulled in to a space on the bluff
overlooking the Ocean at the spot where the mighty Wilshire
Boulevard abruptly terminated. The focus of this terminus was the
statue of Saint Monica, the city’s namesake. The statue, a concrete
obelisk facing west and positioned at the tripartite juncture of
ocean, earth and sky, resembled, in typical L.A. fashion, somewhat
more akin to an alien interplanetary probe than a venerable
saint.

The trio exited the vehicle. The play of
light and shadows, originating from the light of a half moon, mixed
with the flashing headlights of the passing cars, imparting to the
arboreal venue a primitive feeling, accented even more by the sight
of the wolf-like figure zipping back and forth.

Jackie and Johnson walked to the edge of the
bluff and rested elbows on the white railing, allowing their senses
to drink in the essence of the mighty Santa Monica Bay before
them.

"Saint Monica bore a son," Jackie said, "who
made Hugh Hefner look like a schoolboy. But she prayed for him for
about a hundred years and he changed from his evil ways to became
Saint Augustin."

"You’re Catholic?"

"Born and raised. I’m somewhat lapsed at the
moment. Although I should start back in, seeing as how I have
racked up considerable time living like a saint."

"Same here," Johnson said. "I was raised
Catholic, but after Vietnam my fervor dissipated."

"When’s the last time you went to Mass? And I
don’t mean for a wedding or a funeral."

"Uh. I think it was last Easter. Oh well.
There’s always purgatory for people like me."

"No there isn’t. Because purgatory isn’t a
make-over for lapsed Catholics. It’s actually for the good ones.
You have to earn purgatory. People like you and me are going
straight to hell."

"Not me. I have a priest on speed dial. If
the end comes, I'm getting absolution and slipping in under the
wire."

"It’s no joke, Johnson. Hell is real. I
believe in it more now than ever. I am seriously thinking of going
to confession."

"I understand. I’m a big believer in
confessions. I like to beat them out of the perps."

"Is everything a joke with you, Johnson?"

"Sorry. Maybe I’m nervous, too. This is our
first real date, you know."

"Do you believe in love, Johnson?"

"Do I what?"

"Do you believe in love?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Making it last is the secret I haven’t
mastered," Johnson said. "And neither have you. But I have heard
that older people who marry may have a better chance."

"A better chance of what?"

"Of making it last."

"Sure they do, Johnson. Because for one
thing, they don't have to make it last very long, and for another,
they are too old to cheat.

He got down on one knee. "Jackie, I want you
to marry me."

"Johnson, you’re making a complete ass of
yourself. Now get up and call Heinz. It’s time to hit the
road."

Heading back to Van Nuys, Johnson chose to
avoid the freeway and cruised Sepulveda Boulevard, which paralleled
the brightly lit freeway and yet somehow retained a spooky, dark,
and lonely character as it curved and dipped into the recesses of
the mountain pass.

"It was stupid of me to propose the way I
did," Johnson said.

"It wasn’t stupid. It’s just ... I keep
thinking how could such a thing come flying into my life at such a
terrible time? Look, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You
are an idiot and I’m an emotional cripple."

"Is there anything I can do to make up for my
bad behavior?"

"Yes," she said. "You're a cop. I want you to
drive like one."

He stomped on the accelerator and the car
shot forward like a rocket. The tires began to scream as he headed
up the onramp to the freeway at an insane speed.

Chapter 21

"I’ll never forget that ride as long as I
live," Jackie said. "But I never want to repeat the
experience."

It had been one of the greatest moments of
her life, being forced back into her seat, passing cars on the
freeway as though they were standing still, shamelessly swerving
into the breakdown lanes to bypass the jockeying crowds at the
interchanges. When she saw the speedometer hit 145, her soul had
sprung forth from her body, shouting "Yes, I’m alive!"

After leaving the freeway, they proceeded
down Orion Avenue, one of several named after heavenly clusters no
longer visible through the neon-fortified smog, and into a warren
of tiny box-like homes, the front elevations gamely attempting to
break the monotony with faux ranch or hacienda trim. Diminutive
front yards menaced would-be intruders with warning labels on
sticks fastened to the turf like stakes driven into the heart of
crime. The landscape was heavy with rat-infested ivy,
disease-rotted walnut trees, and whatever additional flora could
tolerate the near-drought conditions. Impatiens were popular in a
few isolated patches, but on the whole, the area was hard-up for
color. There were more than a few foreclosure signs scattered here
and there.

"Pull in here," Jackie said, pointing to the
only two-story in a row of single-story units, a somewhat
disheveled Cape Cod number, white with contrasting green fake storm
shutters astride a cracked asphalt driveway. Johnson and Jackie got
out of the car.

"This is your old place, isn’t it?"

"Yeh. I lived here before I went into hiding
from Viktor Bout."

She hadn’t seen the house in months. It
looked small, and faded, lacking the warmth and light of happier
times. Was this where she’d been planning to spend the rest of her
life?

"I inherited this from my parents. But I will
probably lose it to foreclosure. There’s a realtor next door who is
dying to do something called a short sale. I just got a loan from
Bienenfeld to catch up the back payments. But it's not enough to
cover the underwater part of the loan. Screw it. I know I’ll never
feel safe here again, not as long as Viktor Bout lives and
breathes. Do you want to go inside?"

"Sure. I’ll leave Heinz in the car. He’ll
discourage any punks."

She walked to the brick porch, put her key in
the deadbolt and looked up at him. "You look kind of handsome
tonight. But I think I like you better without the tie."

"The tie is coming off," he said, grabbing it
with both hands and stripping it free with one well-practiced
motion.

They stood in the small entryway. "The three
choices from here," Jackie said, "are a straight shot down the hall
to the living room, up these stairs to my bedroom, or left through
this archway to the kitchen for a drink."

"I vote the stairs."

"Dream on. I’ve already decided on the
kitchen." She led him into the tiny galley, the whole of which
opened onto a breakfast nook. Johnson parked himself at the oak
dinette.

Jackie opened a cupboard and took out a
cocktail blender. From the counter, she selected a fresh pint of
dark rum, cracked the seal, added five shots of the potent, almost
syrupy rum to the blender, removed a plastic lemon from an
otherwise empty refrigerator, squeezing the juice from the lemon
into the shaker before topping off the mixture with a dash of
powdered sugar—straight from the box—along with some ice cubes from
the bin, which had frozen together in a clump and had to be whacked
apart on the rim of the sink. She set out a couple of squat
tumblers and strained the potent liquid into one of the glasses.
Into the other she poured a diet Coke. It was a well-rehearsed
routine, carried out with swift efficiency.

"It’s 151 rum so be careful," she said. "Sort
of a half-baked rum sour. Like everything else in my life."

He took a sip. "Nobody can say you don’t know
how to make a drink."

She took his hand. "I’m self-medicating, as
my doctor likes to say. So here’s to self-medication."

"Cheers."

"We’ll go out by the pool." She led him past
the living room and through the glass sliders. She flipped on the
pool light and the shadows began to play on the surrounding grape
stake fence. The sultry Valley air seemed to envelope them. Small
talk was suddenly rendered impossible by the passage of a Jumbo Jet
directly overhead, its huge bulk and winking strobes clearly
visible in the soft, smoggy air.

"I can’t believe how clean your place is,
since you don’t even live here," Johnson said.

"I hire a service to make it look lived in.
They clean and mow the lawn and do the pool and even keep the
sheets washed even though nobody sleeps on them. They have the
lights go on and off randomly and stuff. Otherwise the foreclosure
thieves would have stripped the place by now."

"Well it looks great," he said. "Like a nice
bed and breakfast."

"So where do you live, Johnson?"

"Out by the Burbank Airport. Directly under
the flight path, at the point where they reverse thrust as loudly
as possible."

"That sounds ugly."

"It is. The neighborhood’s a dump. The place
I inhabit—I won’t call it ‘living’—is an apartment above a garage.
A friend of mine owns the property. There’s an undocumented family
in the front house. They’re nice folks. We barbecue together from
time to time."

"Do I dare ask why you live in a dump? I
thought senior cops made pretty good money. Or are you some kind of
loser like me, who’s closing in fast on retirement and has nothing
to show."

"What can I say? I’m just a tiny speck
embedded in the overall global financial meltdown."

She led him beneath her arbor, the scent of
the guava tree heavy in the night air. "This is why I brought you
here tonight. To show you what was once my favorite place in the
world. It was a personal ritual of mine to have coffee out here
every morning before going to my job at Washington Mutual, which is
now defunct. I used to grind my own beans fresh. Every month I’d
blow a fortune on a pound bag of Jamaican Blue."

"You can have the good life again."

"No. I can’t. Viktor Bout took that away from
me. He took my favorite spot, my car, my job, my health and
everything else. The only reason I’m able to be here tonight is
because I’ve got enough alcohol and pills in my system, and because
I’m with you and your man-eating dog. Johnson, can you teach me how
to handle a gun?"

"Yeh."

"So what kind of gun do you think I need?

"Something small. A handgun," he said. "A
revolver. I’ve got a small Charter Arms detective special you can
try on for size. It’ll fit in your bag."

"Isn’t that illegal?"

"It's only a misdemeanor-unless you kill
somebody."

"There's just one small problem," Jackie
said. "At the sight of a gun I pass out. Doctor Black showed me one
yesterday and I just disappeared."