Low Life (14 page)

As he walked back toward the Saab he decided to go to Robert’s apartment and see what he came up with. Maybe he had the body there – or something that would help him figure out who
did have it and why they took it. Any information would be better than what he had now.

After driving toward the ocean for several miles Simon turned right onto Western and took it toward Hollywood. Bent palms jutted upwards, drooping above the houses and
businesses like wind-frayed umbrellas. By the time he reached Lexington he could make out the Hollywood sign through the mist, perched crookedly on its hillside.

It didn’t rain much in Los Angeles, but he liked it when it did. The downpour cleared the sky and made it so you could see for miles in every direction. It washed the filth away. The town
was due for a good cleansing.

A block or two shy of Sunset Boulevard Simon made a left and drove till he came to Robert’s pink stucco apartment building. The narrow strip of grass in front of it – what some might
call a lawn – was dead and brown. A pile of dog shit sat on it near the sidewalk, buzzing with flies.

Simon stepped from the Saab and walked toward the building, and then up onto Robert’s front porch. He checked under the welcome mat and under a dead potted plant. He found a key in neither
of those locations. He looked around, trying to figure out where Robert might hide a spare. He didn’t want to have to break into the place – though he would. He reached up above the
door and brushed his fingers across the top of the door frame. Dust fell down into his face and he shook his head and blew out through his nostrils. His fingers bumped something and it dropped to
the concrete porch, tinkling like a bell. He sneezed from the dust, wiped at his nose, then wiped the results off on his pants.

The key lay at his feet. He picked it up, unlocked the front door, and went inside.

The apartment smelled of stale beer, marijuana, and the quiet depression of a man who never opened his windows or blinds. It was a small three-room apartment with a
thirty-year-old green shag carpet, a small two-burner stove, and a fridge you could maybe squeeze a six-pack of Miller Lite and a package of bologna into if you were the kind of person who happened
to like Miller Lite and bologna.

Simon searched the place.

Robert could have taken the body. He could have called work and said he would be late, gone to Simon’s apartment, and taken it. He could have – but why?

That was a question for later. The question for now was did he.

After ten minutes of searching and finding nothing – nothing but a collection of pornography, a collection of comic books, a collection of stamps, and a collection of bongs all stinking of
stale bong water – Simon decided the answer to that was no. Or, if he had, he hadn’t brought it back to his apartment. Of course – why would he have?

Not knowing what else to do, Simon decided to call it a day.

But before heading back to Pasadena he stopped off at his apartment for what he thought might very well be the last time. If he could walk away from all this squalor, that
would be just fine by him. He grabbed Francine and her small can of food, took them down to the car, and buckled her into the passenger’s seat. The shoulder strap went right over the top of
the jar, of course, but the waist strap held her in place. He wanted her safe.

He put the car into gear and headed for home.

Home?

Why not? It was his now. If he could keep it.

He parked the Saab in the driveway and killed the engine. He half-expected the police to be waiting for him inside, standing next to a weeping Samantha, and when he walked in
they would all look up at him with hateful accusation in their eyes.

Handcuffs would be pulled from belts. Steps would be taken toward him. Someone would say, You’re under arrest for the murder of—

He’d run but it would be no use. Of course it wouldn’t. It never is.

He grabbed Francine and got out of the car.

The living room was empty – not a cop in sight.

He closed the front door behind him, twisting the deadbolt home, and walked to the couch. He put Francine’s Mason jar onto the coffee table, sprinkled some food onto the water, and sat
there watching her eat.

‘Jeremy?’ Samantha said, walking out of the hallway.

She wore a skirt and a gray blouse with the top two buttons undone, revealing her small-breasted cleavage. She was putting earrings into the several holes in her ears.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she said. ‘Dr Zurasky called and said you ran out of his office.’

‘I’m – I did.’

‘Are you okay?’

Simon shook his head.

‘I – I’m – no.’

‘Oh, baby,’ Samantha said.

She walked to the couch and sat down next to him. She put her arms around him.

‘What is it?’

‘Everything,’ Simon said. ‘It’s just – everything.’ He exhaled through his nose. ‘My head is killing me.’

‘Want me to get you some Tylenol?’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’

Samantha got to her feet and disappeared into the hallway a moment. When she returned she was carrying three pills in the palm of one hand and a glass of water in the other.

Simon took the pills, closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again.

He looked up at Samantha.

‘Does the phrase “walk the mile” mean anything to you?’

Samantha shook her head.

‘Should it?’

‘I don’t know.’

She bit her lip. ‘I should call Gil and tell him we can’t go.’

‘To your show?’

Samantha nodded.

‘No,’ Simon said. ‘I’m okay.’

‘It can go on without me.’

‘No. I want to go.’

It was true. He wanted to be Jeremy Shackleford and Jeremy Shackleford would go to his wife’s art show. He would go and he would hold her hand and smile and be supportive. That’s
what husbands did. He had seen it in movies and it seemed to be true. It should be, even if it wasn’t.

‘Are you sure?’

He nodded. This was what he wanted; this was what he’d spent the last two weeks thinking about and dreaming about. He was sure.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We don’t have to leave for a couple of hours. Take a few minutes and relax.’

He nodded again.

Samantha turned away to finish getting ready, but then stopped.

‘You got a goldfish?’

‘Her name is Francine.’

Simon changed into a gray suit, which he thought would be more appropriate for the evening, which he thought was more like something Jeremy would wear to such an event. He
washed his face, then dug through the closet till he found an overcoat, and then slipped into it.

‘You’re really gonna wear that?’

‘I’m cold.’

‘You look like a Griffith Park pervert.’

‘I think I’m coming down with flu or something,’ he said. ‘I got the shivers.’

Samantha shrugged.

‘Okay.’

The art show wasn’t at a gallery but a restaurant in Silverlake, on Sunset Boulevard, not too far east of the Sunset Junction. The tables had been lined up in the center
of the room, where several tapas – warm seasoned almonds, spiced olives, some kind of blue-veined Spanish cheese that looked like a moldy version of brie – were laid out artistically
among various bunches of flowers.

A bartender – a twenty-something actor-type that Simon thought he recognized from a bit part on one of those police procedural shows; he’d played a rapist – stood behind the
bar, looking bored. He was, Simon would bet, a bartender who liked flair, and tonight he was stuck pouring free glasses of mid-grade pinot into six-ounce plastic cups, just getting people
lubricated enough to maybe buy a piece of art, to part with their money.

Samantha’s paintings were hung around the room.

About forty or fifty people paced around, drinking their wine and looking at the paintings.

A moment after they walked into the restaurant a thin man with spiked hair, wearing a burgundy velvet jacket and black pants and a pair of suede platform shoes (he was short and wished he
wasn’t, Simon thought), came pouring toward them, all teeth and joints and blue blue eyes.

‘Samantha!’ he said as he arrived, kissing both of her cheeks.

‘Hi, Gil,’ Samantha said.

‘Jeremy! Nice overcoat. Headed to a schoolyard later? Just kidding. Give it.’

Gil held his arms out to be hugged.

Simon hugged him uncomfortably.

‘What happened to your face?’

‘Dog bit me.’

‘Oh.’ Gil seemed lost for only a second. Then: ‘Do you guys want some wine? Tapas?’

‘Oh,’ Samantha said, ‘we’ll make our way to the bar. No hurry.’

Gil spun around.

‘Look everybody!’ he shouted to the room. ‘The lady of honor has arrived, the fabulous Samantha Kepler-Shackleford!’ He swept his arms toward her.

She blushed and did a little curtsy.

Gil clapped for her and everybody followed his example, and then, when the clapping subsided, he said, ‘Her beautiful paintings are all for sale, and worth every penny, I assure you. In
sixty years when she’s dead and famous, your grandchildren will be so glad of your present good taste.’

Several people chuckled.

‘We’ve sold about half already,’ Gil said in what Simon thought was an intentionally too-loud whisper.

He headed over to the bar.

An hour later he was on his third glass of wine. His head was throbbing. He was standing in a corner with Samantha. She’d circled the room smiling and shaking hands while
he stood in the corner and drank, but the room was fully reconnoitered now, good prospects charmed, and they were together again. They watched the crowd. Gil was putting red stickers on the wall
next to two more paintings – the last two – which meant they had now sold out.

‘You don’t look so good,’ Samantha said.

‘My head still.’

‘Maybe you should—’

‘Samantha?’

Simon looked up at the sound of the voice.

It belonged to a brunette with a boy’s haircut and a woman’s body. She had red lipstick smeared across her full lips making her look like she’d been punched in the mouth and
liked it. She was wearing a short skirt and black stockings and a Pere Ubu T-shirt that said

‘Marlene Biskind with the
East Sider.
Can I get a picture of you and your husband?’

‘Of course,’ Samantha said, slipping a hand through Simon’s arm.

Marlene Biskind held up a Nikon camera with a lens like the barrel of Dirty Harry’s gun.

Simon tried to smile but his eyes felt dull in his head.

A flash of light exploded in front of him and everything disappeared behind it. He blinked and people became out-of-focus silhouettes. Then a second flash. Then a third.

Simon dropped his wine, blinking, trying to regain his vision.

The wine splashed across Samantha’s shoes and legs.

‘Oh, shit.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right.’

Gil came rushing over with a wad of napkins like he’d been standing in the corner just waiting for it to happen and started wiping at Samantha’s legs and shoes and then the
floor.

‘My God,’ he said. ‘Some people just can’t hold their liquor.’ He stood up. ‘You do it like this.’ He made a cupping gesture with his empty right hand.
‘Not like this.’ He flattened his palm.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m just kidding.’

‘I’m—’

‘It’s a party. There’s more wine.’ And then he was off.

Marlene looked from Simon to Samantha.

‘Should we try again?’

Samantha laughed. ‘I think we’d better.’

She put her arm through Simon’s again.

Another flash of light exploded.

Simon fell backwards. He hit the wall behind him and then slid down it. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Maybe just the day. Dogs and people coming back to life. Corpses
disappearing. Impersonating a dead man. And now he was standing here pretending to smile while a woman from the
East Sider
snapped his photograph. It was all too much.

He looked up and saw Samantha and Marlene looking down at him, both with concern in their eyes. They looked incredibly tall.

‘Are you okay?’ Marlene said.

‘Baby?’

Simon worked his way to his feet with Samantha’s help.

‘I’m okay. Just a little tired. It’s been a long day.’

Several people had stopped their conversations and were looking at him – wine glasses or toast smeared with cheese paused halfway to or from their mouths, sentences half caught in their
throats. It was obvious by the disapproving but amused looks on their faces that they thought he was drunk. He was not. He was trying to get drunk, but he felt sober as a newborn.

‘We should go,’ Samantha said.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Marlene said. ‘You really took a spill.’

‘You stay for the rest of your night, honey. This is a big deal for you. Enjoy it. I’ll take a cab home.’

‘Are you sure?’

Simon nodded.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m sure.’

The ride home took thirty minutes – thirty minutes in a blue and yellow cab that smelled vaguely of vomit and ammonia. It did nothing to improve his mental state.

He sat in the back with the window cracked.

The cab driver was not one of those guys who felt the need to fill silence with the sound of his own voice, and Simon was grateful for that at least. He just sat silently in the front seat and
drove while Simon sat in the back, watching the cost of the cab ride go from its two-dollar beginnings to its thirty-six-dollar total.

The car pulled to a stop in front of Simon’s – it’s mine now, goddamn it – front yard. The house was silent and dark but for a lamp in the living room whose light was
shining yellow through a crack in orange striped curtains. Simon gave the cab driver two twenties – keep the change; hey, thanks, buddy – and stepped from the vehicle.

He was halfway up the concrete path that bisected the lawn, watching his feet move one in front of the other, when he saw her. She had been sitting on one of the steps that led up to the front
door, and as he approached she got to her feet.

‘I thought you’d never get here.’