Point Doom (10 page)

AFRIKA STOOD UP
from his chair. He handed me his business card. “If you can think of anything else, call me, JD.”

Then he looked directly into my eyes. “Sooo, anything you may have left out by mistake?”

“I try to avoid mistakes, Afrika,” I said.

“Uh-huh. So, are we square? You’ve told me everything?”

“Is that another question?”

“Just making sure. Doing my job.” Then he smiled. There was a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “Anyway, good to see you again after all this time, my man.”

“Right,” I said. “Just dandy.”

DOWNSTAIRS IN MY
demo Corolla, I lit up a Light. I watched as the rivers of smoke began to float above my head in the enclosed space. I thought of Woody’s screenplay and how wrong I’d been about it, what a decent man my friend had been—my only real friend in Los Angeles. No matter how, I’d find the geek tortured him. It didn’t matter how long it took or what the cost, or who it hurt, I’d find the killer. I’d square this.

THIRTEEN

B
ack at my new apartment, as the afternoon sun was streaming in over the tops of the eucalyptus trees outside my window, I sat down at my coffee table.

I opened the brown bag with the handles and pulled out Woody’s penis, wrapped in a plastic garbage bag and the paper towels. My head was pounding relentlessly. What the fuck have you done here? You’re completely crazy? You removed and concealed evidence in a murder! You’ve made yourself an accessory!

Enough was enough! “Fuck it!” I finally yelled out loud. There was no undoing what had been done. I lit another cigarette and looked around the apartment. My eyes stopped at the refrigerator.

Opening it, I looked inside. It was empty except for a quart of milk I’d bought, a jar of peanut butter, and a new loaf of bread.

In the freezer compartment were three bags of frozen broccoli that Coco had sent along as a care package. I returned to the couch, cut the end off one of the bags with a scissor, emptied most of the contents into the sink, then stuffed the plastic bag containing Woody’s penis back inside.

That done, I put some of the broccoli back in, then placed the bags back in the freezer. That would have to do for now.

MY SINGLE THOUGHT
now was to get very drunk, to stop the intensity of my headache and put the events of the day away. I told myself that after tonight I wouldn’t make the same mistakes I’d made before in New York. I’d be less careless this time.

I picked up my demo’s keys from the table. The nearest liquor store was Consumer’s Liquor on the corner of Washington and Centinela, three minutes away.

Then something stopped me. It was almost as though someone had put his hand on my chest. Instead of leaving, I pulled my cell from my pocket and punched in Bob Anderson’s number. I desperately needed to talk to another recovered drunk.

Anderson, as usual, answered on less than two rings.

“Hey Bob, it’s JD, I need to talk.”

“I’m here. I’m listening. Go ahead, my friend.”

“My buddy was killed today. A damn decent guy with almost six years off the juice. I’m pretty crazy right now.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Okay, here’s what you do: Get to a meeting as soon as possible. Start telling people what’s going on. Share about it. If you have to, grab somebody in the parking lot and just start talking. Don’t go through this alone. You’ve got the tools, JD, now it’s time to use them. You’re not in this by yourself, my friend. Take positive action now and leave the results up to God.”

“Okay, good idea,” I said, still not knowing or understanding what had stopped me from going to the liquor store or even what had made me pick up the phone. “There’s a five-thirty meeting at the Marina Center every day,” I said. “I’ve been there before.”

“Call me afterward,” Bob barked. “Let me know how you’re doing. So—what happened? How’d he die?”

“He was tortured, then mutilated.”

“Jesus Christ! Sorry, JD. That’s the shits. Look, your job now is to control the thoughts. Short-circuit the crap your brain is telling you. Do you hear me? Getting to meetings and talking to other alkies will help. Do that and call me back.”

“I don’t want to drink, Bob. I know where that’ll take me. And it won’t be pretty. I was on my way to the liquor store but I called you instead.”

“That’s what we do. We pick up the phone. See, you’re catching on. You’re getting it, JD. A drink will only make it worse. There’s nothing that a drink will make better. Just get into action and stay close.”

I took a deep breath. “That’s a deal. Thank you.”

WITH NOTHING BETTER
to do, I pulled out my laptop and turned it on. I went to my e-mail. There was only one that wasn’t spam or a porn site solicitation. It was from [email protected]. It read: Hiya JD. Hope you had a great day off. Just thought I’d check in.

The girl from work was hard-selling again. I immediately wondered how the hell she’d gotten my e-mail address. Then I remembered the notice on the wall of the sales office. It contained staff members’ e-mail information. Somehow this girl—under thirty and still very pretty—had made up her mind to dip her cup in the Fiorella well. This puzzled me and made me think of something my state-sponsored shrink had once told me when we were discussing my chat-room dating prospects and my nonexistent love life: Women, she’d said, do the choosing. All a man really needs to do is to not say anything too stupid, open the car door, have a job, and tell the girl that she looks nice today.

I decided to ignore the e-mail. Taboo’s black detective eyes and our conversation were still bugging me. His I’m-on-to-you expression had pissed me off. Taboo knew zip and would get zip out of me from here on out.

I ATTENDED A
5:30
P.M
. AA meeting at the Marina Center in West L.A. The place was easy to get to from my new apartment.

The meeting turned out to be a one-hour speaker meeting.

The guy’s spiel was entirely useless to me. He’d been a crack addict. Nothing he said—not one word—resonated for me. I’d smoked coke twice in my life and didn’t like the out-of-control rush. These days AA has become a catchall in recovery-speak. Everything’s “anonymous.” Fatties, gamblers, co-dependents, battered wives, and drug addicts were now allowed to participate in a program designed specifically for drunks. Where did that leave the alkies like me? We were SOL. What the guy said during his speech was useless pigshit to me. I didn’t relate at all. Twenty minutes into his monologue, I got up and left.

Outside, I stopped to light up. A guy about my age in a leather jacket with a bandana around his head, a biker guy, was standing there, too, smoking.

He didn’t smile. “Howya doin’?” he said.

“I’ve been better. My friend just got killed.”

“That’s it. That’s right, brother. Life sucks and then you die.”

I stepped closer to the guy. “Go fuck yourself,” I said.

He looked me in the eyes, saw something that scared him, then looked away.

BY NINE THAT
night, after a long walk, I was back at my place. Bob Anderson had been wrong about getting to a meeting. I’d come away empty-handed, with zip. I wasn’t going to call him back. Not tonight anyway. But the good news was that I hadn’t had a drink. Not one beer. I’d done the drill and gotten into action. I’d beat the odds for another day. That was something. Jesus, for a guy like me, that was a big deal.

Half an hour later, I’d watched an old
Girls Gone Wild
video and had something to eat and decided that getting laid might actually help shut my mind—and my headache—down. Digging into my pockets, I discovered that, after the pizza delivery, I was damn near broke. There would be no
LA Weekly
out-call massage for me tonight, or for that matter, any street hookers. My brain delivered an ironic piece of information: The fifteen hundred dollars I owed my friend Woody was now a wash. Dead men can’t collect debts. The thought made me angry. Angry enough to hurt someone.

Then I remembered Vikki’s e-mail. I had almost no interest in her. She was out of my league and for sure high maintenance, a girl in search of the L.A. brass ring and a man to give it to her. But she had come on to me, and by now she was home from the Toyota store. Maybe I’d get lucky. Right now the rest didn’t matter.

I found her card after digging back in my pocket, and then dialed her number on my cell.

“JD,” she answered in a chipper voice. “Surprise, surprise! So how was your day off?”

“Pretty shitty, to tell you the truth,” I said. “But hey, I’m in your neighborhood. I thought I’d stop over and say hi.”

“You don’t know where I live. How could you be in my neighborhood?”

“That’s why I called. I need the address.”

“You think you’re pretty cute, don’t you, Fiorella?”

“No, but I am kinda bluesy at the moment. Like I said, it’s been a pretty screwed day.”

“You don’t sound like yourself. Are you okay?”

“Compared to who? Rhett-fuckin’-Butler?”

A few seconds of dead air passed, then: “Okay, sure, I’m just fixing dinner and listening to some music. But just for a few minutes. I’m tired tonight.”

“No problem,” I said.

“So—got a pen, hotshot?”

“For you, blondie, always.”

“I’m at eleven-oh-five Sixth Street. Apartment H, as in—”

“Hepatitis? Herpes?”

“Happy . . . stupid!”

I scribbled the address on the back of her card, then tucked it back into my pocket.

“Hey,” she giggled, “I sold two today! One had a pretty nice gross. Over eight hundred in payable commission.”

“You’re the ‘it’ girl,” I said. “No doubt about it. So, I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“See you then.”

WHEN VIKKI ANSWERED
her door I couldn’t help but smile. My auto sales co-worker was wearing a light blue lounging outfit zipped down to her breast line, and her makeup and hair were, as usual, perfect. I’d read this girl as intense and complicated but nevertheless, she was very cute. And smart. A class act.

When I stepped inside she gave me a hug. I got the full D-cup treatment, chest to chest.

Leaning back, she eyed me cynically. “You okay, Fiorella?”

“Like I said on the phone, I’ve had a tough day.”

Vikki stepped back. “Well, okay then—how about some coffee . . . or a glass of wine?”

“Thanks.”

“The stuff I’ve got is red. It was a gift and it’s been on a shelf for about six months. Is that okay?”

I thought the offer over for a very long second, then waved my hand no. “Just the coffee is fine.”

She was smiling. “Whatever you say.”

“So, you have other admirers? Not just me.”

“Oh, now you’re an admirer? When you left work yesterday I thought you were going to rip my head off. You have a delightful way of making people feel at ease.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

“I heard about your car deal going upside down,” she said. “This morning Max sat everyone down and went over how to do the paperwork again—how to check and recheck IDs, drivers’ licenses and credit cards.”

There was music playing on her stereo. The volume was down. An old Bad Company album. Nice. This girl had good taste in classic rock.

Vikki’s living room was composed of high-end sticks, maybe even decorated. Here was a girl who spent her money on nice things. Hopefully, without her clothes off, we’d actually get to know each other.

She brought the coffee over to the table by the couch and sat down. I began sipping mine.

“Look,” Vikki said, smiling, “I heard what happened. And I know it wasn’t just your deal going bad. Sherman Toyota is a weird place to work. For some reason Rhett and Max, especially Max, have a strange need to intimidate their sales employees.”

“I believe it’s called eating shit,” I said.

“Soo-o, can I give you a compliment without you getting a fat head over it?”

“Sure,” I said. “I could use one.”

“You’re the best salesman they have and they know it. In a strange way that might explain why Max is so tough on you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“The testosterone level in that management office is neck deep. It can be pretty scary.”

Looking across at Vicki I realized that I was beginning to like her. There was more there than I’d first thought, and I liked it. “Hey, look,” I said, sliding across the cushion between us, “I think I’m getting, like, a thing for you. I’ve discussed it with myself, several of my alternate personalities, and we all agree.”

Vikki smiled her
me, really,
smile. “That’s nice,” she whispered.

Then I went in for the kiss. As I did so, I eased my hand to the side of her left breast.

A second later she was on her feet, both hands on her hips. “Can I ask you something, Fiorella?” she fumed. “Did you think you were going to just pop in here and go for a quickie?! Is your head that far up your ass?”

“Hey,” I said backpedaling, “I just wanted to show you I’m serious.”

Vikki pointed a finger at the apartment door. “Well, how about this, Mister Suave: wiggle your goddamn serious back into your Jockeys and get the hell out of my house!”

AN HOUR LATER,
back on my flip-out couch on Short Avenue, my TV on mute, I sat there watching an endless infomercial for a spiked energy drink and smoking my second-to-last Light. Again I resurveyed the ugliness of the day that had ended with my stupidity with Vikki. I’d blown it with a really nice girl.

But now there was no avoiding what I had to do. My life had changed unalterably in the last twelve hours. I knew I would see death again. I knew I would stop at nothing. This would only end one way. Some men are born to be scholars or preachers. Some guys will work at the post office all their lives, while others will fly at five times the speed of sound. Not me. I’m a hunter. I’m the darkness. I’m the one who gets even.

I GOT UP,
took a shower, then lay down on my bed. Maybe I could get in an hour or two of sleep. Maybe not. Tomorrow was the beginning. Tomorrow was Day One.

An hour later I was awake again. The headache wasn’t too bad but I had just sweated through a newer and more vivid version of my blood-and-body-parts dream. Sitting up, I reached for my address book and my cell on the table next to my .44.

I’d known Carr in New York in my detective days. He’d been one of our go-to guys. It took five calls and about twenty minutes for me to hook up his new number. It wasn’t easy.

It was after three
A.M
. in New York. We hadn’t spoken in years but I was sure he’d remember me. We went way back, me and Carr. And he still owed me.

The call went to message and I talked into my phone. “It’s me—JD,” I said. “I’ve got a sock and a Kleenex that I need run. This is important. Get back to me.”

Five minutes after I’d hung up my cell rang. The screen showed a 212 exchange. Carr was on the line.

“So, you’re in town? You’re back?”

“No, this’s my old New York cell number. I still have it. I’m in L.A. Look, something’s up, Carr. I need those samples run. As in yesterday. Okay?”

“Yeah, well, look JD, I can run your samples but it’ll cost,” he said. “It’s double for a rush.”