Shorts - Sinister Shorts (24 page)

“You betcha.” Below the table, he had her hand in his and had to repress a sudden desire to crush her knuckles until they cracked. She had married a musician, an artist, for Chrissake, not some poor slob with a routine job. She needed reminding. His fingers were strong. No doubt one hard squeeze would take care of anything further she might care to remark if he wanted to stop her.

But Carol interrupted his thoughts with a surprisingly welcome suggestion. “How about a movie? There's one at the Y I'd love to see.”

Juliette brightened, withdrew her hand from his, and ran for the newspaper to check for times. Lenny continued to separate items on his plate, prissy and offended-looking at the green spreading of the spinach. “I'll pass,” he said when Carol returned.

“Aw, Lenny,” Carol said. “Live a little.”

“Go without me. I have some paperwork.”

Lenny worked for an insurance company, strictly a nine-to-five job that involved no late nights and no overtime. He just said things like this to make himself sound like a mover and shaker to others, the phony ass.

“Nothing that won't wait,” Carol said to her husband.

See, now, this was exactly the kind of thing a man could not let pass. This was direct confrontation. Lenny was pussy whipped, the dry little shit, and he didn't even know it.

“You girls will have a better time without us,” Neal said. “Go salivate over Brad Pitt. I'll give Lenny a lift home. Then I'll put in some practice time.”

Token protests, but eventually the girls drove off in Lenny's car. Lenny finished his dessert and coffee, eating methodically, not saying a word, then got up. “Gotta go,” he said.

“Stay for a drink,” Neal said, pouring Lenny's favorite poison into two small glasses. “Cheers.”

“Yeah,” Lenny said, lifting his glass and draining it.

“Another?”

“You're driving,” he said.

“Oh, thanks for reminding me,” Neal said. “But don't let that stop you. Have a drink for both of us.”

Neal managed to get three more stiff ones down Lenny and got him talking about his work. And over the course of the next hour, by prodding and pushing, he extracted the names of several prominent Tahoe people who carried especially good policies, Lenny's best clients.

“See, here's the thing,” Neal told him then. Lenny's normal reticence had relaxed as he related exciting tales of his exploits in the insurance business. He was stretched out on the couch, glazed and receptive, just like Neal needed him to be. “Here's the thing, Lenny. I'm really glad you stayed tonight, because I've got some bad news and I didn't want to talk about it in front of the girls.”

“I knew it,” Lenny said. “You had to be up to something. Well, I don't have any money to lend you right now. You can forget it. I'm scraping by myself, if you want to know.”

“Oh, Lenny. Man, I don't want your money. No. It's-it's a medical thing.” Neal explained about the carpal tunnel syndrome the doctors had diagnosed in the hospital that would make it impossible for him to use his hands in the future, and watched Lenny's mediocre mind attempt to take it in. That's right, Lenny, put it together, he thought. Musician, hands, carpal tunnel. Ah!

“But this is terrible,” Lenny said, the light finally penetrating his thick skull. “You won't be able to support Juliette.”

Well, he didn't really anyway, hadn't for a long time, but Lenny didn't need to know about that. He didn't need to know how the music had left Neal one day, never to return. The music had gone. He couldn't even hold his own in a lobby at a Nordstrom's these days. His reputation in this little town was right down there with the dirtiest rat in a Dumpster.

Lenny didn't need to know that Juliette was clerking in a real estate office part-time mornings to pay their rent. Juliette wouldn't tell him.

Neal laid it on thick, so thick, he had his wife and him living out on the streets within the next month.

“Then you'll live with us,” Lenny said, horrified. “I'm not going to let my sister go down, Neal. Never. If you can't be a man and take care of her…”

“That's a very kind offer, Lenny,” Neal had said hurriedly, striving for a whipped puppy effect in his voice. “But you know how proud Juliette is.”

Lenny knew. How Juliette bragged about her husband the artist. She lorded it over her brother in this one regard, and it was the one thing that Neal felt kept her by his side and protected from criticism sometimes, his mystique as an artist. She really respected Neal's talent. And now that talent would be gone, laid waste by a devilish medical fluke! Lenny was eating it up.

“This will kill her,” Lenny said, sounding truly miserable. “She'll have to quit school. Neal, I don't have to tell you how disappointed I am. You promised our mother and father, bless them both, that… You must have some fallback!”

“I have thought of something. It's-an unusual opportunity. Only it involves you. You've got a lot of guts, Lenny, and I know you're going to pitch in to help us so we don't lose our home.”

“Anything for Juliette. Count me in,” Lenny said, relieved. To seal the deal, he offered his glass up for an unheard-of fifth snort.

But the details of Neal's plan shocked him. It took the rest of the evening and some careful manipulations before Neal eventually wore down Lenny's resistance. At first, Lenny agreed only to help with research. He refused to play an active role in the accident. He would help Neal with the setup because his sister needed help so desperately, but he did so only under the most indignant moral protest. There, his involvement must end. They went back and forth. Neal needed him to get in the game. Otherwise, the authorities might suspect. Lenny couldn't see why Neal wouldn't simply apply his brakes, get rear-ended, and collect without Lenny's involvement.

“Got to make it look good, Lenny. Gotta make 'em believe.”

“You're good at that,” Lenny said then.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You got my sister, didn't you?”

Neal laughed, even though inside he was fuming. He hadn't acted to get Juliette. She loved him for who he was, not who he pretended to be. All the smoldering fireworks between the two men flared up at that point, and it took Neal's return to cold logic to convince Lenny that, in fact, his plan was the only way.

“It's dangerous, Neal. You realize you could be badly hurt.”

“I won't let that happen.”

“You won't be able to control it!” Lenny yelled.

“Quit worrying. That's my problem. And whatever happens, Juliette will be set for life.”

Those words worked like magic. Lenny didn't give a damn what happened to Neal except as it related to Juliette.

Even so, Lenny hadn't given in easily, although after that point, he had most definitely stepped on board the bus. Before he settled down, he asked a million questions: Couldn't Neal just slam on his brakes in front of someone and leave it at that? Why did Lenny have to cut him off? Wouldn't it look suspicious? Would Neal wear a seat belt? Did it matter if the accident happened in California or should they go over the state line into Nevada to maximize how well they would do in a settlement?

“Lenny, take it easy. I'm the one who's going to get hurt, not you and not Juliette, remember?”

Lenny broke out in a cold sweat at that, so Neal had to soothe him yet again, patiently breaking through his objections, pouring the liquor, painting comforting word pictures for Lenny, keeping things at his level. “Two things are absolutely all you have to do, Lenny. Cut me off, so people see I stopped for a reason. And find me a juicy mark. Has to be a drinker,” Neal said. “I talked with my lawyer this morning and asked him a few things…”

“You didn't tell him!”

“No, no. Just got him talking generally about my old case. He said if the limo driver had been drinking, well, that would have opened up a whole new pocketbook.”

“Gross negligence?”

“Punitive damages, my man.”

Three weeks later, they were set. Lenny had chosen some client with two DUI arrests in her background, who had just bought a big, heavy Mercedes and played roulette at Caesars every Friday night with two of her lady friends, but always drove home alone.

They had worked out every detail. Once in, Lenny was a meticulous planner. He drew up careful diagrams on paper they burned in the fireplace afterward, listed time frames, pulled out charts that gave some information on what speeds were most likely to cause lethal collisions, and bogged them both down in trivial issues until Neal was bored silly.

“We'll have your car serviced the day before,” Lenny had said, “so there's no confusion about some mechanical failure.”

“Sure, Lenny.”

“I've got a great mechanic. Let me make sure it gets done.”

“Fine, Lenny.” Anything to shut him up.

They waited on the highway side of the club in the whizzing traffic. The mark, who Lenny said was a widow, always used valet parking and always made a left out of the lot, then drove two miles before turning off the highway. That gave them plenty of time to get the game in place.

Neal had parked two blocks up, Lenny three. When Neal saw the bronze Mercedes pulling out of the lot, he swung out ahead of the mark, motioning to Lenny as he passed.

Traffic was perfect, busy but moving well, and there were nice long stretches on the road where you could get going pretty fast. Lenny would have no trouble moving into position when the time came. Neal felt like his nerves had moved to the surface of his skin, he felt so electric, so alive. To keep his mind off the pain to follow, he flashed to the penthouse suite at Harrah's he and Juliette would rent for a month or two, about the new car he would buy, about all the hands of poker he could play without gut-tearing fear… He'd never humiliate himself at a piano again, never put up with some slobbering lonely heart who wanted to hear him play the same old song again and again until he thought his fingers would crack into pieces… Who knew crashing could be such a high?

She was weaving, he noted with satisfaction, glancing into his rearview mirror. She had the visor down, so he couldn't make out the face, but her arms were slim. She looked young. For a moment he wondered about her, about what he'd be doing to her. He slowed and behind him, she slowed. He sped up and she sped up. They were dancing together, and she never even noticed the choreography. Like an automaton, she followed his lead until he knew he had her. All so smooth, so perfect… and then suddenly, bursting ahead like a true maniac, all his timidity apparently left behind when he got behind the wheel, good old Lenny blew out in front to cut him off. As planned.

And Neal jammed his foot on the brake.

***

Emily Chuvarsky, the widow, could not tell the story without crying. She sat in an orange client chair across from Nina Reilly, petite and perfect in her jeans and turtleneck sweater, shaking her head and interrupting herself, and tried several times to come out with it, but broke down every time. Outside, snow blew at an angle away from the lake. The drifts along the road were five feet high and Nina was thinking about closing up early to be sure she made it home to her cabin on Kulow Street.

“This car cut him off. He just… he came to a dead stop, right there in the middle of the road. I barely had time to brake. And so I hit him! His c-car burst into flames!” she cried. “I got out and ran up to see if I could do anything but the flames had reached the front… someone pulled me away. I heard him screaming. I dream about it. I heard him… and then the car exploded.”

Nina looked down at her desk. “The police report says he had a five-gallon can of gasoline stored in the trunk of his Toyota. His wife said she didn't know he kept gasoline in the trunk, and if she'd known would have asked him to remove it.”

“What a horrible way to die.” Letting her head fall back, Emily screwed her eyes shut and covered her face, her shoulders clenching tightly. “My insurance company is negotiating with his wife. But my policy only covers two hundred fifty thousand, and she feels she should get much more because…” She stopped, and her arms fell down into her lap. “She lost her husband. I do understand. But I don't have that kind of money.”

Nina said, “You were drinking that night?”

“Wine with dinner,” Emily said. “Three miles home on a road I've driven a million times. Maybe I had one glass too many but I wasn't falling-down drunk. I went to a seminar on living trusts once and the lawyer mentioned that if you're ever picked up for drunk driving to refuse the Breathalyzer test, so I refused when they asked me. They took a urine test a couple of hours later.”

“The results on that won't be in for a few more days,” Nina said. “Refusing the Breathalyzer won't make any difference. They'll just extrapolate back to the time of the accident, using your weight and the elapsed time.”

Emily said, “I ought to just take my medicine, you know? Go to jail for reckless driving, file for bankruptcy. The guilt is horrible. I don't sleep. There can't be anything worse in this world than killing a person, an utterly innocent person who never dreamed his life would be cut short like that-it's a nightmare! It's over for me, I'm going to hate myself for the rest of my life. But…”

Nina listened. After several years of solo practice in her Tahoe office, it was something she was finally learning to do. She didn't offer words of comfort or false assurances. She waited to hear it all first. Emily opened her purse and her wallet and pulled out a small photo. Nina took it.

A little girl, Eurasian, bright-eyed and still with baby teeth. “She's deaf. What money I have from my husband's life insurance, I need for her education. I want her to have the best. Right now, she's in a wonderful school. They do whole language training, a mixture of signing, lipreading, and speaking. She's thriving there. I can't take her out. I can't!”

“What's her name?” Nina asked.

“Caitlin.” Emily returned the photo to her wallet.

“You saw the man-Neal Meurer-get cut off?”

“Another car cut right in front of him. I don't think the driver even knew what he did. He was long gone.”

“Do you remember anything about the car?”

“A sedan with ski racks,” she said promptly. “Wait a minute. I remember the license plate had three eights. I noticed that because my late husband was from Hong Kong. He told me how lucky the number eight is considered to be in China and I just had time to think, what a lucky license plate…”