To Die in Beverly Hills (17 page)

After staring at the blank screen for a while, he stood up and staggered to the television. He flicked it on and switched channels; cowboys shooting from horses, cops shooting from behind the doors of police cars, used-car commercials.

He turned off the set.

In the kitchen, he checked the refrigerator. There was nothing on the shelves but eggs and wilted lettuce. He slammed the door shut. He yanked a bottle of scotch from the cupboard and a glass from the dish drainer, poured a stiff drink. He sipped and felt acidy booze-warmth roll slowly down his throat and into his empty stomach. For some reason, he thought of Jack Kelly's home, where he had Sunday dinner once a month or so: there were always catcher's mitts and bicycles scattered about ... and a kitchen that always smelled delicious.

He poured the scotch into the sink.

In the bedroom, he picked up the telephone receiver and dialed Sally Malone's number except for the last digit. Hesitating, he dropped the receiver back in the cradle. On his way out the front door, he lit a cigarette. Having staggered down the steps to his sedan, he realized that he had left his car keys in the apartment. Without hesitation, he headed toward Sally's place on foot. As he trudged along the dark, narrow streets crowded with apartments and double-parked cars, a foggy
mist dampened his face and hair. Chilled, he picked up his pace.

By the time he reached the door of her apartment he was slightly out of breath. He knocked softly. There was no answer. He knocked louder. There were footsteps inside.

"Who's there?" Sally said.

"I want to talk for a minute."

"There's nothing to talk about." Her tone was angry. He heard her walk away from the door.

Carr knocked again. He waited, knocked again. Finally, he slammed his fist against the door a few times. Sally's footsteps. "Please go away," she said, pleading.

"Open the goddamn door or I'll kick it in."

He heard her fasten the chain latch and a dead-bolt lock.

Carr leaned close to the door.

"I'm sick and tired of being alone," he said. "I've never cared about anyone except you, and the last thing in the world I ever wanted to do was to hurt your feelings, or to embarrass you. I love you and I..." he swallowed "...want to marry you."

"Are you drunk?"

"Yes," he said.

The chain latch was unfastened. The dead bolt snapped. Sally opened the door. She wore a robe over her nightgown. "Did you mean that?"

Carr nodded.

She came into his arms. "I've waited for years to hear you say that," Sally whispered. They kissed. "Please tell me you really mean it."

"I mean it."

"Let's leave right now," she said. "We can go to Las Vegas."

"Right now?"

"Why not?" she said, kissing him again. "I think I've waited long enough."

****

NINE

DURING THE five-hour trip through the desert, Carr and Sally discussed particular matters diplomatically. Gingerly they came to agreement on the following issues: One, that he would break his lease and move into her apartment (her rent was cheaper and the place was larger); two, that Carr's furniture, which Sally hated, would be donated to the Salvation Army; three, that they would keep both cars. Carr was surprised that he found himself discussing such topics with relative ease.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Las Vegas, it was sunrise, the only quiet period in its entire twenty-four-hour day. Nevertheless, the bank of casino neon that lined both sides of the highway still flashed, glimmered and burst intermittently into inanimate forms: silver slippers, gold nuggets, jacks and queens. Because of the early hour, the usually congested Vegas strip was void of traffic jams and, except for a few tired-looking tourists still wandering in and out of casinos, was generally deserted.

A pink neon sign planted close to the roadway read Cupid's Heart Marriage Chapel--Open 24 Hours. A neon cupid fired an arrow to the right. Carr turned into a parking lot between casinos. Ahead of them, almost directly underneath an enormous silver dollar balanced on a forty-foot pole, was a diminutive wood-frame cottage. A picket fence surrounding the structure was built with a flat base, so it could balance on the parking lot asphalt. In the bay window of the cottage, accented by pink lights, was a large, heart-shaped bouquet of artificial roses. Like Friday-afternoon customers at a bank, couples waited in line at the door.

Carr steered the sedan behind the building and parked. Sally squeezed his arm affectionately. He climbed out and approached a service window at the rear of the chapel. A fat woman wearing a white, frilly dress handed him some printed forms and a pen attached to a string. He filled in the forms and handed them back. He paid a fee and the woman rang up the transaction on a cash register. She handed him a receipt. Without explanation, she pointed around the side of the building. He returned to the sedan.

Having completed a fresh application of makeup, Sally stepped out of the car. They joined the line waiting at the front door of the chapel. The sound of a recorded wedding march came from inside. A young couple standing in front of them in line introduced themselves. They were dressed in matching shorts and T-shirts bearing the slogan I Found It. Without encouragement, the young woman shared the fact that they had been living together for six months. Carr forced a smile. He noticed a well-dressed, elderly couple directly in front of the chapel door. They were obviously drunk, holding one another up. The wedding march ended. A minute later the door opened and a man wearing a cowboy hat and polyester suit walked out holding hands with a Mexican woman who looked older than he. The drunk couple stepped inside the chapel and closed the door behind them. The wedding march began again.

Carr noticed that Sally's head was down.

"Is everything okay?" he said.

She nodded without looking up.

"Sally?" Gently he touched her chin. She looked up. There were tears in her eyes.

"Please tell me what's wrong."

"I don't want to get married here," she whispered. "Not like this. It's so ... impersonal ... and that dumb wedding march record. I love you and I want to be your wife but I just don't want to remember this as the place I got married."

"Of course not." Carr put an arm around her shoulder and walked her back to the sedan.

Sliding in next to Carr, she hugged him. "You'll lose the marriage fee," she said.

"Better than losing it at the crap table, I guess." He started the engine.

After stopping for gas, Carr headed onto the highway toward Los Angeles. Oddly,
though he hadn't slept all night, he wasn't sleepy. During the trip back, Sally spoke eagerly of trips they could take together, using their combined incomes to purchase a condominium, and how well he would get along with her sister and brother-in-law who lived in Nebraska.

By the time they reached Santa Monica Carr's eyelids were heavy, and though he wasn't sure if it was just the result of fatigue, he had second doubts about the whole thing.

As Amanda Kennedy, wearing a denim prison smock, stepped into the visitor's room from a door marked Inmates Only, Travis Bailey realized that he had never seen her before. An hour earlier, she had called his office from a pay phone at the Women's jail and told him she wanted to speak with him about a confidential matter. On the way to the jail he wondered whether she was the wife or girl friend of someone whom he had arrested. Why would she ask for him by name? He certainly hadn't recognized her voice.

There was no one else in the visitor's room except a young priest quietly counseling a woman with a large purple birthmark on her forehead; Amanda Kennedy walked directly to him.

"Mr. Bailey?" she said.

He nodded and she sat down. "Have we met before?"

"I'm a friend ... or perhaps I should say I was a friend of Lee Sheboygan."

Travis Bailey felt his stomach tighten. He had the urge to curl his toes. "I see."

"Well?"

"Well what?" he said after pausing for a moment.

"Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"Yes," he said. "Now what do you want?"

"I want out of here."

"I'm sure there are lots of ladies in here who'd like to get out. So what else is new?"

"I shouldn't have to explain anything to you. You know very well what I'm talking about. You know very well." She crossed her arms across her chest.

Travis Bailey shrugged, stood up to leave.
What is this woman up to?

"I think you'd better sit down again," she said matter-of-factly. "Lee told me about everything. Everything about you and him and Bones."

Suddenly, Bailey's knees felt weak. He sat down again. Without any attempt at subtlety, he stared at Amanda Kennedy's chest for signs of a hidden microphone.

Having lowered her voice to a whisper, she said, "I know about the burglaries you set up for Lee. He told me about everything one night when he was high. We were just sitting around my apartment horning a few spoons of coke and he just came out with it. At first I didn't believe it. But I do now."

Bailey glanced around the room. The priest and the birth-marked woman were praying. He knew that if he was being set up, Kennedy would have to be wearing a listening device. Since he had picked the spot to sit, he knew there was little chance the table was bugged. He stared at the woman and said nothing.

Amanda Kennedy rested her elbows on the table. She leaned forward. "The Feds have already been here to talk with me. They wanted to know who Lee's friends were. I gave them just enough to make it look like I was cooperating. Nothing they couldn't find out on their own ... but I'll spill the beans if I have to in order to get out of here. I mean that. I'll do whatever I have to to get out of this place. I'm not staying in jail for anyone. I mean that. I'm not staying in this fucking place for anyone."

Without making it obvious, Travis Bailey took a deep breath. "What are you in for?" he said.

Amanda Kennedy removed a package of chewing gum from the one and only pocket on her denim smock. She unwrapped a stick as if it were something valuable. "I'm in here because I was just sitting in my apartment just sort of kicking back the other day, and this Fed knocks on my door. He asked me some questions about Lee, so I just shined him on. I mean, like why should I answer any questions? I didn't do anything wrong. So the Fed leaves. The next thing I know these two burglary detectives are pushing their way in my door with a search warrant. They turned my apartment inside out and arrested me for possession of a necklace with a pendant that Lee had given me. They put handcuffs on me and booked me in here ... and you'll never guess who comes to visit me after I'm booked in. The same Fed who came to my apartment asking about Lee Sheboygan." She shoved the gum in her mouth and chewed.

"What was his name?"

"Carr."

"What did you tell him?"

"Don't worry," she said. "I didn't tell him anything he couldn't have found out on his own." She folded her arms and chewed gum rapidly for a moment. "I'm not like the other people in here. I used to be married to one of the biggest scriptwriters in town. He wrote the original script for
The Volkswagen That Could Fly.
So don't think I'm going to sit in here and vegetate waiting to go to trial. My bond is five thousand dollars and if you know what's good for you and for Bones, you'll get me out of here. If you don't, I'm going to blow the lid off your little game. I'll tell the Feds everything I know. It's as simple as that." She held the unfolded gum wrapper to her mouth and pushed the chewing gum into it with her tongue. Having packaged the moist gum carefully, she shoved it back in her pocket. "If you don't chew the gum too long, you don't get the calories," she explained.