Faces in Time (37 page)

They come to a stop in front of Omar’s door which is the closest to the elevator. Chester looks to David who gives him a troubled look.

Omar prods, “Come on, guys. You know I’m gonna be on you like a hawk, an annoying old hawk picking at you until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Her name’s Janet, she’s the sister-in-law of a friend of mine, and she likes David so much that she threw up while trying to get up the nerve to call him.”

Omar says, “Well, love’s a strange, nauseous ride.”

Chester
, “There are stranger.”

“Like what?” both Omar and David ask simultaneously.

“Being in love in Hollywood.”

Frozen night fears have thawed with the brightness of day and the friction of activity.

The morning started without a gunman waiting at Chester’s doorstep, and the meeting went quite well with exciting ideas from the staff of hired writers, many of whom have been pilfered from the ranks of
Most Hipness
. But most notably, no one got shot.

David has called Janet, and she’s meeting him at the hotel any minute now for them to go out with Rhonda and Chester. Currently, Chester, Rhonda, David, and Omar are checking out at the lobby desk.

The desk clerk asks Omar, “So, was everything satisfactory with your stay, Mr. Sobelsk?”

Omar’s face looks as though he’s pondering deeply over his answer, “Mostly everything was alright,” looking to David at his left, “but I felt awfully queasy after eating the complimentary breakfast this morning. I dunno, maybe it was just love.”

David puts his head in his hands and shakes the lot of it.

The clerk responds, “I’m terribly sorry that you didn’t enjoy the meal, sir. I’ll be sure to discount your room for the inconvenience.”

Omar reaches over the desk and lightly taps the clerk’s arm, and as soon as a quick and quiet chuckle passes, he says, “No, no, it’s fine. I’m sorry. I was just making a bad joke.”

“Oh, alright. Very well, sir.”

David uncovers his face and says, “You know you’re killing me, right? As if I’m not nervous enough already.”

“Of course, just trying to make you relax before she gets here.”

After the bill is signed and having exited through the front doors, David sees her, her brown hair looking like gold in the sunlight. Leaving his rolling suitcase standing on its own, he walks toward her. His hand goes halfway out, and his other arm raises a little and to the side, unsure if a handshake or a hug is appropriate. She grabs his hand and throws her other arm around his neck, giving him a quick, tight hug.

“Great to see you, Janet.”

“I’m glad that you called me.”

“I’m glad that you came.”

Hearing feet treading the ground close to them, David turns skittishly.

“Oh, Janet, you know Rhonda and Chester, of course. And this,” pointing to his bearded boss, “is Omar J. Sobelsk. He’s a friend of ours and the executive producer of our new show. Omar, this is Janet Shrew.”

Heads nod.

Omar asks, “So where are you four heading this afternoon?”

“Thought we could head down to the zoo,” answers Chester.

Janet says, “Back to the zoo? Alright, if you guys want to go again.”

Chester says, “It’s our favorite place; the zoo and romance go together.”

“Regurgitation and romance go together too,” Omar says.

Smacking Chester in the arm, Janet whines, “O-h-h-h-h, you told them.”

“Sorry,” is all Chester can muster as her face swells with embarrassment.

David grabs her forearm and offers, “Hey, I felt the same way about calling you.”

Omar says while taking the tips of her fingers in his hand, “Very nice to meet you, Miss Shrew. I’m sorry about my little joke—I don’t mean any harm—just never been able to help myself. I sweat punch lines, mostly bad ones—drives my wife nuts. But, I swear that’s my last joke on the topic.”

“Well, okay,” she says regaining her smile.

Omar continues, “Good. And, I must say that you’re far prettier than David has told me.”

As Janet looks to David for an explanation, Chester offers, “Don’t listen to Omar for a second; David’s said nothing but great things about you.”

A car pulls up to the curb, its brakes squeaking as it stops.

Omar asks, “So, wait a minute; I’m confused, David. I often feel nauseous around you too. Does that make me a woman, or does it just mean that you’re in love with me?”

The giggling overtakes Janet, cracking through her feelings of awkwardness, which turns Omar’s smile from devious to warm.

Janet says, “Hey, now, you promised no more jokes, Grizzly Adams. With that beard you look like the lost member of ZZ Top, the West Coast Wookiee.”

Theyll laugh, but Omar laughs the loudest.

“So, I’m a liar and a swearer, no wonder this is my third decade in television.” As soon as the words leave Omar’s mouth, he sees a tall man in a mask step out of the car parked at the curb. Tuning out the conversation in front of him, he follows the shape that looks like an elongated stick figure. With his wife beater, jeans, and mask—all black, he looks like a starving shadow creeping toward them. He walks steadily closer, his eyes fixed on Mr. Fuze.

Holding his pistol pointed at Chester, his long arm fully extended, he barks, “Hey, lucky boy, loo—”

Bullet breaks through the air, digs into the thin flesh of the chest. Two more shots fire out in quick succession—one landing in the lower ribs and the other tearing into the abdomen. Legs buckle, and the long skinny body falls. A mouthful of crimson puffs out of the lips and spatters the black cloth mask. Before the body hits the ground, the gun slides out of the hand. The body thuds and the gun clanks on the concrete entranceway. Omar stands with a hot pistol in his hands, watching the slain writhe on the ground.

In most fiction, people can be knocked out with one punch and bad guys who are shot drop to the ground and die with leaving only a neat, controlled puddle of blood. In reality, it just doesn’t happen that way. In many cases it’s easier to kill someone than to knock them unconscious with a blow. Wounds pump and squirt in anything but neat shapes, and most gunshots don’t result in instant death. Watching someone die is more often an ugly, lingering scene, and there’s nothing satisfying about it.

The car peels out of the horseshoe loading area in front of the hotel. Manny lies on his side, coughing and sputtering blood. Omar walks up still clutching his gun. Placing one foot atop the masked man’s pistol, he slides it away from them.

David grabs both of the girls and walks them quickly inside the hotel, where the clerk is already on the phone with the police.

The next few minutes are a blur of movement and emotion.

Directly over the bleeding torso is Chester who constantly repeats, “Help is on the way; hold on. They’re coming.”

Manny’s garbled response is the same every time, “Where’s Chantelle? Have to ask.”

Chester
doesn’t need to pull the mask off to know who it is; he knew the voice as soon as he heard it. The long pale arms, thin harvesters of ink designs, are all that he needed to see to confirm the voice.

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“Ch-Chant—,” cough taking over the last word.

Omar now stands about ten feet away, his gun still in his hand and Manny’s gun beneath his foot. David is just returning to the scene after escorting the girls inside, and he stands a few feet behind Chester with his hand over his goatee.

“Chantelle, where’s she?”

The same car that peeled out of the parking lot returns and pulls up to the circular curb just in front of Chester and Manny. Her eyes that are as scared as they are pained take in the scene as she runs up to them.

Looking to Chester, she asks, “Is he? Is he?”

“Not yet.”

Chester stands and backs up quickly as she approaches closer.

“Manny, Manny, are you alive? Can you hear me?” she asks rubbing at his face.

He coughs a bloody cough.

Gently she grabs the mask at its bottom and peels it over his head. Her fingers become red and wet.

Chester
finally places her accent, and he can’t believe it.

“Manny?” she asks.

His dull eyes roll and then focus on her.

“Don’t leave us, Manny. You hear me? You have a son!”

Coughs, “The abortion?”

“No.”

“Bitch,” wheezes, spits blood, eyes and chest go perfectly still.

She wails the wail of one who has gotten something she’s asked for but hates the taste of it and herself now that she has it. Chester tries to console her as she vacillates between punching and sobbing on his shoulder—punches, squeezes in comfort, and punches the shoulder again.

As the trauma exhausts her adrenaline, she says, “Two of you. Lucky ain’t won nothing in ‘is life. Something ain’t right here—you winning that crazy bet. You knew. Wasn’t no guess—luck never tells nobody number odds. Cheaters win—ain’t no use in trying to do right. What a world I’m bringing Edmund into,” the end trails off with her blubbering into Chester’s shoulder, leaning her weight on him while rubbing her belly with both hands like Aladdin running his coaxing fingers over a gold lamp.

She says, “Guess I’ll go back to New Orleans.”

“My friends call me Chester. You used to call me Chester too.”

“Is that so?” her voice fluctuating in the space between hysteria and despair, panicked from the strange man walking in and asking if she’s gotten any interesting letters lately.

“Everyone else here called me Chaz. Especially old man Titor across the hall; he knew I preferred Chester, so he loved calling me Chaz. Old grump. Only person he ever liked was you and his grandson Rory.”

“How? How in the hell do you know all this?”

“I know those marks on your bottom lip are from your teeth. You always tucked your bottom lip underneath your teeth when you were nervous.”

She releases her trembling lip of which she’s just been made self conscious, “Sick. Are you some kind of sick stalker?”

“You know, that’s not the first time I’ve gotten that response,” snickers Chester, shaking his head. Seeing the humor of the comment is unknown to her, he continues, “Would you ever have told a stalker about your grandfather and living by the lake? The day that you two pulled up a twenty-three pound catfish on the catfish line? Your pet turtle named Baxter? Your grandpa’s shirts smelling like baby powder and coffee? Would you ever tell these things to someone you didn’t trust?”

Putting palms of her hands at her temples, “Don’t know what to think of this.”

“I get that a lot too, but I haven’t had to convince anyone in a long time. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not doing too good of a job.”

“Well, you’re not doing that great a job, and if you’re telling the truth I don’t have much time to figure it out. And if you’re lying, I need to get the hell away from you anyway.”

“I thought of that, actually.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, you can do both. You can get far away from me and this crazy boyfriend, Edmund, who is trying to kill you.”

“How do I know you’re not trying to send me exactly where Eddie wants me to be? He’s always got some kind of power over people around him, and he uses them to do things for him. Maybe he decided he can’t get in here easy, but he could send somebody in here to get me to come out to him.”

“Well, you could call the cops right now. Of course, I’d have to deny everything I told you about coming back in time. But, you’d be safe.”

“Might could get a restraining order on you. If you ain’t family or friend, and if you didn’t sign in, you’re trespassing here.”

“Signed in with Marvin downstairs as a friend of old man Titor’s. He’s got severe Alzheimer’s; won’t matter none if he don’t remember me when they ask him. Why don’t you call the police? I’ll be just fine, and you’ll be safe. Just get out of here now—far away.”

“Where? Where would I go? Edmund knows I don’t have a car. How can I get away from you without knowing you’re following me or signaling someone else to follow me? And how do you know about Titor’s Alzheimer’s?”

“My story is true; that’s how I know—only way I could know all this. I know Titor remembers what happened this week alright, but he doesn’t remember anything that happened a decade ago. But, here’s what you do whether you believe me or not: tell the cops I harassed you. When I’m in cuffs talking to them, you slip away. It’d be impossible for me to do anything in their custody with my hands behind my back being asked a lot of questions. When you’re gone, there’ll be no evidence and no witness—charges will be dropped anyway.”

“If your story’s real, where’s the girl you were talking about?”

His chin drops to his chest, and his shoulders slouch forward. She can hear him sniffling.

“Rhonda didn’t make it. Car accident on our way down here two years ago. Were going to see my parents. Took her car—thought it’d be more reliable. Mine would’ve been safer.”

He raises his left hand to wipe his eyes, and she sees he still wears his ring.

Asking softly, “Shouldn’t you have known it was going to happen?”

“Didn’t happen first time around. Weren’t even together then.”

Sniffling.

“Don’t know what to think of all this. You know how insane this sounds?”

Shaking his head trying to clear his emotions, he says, “Whether you believe me or not, he’s after you, and it’s not safe for you here.”

“It’s the safest place for me.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. Marvin’s downstairs with a gun—don’t have that kinda protection anywhere else.”

“This is where he killed you.”

Silence.

He continues, “Besides, I’m here right now. Right in front of you. Couldn’t he find a way to get to you here too? After all, he worked here.”

“But, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Trapped between crazy and violent, her mind is a scale weighing which she fears most. She can feel the fingers at her neck again, pulling her to the window. Their pressure is so intense and so familiar that she feels like they’ve never released her.

Chester
says, “I have a lot of history here.”

Elise doesn’t look away from the window.

“Used to go to the old school that was here. This building’s on the field where I had some of the best moments of my old life. It’s one of the reasons I picked this place when I needed people to take care of me.”

Still stares at the parking lot.

“At some point, you’ve got to stop staring at the same old view and make a new one for yourself. I got stuck staring out that same window myself. Took a long time to believe I could change what goes on outside of it.”

It’s 6:15 p.m. Elise watches Mrs. Johnson sneak out for her mid-game-show cigarette, propping the auto-closing and auto-locking back door open with her fuzzy pink slipper that has developed a brownish, aged tint. She makes her way to a wrought iron table and chair set that is used for outdoor lunches on nice days.

Most residents are not allowed to smoke; many have struggling lungs still recovering from smoking damage. Mrs. Johnson is eighty-six years old and insists on having a cigarette halfway through the second segment of her favorite game show. When the staff tried to prevent these tobacco burning getaways, she became verbally nasty and as violent as her emaciated arms could be in grabbing and squeezing whoever was standing in her way. After three miserable weeks, the staff pretended to not see her mid-game-show cigarette. This has been going on for the past two and a half years now. It wasn’t decided at a staff meeting or even spoken aloud, but each caretaker came to the same conclusion.

Before her first exhale can rise toward the top of the building, a dented silver car pulls into the parking lot. Its distance from the second floor window only allows Elise to make out that the driver is a large person, most likely a man. The mangled car passes empty spaces close to the front door along with a beautiful blue classic car that has been recently washed and parks near the rear of the building where Mrs. Johnson sits and smokes.

A shaven head is the first thing she can see coming out of the car. Her heart relaxes. As his entire body steps into view, she panics again, the body shape being familiar, but the scowl is an unmistakable part of her nightmares.

She strains to scream, “It’s him!” but all that emerges is a breathless squeal.

Edmund walks up to the table and chairs, pulling something out of his pocket.

Elise flings her hands in the air, trying to sound some type of warning to Mrs. Johnson, which does nothing but bring Chester to her side.

Edmund hands the woman a pack of cigarettes. She just nods her head, the most common reaction to confusion among the residents here, and he walks toward the door propped open with her discolored slipper.

 Chester shouts, “Come on, get with it; he’s coming after us!”

“Doesn’t matter; he’ll find me. It’s over.”

“Hey! Snap out of it. You’re killing me. You’re killing me before he can come up here and kill us, and I can only take dying once in a day.”

Glaze coming off her eyes, “You’re joking? You’re making jokes while this maniac is coming up here to get me? If he finds you with me, you’re as good as dead too. Are you nuts?”

“Used to be. About eighty-five percent sane now. Seventy-five’s the magic number between boring and insane. Maybe I could use a bump on the head from Edmund, make me a little more interesting.”

“And you’re my protector?” starts crying.

“Hey, I’m sorry. Look, we’ve gotta get you outta here now; I was just trying to make you snap out of it. You can still get out of here.”

Pulling her up to her feet, he says, “He came in the back entrance, we’ve got to run to the front steps and get away without him seeing us. Hopefully he’ll be busy looking on the first floor until we’re at the front with Marvin.”

Holding onto her wrist, he leads the way out the room. Their feet smack the tiled floor sending an echo down the corridor. Running to the front stairwell, she feels unbalanced but tries to pump her legs faster.

“Hey!” calls out from behind them.

Chester
stops and turns himself around while swinging Elise behind him, sheltering her from the voice calling after them.

Sooty coughing beckons them two feet above a cherry stained cane with a worn handle, “Where’re you runnin’ with Miss Elise?”

Elise shouts, “Stay in your room, Mr. Titor! I’ve gotta get outta here.”

“From what, darl—”

Stepping into the hallway is the man who is built like a wall, physically as broad, emotionally as dull, and complexion as pale, except for the areas of his face that peak in anger.

“Been a long time, sweetheart,” looking to the man still holding her wrist, “Looks like a real long time for you—forgot all about me.”

She can feel all the progress seeping out of her that she’s made since he’s been gone. His cold words infiltrate the warmth she’s fought so hard to gather. It’s been months since she’s shaken in uncertainty or trembled in intimidation, but it all started again with his escape. The icy aura of one towering malcontent summons her warm comfort out of her, melting the mortar keeping her emotions separated and from colliding into each other. She boils with fear on the inside, evaporating her heated strength into the air where his chill can consume it. Through every clench of her jaw and every dart of her eyes, her security singes, and he inhales the sizzle.

Breathing in deeply, she says, “Not coming with you, Edmund. Never again.”