Trust Me (10 page)

CHAPTER 20

⍫

Ron Pool arrived late at the meeting.
It looked like any other group he had seen, medium size—about thirty people sitting in a circle. The room was apparently a nursery for the churchgoers’ children; he noticed crayon drawings on the walls and toys stacked in the corners. There were meetings all over town, all week long, and this was one he had never been to.

There was only one seat available. He crossed over to it and sat down, whispering an apology as he did so. He looked around the room and noticed a few people he had seen before, among them the attractive blond from Bobbi Bradley’s lecture two weeks earlier.

The leader, a plump girl in her twenties, talked about her relationships, or lack of them. She was clearly addicted to the SOL lingo. New Age newspeak, he called it, and found himself unable to pay attention.

After the lecture in Beverly Hills, he had decided that he had seen enough of the SOL phenomenon. His original curiosity had given way to disappointment when he saw there was nothing new here for him. There was a disturbing slant to it all that made him wary of the message. His visit to St. John’s Hospital, however, had made it clear to him that he would be revisiting SOL. His motive would be different, but the MO would be the same; show up, listen, meet people, check it out.

⍫

He had arrived at St. John’s in the late afternoon, after his visit with Ann Fullerton. Looping through the Santa Monica Canyon from Pacific Palisades into the city of Santa Monica, he drove up Wilshire to Twentieth Street and turned into the hospital parking lot.

He walked into the main reception area and decided to bypass the information desk, moving instead past a gift shop to where the elevators were. On instinct, he entered one of the elevators and selected a floor below the one he was on.

He stepped out into a brightly lit hallway. It was empty but, as he walked, he noticed doors open to various rooms. One of these was a nurses’ station. There were two nurses inside—one was pouring a cup of coffee.

“Hello,” he said. “Could you help me out for a moment?”

The nurse by the coffee machine, a young black woman, put a hand on her hip and gave him a severe look. She said, “Are you absolutely certain you belong down here?” and then broke into a grin.

“I’m looking for someone who knew Nancy Mills,” he told her. The two women looked at each other.

“Everyone knew Nancy. She was one of the best people I ever met,” said the other nurse, a Hispanic woman with a torrent of black hair spilling from under her cap.

“What happened to Nancy is over a year old,” said the first nurse. She stirred her coffee and then asked, “You’re not from the police, are you?”

“No. I’m sorry. My name is Ron. Ron Pool—I’m a reporter, actually.” He felt slightly awkward, not quite knowing how to explain the reason for his visit.

“Hello, Ron,” the black nurse said. “I’m Trina and this is Bianca. What made you come down here?”

“Intuition, I guess,” he replied. “Tell me something. You just said, ‘What happened to Nancy is over a year old.’ What did you mean by that?”

Trina and Bianca exchanged looks again and then Trina asked, “Are you writing a story?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“So far, I’m just trying to sort out a puzzle,” he said. “Nancy was a very pretty girl, right?”

“She was beautiful, yes. I think she would have preferred being called a woman.” Trina looked directly at him with a trace of humor.

“Okay,” he went on, “what would you think if you knew about other beautiful women, all in their twenties and all from the Westside, that shared a similar fate with Nancy Mills?”

“How many other women?” asked Bianca.

“Eight.”

Trina raised her eyebrows and looked over to the other nurse. “What do you think?”

“I think I would wonder how many of them went out with the same guy,” Bianca responded.

“I would wonder,” said Trina, sipping at her coffee, “how many of them went to those meetings Nancy went to.”

“What meetings were those?” he asked.

“I don’t know—let’s see. We used to call it something funny . . .” Trina hesitated.

“Shit-outta-luck,” Bianca said.

“Yeah, Shit Outta Luck. SOL,” Trina said with a rueful chuckle. “Imagine that. She starts going to something called Saving Our Lives, and within a few months she gets pushed off a cliff.”

He was startled. “What makes you say she was pushed off a cliff?”

“Everyone here knows that,” Trina told him. “Nancy hated heights and was petrified of falling. If she wanted to kill herself, which I don’t believe for a second, the last thing in the world she would have done is jump off a damn cliff.”

“Nancy used to talk to the patients,” Bianca added. “She had a special talk for the attempted suicides. All about how life was a gift, how it was worth living, right in the moment. How you had to find that special source of courage. Anyway, nurses don’t use guns or jump off cliffs. It’s too easy to go out with a triple dose of anesthetic cocktail.”

When he left the hospital, he called Joe. He was surprised to get right through to the detective. “Hey, guess what?” he said, without any greeting.

“Yeah, what?” Joe was as gruff as ever.

“New thread. I got two of the girls going to these damned SOL meetings.” He accelerated through a changing light on Wilshire.

“Isn’t that the group you were into?”

“I went a few times. Guess it’s time to go back. I mean, what are the odds against that?” He checked his watch—it was almost six.

“Hey,” Joe said, “in this town, all the women go to some wacko thing or another. Have you got a real job?”

Ron grinned and said, “Lot of good you’ve turned out to be.” Then he hung up.

⍫

Now, at the SOL meeting, as he listened to this mixed-up girl—woman, he corrected himself—he wondered what his next move should be. The leader droned on, something about hugging herself in the mirror, and then finally announced a coffee break. Some people turned to speak to their neighbors, others left their seats. The attractive blond got up. Ron glanced at the guy sitting next to him and watched him stare at the blond as she walked toward the refreshment table.

“She looks pretty good, doesn’t she?”

The guy looked startled, as if he’d been caught doing something illegal, and said, “Yeah, she’s okay.” He was a younger guy, good looking, maybe thirty. Thin. Something about his eyes. Ron had seen that look before. Hunted, edgy. Dark circles.

Ron introduced himself and offered his hand. “You new around here?”

The guy shook his hand. “I’m Jeff. Yeah, this is my first time at one of these things. Might be my last time, too. How about you?”

Ron laughed. “I come around here once in a while,” he said. “What brought you here?”

“Just curious, I guess. My sister used to come here with her friend Kathy—that’s who I came with tonight.” Jeff gestured over his shoulder.

“Did your sister stop coming?” Ron asked.

“My sister died. The police say she committed suicide, but I think that’s a crock.”

“Marilyn,” Ron said, staring at Jeff.

“Yeah. Did you know her?”

“No. I just heard about her.” He paused for a moment. “Marilyn Fenner. And you’re her brother, Jeff.”

“That’s what I said. Why? What’s going on?” The kid looked really uncomfortable now.

Ron ignored his questions and asked instead, “You say that your sister used to come here?”

“Yeah. But if you didn’t hear about her around here, how come you know about my sister?”

A small bell rang, and the woman who was leading said, “The meeting is about to resume.” People returned to their seats.

“Let’s talk later. I’d like to ask you a few things.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. He gave it to Jeff, who glanced at it, then looked up and said, “You’re a reporter?”

“Yeah. I wrote the
Times
piece on your sister.”

“So,” Jeff asked, “what’s a significant other?”

“That’s psychobabble for partner. Politically correct for boyfriend, girlfriend, same-sex partner, you name it.”

Jeff looked confused. “Psychobabble?”

The leader said, “Would anybody like to share?”

CHAPTER 21

⍫

Driving back from the meeting, Kathy said, “So what did you think?”

Jeff’s mind was on the blond and how he hadn’t managed to meet her, but he wasn’t about to mention that to Kathy. He shrugged.

“I don’t know. I mean, most of it sailed right by me, to tell the truth.”

“Well, I noticed that you got in quite a conversation with your neighbor. I’ve seen him around—what’s his name again?” Kathy turned to go down Crescent Heights Boulevard.

“Ron. Yeah, we talked about what the girl who spoke said.” He decided to keep to himself the fact that he had connected, that he had only come to learn about his sister and that he had hit pay dirt. Or had he? It was quite a coincidence, anyway, and interesting enough to justify sitting through the boring meeting.

“You mean the woman who led the meeting?” Kathy asked.

“Right. The woman who led the meeting. She said some interesting stuff.” He hoped Kathy wouldn’t ask him what he had found interesting.

“So where did Ron go off to so abruptly? He came in late and left the second it was over,” Kathy asked.

He shrugged again. “Damned if I know.”
Maybe
, he thought,
I’ll call this guy tomorrow
.

“They say that it takes about six meetings before you start getting it.” She looked over at him as she changed gears.

“Hey, only five more to go,” he said.

“Don’t you get smart with me . . .” There went that hand, slap on his leg again, only this time it stayed.

He put his hand on top of hers. Kathy drove in silence.

After a few blocks she said, “Hey, let’s go have a drink somewhere. What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me.” He wondered what she drank. Well, he could just drink a soda or something. “Let’s go to Barney’s. Shoot some pool.”

“I’ve never been there. Isn’t that place kind of a dive?” They were stopped at a light. When it changed, she took her hand from his leg to shift gears and then replaced it on top of his hand.

“Nah. Scruffy yuppies. Wannabe artistes. Musicians with day jobs and no gigs. It’s a good place to shoot pool though.”

Kathy turned on Santa Monica Boulevard and then pulled into the parking lot. It was still warm out as they approached the entrance.

Inside, it was crowded at the bar, but the pool tables were in a separate section. Out of eight tables, two were available. He led Kathy to one of them and put a couple of quarters in the slot.

He was racking the balls when a waitress came over.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” The waitress was cheerful enough, but she had a gaunt, hard look, like she had too much history to ever really come back from.

Jeff said, “I’ll just have a diet coke. Ice.” He looked over at Kathy.

“How about a daiquiri?” she said, chalking the end of her cue stick.

The waitress said, “Wednesday night’s Tequila shooter night. Three bucks a shot. Two bucks a beer.”

“Perfect.” Kathy blew the excess blue chalk off the end of her stick and said, “Let’s play.”

When the waitress returned with the drinks, Kathy had put six balls in the pockets, to his two. He watched her, tall and big-boned, sizing up her shots and throwing her hair back each time she sank a ball.

Kathy paid for the drinks. He sipped at his coke and watched as she put salt on the back of her hand and licked it, followed with the lime, then, with a flick of her wrist, she downed the tequila. He thought it was a silly ritual, but tonight it seemed like a good omen. Kathy drained half of her beer and set it down, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and dropped another ball in the corner pocket.

Three games and four set-ups later, he was still nursing his diet coke. Kathy appeared to get more and more cheerful as she threw back the shooters, and now she came over to him and stood, toe to toe, smiling right in his face. She was almost his height, with a round face and full, rich chestnut hair. Her eyes, he thought, were really quite beautiful.

“So, now what should we do?” Her teeth were perfectly white and straight. He wanted a drink for this, but she was right there, it was only inches, and he bent forward as he closed the space between them.

Their lips touched, and Kathy’s mouth opened, soft and moist, their tongues meeting as she moved her mouth against his in a slow side-to-side motion. He felt like he was falling—he reached out to lean the cue stick against the wall and then put his hands around to the small of her back, then moved them down and pulled her body to him. Her hips met his and started moving against him, everything languid, liquid and easy.

Kathy backed off from the embrace and took his hand. As they left there were hoots from one of the tables. A skinny, long-haired old guy with tattoos all over his arms gave Jeff a thumbs-up from the corner of the bar before they stepped out into the night.

⍫

Kathy’s apartment was in an attractive older fourplex on Sweetzer, about a mile away. During the drive, when she wasn’t shifting gears, her hand went to his inner thigh, her fingertips brushing feather-light from his knee up to his belt, which she unbuckled. As she drove up Santa Monica Boulevard at fifty, staying in second gear, she snapped the button of his jeans. Her hand burrowed under the fabric and grasped him while the speedometer went up to sixty.

When they were in her flat, Kathy walked to the kitchen and he followed. It was dark until she opened the freezer section of her refrigerator and pulled out a bottle. She broke the seal and placed it on the counter along with two glasses, and told him, “Take care of these, okay?” before walking into the darkness of the next room.

Soft piano music came from speakers in the living room. He stared at the bottle. Tequila. Patron Silver. He poured a glass for Kathy and put it up to his nose. What the hell, he thought, and poured a couple inches for himself. Stuff tasted so bad, no way he was going to drink more than this. He threw back half of it, gave a brisk shake of his head, and polished the rest.

Kathy appeared, dressed in a long, pale-green satin nightgown open down the front. By the light pouring out from the open freezer he could see the hard flatness of her stomach, a rich curve of breasts. She picked up the glass he had poured and drank until it was empty, then grasped his shirt and pulled him toward her. They kissed again. She was hungry and aggressive, but soft.

Kathy replaced the bottle in the freezer and shut the door, then took his hand and led him through the living room, pausing there to turn up the music, and then into the bedroom.

A candle burned on a nightstand at one side of a king-size bed. Separate speakers brought the piano into the bedroom. He sat on the bed and took off his loafers, as Kathy, who towered over him, push him back gently onto the comforter. She kissed him, her hair falling onto his face and between their lips, and then finished unzipping his jeans. He unbuttoned his shirt as she slid his pants and shorts and socks off. He threw his shirt toward a chair and watched, propped on his elbows, as Kathy slid out of her nightgown and crawled up and over him. He would never have guessed her breasts were so large, as she arched her back and they hung, full and white, just above him. He reached up and put his lips around an erect nipple. Kathy moaned and with one hand guided his hand to the soft patch between her legs. It was warm and wet and slippery, and she moved his hand so that it went into the moist flesh, and then out and up to the firm little button just below her pubic bone. He played his tongue over her nipple while his hand moved and Kathy began a slow circular motion with her hips.

After a moment, she pulled her breast away, kissed him briefly and, grasping his cock, lowered herself onto it just slightly. She bent back down to kiss him again, gently brushing her lips back and forth against his as she moved her hips almost imperceptibly.

The piano music seemed to have taken on a repetitive, almost hypnotic quality. Suddenly Kathy plunged her hips down until he was buried inside her. He could feel her pelvic bone against his, her breasts pressed to his chest. She raised herself up again and resumed the teasing motion, almost entirely disengaged from him. In the candlelight she loomed above him like some conquering goddess, her moving shadow spread across half the ceiling. He tried to push up into her but she wouldn’t let him. Then, as he lay there arched upward, she crashed down upon him again.

This time Kathy kissed him once briefly and then slid her parted lips past his face to his ear. She lifted her hips just to the point of losing him and then slammed back down, accelerating her rhythm. He felt her tongue flicking his ear, her breath hot and loud. He started to move against her so that they pounded together with a wild slapping sound. Kathy buried her face in the pillow and groaned at the same instant that he felt himself suddenly go lightheaded; something took over and they moved together, machine-like and effortless as he drained into her.

There was a moment of stillness, and then Kathy’s body tensed up briefly and released in a convulsive sob. He smoothed her hair and stared at the circle of light on the ceiling as she cried into the pillow.

⍫

The candle sputtered and the music had stopped. Kathy was asleep. He pulled away from her and sat at the edge of the bed, an idea half formed in his mind as he stared at his shirt on the floor. He stood up, covered Kathy’s shoulder with the sheet, and walked into the living room, picking up his clothes as he went.

Dropping the clothes on the sofa, he walked to the refrigerator. He stared at the freezer door for a moment, then opened it and reached for the bottle of Patron.

From the bottle, it didn’t have that wicked smell and it went down ice-cold and easy. He took it to the sofa and sat down.

Jesus, he thought. Seduced by my sister’s cheerleader chum. They had done it again, Kathy giving him the control this time. It was long and slow, finally heating up until it got as crazy as the first time. When he rolled off Kathy and lay next to her she cupped his face in her hands and said, “I always knew we’d be great together.” Then she kissed him and turned around. In less than a minute—he could tell by her breathing—she was asleep.

He took another hit of the tequila and looked at his watch. It was one thirty. Too late to make last call, he thought, and then laughed at the idea.

At one forty-five the bottle was half empty, and he thought about how fucked up everything was. His car was a piece of shit, he was broke, he owed money, and he was losing his apartment. It was all Gary’s fault, the miserable little prick; where the fuck was he anyway?

He pulled on his jeans and went to the kitchen. Kathy’s purse was on the counter. He went to her room just to check on her—she was out cold. He finished dressing, took the car keys from her purse, and left the apartment, bringing the bottle along.

He went down to the carport and let himself into Kathy’s car. The seat was already all the way back—God, she was a big girl. He took another tug at the Patron and drove over to his folks’ house.

Letting himself in through the kitchen entrance, he tiptoed back into his room, put on his sports coat and grabbed the briefcase, and stole back out, relieved that the dogs never even woke up.

The two-seater was a blast, he thought, as he jammed through the streets of Hollywood. Too many goddamn red lights, though. He decided that the ones where there were no cars coming didn’t count. Flying through Beverly Hills and past Westwood, he wondered where all the cops were. The little car took the curve by the VA at sixty-five, no problem. He turned on Gorham, then onto Dorothy, and pulled up in front of Gary’s apartment.

The door to Gary’s place faced the street and was set back slightly from the sidewalk. The windows were dark. He opened his briefcase and took out the gun, then took a long pull at the bottle. The street looked clear. No cars were coming. He got out of the car, tucked the gun in his pants, and walked over to Gary’s door. He rang the doorbell. Nothing. He knocked hard and then put his ear to the door—there wasn’t a sound from inside.

The street was still clear. He backed up a step and brought his left foot up and smashed it into the door, just below the knob. There was a splintering sound, but the door held. He kicked again and it gave a bit. On the third kick it flew open and he walked into the apartment.

He saw by the light of the street lamps that came through the windows that the place was empty. Trash littered the floor, but Gary was gone. He moved through the apartment and entered the bedroom. It too was empty. A phone started ringing. He followed the sound into the kitchen. It stopped midway through the third ring and he heard Gary’s stupid message, “What’s your name, is it Mary or Sue?” There on the floor, where the kitchen table used to be, was an answering machine. He brought his foot down on it just as Don and Dewey sang their Shooby-doop-bop-doowah. The gun almost popped out of his belt, so he pushed it back into place as he walked out of the apartment.

An intense light hit his eyes as he stepped outside.

“You! Hands behind your head. Now!” Suddenly he was swept off his feet and found himself lying face down on the concrete.