Trust Me (25 page)

CHAPTER 58

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At three-thirty on a hot summer Wednesday afternoon, lying on her back with her feet in the air and Tony inside her, Lilah O’Hare had a moment of clarity.
She realized that Tony didn’t care about her, that he couldn’t care about her, or anyone else for that matter. In that instant, as she perceived the full extent of his obtuse selfishness, she saw with equal clarity the extent of the madness that was her life: she had flirted with insanity, prison, and death for too long, and now one or more were imminent.

Tony must have sensed something, for he suddenly ceased his mad, sweaty thrusting and looked down at her. “What’s with you?” His voice accusing, as though she had taken something belonging to him.

She didn’t have an answer ready, so she said, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony said. “You can’t stop, just like that,” and withdrew from her, shaking his head.

She got up and walked toward the bathroom, looking back once to see Tony on the bed, staring sullenly at the wall. Music blared abruptly from the living room—Doctor Jack’s weird old jazz.

She closed the door and sat on the toilet, putting her elbows on her knees and resting her forehead against the heels of her hands. If she had one more drug her head would explode; one more drink and she would surely be sick. And yet she felt oddly clearheaded, sober in spite of the toxic condition of her metabolism. She liked the feeling. The music stopped and she breathed deeply in the silence.

“Hey!” It was Tony, yelling from the bed.

“I’ll be right out.” She kept breathing deeply. Moments went by and it was almost possible to forget the dread she had felt.

“Hey!” Louder this time. “You wouldn’t be holding out on me now, would you?” Tony had run out of coke and hit a wall trying to get Richard to extend his tab. He was crashing now, which was when he seemed to get meanest.

Lilah opened the door and stepped back into the bedroom. “No, Tony, for Christ’s sake, I’m not holding out on you.” He sat against the headboard, head tilted back as he drained his bottle of Wild Turkey.

The music came on again, louder than before. Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh, great. The hip hypnotist is really swingin’ now.” He put the empty bottle down and glared at her. “Okay, what have you got, you sneaky little bitch? Where’s the vial?” He pushed himself up off the bed and stepped toward her.

“There is no vial.” She wanted to tell him how she felt, that they were better off without the stuff, that they could just walk away, maybe go to one of those meetings or something. “Really, Tony. If you want to know the truth . . .”

“The truth?” Tony leered. “If I wanna know the truth? You’ve never told the truth in your life.” He reached out and grabbed Lilah by the throat, pushing her against the wall. “You wouldn’t know the fucking truth if it was vibrating in your ass.”

Tony was hurting her now, his fingers tight on her throat. Suddenly, he pulled her toward him and then slammed her head into the wall. He did it again, and then a third time. There was a look in Tony’s eyes that told Lilah he wasn’t going to stop.

“Hey!” She said it as a command, focusing her anger into it, and Tony hesitated. “If I tell you where it is, will you stop this?”

He let go of her throat and shook his head slowly in exasperation. “You are so fucking predictable.”

She giggled and said, “Come here. I’ll whisper it to you.”

When Tony bent and turned his head, she reached up and put her face next to his. She opened her mouth and said, “It’s in the—” and bit down hard on the soft part of his ear. She bit until the skin gave with a little pop, then put her knee between his legs and hooked her foot around the back of his knee. As Tony jerked back, she pushed.

A piece of dead meat was in her mouth, rubbery and smooth. She spat it down at Tony, who was lying on the floor holding his hand to the side of his head. Something warm and wet trickled over her lip and down to her chin.

There was a knock at the door. She opened it, relieved to see Doctor Jack. He smiled pleasantly, leaned in slightly to get a clearer view of Tony naked on the floor, and said, “My, my. Aren’t we getting a little bit carried away?”

Tony glared at him and said, “Get the fuck out of here, you old quack.” Still holding his ear, he propped himself up on one elbow, retrieved the earlobe from his chest, and maneuvered into a standing position. Lilah backed away a step. Tony took his hand from his ear and looked at the blood running from his palm down his forearm. “You’re dead, you crazy little bitch.”

“Now children, violence won’t settle anything.” Doctor Jack was still smiling. “But this might . . .” She saw him bring forward one of his hands, which had been behind his back, and produce a plastic baggie of with a golf ball-size chunk of cocaine in it. He held it up, dangling from thumb and forefinger, invitingly toward Tony and said, “Lilah, would you kindly excuse us for a moment?”

“Sure, Jack.” She was only too glad to get Tony out of the room.

She watched as Doctor Jack made way for Tony to pass through the doorway. She looked at Tony’s naked ass and solid, muscular body as he turned into the spare bedroom. Doctor Jack followed, one hand still holding the baggie, the other hidden by his side. Holding something.

She was about to turn back to the bathroom, wash the blood off her face, maybe even shower if Tony would leave her alone long enough, when she heard the sound. It pierced right through the music, a
crack!
of impact, a sound she had never heard anything quite like before. A nightmare sound. And again. And again.

Frozen, she suddenly knew what the sound was, realized what Doctor Jack had been holding.
Unbelievable,
she thought, but saw that at a deeper level she had always known he was crazy enough to do this, that the dread she had felt was legitimate, and that insanity and death were present.

She turned to the bedside table and picked up the phone, stabbing at the buttons to reach 911. The first ring had just begun when she turned to see Doctor Jack in the room, his arm raised.

The first blow crashed down on her arm, causing her to drop the phone, and then grazed her cheekbone. Dazed, as if only able to move in slow motion like in a frustrating dream, she tried to protect herself but felt the second blow strike her forehead. She fell to the floor, oddly aware of being struck several times more but unable to feel it. Unable, for that matter, to feel anything, but still awake. Awake enough to sense Doctor Jack’s closeness as he bent over her, rolled her aside, and retrieved the phone from the floor. Awake enough to hear the dial tone and the ringing; to hear him say, “Joanie? Good, you’re in. I thought I’d stop by on my way out of town. I’ve got a little something for you.”

CHAPTER 59

⍫

By late Wednesday afternoon the heat had become intense, making Jeff want to go home, rinse off in a cool shower and lie down somewhere in the shade, maybe even nap.
The Santa Ana winds had kicked up again and the darkroom, though cooler by far than outside, lacked air conditioning. His hands were dry and smelly from the chemicals in the trays, and in the close, still air he had to fight through his lethargy to clean up the lab so he could be finished for the day.

He had fallen asleep almost immediately the night before, still dressed, cupped up to Holly, aware of his warm breath on the back of her neck. Some time later he had awakened to Holly’s hand on his skin, caressing his chest, down over his stomach, hinting with a gentle push at the button of his jeans. They had made love slowly in the light of a big rising moon and then fallen asleep as the night air moved in softly through the window and dried the perspiration from their bodies.

He left Holly sleeping when he got up that morning, and wrote a note to her and another to Ron. Now, at five fifteen, driving back from the lab in Silverlake, he wondered who would be there to greet him: he looked forward to seeing Holly, touching her, but was apprehensive about what Ron’s reaction to her presence might be.

Driving up Sunset Boulevard, he saw a dirty brown haze in the sky, becoming darker somewhere over beyond the hills to his right. It was the burning season in California, and the Santa Monica Mountains, already ripe for fire after the long dry summer, were primed by the Santa Ana conditions. Somewhere up by Mulholland, he thought, people were piling their belongings into cars. The optimists would wet down their roofs and hang tight.

It was refreshingly cool in the house, which was quiet and empty. On the kitchen table there were two messages. The first was from Holly, telling him thanks, that she had gone to swim at the gym, not to worry, she would be back at seven. And that she had talked to Ron, and what a nice man he was. The second was from Ron, saying, “Time for a pow-wow. Seven thirty, at Nick’s. The four of us.”

He showered and dried off, then folded a towel on his pillow and lay down, covering himself with a second towel. Within minutes he dozed off. In a dream he spilled a glass of whiskey, which spread across a canyon and caught fire. Fingertips touched his forehead and brushed back through his hair; he opened his eyes to see Holly sitting on the bed looking down at him.

He tried to pull her to him, but she laughed and shook her head and pulled him up to a sitting position instead. “We’re supposed to meet Ron in twenty minutes.”

“Jesus, it’s past seven already?” He stood up, wrapping the towel at his waist, surprised at his new instinct for modesty. “It seems like I was only asleep for a minute. I was having this crazy dream . . .” He shook his head and went to the dresser, choosing fresh jeans and a navy blue golf shirt.

“I’ll drive,” Holly said. “How far is it to Nick’s?”

“We can get there on time if we leave now.” He dressed, grabbed his wallet and keys, and ran a comb through his hair.

He liked sitting in the BMW, with its nice leather seats and solid feel, the top down and the wind rushing by so they had to talk loud. The smell of smoke was in the air now, and the pall had spread throughout the dusky evening sky. For the first time, he heard the distant wail of sirens, the long, low blare of a fire-truck horn.

“What’s going on, do you know?” He realized he was shouting.

Holly brought up the windows, which made it relatively quiet in the car, with only the air rushing overhead to intrude on conversation. “The radio said it’s Nichols Canyon, up by Mulholland. And Thousand Oaks is out of control. I hope it’s not as bad as a few years ago.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

At the restaurant, they found Ron and Leanne seated at a corner table, speaking with a waiter, who wrote something on a pad and walked away.

“We took the liberty of ordering for you,” Ron said.

“Hot sauce on the side,” Leanne added, grinning at Jeff.

He introduced Holly to Leanne as they took their seats. He was glad that they could meet; he had a feeling it would be good for Holly to know this woman.

“It smells so good in here. What do they have?” Holly unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap.

“I’d label it upscale hippy health food,” Ron said.

“With Americanized East Indian curry dishes,” Leanne added.

“And a killer hot sauce.” Jeff sipped at his water. A paper-thin slice of lemon floating above the ice gave it a sweet fragrance.

They made small talk until dinner arrived, touching on the fires, the weather, upcoming elections, laughing as they tried to find music that all of them had in common.

“Elton John,” Holly offered. Jeff and Leanne raised their hands, but Ron shook his head. “How about Horace Silver?” he asked.

“Who?” Holly and Jeff replied in unison. They finally all agreed on Ray Charles. “Yeah, the album with ‘Georgia On My Mind,’” Jeff said.

“Right,” Ron chimed in. “And ‘Ruby.’”

When the food came, Holly said, “This looks wonderful.” He told her to watch out for the hot sauce and then watched in horror as she poured the evil brown liquid liberally over her rice and ate a spoonful of the drenched mixture. Even Ron and Leanne watched in silent anticipation as Holly chewed.

Holly swallowed, intent on her plate, and began to lift her next bite to her mouth. Suddenly she stopped, her fork in midair. “What?” she asked.

“Jesus, Holly. That stuff could burn the paint off your car.” He shook his head in disbelief.

Holly grinned. “One of my secret vices. I eat jalapeños like popcorn. This”—she gestured with her fork—“is a world-class hot sauce.” She raised the next bite to her mouth and chewed enthusiastically.

They finished their meal in near silence, punctuating it with comments about the food or how hungry they were. When the waiter returned, Ron asked for a pot of herbal tea and the check. Holly asked if they could get some of the hot sauce to take home and the waiter said he would see. He returned shortly with tea, check, and a Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid on it. Jeff lifted the lid and saw that the cup was half full of the sauce. He lifted it to his nose and said, “Whew! That stuff is evil.”

Ron sipped at his tea, then put it down and said to Jeff, “I read your note this morning.” He paused. Jeff didn’t say anything. “And I want you to know that, as a rent-paying housemate, you have every right to have a guest. So,” he turned to Holly, “welcome to our home.”

“Thank you.” Holly dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. Jeff watched as she looked to Leanne, as if she were seeking a cue or encouragement.

“Okay, we got that settled,” Ron said. “But let’s not kid ourselves about our situation. We’ve got a very sick man out there and he’s
our
problem.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jeff said. He told Ron and Leanne what he had found at Holly’s place. Holly filled in details.

“Wait a minute,” Leanne interrupted at one point, addressing Holly. “What made you think of tearing up the rug in your closet?”

“I just felt that there was something wrong there. That’s where the vulnerable spot was.” She shrugged. “You know?”

When Jeff got to the part about the bottles on the dirt floor of the hidden room, Ron asked, “Moosehead and Bushmills—aren’t those the brands you told Joe Greiner about? Art’s—Jack Stanley’s brands?”

He nodded. “He used to stock them by the case. Like a drug addict. He didn’t want to run out.”

Ron leaned back in his chair and folded his hands at his belly. “Well, that doesn’t leave much room for speculation.”

“I knew who it was before Jeff found the bottles,” Holly said. “I just really wanted . . .” She faltered.

A chiming sound filled the space of Holly’s silence. Ron’s hand slapped to his side and the chime stopped. He pulled his cell phone from his belt, viewed the caller ID, and then looked back at Holly. “Just wanted what?”

“I wanted to believe I was crazy. That none of this was really happening. I mean, sitting in my own home, feeling like when you’re little and there’s a monster in the closet, except this one is real—I think I would have preferred for it to have been a delusion. You know, a paranoid psychotic episode or something.” She looked at Leanne, this time, Jeff thought, searching for understanding. And, he imagined, finding it.

Ron said, “Excuse me. I need to get this.” He indicated the phone in his hand.

As he listened, Ron’s face expressed a tension that Jeff could see and feel. It was in the set of his jaw, the silence as he sat and placed his elbows on the table, lightly bouncing his fingertips together. Leanne put her hand on his arm, a concerned look on her face, but said nothing.

“That was Joe Greiner.”

“Where was he?” Jeff asked.

“At your friend Lilah’s.”

“What?” This wasn’t making any sense.

“He was at the apartment of your friend Lilah O’Hare, in Brentwood. I called him earlier and asked him to trace a number and go there. She was nearly beaten to death. Two men in the apartment weren’t so lucky.” Ron turned to Holly. “One of them is your old friend Tony Petracca. Dead now, his head bashed in with a heavy object. Probably a tire iron, Joe says.”

Holly’s face was white. She closed her eyes and trembled slightly but perceptibly, as though suddenly chilled. From across the table, Leanne reached out and covered Holly’s hands with her own.

“Is Lilah okay?” He felt sadness for her, an urgent hope that her manic spunk would see her through this.

“She was alive. Paramedics took her away.” Ron paused.

“Who else was there?” He asked.

“Someone named Richard Cahn. They found his body in the closet of a room that had a big brick of cocaine on the dresser. Know him?”

It seemed so insane, the past that he had walked away from intruding like this. Absurdly, he thought of the twelve thousand dollars he owed to a dead man, how the burden of the debt was now relieved. “Jesus. Richard is dead?” was all he could say.

“Who do they think did it?” Holly asked, staring straight down at Leanne’s hands on her own.

He watched Ron glance at Leanne, run his fingers through his hair, before he spoke. “The neighbors said that there had been a fourth person staying at the apartment. Someone who drove a green Jaguar.”

Holly didn’t look up; she just nodded slowly, unsurprised. As she continued to nod it seemed to Jeff she was coming to a conclusion about something, consolidating an inner resolve.

“So,” Ron continued, “Joe wants to meet us up at the house. He’s on his way now.”

They settled the tab and walked out to the street. It was dark now, the air crackling with dry heat from the desert winds. Opening the door of the Land Rover for Leanne, Ron said, “You two go on ahead. I’m running on empty and have to stop for gas. We’ll be right behind you.”