“Eye color?”
“Brown. Bloodshot. A binge drinker. Brown hair combed
back, greasy kid stuff.”
“Sounds like a shitkicker.”
“Exactly.”
“And this Bedabye Motel’s where he lives?”
“As of a couple of days ago. He may be living in his
truck for all I know.”
“I know a couple of guys in Foothill Division. If I
can get one of them in particular to go down and talk to this Moody, your
troubles’ll be over. Guy name of Fordebrand. Has the worse breath you’ve ever
smelled. Five minutes of face to face with him and the asshole will
repent.”
I laughed but my heart wasn’t in it.
“He got to you, huh?”
“I’ve had better mornings.”
“If you’re spooked and wanna stay at my place, feel
free.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”
“If you change your mind, let me know. Meanwhile, be
careful. He may be just an asshole and a wiseguy, but I don’t have to tell you
about crazies. Keep your eyes open, pal.”
I spent most of the day doing mundane things and
appearing outwardly relaxed. But I was in what I call my karate state—a
heightened level of consciousness typified by perceptual vigilance. The senses
are finely tuned to a point, just short of paranoia, where looking over one’s
shoulder at frequent intervals seems perfectly normal.
To get that way I avoid alcohol and heavy foods, do
limbering exercises and practice katas—karate dances—until exhausted. Then I
relax with a half hour of self-hypnosis and auto-suggest hyper-alertness.
I learned it from my martial arts instructor, a Czech
Jew named Jaroslav, who had honed his self-preservation skills fleeing the
Nazis. I sought his advice during the first weeks after the Casa de Los Ninos
affair, when the wires in my jaw made me feel helpless and nightmares were frequent
visitors. The regimen he taught me had helped me mend where it counted—in my
head.
I was ready, I told myself, for anything Richard Moody
had in store.
I was dressing to go out for dinner when the service
called.
“Good evening, Dr. D., it’s Kathy.”
“Hi, Kathy.”
“Sorry to bother you but I’ve got a Beverly Lucas on
the line. She says it’s an emergency.”
“No problem. Put her on, please.”
“Okay. Have a nice night, Doc.”
“You too.”
The phone hissed as the lines connected.
“Bev?”
“Alex? I’ve got to talk t’you.”
There was loud music in the background—synthesized
drums, screaming guitars, and a heart-stopping bass. I could barely hear her.
“What’s up?”
“Can’t talk about it here—using the bar phone. Are you
busy right now?”
“No. Where are you calling from?”
“The Unicorn. In Westwood. Please. I need to talk to
you.”
She sounded on edge but it was hard to tell with all
that noise. I knew the place, a combination bistro-discotheque (bisco?) that
catered to the upscale singles crowd. Once Robin and I had stopped in for a
bite after a movie but had left quickly, finding the ambience too nakedly
predatory.
“I was just about to have dinner,” I said. “Want to
meet somewhere?”
“How ‘bout right here? I’ll put my name down for a
table and it’ll be ready when you get here.”
Dinner at the Unicorn wasn’t an appealing prospect—the
noise level seemed likely to curdle the gastric juices—but I told her I’d be
there in fifteen minutes.
Traffic in the Village was heavy and I was late
getting there. The Unicorn was a narcissist’s paradise, mirrored on every
surface except the floor. Hanging Boston ferns, half a dozen fake Tiffany
lamps, and some brass and wood trim had been tossed in, but the mirrors were
the essence of the place.
To the right was a smallish restaurant, twenty tables
draped with parrot green damask, to the left a glassed-in disco where couples
boogied to a live band, the glass shimmying with the backbeat. In between was
the lounge. Even the bar was covered with reflective glass, its base a display
of trendy footwear.
The lounge was dim and packed with bodies. I edged my
way through the throng, surrounded by laughing faces in triplicate,
quadruplicate, unsure what was real, what was illusion. The place was a damned
funhouse.
She was sitting at the bar next to a chesty guy in a
body shirt. He alternated between trying to make time with her, guzzling light
beer, and visually trawling the crowd for a more hopeful prospect. She nodded
from time to time but was clearly preoccupied.
I elbowed my way next to her. She was staring at a
tall glass half-filled with foamy pink liquid, lots of candied fruit, and a
paper parasol. One hand twirled the parasol.
“Alex.” She wore a lemon-colored Danskin top and
matching satin jogging shorts. Her legs were sheathed from ankle to knee with
yellow and white warmers that matched her running shoes. She had on lots of
makeup and plenty of jewelry—at work she’d always been conservative with both.
A glittery sweatband circled her forehead. “Thanks for comin’.” She leaned over
and kissed me on the mouth. Her lips were warm. Body Shirt got up and left.
“Bet that table’s ready,” she said.
“Let’s check.” I took her arm and we wedged through
waves of flesh. Plenty of male eyes followed her exit but she didn’t seem to
notice.
There was a bit of confusion because she’d given the
maitre d’ the name ‘Luke’ and hadn’t told me, but we got it straightened out
and were seated in a corner table under a colossal Creeping Charlie.
“Damn,” she said, “left my zinger at the bar.”
“How about some coffee?”
She pouted.
“You think I’m drunk or somethin’?”
She was talking clearly and moving normally. Only her
eyes gave her away, as they focused and unfocused in rapid succession.
I smiled and shrugged.
“Playing it safe, huh?” She laughed.
I called for the waiter and ordered coffee for myself.
She had a glass of white wine. It didn’t seem to affect her. She was
maintaining as only a heavy drinker can.
A while later the waiter returned. She asked me to
order first while she scanned the menu. I kept it simple, choosing a small
spinach salad and broiled chicken, because trendy places usually have lousy
food and I wanted something they couldn’t ruin too easily.
She continued to study the menu as if it were a
textbook, then looked up brightly.
“I’ll have an artichoke,” she said.
“Hot or cold, ma’am?”
“Uh, cold.”
The waiter wrote it down and looked at her
expectantly. When she didn’t say anything he asked if that was all.
“Uh huh.”
He left, shaking his head.
“I eat artichokes a lot because when you run you lose
sodium and artichokes have lots of sodium.”
“Uh huh.”
“For dessert I’ll have something with bananas because
bananas are high in potassium. When you up your sodium you have to up your
potassium to put your body in balance.”
I’d always seen her as a level-headed young lady, if a
bit too hard on herself and prone to self-punishment. The dizzy broad across
the table was a stranger.
She talked about running marathons until the food
came. When the artichoke was set down before her she stared at it and began
picking delicately at the leaves.
My food was unpalatable—the salad gritty, the chicken
arid. I played with it to avoid eating.
When she’d dismantled and polished off the artichoke
and seemed settled, I asked her what she wanted to talk about.
“This is very difficult, Alex.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“I feel like a—traitor.”
“Against whom?”
“Shit.” She looked everywhere but at me. “It’s
probably not even important and I’m just shooting off my mouth for nothing but
I keep thinking about Woody and wondering how long it’ll be before the
metastases start popping up—if they haven’t already—and I want to
do
something, to stop feeling so damned helpless.”
I nodded and waited. She winced.
“Augie Valcroix knew the couple from the Touch who
came to visit the Swopes,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“I saw him talking to them, calling them by name, and
I asked him about it. He said he visited the place once, thought it was nice.
Peaceful.”
“Did he say why?”
“Just that he was interested in alternative
lifestyles. I know that’s true because in the past he’d spoken of checking out
other groups—Scientologists, Lifespring, a Buddhist place in Santa Barbara. He’s
Canadian, thinks the whole California thing is fascinating.”
“Did you ever detect any collusion between them?”
“None. Just that they knew each other.”
“You said he used their names. Do you remember them?”
“I think he called the guy Gary or Barry. I never
heard the woman’s name. You don’t really think this was some sort of
conspiracy, do you?”
“Who knows?”
She squirmed as if her clothes were too tight, caught
the waiter’s eye, and ordered a banana liqueur. She sipped it slowly trying to
appear relaxed, but she was jumpy and ill-at-ease.
She put the glass down with a furtive look in her
eyes.
“Is there anything else, Bev?”
She nodded, embarrassed. When she spoke it was barely
a whisper.
“This is probably even less relevant but as long as I’m
blabbing I might as well spill it all out. Augie and Nona Swope had a thing
going. I’m not sure when it started. Not too long ago because the family was
only in town a couple of weeks.” She fiddled with her napkin. “God, I feel like
such a shit. If it weren’t for Woody I’d never have opened my mouth.”
“I know that.”
“I wanted to tell your cop friend about it right
there, at the motel—he seemed nice enough—but I just couldn’t. Then I got to
thinking about it later and I couldn’t let go of it. I mean, what if there was
a way to help that little boy and I let it go by? But I still didn’t want to go
to the police. I figured if I told you, you’d know what to do with it.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I wish doing right didn’t feel so wrong.” Her voice
broke. “I wish I could be sure that my telling you has any meaning.”
“All I can do is let Milo know. At this point he’s not
even convinced a crime’s been committed. The only one who seems sure of that is
Raoul.”
“
He’s
always sure of everything,” she said
angrily. “Ready to assess blame at the drop of a hat. He dumps on everyone but
Augie’s been his favorite scapegoat since he got here.”
She dug the nails of one hand into the palm of the
other. “And now I’ve made things worse for him.”
“Not necessarily. Milo may brush it off completely or
he may choose to talk to Valcroix. But he doesn’t care what Raoul thinks. No
one’s going to get railroaded, Bev.”
That was meager balm for her conscience.
“I still feel like a traitor. Augie’s my friend.”
“Look at it this way, if Valcroix’s sleeping with Nona
had anything to do with this mess, you did a good deed. If not, he can endure a
few questions. It’s not like the guy’s a total innocent.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way I hear it he makes a habit of sleeping with
his patients’ mothers. This time it was a sister, for variety. At the very
least it’s unethical.”
“That’s so self-righteous,” she snapped, turning
scarlet, “so damned judgmental!”
I started to reply but before I knew what was
happening she got up from the table, grabbed her purse, and ran out of the
restaurant.
I pulled out my wallet threw down a twenty and went
after her.
She was half-running, half-walking north on Westwood
Boulevard, swinging her arms like a foot soldier, heading into the crush and
commotion of the Village at night.
I ran, caught up, and took her arm. Her face was wet
with tears.
“What the hell’s going on, Bev?”
She didn’t answer but let me walk with her. The
Village seemed especially Felliniesque that evening, litter-strewn sidewalks
clogged with street musicians, grim-faced college students, squealing packs of
junior high kids wearing oversized clothes pocked with high-priced holes,
empty-eyed bikers, gawking tourists from the exurbs, and assorted hangers-on.
We walked in silence all the way to the southern edge
of the UCLA campus. Inside the grounds of the university the pandemonium and
bright lights died and were replaced by tree-shadowed darkness and a silence so
pure it was startling. Except for an occasional passing car, we were alone.
A hundred yards into the campus I got her to stop and
sit on a bench at a shuttle stop. The buses had stopped running for the night
and the lights near the stop had been turned off. She turned away and buried
her face in her hands.