“I know. I saw the gap in your resumé. All that
academic stuff, then blank space. Was that before the Casa de Los Ninos thing
or after?”
I wasn’t surprised she knew about it. Though it had
been over a year, the headlines had been bold and people remembered. I had my
own personal reminder—a reconstructed jaw that ached when the weather got
clammy.
“A half year before. Afterwards I didn’t exactly feel
like jumping back in.”
“No fun being a hero?”
“I don’t even know what the word means.”
“I’ll bet.” She gazed levelly at me and adjusted the
hem of her robe. “And now you’re doing forensic work.”
“On a limited basis. I accept consultations from
attorneys I trust which narrows the field substantially and I get some directly
from judges.”
“Which ones?”
“George Landre, Ralph Siegel.”
“Both good guys. I went to school with George. You
want more work?”
“I’m not hustling. If the referrals come, okay. If
not, I can always find things to do.”
“Rich kid, huh?”
“Far from it, but I made a few good investments that
are still paying off. If I don’t get sucked into a Rodeo Drive mentality I’m
okay.”
She smiled.
“If you want more cases, I’ll spread the word. The
members of the psych panel are booked up for four months and we’re always
looking for guys who can think straight and put it into language simple enough
for a judge to understand. Your report
was
really good.”
“Thanks. If you send me cases I won’t turn you down.”
She finished the second glass. “Very mellow, isn’t it?
Comes from a tiny little vineyard up in Napa. Three years old and still
operating at a loss, but the place is turning out limited bottlings of very
fine reds.”
She got up and walked around the room. From the pocket
of her robe she removed a pack of Virginia Slims and a lighter. For the next
few moments she stared at a wall decorated with diplomas and certificates and
dragged deeply on the cigarette.
“People really manage to fuck up their lives, don’t
they? Like Miss Bright Eyes Moody. Nice country girl, moves to L.A. for a taste
of excitement, gets a job as a checker at Safeway and falls in love with the
macho man in lace undies—I forget, what is he, a construction worker?”
“Carpenter. For Aurora Studios.”
“Right. I remember. Builds sets. The guy’s an obvious
loser but it takes her twelve years to figure it out. Now she’s extricating
herself and who does she hook up with? The loser’s clone.”
“Conley’s a lot more mentally intact.”
“Maybe so. But take a look at them side by side.
Twins. She’s being pulled to the same type. Who knows, maybe Moody was a
charmer too in the beginning. Give this Conley a few years, he’ll turn. Bunch
of losers.”
She turned and faced me. Her nostrils flared and the
hand holding the cigarette trembled almost imperceptibly: alcohol, emotion, or
both.
“I hooked up with an asshole and it took me a while to
get out of it, Alex, but I didn’t turn around and do the same damn thing first
chance I got. Makes you wonder if women will ever get smart.”
“I wouldn’t bet on Mal Worthy having to give up his
Bentley,” I said.
“Nor I. Mal’s a smart boy. Did
my
divorce, did
you know?” I feigned ignorance.
“Probably conflict of interest, my hearing this case,
but who cares, it was open and shut. Moody’s crazy, he’s screwing up his kids,
and my order was the best shot at getting him straightened out. Any chance he’ll
follow through on therapy?”
“I doubt it. He doesn’t think anything’s wrong with
him.”
“Of course not. The craziest ones never do. Baloney
afraid of the slicer. Assuming he doesn’t kill her, you know what’s going to
happen, don’t you?”
“More days in court.”
“Absolutely. That idiot Durkin’ll be in here every
other week with some ploy to reverse the order. In the meantime Moody will
harass Bright Eyes and if it keeps up long enough the kids will be permanently
screwed up.” She walked back to her desk with a long graceful stride, took a
compact out of her purse and powdered her nose.
“On and on. He’ll drag her through the system, she’ll
bleat and weep, but she’ll have no choice.” Her expression hardened. “But I don’t
give a damn. In two weeks I’m out of it. Retirement with pension. I’ve got some
investments of my own. And one big money loser. A tiny little vineyard up in
Napa.” She grinned. “This time next year I’ll be in my cellar sampling the
vintage until I reel. If you travel that way, be sure to drop in.”
“I’ll make it a point to do that.”
She looked away from me, talked to her diplomas.
“Do you have a lady friend, Alex?”
“Yes. She’s in Japan now.”
“Miss her?”
“Very much.”
“Figures,” she said good-naturedly. “The good ones get
snapped up.” She rose to indicate the audience was concluded. “Good to meet
you, Alex.”
“My pleasure, Diane. Good luck with the vines. What I
tasted was great.”
“It’s gonna get better and better. I can feel it.”
Her handshake was firm and dry.
My Seville had cooked in the open parking lot and I
pulled my hand away from the heat of the door handle. Midway through the motion
I sensed his presence and turned to face him.
“S’cuse me, Doc.” He was looking into the sun and
squinting. His forehead was sweat-glossed and the canary-colored shirt had
darkened to mustard under the arms.
“I can’t talk now, Mr. Moody.”
“Just a sec, Doc. Just lemme connect with ya. Lemme
zero in on some main points.
Communicate
, you know.” His words came out
in a rush. As he spoke, the half-closed eyes darted back and forth, and he
rocked on his boot heels. In rapid succession he smiled, grimaced, bobbed his
head, scratched his Adam’s apple, and tweaked his nose. A discordant symphony
of tics and twitches. I’d never seen him this way but I’d read Larry Daschoff’s
report and had a good idea what was happening.
“I’m sorry. Not now.” I looked around the lot but we
were alone. The rear of the court building faced a quiet side street in a
run-down neighborhood. The sole sign of life was a scrawny mutt nuzzling a
patch of overgrown grass on the other side of the road.
“Aw, c’mon, Doc. Just lemme make a few main points,
lemme break on through, lemme zero in on the main facts, like the shysters say.”
His speech picked up velocity.
I turned away from him and his hard brown hand closed
on my wrist.
“Please let go, Mr. Moody,” I said with forced
patience. He smiled.
“Hey, Doc, I jus wanna talk. State my case.”
“There’s no case. I can’t do anything for you. Let go
of my arm.”
He tightened his grip but no tension registered on his
face. It was a long face, sun-cured and leathery, with a broken pug nose at
center, a thin-lipped mouth, and an oversized jaw—the kind of mandibular
development you get from chewing tobacco or gritting your teeth.
I put my car keys in my pocket and reached around to
pry his fingers loose but his strength was phenomenal. That, too, made sense,
if what I suspected was true. It felt like his hand had become heat-welded to
my arm and it was starting to hurt.
I found myself assessing my chances in a fight: we
were the same height and probably just about the same weight. Years of hauling
lumber had given him an edge in the physical strength department, but I’d been
sufficiently diligent about karate practice to have a few good moves. I could
stomp down hard on his instep, hit him when he was off-balance, and drive away
as he writhed on the cement… I interrupted that train of thought, ashamed,
telling myself that fighting him would be absurd. The guy was disturbed and if
anyone should be able to defuse him, I should.
I dropped my free arm and let it fall idly to my side.
“Okay. I’ll listen to you. But first let go so I can
concentrate on what you have to say.”
He thought about it for a second, then grinned
broadly. His teeth were bad and I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it during the
evaluation, but he’d been different then—morose and defeated, barely able to
open his mouth to speak.
He released my wrist. The piece of sleeve where he’d
held me was grimy and warm.
“I’m listening.”
“Okay, okay, okay.” His head continued to bob. “Just
gotta connect with you, Doc, show you I got plans, tell you how she twisted you
roun’ her little finger jus’ like she did me. There’s bad stuff in that house,
my boys tell me how he’s makin’ the kids do things his way, and she lets it
happen, she says okay, okay. Fine and dandy with her, they be cleanin’ up after
a scumbag like that, who knows what kind of dirt he’s leavin’ around, the guy’s
not normal, you know? Him wantin’ to be man of the house and all that, all I
gotta say is har, har, you know.
“Know why I’m laughin’, doc, huh? To keep from cryin’,
that’s why, keep from cryin’. For my babies. The boy and the girl. My boy tol’
me the two of them be sleeping together, him wantin’ to be the daddy, to be the
big shot in the house that I built with these two hands here.”
He held out ten large-knuckled, bruised fingers. There
was an oversized turquoise and Indian silver ring on each ring finger, one in
the shape of a scorpion, the other a coiled snake.
“You unnerstan’, Doc, you grab what I’m tossin’ at
you? Those kids are my life, I carry the burden, not nobody else, that’s what I
tol’ the lady judge, the bitch in black. I carry it. From me, from here.” He
grabbed his crotch. “My body into hers when she was still decent—she could be
decent again, you unnerstan’, I get hold of her, speak some sense, straighten
her out, right? But not with that Conley there, no way, no fuckin’ way. My
kids, my life.”
He paused for breath and I took advantage of it.
“You’ll always be their father,” I said, trying to be
reassuring without patronizing him. “No one can take that away from you.”
“Right. Hunnerd procent right. Now you go in there and
tell that to the bitch in black, straighten her out. Tell her I got to have those
kids.”
“I can’t do that.”
He pouted like a child denied dessert.
“You
do
it. Right
now.”
“I can’t. You’re under a lot of stress. You’re not
ready to take care of them.” You’re going through a full-fledged manic episode,
Mr. Moody. You’re a manic-depressive and you need help badly…
“I can handle it, I got plans. Get a trailer, get a
boat, take ’em outta the dirty city, outta the smogclouds, take ’em to the
country, fish for trout, hunt for meat, teach ’em the way to survive. Like Hank
Junior says, country boy will
survive.
Teach ’em to shovel shit and eat
good breakfasts, get away from scumbags like him and her until she gets
straightened out, who knows when it’ll come she keep up with him, humpin’ him
in front of them, a disgrace.”
“Try to calm down.”
“Here, watch me calm down.” He inhaled deeply and let
the air out in a noisy whoosh. I smelled the stench of his breath. He cracked
his knuckles and the silver rings sparkled in the sun. “I’m relaxed, I’m clean,
I’m ready for action, I’m the father, go in and tell her.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not?” he growled and grabbed the front of my
jacket.
“Let go. We can’t talk if you keep doing that, Mr.
Moody.”
Slowly his fingers parted. I tried to edge away from
him but my back touched the car. We were close enough to slow-dance.
“Tell her! You fucked me up, you fix it, Headshrinker!”
His voice had taken a decidedly menacing tone. Manics
could do damage when they got worked up. As bad as paranoid schizes. It was
obvious that the power of persuasion wasn’t going to do the trick.
“Mr. Moody—Richard—you need help. I won’t do anything
for you until you get it.”
He sputtered, sprayed me with saliva, and jacked
upward viciously with his knee, a classic street brawler’s move. It was one of
the gambits I’d figured him for and I swiveled so that all he made contact with
was gabardine.
The miss threw him off-balance and he stumbled.
Consciously sad, I caught his elbow and threw him off my hip. He landed on his
back, stayed down for a quarter second, and was at me again, arms chopping like
a thresher gone mad. I waited until he was almost on me, ducked low, and hit
him in the belly just hard enough to knock some wind out. Moving out of the way
I let him double over in privacy.
“Please, Richard, calm down and pull it all together.”
His response was a growl and a snivel and a grab for
my legs. He managed to get hold of one cuff and I felt myself going down. It
would have been a good time to jump in the car and tool out of there, but he
was between me and the driver’s door.
I contemplated a move for the passenger door, but that
would mean turning my back to him and he was strong and crazy-fast.