Authors: Dianne Emley
“Are you visiting Los Angeles?”
“Yes, we’re here from Ohio. We live in a town outside Dayton,” Abby said. “We go home tonight. We’ve been in L.A. for eight days.”
A lot of information to offer to a total stranger, Jill thought.
“It’s really been a trip.” Trish giggled, resting her elbows on the table, and pressing her fingers against her lips.
She exchanged a look with Abby that Jill found insulting.
“So where have you been and what have you seen?” Jill smiled directly at Trish, killing her with kindness, though in her mind Jill was twisting that scrawny neck and popping off her head with its overbleached hair, like cleaning shrimp for the barbecue. He liked that image and ran with it, mentally shaving back her skin, her limbs with it, and cleaning out her entrails. Then, plop! Onto the grate to sear above hot coals with her screaming like a live lobster thrown into boiling water.
“Oh, all the tourist places.” Jill’s unyielding gaze had taken Trish’s attitude down a few notches. “Disneyland, Universal Studios, the stars on Hollywood Boulevard …”
Abby picked up. “The beach, of course. San Diego for two days. Tijuana. The club scene everywhere.” She slid a glance at Trish, and that got them both tittering over the memory of shared shenanigans.
Jill set down cash for the iced tea and pot stickers with ginger sauce. Picking up his purse, he pushed back the chair and stood, smoothing his dress. “Ladies, have a safe trip home. It was awfully nice to meet you. Abby, may I give you some unasked-for advice? Be careful
about your open purse. At least shove your wallet to the bottom. There are a lot of criminals around here. Predators.”
Abby snatched her tote bag closer, sighing with relief when she saw her wallet still on top. “Thank you …”
“Jill.”
“Jill.” The name did not come naturally to Abby, but she got it out with a half-smile.
Before Jill was out of earshot, just passing beneath the restaurant’s awning, they began laughing.
Jill thought of telling them a thing or two, or waiting for them around the corner and teaching them a thing or two, but he had more pressing business.
Sashaying down the sidewalk, loving how the rayon-blend fabric brushed against his legs, he paused in front of a prominent display in a bookstore window. Dozens of copies of
Razored Soul
were stacked in a large pyramid. Beside it was a cutout of Bowie Crowley’s nude buff upper body. His crossed arms punched out his well-developed biceps and the garish 23:4 tattoo. A gold crucifix settled between his squared-off pectorals. The sensitive lips and eyes, the James Dean angst, were a stark contrast with his bone-crusher physique.
“Have you read that book?” a woman pausing at the window asked a man whose hand she held. “I couldn’t put it down.”
Big Jackie O sunglasses hid Jill’s vengeful eyes. “You think it’s great? Well, here’s a different review.” With a guttural noise, he hacked up a wad of sputum and shot it onto the window over Crowley’s face.
The woman gasped and the couple skittered away. She whispered, “Did you see what she did?”
“She?”
the boyfriend said, taking a final look at the well-made-up, impossibly homely face.
Jill, watching with satisfaction as the glob traced a
slimy trail down the window, issued a challenge to the aghast boyfriend. “My brother, there’s a little part of you that would just
love
to find out, isn’t there?”
FOURTEEN
D
ozens of
vintage and new motorcycles were lined up in the parking lot of the Rock Store and spilled onto the banks of Mulholland Highway. The old diner, nestled into a hillside of volcanic rock, was more a destination than a pit stop for motorcyclists enjoying the scenic, twisting ride from the San Fernando Valley to the Pacific. The hot holiday had brought motorcycle enthusiasts out in force. It was just mid-morning but the alcohol was freely flowing on the patio, where hearty meals were being cooked on the outdoor grill. Weekend warriors rubbed elbows with guys in chains and bandannas with bugs embedded between their teeth, biker chicks in leather chaps, tourists sweating in their new leather, and Hollywood stars. The crowd was buzzing with talk of Jay Leno, who had just stopped by, riding one of his pricey toys. The cognoscenti also whispered of past visits from Arnold Schwarzenegger and his wife, Maria.
Those who were there ostensibly because the Rock Store was the place for any biker cruising Mulholland to be, but who really half-hoped to spot a star, were not disappointed when Bowie Crowley rode up on his Harley-Davidson Fat Boy with Dena Hale on the back. Crowley was a for-real tough guy. The kind of guy who
seemed mellow but who only a fool would mess with. The kind of guy who had come through the fire and out the other side, with a man’s blood on his hands, which made him all the scarier—and irresistible.
And Dena … well, Dena was just plain cute and hot. She looked thinner in person, which was hard for the women there to process.
Some in the crowd had seen Hale interview Crowley that morning on TV. They’d seen the humble way he’d interacted with the father of the boy he’d murdered and were impressed. They’d also read the unmistakable look in Hale’s eyes when she had looked at Crowley. Who could blame her? Most of the audience would have jumped his bones if they had the chance.
No one with a camera missed this photo op, especially the paparazzi, who were always hanging around, waiting for something just like this. Patience has its virtues.
Crowley hung their helmets on the bike’s handlebars and cut a path through the crowd, high-fiving and shaking hands while shielding Hale from the throng. They walked past a pair of nonfunctioning antique gas pumps, a favorite backdrop for people to pose for photos with their motorcycles. The prices on the pumps were frozen at .32¼ cents per gallon.
A rotund grizzled biker happened to have a copy of
Razored Soul
and asked Crowley to sign it.
The biker gushed, “I never buy books, you know? But I went out special to buy this one. I said to my wife, I can’t believe this dude is for real. You’re like a character out of a book or a movie or somethin’.”
Crowley penned a special note, using a Sharpie marker he’d taken to carrying. “Thanks, man, but I’m just a guy tryin’ to stay out of trouble. Make something of my life so my son will be proud of me.”
The man took back his book and gave Crowley a hearty handshake. “That’s cool. Real cool.”
Hale could barely conceal her admiration.
Inside, they jostled their way through the dining room with its picnic tables, busy but minuscule kitchen, and mural painted across three walls of a Native American in full headdress on a horse looking across Monument Valley. They went up stone steps to a room full of Formica-topped tables and old club-style chairs upholstered in orange vinyl. A guy was tinkling a tune at an upright piano in the corner. A long wooden bar was against one wall.
Crowley found a stool for Hale and sidled next to her. She ordered a Perrier with lime and had to laugh when he ordered nonfat milk.
“What’s so funny?” he asked with a wink. “I got in the habit of drinking milk when I was in the joint. Never touched the stuff until then. Builds strong bones.”
“Next we’ll be seeing you in one of those ads showing celebrities with milk mustaches.”
“That one I might do.”
She picked up her Perrier. “Have you been approached for product endorsements?”
“A little. This local firm that manufactures biker leathers and gear came calling and a custom chopper shop wanted me to do an ad. I turned them down.”
“Does Harley-Davidson know you ride their motorcycles?”
“They might, but no one’s come calling. My name isn’t as golden as you think. Face it, I’m a convicted felon. A murderer. Big corporations don’t want a guy like me pitching their products. A rep like mine, the only thing it’s good for is … I don’t know what it’s good for.”
“Selling books.”
He raised his glass to clink with hers. “Selling books.” He took in the scene. “I can’t believe you’ve never been to the Rock Store before, being a Los Angeles native and all.”
“I run with a different crowd, I guess. But this is something to see. Thanks for bringing me.”
“I’m glad you decided to take a ride with me, Miss Dena. You haven’t really lived until you’ve done Mulholland on a Harley. A little California dreamin’.”
“Hope someone’s doing some dreaming somewhere.”
“Sometimes you have to shake things up. Change your perspective.”
“I could use a new perspective.” She looked at her watch.
Crowley leaned against the bar. “When do you have to get back?”
“My daughter is out with friends until late. My son is spending the night at Balboa Island with his buddy and his parents. My husband is God knows where.” She shrugged. “I guess I’m in no hurry.”
“That’s my favorite time schedule. And you know what? I’m in no hurry either.”
He smiled at her. She felt herself falling into his hazel eyes and felt like a sap for even thinking that. She looked away.
“I’m glad you invited me, Bowie. This is fun.”
“I’m glad you had a change of clothes in your locker.”
“I’m glad you had an extra helmet. I should be suspicious of a man who carries an extra helmet in case he might have a partner.”
He smiled crookedly. “You’ve gotta be prepared, right?”
“You got condoms in that storage container on your bike? Maybe some sex toys?”
“Dena … what do you take me for?”
“Puh-leese. I saw those women in the audience. We had to hose down the place after the show.”
“Now you’re gonna make me blush.”
She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe that for a second.
“Hey, I’m very shy.”
She turned her head and gave him the same look from the other eye.
“What are you getting at, Dena? What do you want me to say?”
“I’ve heard the rumors. Your name’s in the gossip rags. You’re quite a ladies’ man.”
“I’m not going to B.S. you. When I first got out of the joint, there was a lot of partying. But that’s not what I’m about.”
She tapped a varnished fingernail on the bar. “I want one thing to be clear. I’m not going to be another notch on your bedpost.”
“I’m not going to deny that I’m attracted to you. But you’re married. Understood. I never thought—”
“Oh,
really?
”
“Well, come on. Of course I
thought
about it. I wouldn’t be a red-blooded American male if I hadn’t. Face it, you’re hot. And I like you. But I’m telling you honestly, I have no agenda. It’s like this. I wasn’t busy today and you weren’t either.”
“So here we are.”
“Here we are.”
She smirked and shook her head. “I should be the last person to throw stones,” she said. “Living in my glass house.”
“What’s your truth, Dena? The part of you no one knows.”
She looked askance and then, for some reason, blurted out the truth. “That my life is not perfect. Or how about
this … my life isn’t even happy. Actually, lately it’s been hell.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Anything you’d like to share?”
She blew out a long stream of air, as if she didn’t know where to begin. “My husband’s business partner and his girlfriend were murdered last Saturday at his home in Pasadena.”
Crowley’s jaw dropped. “That was your husband’s partner? Good Lord. Don’t they suspect some guy who was stalking the woman?”
“That’s what they’re saying on the news. Yesterday morning, two detectives showed up at our house and took us to Pasadena to be interviewed. Mark and his partner Oliver had been having a big fight over the business.”
Crowley nodded and said nothing.
Hale was quick to add, “Mark had nothing to do with it. We had a dinner party that night. I know it sounds like he cooked up a perfect alibi and hired somebody to murder Oliver, but Mark doesn’t even think that way. He’s not the type. Not that there’s a
type
per se.” Remembering who she was talking to, she winced. “Sorry.”
“No offense. Go on.”
“Mark internalizes. He drowns his problems, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, yeah.” Crowley somberly watched her with those soulful eyes. “That must be tough for you.”
Her tears again welled. “Darn! Enough already.” She blotted them with the damp cocktail napkin from beneath her drink. “I hate wearing my heart on my sleeve.”
“That’s part of the reason you’re popular. You’re honest, and people can see it.”
“I feel like I’m coming apart. I hope people can’t see that.”
He rested his hand on her back.
She sniffed and looked up at him. With a slight movement of her arm, she created an opening into which he stepped. He pulled her close and nuzzled her hair with his nose. Her tears soaked into his black T-shirt.
She abruptly pushed away. “What are we doing? Our picture will be in the tabloids.”
He backed off.
She snatched a fresh cocktail napkin from a stack on the other side of the bar and blew her nose. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. If you’ve done half the things I’ve done, then you can be sorry.”
“You’re kind.” She folded the napkin in half and in half again. “It’s just … I don’t have anyone to talk to about this. Even my friends don’t know how bad it’s gotten between Mark and me. My own dumb pride keeps me from opening up. I was down for so long. My life was an endless struggle. Bad decisions. Bad relationships. There was a point where I thought I’d never finish paying dues. All my old friends had gotten their lives together. Good marriages and great kids. The white-picket-fence thing. Normal garden-variety problems. Then there was me. I’d have lunch with my girlfriends and I’d feel like entertainment for them. Diversion from their routines. But guess what? I pulled it together. I not only pulled it together, I soared right over all of them. I have the top-rated local morning show, the rich, successful, handsome husband, the fabulous house …”
“And they don’t call you anymore.”
“Some don’t. That still surprises me. A few do. The true-blue friends. Like a marriage, through thick and thin. But even my true friends don’t know everything about my life. They don’t know that it’s a lie.”