Authors: Dianne Emley
The cadets were watching. The houses on the street
were set far apart behind big yards. He imagined people peeking through their blinds at him.
Who cares? He was innocent. Wasn’t he?
He grabbed a tissue from the glove compartment and wiped his mouth. He took a swig from a liter bottle of water he always carried in the car, swished it around his mouth, and spat it out. He poured some on a tissue and wiped his face, seeing the puddle of vomit in the street. Looking at it made him feel nauseated all over again. Time to get out of there.
Scoville cranked the Porsche’s ignition. Hearing the engine’s throaty rumble as he gunned the engine revived his testosterone and chased away his doubts. He peeled away from the curb and sped down the street. The Porsche’s top was off, and the wind was in his hair.
He was fine. Everything was going to be fine.
Just keep your wits about you, Skipper
.
The pep talk was comforting. His father had called him Skipper.
A big crowd had turned out to see Bowie Crowley at Vroman’s, the landmark Pasadena bookstore, founded in 1894. People filled all the folding chairs and stood against bookshelves lining the walls. Some sat on the carpet while they waited for the ex-con murderer-cum-bestselling author and self-proclaimed reluctant celebrity.
Scoville had arrived in plenty of time to take any seat he wanted, but he selected one at the rear on the end of the aisle, making an unpleasant face each time he had to swing his legs around to let others pass.
He held his already-purchased copy of
Razored Soul
on his lap atop brand-new J. Crew khakis he’d bought in Old Pasadena to replace the ones he’d soiled when he’d gotten ill. He’d bought a shirt while he was at it, a
madras plaid in pink and green that reminded him of something his father used to wear that was now, amusingly, cutting-edge hip. He’d had a cappuccino and biscotti at a café on the bookstore’s first floor. He was feeling calmer and more clearheaded than earlier, when he’d lost it at Mercer’s house.
Dena had called him while he was at the café, wanting to know if he’d be home for dinner.
“I don’t know when I’ll be home,” he’d told her. “I’m doing rounds, like my dad used to do.”
“You sound enthused. That’s great.”
“Now that this nightmare with Drive By Media is over, I can focus on our core business. I’ve neglected it too long. Everything okay with you?”
“Fine. So you won’t be home for dinner.”
“No, I think I’ll watch the game at the club and grab a bite there. I won’t be home until eleven or so.”
“I’m just getting caught up on paperwork. See you later, Mark.”
He snapped his phone closed. That was done.
The crowd grew. He was glad he’d arrived early. He glanced around, quickly facing forward when he saw something that disturbed him.
Brushing at nothing on his shoulder as an excuse, he looked out the corner of his eye. There was that guy again. He stood against a bookcase with his elbow hooked on one of the shelves. Scoville had first seen him downstairs. He’d been flipping through a book on cigars he was thinking about buying and saw the same guy watching him. The guy had been browsing through a book about having the perfect wedding on a budget. It was an incongruous sight.
Scoville sauntered past and saw the guy had the book turned to a page with photographs of models in white lingerie.
The word that came to Scoville’s mind was
thug
. The guy might have been forty, and was beefy with olive skin. His oily hair was combed straight back, brushing his collar. A sheen of perspiration coated his apple cheeks and the rolls around his thick neck. He wasn’t as tall as Scoville, but there was something menacing about him. When Scoville took the cigar book to the register along with a copy of
Razored Soul
, the guy was picking up trinkets at a display of Halloween decorations and, Scoville thought, still watching him.
Thinking he’d lose him when he went upstairs for the book signing, Scoville was jarred to see him standing right there, looking like a hulking mass of lard on a tray of petit fours.
When Scoville caught the guy’s eye where he was standing at the bookcase, he didn’t look away, but held Scoville’s gaze, his dark irises barely visible beneath fleshy eyelids. Scoville jerked around to face front. Had the guy winked at him?
Maybe this character was some lowlife this Crowley had met in prison. Best to ignore him.
Deciding to forget about it, he opened a small handled shopping bag that had a gold sticker in the shape of a medallion on the front and took out a heavy lump in lilac-colored tissue paper. He unwrapped it, revealing a shiny chrome figure of a jungle cat in mid-leap.
“How beautiful,” said the woman sitting beside him. She was of Asian descent, but either California-born or -raised given her speech. “Is that an antique hood ornament?”
“Yes, from a nineteen-thirties-era Jaguar. I found it at a little shop up the street.” Scoville had suggested to Dena that they find such an ornament for her Jag. She’d of course had a negative, knee-jerk reaction, claiming that people used to be sliced up by such ornaments in
car crashes, which was why, if they were installed at all, they were rinky-dink and had break-away wires. To hell with her and Ralph Nader. He thought the leaping cat was cool.
“Don’t they have the best shops here? I love Pasadena.”
Scoville noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and appeared to be there by herself. She had several copies of
Razored Soul
in a bag by her feet. She was attractive. He indulged in a ten-second fantasy of him and her leaving the bookstore together, having a drink, and one thing leading to another leading to a tryst in a hotel room.
He had never cheated on Dena. There were call girls in Vegas, but he didn’t consider that cheating. Things between him and Dena had been frosty for a long time. The separate-bedroom thing that had started as a workweek convenience had become a lifestyle. It was nice to have a woman look at him with something other than disdain or spreadsheets in her eyes.
“Are you going to put it on your car?” the woman asked.
“I was thinking of using it as a paperweight.” He extended his hand. “I’m Mark Scoville.”
“Hi, I’m Sally Kitamura.” She pointed to Crowley’s book on his lap. “Have you read it?”
“Not yet.”
“Ohh.…” She sighed. “It’s
so
powerful. I read it in one sitting. I didn’t get up, cook dinner, do the laundry, nothing. I bought copies for my friends and family. It’s scary and gritty, but inspirational too. Everyone should read it. I love the way he writes. His prose is spare but evocative. Hemingwayesque, I guess. Manly. Macho even, although I detest that word.”
Her eyes widened as she was distracted by something behind Scoville. She gasped, then said, “There he is.”
Scoville was quickly forgotten as Bowie Crowley made his way to the front of the room. After a gushing introduction by the store’s promotions manager, Crowley took the podium. He was dressed in his trademark snug black T-shirt, scuffed motorcycle boots, faded Levi’s button-front jeans, and a hand-painted leather belt with his name and red roses on it. Any fan knew the belt was made for him by his prison buddy, Spider, who was serving life without the possibility of parole for fatally shooting two people during a convenience store robbery.
“Thank you all for coming. I’m always blown away by the people who come out to see me, who’ve been touched by my book. It’s awesome.” Crowley tapped his closed fist against his heart. “Thank you. I’ll read a little, then I’ll take some questions.”
“On anything?” a woman asked, accompanied by tittering from the crowd.
Crowley gave the questioner a guarded smile. “Sure. There are a few things I keep private, but most of my life is an open book, as they say.”
He opened his book, nervously scratched at his face, and started reading from the beginning.
“ ‘Some people have it easy. Born lucky. By that, I don’t mean just the good family, the nice house, the money. I mean they’re born with a pure soul. They’re just good people from the get-go. A person like that, you can take to the bank. No matter what things come down in their lives, they’re going to do the right thing. Then there are people like me.’ ”
Scoville left without having his book signed, slipping away without saying goodbye to the cute girl, Sally. When he walked through the store on his way out, he kept his eyes open for the oily lug and was relieved when
he didn’t see him. He wrote the incident off to general weirdness in the universe.
He sat in his Porsche in the bookstore parking lot, having selected a dark spot that gave him a view of the back entrance and a Harley-Davidson motorcycle parked near it. He knew that Crowley rode a Harley. Scoville had thought about it a lot and decided the only thing he could do to get out of the mess he’d gotten himself into was to warn Crowley that some freak wanted him dead.
Scoville had turned off his cell phone and sat there in silence, chewing and spitting out his fingernails while he watched people get into their cars and leave.
He was startled when first one black-and-white Pasadena police cruiser and then a second sped into the parking lot. Four uniformed officers got out and jogged into the store. Scoville could hear chatter on the police band through the open windows of the patrol cars. More PPD prowlers arrived and more officers went inside the store.
The arrival of the cops caused the people leaving the parking lot to pick up their pace. It was nearly empty, and the store had passed its closing time.
A black sedan showed up, a police vehicle with chrome spotlights attached to both sides of the windshield. A good-looking Latino in a suit and tie got out and headed into the store. A uniformed officer called him Lieutenant Beltran.
Scoville thought the lieutenant looked vaguely familiar.
Finally, the police began returning to their cars and taking off. Two officers came out of the store leading a heavyset man whom Scoville had not seen before. His hands were cuffed behind his back.
Crowley brought up the rear, engaged in conversation
with the lieutenant, who was carrying a book. Scoville, sitting in the topless Porsche, could hear some of their conversation. They were talking about writing.
An officer tried to get the handcuffed man to go voluntarily into the back of a patrol car but he resisted when he saw Crowley coming.
“Crowley murdered my son. I’ve got a right to tell my side of the story.”
Two officers were grappling to put him in the car when Crowley interrupted.
“Officers, if I might have a word with Donnie.”
The officers looked at Lieutenant Beltran, who said, “Go ahead, Bowie. Just keep your distance.”
“He’s cool,” Crowley said. “Aren’t ya, Donnie? You’re cool.”
“Yeah, I’m cool. I’m cool.” Baker stopped struggling, but the two officers still restrained him.
Crowley came closer. “Whatcha’ doin’, Donnie? What’s happening here?”
“You’re gonna have a word with me one day, Bowie.”
“You don’t want that, Donnie. Lookit chu. Now you’re going to jail. Think Dallas would have wanted that for his old man?”
Baker bit his lip and looked away.
Crowley took a step closer to lay a hand on Baker’s shoulder.
Baker kicked him in the shin.
“Get him outta here!” Beltran made a swooping motion with his hand.
“That’s it, buddy, you’re going to jail.” The cops pressed Baker’s head down while they shoved him into the back of the patrol car.
Crowley grimaced and limped. “You asshole. You always were a dipshit.” He clenched and opened his fists.
“Look me in the eye and tell me that, Bowie.”
Crowley took a step toward the patrol car as if he was about to take up Baker’s dare, but an officer slammed the door shut.
Baker continued raging through the car window.
“You okay, Bowie?” Beltran asked. “You need medical attention?”
“Hell no. I’m fine.” Crowley ran both hands through his hair and looked at the patrol car, which was taking off. A dimple formed in his cheek above his jaw as he clenched his teeth.
Baker had turned to stare at him through the back window.
Beltran hovered. “You want to press charges? Come down to the station and we’ll take a picture of your leg.”
“It’s nothing.” Crowley breathed heavily through his nose, watching the patrol car as it turned onto Colorado Boulevard and disappeared. Seeming to remember himself, he turned toward Beltran. “Thanks, Lieutenant. I’m good.” He managed a tense smile. “Send me your screenplay. I’d like to read it.”
Beltran flashed his broad smile. “Really? That’s great. Thanks, Bowie.”
“No problem.” Crowley got on his Harley and took off.
The motorcycle’s engine startled Scoville. All of his plans seemed to go to shit. After all, why should he care what happened to this pretty-boy murdering fuck? But then again, maybe it was the right thing to do. Hard to tell anymore.
Scoville thought he was doing a decent job of following Crowley without being detected, keeping a few cars between him and the Harley. He thought he’d lost him a couple of times, but was able to find the bright single headlight and taillight again.
Crowley took a route from Pasadena that was familiar to Scoville, entering the twisting Arroyo Parkway at its mouth, following it downtown, and then changing to the 101, the Hollywood Freeway. He exited at Melrose and headed west through the shabby neighborhoods of East Hollywood. At Rossmore, the eastern boundary of Hancock Park, Crowley turned left.
For Scoville, the route was not just familiar, it was
too
familiar.
Crowley slowed while he made a call on his cell phone and Scoville wondered if he was asking for directions.
A vague nausea again riled Scoville’s stomach. It wasn’t visions of blood and gore that tormented him now but thoughts of betrayal. Dena had interviewed Crowley on her show that morning. Why had she been so concerned about when he was coming home? He couldn’t remember the last time she’d even asked. He knew the kids were gone.
When Crowley turned down Pinewood Lane, Scoville felt an acidic burn at the back of his throat as reflux rose. When Crowley turned into Scoville’s driveway, Scoville kept driving.