Deadline (2 page)

I got the operator, asked to be connected to the police. I gave my name to an unsympathetic female officer, and told her what had happened, and the location. She asked me if I was in any immediate danger; I told her I thought that possibility had passed. She said a car would be along as soon as one became available; she made it sound like she worked for a cab company. What was I supposed to do – stand guard until the cops came?

She hung up. I shut off my cellphone and looked at the guy.

‘You pay your taxes – for what?' he asked. He was rubbing his left eye almost constantly. ‘Protection from big badasses like me, right? Well, I don't hear no fucking cavalry, Captain.'

I looked at my watch. I didn't want to hang around here; it wasn't my job to be this guy's keeper. My heartbeat slowed, my pulses returned to normal.

The guy maneuvered himself into a sitting position. Where were the cops? I scanned the lot, looked for flashing lights on the boulevard – nothing. I turned back to look at the guy: the idea popped into my head –
run.
Why didn't he just make a run for it? Do us all a favor. Spare me time going over the circumstances of the assault, describing the indescribable. Save the cops some paperwork.

Get up, take a hike, go. I'll even look away.

But then I thought of how Benny Shark had been beaten up and robbed, and an instinctive yearning for law and order rose inside me. After me, somebody else would be a victim; and somebody after that. There was no end to the chain of violence and larceny – unless it was outright anarchy.

I had a duty. I'd wait for the cops. The good doctor.

The guy got to his feet. He was rubbing his knee. I watched him warily.

‘Ouch,' he was saying. ‘Ouch, ouch.' He limped in a tiny circle under the tall lamp. ‘You kick like a mule,' he said. ‘What are you? Six two? Hunnerd and eighty pounds?'

What did he want now? Conversation? I didn't feel like passing the time of day. Then I saw the black and white come across the parking-lot. My assailant saw it too and reacted with unexpected speed, turning, suddenly twisting past my outstretched arm, skimming me by an inch or two, then sprinting across the lot and weaving through the traffic on Wilshire with a certain wild grace, like a broken field runner. Then the black and white flashed lights and whined and ploughed into the traffic flow on the boulevard in pursuit of the guy. I heard brakes scream and horns blast.

I stood for a time, leaning against my car with my arms folded, wondering what was expected of me, if I was supposed to hang out like a good citizen until the cop car returned and an officer asked me questions. Or had I been written out of the script entirely now, an incidental character, a walk-on? What the hell. If they wanted to talk with me, they had my name.

I tossed my case onto the passenger seat and I sat behind the wheel. I tilted my head back, waited for ten minutes, then I drove out of the lot. Halfway home, I experienced after-shock, a tremor that affected my hands and legs. Sweat ran down my face.

This goddam city
, I thought. I envied Benny Shark. I wanted Oregon.

9.06 p.m.

Sondra did all the talking during dinner. She was more animated than normal. She told me stories that were coursing through her office; I listened, amused as I usually was by her talent for mimicry and the enthusiastic way she launched herself into reports of scandals and affairs, who was screwing who in the world of music, the down and dirty stuff we didn't read in the entertainment pages. In full flow, she was a one-woman entertainment.

I wanted to tell her about the incident in the parking-lot; but I didn't. She hated horror stories of urban brutality. She wanted to think LA, her native city, had a heart of spun gold. It was a place unjustly maligned, it didn't deserve its reputation as a dead zone, an artificial city, a tawdry hell by the ocean where only the whacked-out poor or the grotesquely spoiled, neurotic rich lived. Besides, her humor was good: why bring her down? She was on a high, and it was clearly due to something more than just another working day at LaBrea Records.

She waited until we'd finished dinner before she told me the real reason for her animation.

She didn't blow out the candles. She stepped through the sliding glass doors to the redwood deck, and I followed. The city, orange and vast, lay spread below like a huge foundry whose purpose was too obscure to understand. The canyons were black crevices and the air smelled of exhaust fumes and I thought of my assailant even as I tried to shove the memory away. I saw the knife come down through bright light, and I remembered turning my face to one side and how the blade had struck the car, that funny little
ping
of metal on metal. My heart shifted, boogied an extra little beat. I caught a whiff of the smell he'd left behind. And then it hit me. The bum in the scarf and cap and the greasy jacket with the stink of the city attached to him – why had he also smelled of
cologne
? I let the question drift away. What difference did it make? I was here, now, secure.

I looked at my wife. Even after six years of marriage, I had times when I couldn't read her face, when she seemed mysterious, as if she were holding something back, perhaps some aspect of herself she was reluctant to mention. She leaned against the deck-rail. A gas-scented breeze blew up and stirred her hair, which was short, dyed aubergine. ‘Notice anything?' she asked.

‘What am I looking for in particular?'

She smiled and turned away, and gazed out across the extent of the valley; the city was an infinite shifting arrangement of headlights on freeways. Airplanes created oases of electricity floating above LAX. She looked back at me, turned the palms of her hands over.

What did she want me to notice?

‘I'll make it easy for you, doc. What am I
not
doing?' she asked. Her expression was all wide-eyed mischief.

‘Let me think,' I said.

‘You're supposed to be observant. People pay big bucks for your insights, don't they?' She took a couple of steps toward me, smiling. I was drawn into the enigma of her eyes. Her other fine features – the full lips and the strong structure of jaw that suggested depths of self-assurance and independence – were diminished by the unusual violet of the irises. I'd never seen another human being with eyes that shade.

‘I'll give you a hint,' she said. ‘What do I normally do after dinner?'

It had been staring me in the face.
I clicked my thumb against my middle finger. ‘You smoke –'

‘And? Do you see me smoking?'

‘No –'

‘And do you remember me telling you the only reason in the world that would make me give up?'

‘Jesus
Christ
!'

‘You finally get the picture, doc?'

‘Are you serious?'

‘Deadly.'

‘I'm … I'm … I don't know …'

‘Like, blown away?'

‘Doesn't do it justice.'

I felt suddenly giddy, the night spinning about me.
Overjoyed.
No, I didn't really have a word for this thrill, this rush of anticipation.

‘How long have you known?' I asked.

‘Since this afternoon.'

‘And you waited –'

‘It wasn't easy, believe me,' she said. ‘I wanted the right moment.' She nestled against my body. ‘Hold me.'

I thought of the fetus inside her, small and unformed, floating in its own cloistered reality. A child! Dear God. I tried to accustom myself to the shock of this knowledge, absorb this new fact into my scheme of the world. I understood one thing: Nothing would ever be the same again. The entire pattern of my existence had assumed an entirely new shape in the matter of a few seconds.

She said, ‘According to Marv Sweetzer, ETA's mid-January. I swear, Marv couldn't have been more pleased if he'd fathered this child himself. Loaded me down with a pile of pamphlets – dos and don'ts, drink this, avoid that, take these vitamins, remember to get exercise, you want to make sure you don't get stretch-marks, on and on.'

‘And you promised to be good?' I said.

‘Oh, I promised to be a saint, Jerry. And I will be.'

I pictured Sondra in Marv Sweetzer's office in Beverly Hills, Marv announcing her test results.
You and Jerry hit the spot, Sondra.
I knew Marv well, and how he operated. He was the essence of kindness and practicality.

ETA January. Six months away. I couldn't help myself – I went down on my knees and lifted her purple silk dress up to her waist and laid the side of my face against her stomach, even though I knew it was too early to feel any movement. I just wanted to be close to the baby. We'd
longed
for a child, and we'd worked at it, trying our luck on the roulette wheel of reproduction – charts on the bedroom wall, computer calculations of her cycles, the difficult math of ovulation, my sperm count, fertility tests.

I was forty-three years of age, six years older than my wife, and we were aware of our clocks running a little too fast.

Life had been generous to us: I was successful in my profession, and Sondra made a good income as a marketing exec for LaBrea Records. And only one thing had been missing.

The notion of a
baby
– now it engulfed me. I thought of the purity of a new life amidst the dreck of the city, and briefly my mind drifted from the elevated redwood deck, plunging down to where the hot night alleys were fetid dead-ends, and doorways were filled with the disenfranchised and the socially crippled. I imagined hearing the whispers of lunatics and addicts and the sound of a wine bottle smashing or a clip thrust inside an automatic. We'd have to move from here, and I was glad.

We'd live in a small town beyond the toxic reaches of LA, a place of good schools and clean neighborhoods where you could raise a child in safety. A place of the kind you saw on pictorial calendars or postcards, or in coffee-table books about Americana, one of the friendly little towns that still existed out there like persistent myths.

I felt Sondra's hand against the back of my neck.

‘Make love to me,' she said. ‘Right here.'

I drew her down to the deck carefully. She'd always been precious to me, but now even more so, if such a thing were possible. My wife. My love … My
family.

Jerry and Sondra Lomax and child. Two became three.

I listened to the quickened sound of her breathing and, glancing at her, saw her lips part and her eyelids flicker. The shampoo she used was suggestive of something exotic. The breeze rose again and rattled eucalyptus leaves. The night was filled with our whispered pleasures. Even the distant scream of an ambulance – an urban distress call for a gunshot victim, somebody being rushed to die in an emergency room, who knows – couldn't intrude on this moment. The guy with the knife and the parking-lot were forgotten. And when the phone rang in the house, I didn't feel the urge to answer it. The answering-machine kicked in.

I was galaxies removed from distractions. I was elsewhere. I made love as gently as I could, imagining the fragility of the womb, underestimating how much of a strongbox it was, and how securely it contained the unborn child.

Sondra said, ‘I'm not glass, Jerry. I won't break. Don't hold back.'

I closed my eyes. This intimacy with her was different from anything that had taken place before. A shift had occurred, a new level of commitment had been reached. We made love on the deck as if we were touching for the first time. Our energy was frantic. I lost all sense of my body as an entity separate from Sondra. A fusion, then a splintering, inevitable and seismic.

When I had nothing left to give, she held me inside her. ‘I don't want to let you go,' she said.

‘I'm not going anywhere,' I said.

‘Are you happy?' she asked. ‘Have I made you happy, Jerry?'

‘Happy's a wimp word,' I said. ‘Ecstatic.' I looked up into the sky, wishing I could see stars. But the night was cloudy.

She was crying quietly.

‘What is it?' I asked.

‘I don't know, I don't know. Just …'

I wrapped a hand around hers and squeezed. She cried a moment longer, then forced out a little laugh. ‘I'm being all weepy about this.'

‘There's nothing wrong with that. It's perfectly natural. This is as new to you as it is to me. You're bound to experience strange emotions. Ups and downs. Fears. Joys. You're carrying another life. I can't imagine a responsibility as enormous as that.'

Out in the dark something boomed and reverberated. A backfire. A pistol. After a time, you went beyond the point of speculating about the source of such noises. They became background, soundtrack to the chaotic low-budget movie the city had become. And finally you stopped paying them any attention.

‘I want to be a good mother, Jerry. I want that so badly.'

‘You will be,' I said. ‘Absolutely no doubt.' With the edge of my shirt-cuff, I dried the tears on her cheeks. ‘Jacob for a boy. Louisa for a girl.'

‘No way,' she said.

‘Something you don't like about Jacob? Or is it Louisa that bothers you?'

‘Jacob's sort of uncool. And Louisa … I don't know, I associate it with whalebone corsets and croquet on lawns. Merry old England.'

We argued about names in a good-natured way for a time. And then, because a warm rain had begun to fall softly through the canyons, we went inside, where one of the two candles had died and the dining-room was a little darker than before.

Friday, 2.22 a.m.

An electric storm over the city: thunder rolled like mortar-fire through the canyons. The noise insinuated itself into my dream, and I saw two aircraft, banked in a holding-pattern over a busy airport, suddenly collide. The planes crumpled instantly, and bodies began to fall from the battered fuselages; all at once, imbued with the kind of powers you sometimes have in dreams, I was able to zoom in on the faces of those thrown from the gashed and buckled craft. The faces – and for some reason this was the truly upsetting thing – were without expression, showed no fear, no terror. Nor were there any sounds: no screams, no cries of anguish. The victims, strapped to their seats, were unresponsive, as if they'd silently accepted the inevitability of their doom.