City of War (20 page)

“Answer the question, Rail, goddamn it.” Rhonda’s voice had taken on an edge I’d never heard before. An ugliness. I looked at her without smiling. But she rolled on. “Or is this the kind of thing you only discussed with your dead piece of ass.”

Sometimes a relationship ends in a heartbeat. They say that at those times, in your mind’s eye, you can see the skin tighten against the bones of the person’s face and picture them in death. That didn’t happen, but at that moment, whatever Rhonda and I had was over.

I’m not sure Bert even heard her, but Brittany did, and her face said it all. Women are always harder on other women.

I don’t believe a bellyful of hootch unlocks some secret place and lets the demons out. Anyone with reasonable intelligence knows all the forbidden words and where the dagger will do the most damage. Alcohol simply hands your mouth a permission slip. What gets selected is a function of circumstance and emotion. But even then it takes a second or
two to get it out, plenty of time to check the process. So whiskey talk is mostly laziness.

To Bert, I finally said, “I’d turn the guy over to Ted Goldman. He’s the scariest person I know.”

Rhonda let out an exasperated moan.

Bert looked at her. “Who the hell is Ted Goldman?”

Brittany answered, “It’s time for us to go home.”

16

A Jogger and a Best Friend

At 11:30, I was sitting in my favorite place—the captain’s chair of the flybridge. I like to finish my days there. Few things are more pleasant to look at or listen to than a marina at night. Hundreds of boats, flickering lights, creaking docks, distant laughter, a tinkling wind chime, muffled love-making, the occasional horn far out to sea. It always reminds me of a seagoing
Rear Window
.

I lit a cigar. My favorite, an AF 858 Maduro. Like English Ovals, if you’re going to smoke, taste should be a priority. I keep a bottle of Macallan 25 in the bin under the life jackets, and I had it open in my other hand. I could guess what Amy Vanderbilt would say about drinking an expensive single-malt out of the bottle, but she wasn’t there.

When Bert and Brittany left to go back to their boat, I sent Rhonda home to her condo, which is just a short walk outside the yacht club gate. I told her I wanted to get a good night’s sleep, and I wouldn’t be able to with her aboard. Her vanity wanted to go with the lie, but the wine was persistent.

“I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

I saw her lower lip tremble, but she got control. “It was what I said, wasn’t it? About that woman, Kim.”

Her words had just been a shortcut to what would have happened anyway. But there wasn’t any reason to go there. I kissed her cheek gently. “Goodnight.”

“When they kiss you on the cheek, they might as well be sticking a knife between your ribs. I’ll call Dr. Goldman and tell him I won’t be checking in.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I said. I didn’t care what she did, but indifference at that moment would have made it uncomfortable for her to ever be in the same room with me again. I watched her walk up the dock with purpose. Silently, I wished her luck.

Now, from where I sat, I watched a guy one dock over, who’d obviously had too much to drink, try to get his forty-foot Bertram into its slip. It was laughing-out-loud funny, and he thought so too, because he was doing more of that than driving.

Just as I was contemplating going down to help him, my phone rang. Before I could say anything, an out-of-breath female voice said, “Rail? It’s me, Archer. Archer Cayne.”

Said like I knew a dozen Archers. “How are you?”

“Scared.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I just got back from my evening run, and the paperboy had thrown the
Times
into the cactus patch under the front window. I went up to get it, and a car across the street pulled out. His lights hit the house, and there were two men in my living room. Just sitting there…in the dark.”

“Did they see you?”

“I don’t think so. I dropped and crawled around the side. Nobody came out, and no lights came on.”

“Where are you now?”

“Up the street a block.”

I was standing now. “Okay, the first thing we’re going to do is get you out of the neighborhood. Think you can run another couple of miles?”

“Shit, with this much adrenaline, I can run to fucking Miami. That is, if I don’t pee myself first.”

“Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Go west two blocks, then down to Santa Monica Boulevard and head toward the ocean. You know the Fairmont Miramar Hotel?”

“Haven’t got a clue.”

“It’ll be on your right. Northeast corner of Santa Monica and Ocean Avenue. You go too far, you’ll run off a cliff.”

“So either way, I’m gonna be okay.”

I liked this girl’s moxie, but I guess if you’ve lived with a Russian thug who blinded you, you’re not going to fold up easily. “No matter what happens, don’t get off Santa Monica. Somebody pulls up alongside, cross the street. But do it behind the vehicle, got it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re actually going to run past the main gate and turn right on Ocean. About half a block up you’ll see a side entrance. There’s a ladies’ room straight back on your right.”

“I really appreciate the plan, but I hope there’s a bigger finish than a john.”

I laughed. “When you’re ready, go out the main entrance. You can’t miss it. There’s a long driveway facing Santa Monica Boulevard. Then dial my number and hand the phone to the doorman.”

“What the fuck for?” she spit.

“I lost my wallet, and I want to see if he found it.”

That stopped her for a moment. Then she laughed. “Okay, boss, whatever you say. But is there some reason I can’t just go
in
the front door?”

I could tell by her breathing that she was already jogging. “Because if there’s a chance you’re being followed, I don’t want you entering and leaving the same way. You get lonely, buzz me back, I’ll be here.” I hung up.

I dialed the home number of D. J. Kaplan, owner of Symphony Limousine, and a member of my board. Five minutes later, I was talking to a guy who identified himself as Billy
Mack Tulafono, doorman at the Fairmont. Then I called the yacht club.

My next call was to Mallory, but as I started to dial, I saw Bert coming back along the dock, walking purposefully. He saw me topside and waved, and I heard him mount the wooden stairs to the
Sanrevelle
. It was late, so if we were going to talk and not disturb anyone, it needed to be inside.

I met him in the salon. He was already at the bar pouring himself a glass of cognac. He asked if I wanted one. I shook my head and got myself a bottle of water.

“Brittany explained what happened with Rhonda. I gotta tell you, I missed the whole thing.”

“I know.”

Bert shook his head. “Sometimes when I’m wound up, I don’t pay attention to anything except the sound of my own voice.”

“It’s one of the keys to your success. Single-mindedness of purpose. If you came over to apologize, it’s not necessary. Just do me a favor and don’t try dragging me into any more of your bullshit hypotheticals.”

“I noticed you don’t drag.” He sipped at his cognac. “Deal, no more bullshit hypotheticals. Sorry about Rhonda.”

“Don’t be. It would have happened anyway.”

“That’s what Brittany said.”

“Smart girl. You should listen to her more often.”

“I’m beginning to realize that.”

“So are we done?”

“You expecting somebody?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t beat around the bush.”

I looked at him. His hands were shaking. “What is it, Bert?”

“Goddamn it, Rail. I’m fucking dying.”

I thought for a moment he meant in the conversation, and I was about to agree, but then I realized he meant for real. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been real clumsy lately. Fell on the boat a couple of times. Again coming out of Ruth’s Chris. Brittany kept telling me to go to the doctor, but I figured I just needed to be more careful, maybe cut back on the booze. Then all of a sudden, I noticed I had muscle spasms. Little ones, like after you work out real hard. But they were all over. Back, arms, everywhere.”

He raised his leg, and I saw a muscle twitch in his calf, then another in his thigh. “See what I mean?”

I did, and I knew exactly where this conversation was going.

“Lou Gehrig’s disease,” I said.

He looked at me hard. “Fuck, do you believe it? I sure fucking don’t.”

“When did you find out?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“And, of course, you haven’t told Brittany.”

“I don’t know what to say. She’s everything to me.”

“And what? You think she’ll leave?”

“The doctor says I’m pretty far along. I got eighteen months, maybe less. And the end’s gonna be ugly. She’s ten years younger than I am and pretty as hell. What if she doesn’t want to sit around spooning baby food into a vegetable?”

“Pardon me for saying this to a guy who’s sick, but, Bert, you’re a fucking jerk.”

“Huh?”

“Jerk. Capital J, capital E, capital R…”

I could see his face flush. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? Jesus, I thought you were my friend.”

“Bert, she already knows.”

He was reeling. “What do you mean, she knows?”

“She came to see me a month ago. Worried sick it was ALS. Couldn’t get you to a doctor. Wanted my advice. Jesus Christ, Bert, she’s got a computer. All she had to do was type in the symptoms.”

He sat back in his seat, his cognac forgotten. Finally, he said, “What did you tell her?”

“Same thing I’m going to tell you. Go home and make love. Hold each other every chance you get. Don’t miss a moment together.”

Tears started to roll down his cheeks, but they weren’t tears of self-pity, they were tears of relief. “Rail…”

I held up my hand. “Every minute you spend fumbling around with me is a minute you’re not spending with her. Read my lips, go home.”

Just then my phone rang. I answered it. “Billy Mack, is that you?” I listened. “How’s she look…besides scared?”

Billy Mack, the doorman at the Miramar, said that Archer was shaking, so he’d put a blanket around her. That would be the adrenaline wearing off.

“Thanks,” I said. “You can do me one more favor. Anybody looks like they’re trying to follow her, jot down the license number. Maybe impede their progress a little too, if you can. Thanks, Billy Mack.”

I turned back to Bert, who was getting unsteadily to his feet. “I’m taking your advice, Rail. Going home.”

When he had trouble going down the stairs, I decided I better walk him to his boat. We didn’t talk, just moseyed along, like a couple of guys with nothing but time. The
Once More With Feeling
loomed up over the dock like a small hotel. We shook hands, and Bert got onto the electric lift that would take him up to the deck. A few seconds later, when he stepped off, he looked down and waved.

I waved back and turned away. Of one thing I was sure. It wasn’t going to take eighteen months.

With my binoculars, I saw the limo come down Newport Boulevard and turn onto Pacific Coast Highway. A few minutes later, the parking valet was leading Archer down the dock, a blanket draped over her shoulders.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain,” she called out.

“Only if you’re willing to take a shower. I recall being insulted along those lines once upon a time.”

She laughed. “Can’t wait. That poor limo driver.”

After she’d used up most of the hot water, she slipped into the white terrycloth Dolphin Bay bathrobe the club had sent down along with a basket of women’s toiletries and a new pair of snow white Uggs.

As she looked around the salon, she let her eyes linger on some of the more interesting furnishings. “This is Kelly Wearstler, isn’t it?”

“That obvious, huh? The broker must have dropped her name thirty times before I finally figured out he wasn’t talking about a Dallas wide receiver.”

“You’re kidding, right?” She shook her head like she couldn’t believe anyone could be so obtuse. “Did your broker also happen to mention that something designed by her probably doubles its value?”

“It wasn’t that kind of transaction.”

She had found a pair of Ray-Bans somewhere and put them on to cover her eye. I thought about the similarities of this arrival with her sister’s but didn’t say anything. “If you’re hungry, there’s some leftover Chinese.”

“Thanks, but all I really want is a beer.”

“Those we have plenty of, and they’re icy.”

I got her one of the Coronas, and we went up top. She sat next to me in the other captain’s chair and sipped her beer.

“So how did it go at the hotel?”

“Do you know that doorman?”

“Who, Billy Mack? No, we’ve never met, but his accent sounded Samoan.”

She held her arms all the way open. “His shoulders must have been a yard across. He saw me shivering and sent some underling for a blanket. And when the limo showed, he almost threw a cabdriver across the lawn to get him out of the way. Then he stood in the middle of the drive, blocking traffic until we turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard. I
saw the limo driver hand him an envelope. Just curious, how much?”

“A couple of C-notes.”

“Nicely done.”

“At your house, did you happen to see any unfamiliar cars?”

“I was a little busy trying to get my heart out of my throat.”

“Perfectly natural.”

“I did notice one thing, though. One of the guys in my living room was wearing some kind of headband. Red, I think.”

“Headband-man,” I nodded. That’s what I expected.

“You know him?”

“Name’s Tino. The other guy is Dante. But that’s the extent of my book.”

“They had something to do with Kim’s death, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but they’re only a part of it.”

She looked off toward the channel. “Gives me a chill. It’s like my stepsister and I are finally connected.”

Suddenly, I remembered. Mallory. I had been about to call him when Bert had shown up.

He answered on the third ring.

“Sorry if I woke you, Sleeping Beauty.”