Duncan Delaney and the Cadillac of Doom (19 page)

“You leave her out of this. Mr. Ambrose, I’ll tell you what. She’s done enough damage. You talk to her about this and I talk to my lawyer.”

“You don’t have a lawyer.”

“No, but they’re not hard to find.” Ambrose sighed over the miles. “Mr. Ambrose,” Duncan said, “I always liked you. I know my dad did too. But if you don’t make my money available immediately there will be trouble.”

“All right.” Ambrose sounded defeated. “But your mother won’t like it. She’s my fourth biggest account.” He gave Duncan the address of a branch in Los Angeles. “I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Duncan hung up. He put on his old leather jacket, pocketed the letter, put on his hat, and walked out the door. He waited at a bus stop on the boulevard for half an hour before a pick up truck with Colorado plates stopped to ask for directions. An ancient cowboy sat behind the wheel. The smoke from a cigarette hanging from the spit on his lip drifted between his squinting eyes. A gray-haired woman sat beside him. They both started to smile but changed their minds when they saw the damage done to his face.

“Good lord,” the old cowboy said, “what happened to you?”

“I got beaten up by bikers.”

“Hell’s Angels?” the woman asked.

“Lesbians.”

They both laughed and smiled and looked friendly as hell.

“Well, heck,” said the cowboy. “Can you tell us how to get to the Hollywood Wax Museum?”

“That’s near where I’m going.” Duncan gave them directions.

“Thank you, son. Would you like a ride?”

Duncan got in the back of the truck with a mongrel dog. He played with the dog until the cowboy let him off at the bank. He went inside and walked to a desk near the back of the lobby. A stout, middle-aged woman with big blond hair looked up. He doffed his hat and introduced himself.

“Oh yes, Mr. Delaney,” she said. “Mr. Ambrose called. Everything is arranged.” She smiled brightly. “Cash or check?”

Duncan returned her smile. “A check would be just fine.”

When Duncan came out of the bank the first thing he noticed was a Saturn dealership across the street. He sat at the bus stop in front of the bank and looked at the cars gleaming behind the showroom window. Unlike Benjamin, he did not care about cars. Public transportation was all right by him. But he remembered what Pris said:
You don’t even have a car
. He let a bus go by and then another. He regarded the bank check.

I’ve done more walking recently than I’ve done in the three years previous,
he thought as he stood and crossed the street
. And it won’t hurt to look
.

Benjamin was in such a good mood on the way back from Santa Barbara that he decided to pay Sheila Rascowitz another visit. The notion that she could beat up his best friend and get away with it plagued his subconscious, and after he dropped Angela off at her house, the notion tap danced past the anterior of his brain and across his frontal lobe.

They had arrived in Santa Barbara early Wednesday afternoon, stopping first at a hotel near the beach where Benjamin drank a strawberry daiquiri at Angela’s request and she drank tequila at his, and both ate spicy chicken wings and crab puffs. Benjamin had never had a crab puff before, and was put off by the name, but when the plate was empty he ordered another. When he dropped his napkin on the floor Angela sucked the chicken marinade off his fingers with an encouraging enthusiasm. Afterward they walked on the beach and shopped on State Street and had a cocktail at a restaurant known locally for the vigor of its drinks. They dined at a Cajun restaurant and again Angela’s appetite for things spicy amazed him. They ended up on the beach across from her condo. She threw him onto the wet sand beneath a fingernail moon and so skillfully performed an act of oral love upon him that when it was over he swore his head had shrunk three hat sizes. They spent the next day making love in her bedroom, stopping only to order pizza and beer. He was so cleaned out that if she wanted to cut off his hair at the expense of his strength he could not have stopped her.

He slowly drove by Sheila’s house. A replacement Harley was parked in front. He stopped down the block and took a rope from behind the seat and tied one end to his trailer hitch. The other end he made into a noose. He took the license plates off the truck and placed them on the seat. Long ago he had fastened them with Velcro to expedite this task. He got into the Purgatory Truck and held the rope out his window.

He missed on the first pass. He did not have the range and he underestimated the effect of velocity and wind drag on a thrown lariat. The second pass the rope bounced off the seat. On the third the rope snagged and broke off a mirror and sent the bike teetering. A lesser man might have given up, fearing exposure and apprehension, but failure emboldened Benjamin. The rope caught the handle bars on the fourth pass and the noose tightened. The Harley leaped the curb like a frightened calf. It bounced behind the Purgatory Truck, sparks flying every time metal hit pavement. He made a U-turn. When he passed the house again, the lights were on. Sheila peered out the window. Her eyes fell on the Harley bouncing behind Benjamin’s truck. The bike burst into flames as if ignited by her stare.

“Oh shit!” Benjamin said.

He sped up, irrationally attempting to outdistance the burning Harley. He made a long broad U-turn at the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. He gunned the truck and neared the house at forty miles an hour. Sheila stood screaming in the driveway. The flaming bike took a vicious bounce. The rope broke. Vectors of velocity and gravity juxtaposed and the Harley flew by so near that Sheila felt its heat of passage. It sailed through her living room window, landed on the sofa, and promptly exploded. Benjamin stomped on the gas and kept going.

All the fire department could do was make sure none of the neighbors’ houses caught fire. Two fire fighters restrained the screaming victim. They wrongly believed she wanted to enter the burning house. Her voice was hoarse from constant shrieking.

“What the hell is she saying?” one firefighter asked.

“I don’t know. Sounds like
felony juice bed pan.”

The police finally handcuffed her and it was not until she was breathless from screaming, her voice reduced to a shadow, that an arson investigator deciphered her raging litany.

“Delaney,”
she whispered over and over,
“you are a dead man!”

Benjamin pulled into the lot of an all night body shop. He undid what remained of the rope from the trailer hitch and threw it down a storm drain. A salesman approached.

“Give me the works,” Benjamin said to him. “I’d like leather seats too.”

The salesman took out an invoice and wrote. “What color?”

“Red.” He did not care what color. It was the first that came to mind.

The salesman walked about the truck taking notes. He added figures on a calculator. He showed the final number to Benjamin, who whistled softly.

“What the hell. Go ahead.” Benjamin yielded his keys. “But could you park it somewhere it can’t be seen from the street?”

Duncan lay on the floor reading his Saturn owner’s manual when Benjamin returned. He had driven out of the dealership hours before in a red wagon with air conditioning, a deluxe stereo system, and a check representing the remaining several thousand dollars of his trust fund.

“How’s the face?” Benjamin asked.

“Better. How’s the boa?”

“Tired.”

“Got a work out, did it?”

“Spent a lot of time hunting in the jungle.”

“Did it catch anything?”

“God, I hope not.”

Duncan put the manual down. “Where’s your truck?”

“You mean my red truck?”

“You don’t have a red truck. It’s gray. Kind of.”

“You’re mistaken. It’s red.”

“Whatever. I didn’t hear it pull up. Where is it?”

“Still in Wyoming.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“My red truck. It’s still in Wyoming. I took the bus out here.”

“Uh huh. Well, I guess you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

“By the way,” Benjamin said, “if anyone asks, I’ve been here all day.”

“Uh huh. Doing what?”

“Crossword puzzles.” Benjamin had never done a crossword puzzle in his life. “Or reading. You know. Stuff. Just if anyone asks.”

Duncan stood to answer a rap on the door. Two men in suits stood on the landing. They looked like Eastern European versions of Randolph and Phillips right down to the crew cuts and mustaches. They flashed badges.

“Mind if we come in?” asked the taller as he stepped through the door.

The other detective took out a radio. “Bring her up,” he said.

A uniformed female officer brought Sheila Rascowitz into the studio, holding her firmly by the arm. Duncan thought that odd until he noticed that her hands were cuffed behind her back.

“That’s him!” she hissed when she spotted Benjamin.

“Why is she whispering?” Duncan asked.

Neither detective answered. One looked at the self portrait on the easel.

“You’re pretty good.” He looked at Duncan’s face. “Who did that?”

Sheila smiled viciously.

“Don’t know,” Duncan said, “I didn’t see him.”

“Or her,” Benjamin said.

The other detective approached Benjamin. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Boy?” Benjamin stood and unzipped his pants, “you ever see a boy with a twelve-inch dick?”

“Ok, smart guy,” the detective said, “what’s your name,
sir?”

“Benjamin Lonetree.” He zipped his pants. “What’s yours?”

“Detective Harkanian. That’s Detective Romanowski. Where were you an hour ago?”

Benjamin smiled. “With Mrs. Harkanian.”

Harkanian smiled back. “I’m not married.”

“You got a mother, don’t you?”

Harkanian started for Benjamin. Romanowski grabbed his arm.

“Not now, Hark.” Romanowski turned to Benjamin. “You going to answer the question or not?”

“He was here,” Duncan said, “doing crossword puzzles.”

“You lying sack of shit!”
hissed Rascowitz.

“Shut up!” Romanowski turned to Benjamin. “You got a truck?”

“Sure.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“It’s not here.”

“All right. Enough of this.” Harkanian took Duncan into the hallway. “Where’s your smart ass friend’s truck?”

“Wyoming.” Duncan gulped. “He took the bus out here.”

“Gray truck?” Harkanian asked.

“No sir. Red. May I ask what this is about?”

“Ms. Rascowitz alleges that your buddy stole her motorcycle and burned down her house. That something your friend is capable of?”

When Duncan and Benjamin were thirteen, Benjamin got a model rocket. After ten flights, vertical launches no longer satisfied him, and he determined to see what horizontal distance he could achieve. So he set the launch pad at a forty-five degree angle and hit the start button. The rocket traveled further than anticipated, through Fiona’s open barn door, where its burning engine ignited a pile of hay. Duncan was astounded at how fast a barn could be reduced to ashes and smoking timber.

“Not intentionally,” he said.

Duncan and Harkanian went back inside. The detectives conferred.

“Ok,” Romanowski said. “Take her down to the car.”

“What,” Sheila whispered, “aren’t you going to arrest him?”

“Keep it up,” Harkanian said as the female officer took her down, “we’ll charge you with filing a false report.”

Romanowski said, “she got a grudge against you?”

“I stole her girl friend.”

“Uh huh. All right. Sorry to bother you.” Romanowski left.

Harkanian stopped at the door. “Twelve-inch dick, huh?”

“That’s right,” Benjamin said.

“Lonetree,” Harkanian said as he left, “if you got a twelve-inch dick you better spit it out, because it ain’t yours.”

Duncan sat in his window and watched the police take Sheila away in a marked patrol car. He shook his head.

“Though I appreciate the thought, you didn’t have to burn her house down.”

“I only planned on the bike.” Benjamin shrugged. “It got out of hand.”

Duncan opened a beer and sipped. The escalation of hostilities bothered him, but he could not say he was completely unpleased. He put the beer down and smiled sadly.

“It always does, doesn’t it?”

Thirteen

At eight-thirty Duncan decided he had been stood up again.

It was no surprise but the lack of fulfillment distressed him. He had invested much of his self-esteem and part of his capital in what now seemed a futile dream, and the dividends were bitter. He had even allowed Misty to take him shopping. He agreed to the clothes she selected, but in truth he would have worn tights, a codpiece, and felt shoes with belled toes if Misty had told him Pris preferred the look. Luckily, she selected light wool pants, a matching coat, leather loafers, and a knit green t-shirt. Misty broke out her make-up after they had finished shopping and covered his bruises with pancake. He denied her the lipstick. Duncan looked in the mirror.

“Jesus,” he said, having visited the Wax Museum as he waited for the dealer to prepare his Saturn, “I look like a mannequin.”

“It’s an improvement over what you looked like before.”

On the way to the gallery he looked at his mouth in the mirror. The swelling was gone, but the blue remained. He regretted forsaking the lipstick. He parked a block away from the gallery. Once inside, he felt more relaxed than he had at the Melrose exhibit. He was dressed more appropriately and he was heartened by the sale of
Roscoe.
He roamed the gallery until he found a painting of a man with long red hair, naked from the waist down, hanging by the neck from a rope attached to a lamp fixture. An orange cat hung from a rafter beside him. A chair lay on the floor to the left of his dangling feet. A black cowboy hat lay beside the chair.

A Christmas Wish,
the card under the painting said,
Sheila Rascowitz.

Angela stood across the room speaking to a tall man in a herring bone suit. She wore a long black dress with a falling back. An onyx necklace hung above her breasts. She waved Duncan over and introduced him to Robert Armstrong, an art critic for the Times.