Orchard Grove (7 page)

“Hello, Carl,” Lana said to the man. Between the low-toned voice and the dead-pan way in which it was delivered, I could almost taste the tension between the two, as if in the short time the Cattivo’s had been in town she’d already managed to develop a history with this city cop, however short and sweet or sour.

“Lana,” the man mumbled in an equally telling tone.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Lana?” John said, his blue eyes locked not on his wife’s, but on mine.

She cleared a frog from out of her throat.

“John, this is our next door neighbor, Ethan,” Rachael said. “He’s professional writer. A real screenwriter and a novelist too.” And then, “Ethan, this is my husband, John, and his partner, Carl Pressman.”

John noticed my crutches and the black boot-splint.

“Don’t bother to get up,” he said.

I held out my hand from where I was seated and John took hold of it. He shook it briskly and tightly not as a welcome, but purely as a demonstration of his strength, power, and dominance over me both as a man and an officer of the law. He held the hand for a second or two longer than men usually spend on a handshake, all the time locking eyes onto my own. When finally he released his grip, Carl leaned in and took my hand. His grip was firm but not as firm as his partner’s. As opposed to John’s show of strength, Carl’s was more of an
I don’t give a shit who you are because I won’t remember your name or face in a few minutes
kind of shake.

“Listen, John,” Carl said, “I’ll wait for you in the Suburban. I’ve got a bunch of calls to make that just can’t wait.” He nodded at me, and smiled at Lana. She smiled back at him, but the pleasant exchange was about as phony as the plastic chair I was sitting in. He left the way he came in, back through the sliding glass doors.

“So a real screenwriter,” John said, pulling out the chair closest to him, sitting down. “You mean like a I’m-hoping-to-sell-a-movie-someday kind of real screenwriter, or you actually make money at what I consider a hobby for drunks and addicts who don’t want to work for a living? You know how many screenwriters I busted for DWIs down on the Strip alone? Goddamned West Coast freak show.”

“Don’t be rude, John,” Lana said. “You don’t even know him.”

He turned to her quick. “And you do, sweetheart? Or were you planning on getting to know him better when I’m not around?”

To say I was sensing some real tension in the air was putting it lightly. It didn’t take an Einstein or an APD detective to see that the Cattivo’s were having a little trouble with their marriage these days. Dawned on me suddenly that the trouble in question might be the real reason behind their move upstate.

Lana added, “I think we’ve seen a few of Ethan’s films, back when we lived in Venice.”

“That so,” John said. “How come you’re not living in West Hollywood on the corner of Gregory and Peck like the rest of those jerkoffs?”

“John!” Lana snapped. “Please.”

He shot me a smile again, as if to portray himself as happy when, in fact, he was seething inside. Seething because his half-naked wife was hanging out with scriptwriter from next door, and by the looks of it, John had had a bellyful of scriptwriters as a Santa Monica cop. Can’t say I blamed him.

“Just your luck, huh?” I said. “You move all the way to the east coast to start a new life and you land right smack next door to Hollywood in all its glory. Must be serendipity.”

I wasn’t about to tell him my scriptwriting career was just about non-existent these days. That was between me and the God of Tinseltown.

“Listen, Hollywood,” he said. “Lana was just about to fix me some eggs and bacon, weren’t you Lana? Maybe you’d like some, Hollywood. Or let me guess. You probably eat egg whites and kale. And hey, I can show you my gun collection. You like guns don’t you, Hollywood?”

“Gun collection?”

“Fifty pieces. Each and every one of them in perfect working order, including an original Colt .45 Model 1911, official army issue. How’s about them apples?”

“I’d love to see it,” I lied.

“You must have people who shoot other people with guns in your scripts, Hollywood.”

“Sure.”

“But I can bet you dollars to dicks you don’t get it right. None of you writer types get it right when it comes to guns. You call a revolver an automatic, and a pistol a machinegun, and you always forget to thumb off the safety because you don’t know it’s there to begin with… You can’t help but fuck it all up.”

“John, please,” Lana once more scolded.

Releasing my coffee cup, I stole a quick look at my wristwatch as if I had some place important to be other than back to my bedroom window.

“Jeeze, look at the time. I really gotta go. My typewriter gets upset when I ignore her.” Awkwardly, I pulled myself up and out of my chair with the use of my crutches. Then, to Lana, “Nice meeting you, Lana. Thanks for the coffee.” Turning back to Cavitto, I once more offered my hand. “Nice meeting you too, Detective. Thanks for the firearms advice. Let’s hope we never have to do business together. Cop to criminal.”

Once more he took the hand in his, squeezed it hard. A little too hard so that I not only felt the tension of his tight grip, but his sausage thick fingers proceeded to crush my more mild-mannered digits. Glancing down at out interlocked hands, I could also make out the purple veins that shot out of the skin on the back of his hand.

“You’d have to commit murder for that to happen, Hollywood,” he said.

My eyes shifted to Lana. She caught my gaze but then quickly turned away. It might have been warm and sunny out. Hot even. But something cold and unsettling coursed through every vein and capillary in my body, as if I’d been injected with ice-blue Freon.

“You don’t plan on murdering anybody, now do you, Hollywood?” John went on. “Let’s hope you save that shit for the movies.”

He released his grip and I greedily took back my hand. But somehow, I still felt his hand wrapped around my own.

“Murder is easy when you do it only for the big screen,” I said with a smile. “If you know what you’re doing.”

“Well, let me assure you,” he said. “There’s nothing funny about murder. Because you see, Hollywood, a dead man looks really fucking dead when he’s dead. Understand?”

“Somerset Maugham,” I said. “Modified, of course.”

“Excuse me?” he said.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said, shocked he was be able to quote the great British author of
The Razor’s Edge
, but not surprised he had no idea. “Welcome to Orchard Grove and if there’s anything I can do to help you settle into the neighborhood, please don’t hesitate to come calling.”

Cattivo pursed his lips, ground his teeth.

Lana tossed me a smile and quick wave befitting of a professional Orchard Grove soccer mom. A scantily clad one, I should say. She then turned and began to stare off toward the back of the property and the narrow stand of woods. It was as if she spotted something in the pines or beyond the pines. Something that wasn’t there at all but was instead, in her head.

Turning, I began hobbling across the Cattivo’s deck in the direction of the gate. I couldn’t get the hell away from there fast enough. Correction… I couldn’t get the hell away from the detective fast enough.

“Oh and, Hollywood,” he called out just as I was about to lift the metal latch on the gate.

I stopped. Leaning myself atop my crutches, I turned to face him. “What is it?”

“Since that little marijuana patch just happens to be located on the opposite side of your fence,” he said with a smile and a wink of his eye, “I’m going to pretend it doesn’t belong to you.”

“Is this the hard-ass cop talking?” I said. “Or the concerned neighbor?”

He said, “You haven’t met the hard-ass cop yet.”

A wave of panic swept up and down my body. Now I knew what Lana might have been looking at, even if it was hidden from view, behind my privacy fence.

I pasted a smile on my face, however false.

“I wouldn’t know about any pot garden,” I said. “I never go back there for anything and I never touch the stuff. Bad for the lungs.”

He let loose with a belly laugh that I thought for sure would pop the buttons on his shirt.

“Good answer,” he said. Then, bringing his index finger and thumb to pursed lips, he made like he was inhaling off a fat joint. “Smoke a little for me, Hollywood.”

I turned back to the gate, lifted the latch.

“Nice to see us getting off on the right foot,” I said as I opened the gate, stuck my surgically raw foot through the opening. But either Cattivo didn’t hear me, or maybe he was just pretending not to hear me, like some washed up actor in a cheap B movie.

B
ack inside my house, I immediately went to the bedroom window, looked out onto my new neighbor’s back deck. Lana was no longer there. But within seconds she suddenly reappeared, this time with a can of beer in her hand. She set it down in front of her husband who immediately picked it up with the same meaty fist that nearly crushed mine twice in just a few short minutes, and by the looks of it, drained half of it in one sitting.

I took a quick look at the time. It wasn’t yet noon, but I supposed it had to be noon somewhere in the world. When Cattivo sat his beer can back down again onto the table, some of the white foam jumped out of the opening. Lana shook her head in what I took to be disgust. That’s when they began to argue.

I couldn’t really hear what they were saying through the glass, so I had to concentrate as hard as possible on their lips, which wasn’t easy either because John was facing the backyard, making it impossible for me to see his mouth unless he happened to turn in my direction. I could make out Lana’s mouth okay, but she didn’t seem to be saying a whole lot.

In the meantime, if I were to shift my line of sight to the right, I was able to make out the black, unmarked GMC Suburban that occupied the Cattivo driveway. Big mysterious Carl was planted behind the wheel. He was smoking a cigarette while speaking with someone on his smartphone, which I guessed to be an iPhone. His goateed face looked tight and unhappy. Maybe he hated coming here while his partner, and from what I could gather, department superior, drank on duty. While he argued with his wife. Maybe the only reason Carl came to Orchard Grove at all was because he had to come here. Or maybe, like me, he took advantage of every opportunity, no matter how small, to get a look at Lana.

Reaching out, I slowly slid the window open just enough for me to make out the Cattivo’s angry voices. Did it without their noticing. In my mind, I was imagining their exchange as if I were reading it off a script I’d typed up only minutes ago.

JOHN

You’re starting in again, aren’t you?

LANA (exhaling, frustrated)

I don’t know what you’re talking about, John.

JOHN

We’re not here one month and already you’re getting cozy with the guy next door. What’s his name, Hollywood. A screenwriter for Christ’s sakes. I feel like we’re back in Santa Monica and you’re fucking some waiter who’s convinced he’s gonna be the next George fucking Clooney.

JOHN (raising his voice)

And what the fuck is going on with Carl? I see the way you two look at one another. You fucking him too? My partner?

LANA (folding her arms)

I’m going to ignore that thing about Carl, because that’s insane. As for Ethan, I invited him over for a cup of coffee after I saw him feeding his birds. And please stop calling him Hollywood. It’s demeaning.

JOHN (laughing)

What? You serious? He feeds the birds? You can’t be serious. Hollywood the fruitcake. Maybe I don’t have anything to worry about.

LANA

He’s not gay, and I think you can see he’s not gay.

JOHN

Okay, then I don’t want you having coffee with him.

LANA

What’s the harm in coffee?

JOHN

Dressed like that? You’re half naked, woman.

LANA

We’re all adults here.

JOHN

That’s what scares me.

LANA

He’s a nice man, who takes care of a pair of robins nesting on his back deck, and who also claims to be happily married. Nice to see a sensitive man in action for a change.

JOHN

No one’s happily married. I’ll believe it when I see it.

For some reason they decided to stop tossing verbal jabs and instead turn in unison toward my house. Maybe a glint of sun shone off my watch-face or even the whites of my eyes. Whatever the case, my immediate reaction was to duck down, as if John had drawn his weapon and fired it at my head. But with my bad foot, the response was delayed just long enough so that I’m certain they caught me spying on them. In fact, for a split second, two sets of blue eyes met my own brown eyes.