Spider Season
Authors: John Morgan Wilson
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Contents
For my beloved aunt, Betty Lou Dean
And in memory of Uncle Bud, Irv Letofsky, and Barbara Seranella
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my agent, Alice Martell, who has handled all eight Benjamin Justice novels, as well as other books of mine; Keith Kahla, my invaluable editor at St. Martin’s Minotaur; Pietro Gamino, who makes it possible in so many ways for the writing to get done; John Langley, for his remarkable generosity and support; Gary Cotler, Detective, Retired, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, and his wife, Cathryn Cotler, Deputy, Retired, LASD, for their input on police matters; painter-sculptor-photographer Christopher Oakley, for his insights on art; and Larry Kase, my good friend and uncomplaining research whiz.
Once again, I must also thank a number of friends for lending their names for characters in this novel. With the exception of Topper Schroeder, Billy Avarathar, and Noel Alumit, who “play themselves,” they bear little or no resemblance to the characters depicted. These brave souls include the aforementioned Cathryn Cotler, who allowed me to use her maiden name, Conroy, for a particularly venal character; and Judith Zeitler, Dave Haukness, Bruce Steele, Jan Long, Larry Kase, Lance (whose last name must go unmentioned here to avoid a spoiler), and Steven Reigns, all of whom fared better. (Please note that all the characters in this novel are purely fictional, except as cited earlier.)
Over the years, I consciously patterned only one major or recurring character after someone from my life. Irv Letofsky, my editor and mentor at the
Los Angeles Times
for more than a decade, served as the sole inspiration for Harry Brofsky, the editor who was so important to protagonist Benjamin Justice in the early novels (albeit with some adjustments in my depiction for dramatic purposes). Irv passed away on December 23, 2007, and I’ve included him in my dedication. Like so many writers, I was blessed to know and work with him.
ONE
Despite all that would follow that summer, it’s the crows I remember most vividly. It was as if they were sending a warning signal, an omen that the darkest of days lay ahead.
They began screaming in the early afternoon. Not just a few, but dozens. It was late June, a warm month of severe humidity that was unusual for Southern California. For more than a week, the sultry weather had hung on everyone like wet laundry, dragging us down, leaving us worn-out and on edge. For years, the climate had been changing in odd ways that were worrisome—more than worrisome for those who understood the science—but no one in Los Angeles could recall an early summer quite like this one.
I was in my small apartment over the garage, wrapping up a call with Jan Long, my editor in New York.
“Hang in there, Benjamin,” she said, in her wise and motherly way, even though we were both pushing fifty and I had the lead by several months. “Keep a tight lid, dear. Just a few more weeks, and you can slip back into anonymity.” She added coyly, “Unless, of course, there’s more writing in your future, and more work to promote. I wouldn’t count that out if I were you.”
My first book had been published earlier that month, a memoir laying out in shameful detail my spectacular fall from grace not quite eighteen years earlier. It was my chance to do some public atonement, make a little money, and possibly get back in the writing game, if things went reasonably well. Now I was back in L.A., winding up a grinding, twelve-city publicity tour during which I’d faced the same accusatory questions again and again about why I’d done what I’d done and why anyone should believe my version of events now. I deserved the scrutiny and condemnation, no question. But I also have a notoriously short fuse, and there wasn’t much left. Jan’s message was intended to pacify me: Thick skin, stiff upper lip, the worst of it will soon be over. Little did we know that the worst was about to begin and that a few tough questions from the media would soon be the least of my problems.
“Don’t give too much weight to the reviews,” she added. “The attacks haven’t focused on your writing, but on you personally, on your character and credibility. Not much surprise in that, given your history.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” I said. “My writing’s okay. It’s just me they want to string up by my testicles.”
As she laughed and clicked off, I was drawn to the front window by the collective shrieking of the crows. They were perched on telephone wires and tree limbs, with more descending from the sky on their broad, black wings. As they came, their shadows passed ominously across the small house below, where my elderly landlords, Maurice and Fred, were comfortably ensconced. I’d never seen so many crows bunched together at one time, certainly not in West Hollywood, a bustling little city not exactly known for its wildlife, unless you count the late-night crowd at the crazier clubs along Santa Monica Boulevard and the Sunset Strip.
Then I saw what had drawn the flock together and triggered its hysterical chorus: On the narrow driveway that ran alongside the house, a muscular black tomcat was stalking a weakened crow that was apparently too sick or injured to fly. It flapped its wings ineffably, while the feral cat slowly drew closer on his coiled haunches and the crows above screeched their alarm in a futile effort to drive the predator away. I knew how much Maurice was troubled by the spectacle of violent death among animals; even Fred, his burly partner of nearly sixty years, had become protective of the squirrels and winged creatures that populated their modest property. So I trotted down the rickety wooden steps to the drive, clapping my hands and hollering at the crouching cat. He hissed at me before I stomped my foot in his direction. Then he fled, while the disabled crow disappeared into a bank of ivy and the frantic cries above gradually diminished to the occasional uneasy squawk.
Maurice emerged from the house in pink bunny slippers, his long, white hair bound up in a damp towel, his slender frame clad in a lavender satin kimono. Behind him, I could hear a scratchy old record on the turntable, something mournful and French by Edith Piaf. Maurice glanced upward, his rheumy eyes widening, to see the crows lining the telephone wires like a scene out of
The Birds.
“My goodness, Benjamin! What attracted so many of them? And whatever got them so upset?”
I explained about the cat and the crow and Maurice looked about for the grounded bird, thinking he might rescue it. But it was nowhere to be seen. As large as it was, it had completely vanished; not a leaf of the ivy was stirring in the muggy air. He commented about how one so rarely sees a dead bird, while the numbers that expire each day of natural causes alone must be staggering.
“I suppose they find a private place to die,” I said, “where they won’t be a bother to anyone. I can understand that instinct.”
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I realized how insensitive they were in the presence of a man in his early eighties, whose older partner was on the frail side. Maurice stared pensively at the ivy for a moment before smiling painfully and turning silently toward the house. I was headed back to my apartment, cursing my thoughtlessness, when he called out to me.
“Benjamin! A young man just climbed into your car.”
I followed Maurice’s eyes out to Norma Place, where my ’65 Mustang convertible was parked at the curb with the top down. It was a classic I’d restored to cherry condition years ago, the only thing of material or sentimental value that I owned, with the exception of a couple of photographs. Sure enough, there was someone sitting behind the wheel, his hands set casually at ten and two o’clock, as if he intended to drive away. As I started in his direction, I watched him run his fingers appreciatively over the tuck-and-roll upholstery, which I’d selected to complement the Mustang’s lustrous red paint job.
Behind me, Maurice called out, “Benjamin, don’t do anything rash!”
I barely heard him as I hit the sidewalk and dashed across the street, already feeling a surge of adrenaline. For two weeks, I’d endured the barbed questions and barely veiled insults of interviewers, gritting my teeth as they grilled me like a choice fillet. Intentionally or not, they’d made me feel small and defensive. Suddenly, I was free to stand up for myself, or at least my only possession worth defending.
As I closed in on the punk behind the wheel, I got a better look at him. He appeared to be in his late twenties, and in decent shape. He was shirtless, on the wiry side, with a cleanly shaved dome and a blond soul patch bristling between his lower lip and cleft chin. Colorful tattoos decorated the sunburned skin on his back and upper arms. I went straight for him, seizing him by the back of the neck and grabbing him under his left biceps, which was inked with the legendary Marine Corps slogan:
Semper Fi
.
In one explosive motion, I pulled him up from the seat and dragged him over the door frame, flinging him to the rough pavement.
“Stay down,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t.
He studied my face a moment before sizing up the rest of me. Then he rose slowly but purposefully to his feet, keeping his eyes on mine. I made a quick evaluation of my own: He stood roughly an inch under my six feet, carrying a good twenty pounds less on his lanky frame. But his shoulders were nearly as broad as mine and his muscles sinewy and taut. Not once did his piercing blue eyes flicker or blink.
In some ways, I felt like I was looking at a younger version of myself, back in my college wrestling days—blond and blue-eyed like this guy, lean as a racehorse, and chomping at the bit for some action, something physical and challenging that would bring some momentary focus to my fractured, confusing life. The problem lay in the thirty years that had passed since, when my physical prowess had gradually diminished along with my hairline. I’d recently rebuilt some lost muscle, but my waist had thickened and my sharp reflexes were mostly a memory. My eyesight was another issue. I’d lost my left eye several years ago in a violent encounter I should have avoided, if overweening male pride and machismo hadn’t overcome reason. Now I wore a plastic prosthetic in its place. The fake eye looked perfectly real—it had been shaped and painted by the finest technicians—but my depth perception and peripheral vision were marginal at best. I was in decent shape for my age but long past my prime.
If the skinhead had been a Marine—his
Semper Fi
tattoo and camouflage pants suggested as much—then he was almost surely a serious threat. As he stood firmly in a pair of heavy black boots, there was a sense of recklessness about him, and maybe a deeper anger forged by pain and punishment, the kind that chronically leads a certain type of man to trouble. The kind that had haunted me most of my life. I relished a confrontation, but I didn’t underestimate him, either.
