The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (31 page)

The suit was Armani. Gray, lightweight, single-breasted, 41R. Daniel slung it over his arm, moved to a long row of bins holding oxfords in every imaginable color. They glowed in the shadowless light of the department store. A rainbow of fabric, every shade vibrant. Green like sea glass smoothed by a decade of waves. Blue the color of a nursery ceiling. Yellow of lemon sorbet on the first really hot day of summer.

The world was so beautiful. There was magic everywhere, even in the most mundane bits.
He glanced at his new watch. Five-twenty-seven. Jesus. He must have looked at the thing a hundred and fifty times, and only an hour had passed.
He picked a blue shirt with delicate gray stripes, took two sizes.
“I think I’m ready.” Laney had come up behind him, a handful of dresses draped over her arm.
Chamber music drifted from somewhere. The air bore traces of a hundred perfumes. Glass display cases caught the light and made it dance. He followed Laney, watching the graceful sway of her hips. He could have walked behind her all day, all night, all the rest of his life, considered himself a happy man.
A saleswoman counted their garments, opened two changing rooms for them, hovered long enough to make sure they went into separate ones. Daniel began to undress, pulling off his T-shirt and laying it on the bench. Sliding his pants down his legs. Stepping out of his shoes. Cognizant of every feeling: cool air on his chest, cotton moving across his thighs, the firm weave of the carpet under his socks.
He looked at himself in the mirror. The same way he had in a tiny shithole hotel in Maine not long ago, when he had stared, praying for recognition. When the man in the mirror had seemed a doppelganger, known and unknown at once. The face of a man who had lost everything, even himself. Who had tried to end his own life. Air-conditioning made him shiver. Just days ago he had wanted to die, to throw his life away. And now he was facing that again, and now his desire to live was at an almost cellular level.
People thought about their mortality all the time, made a late night exercise of it, a philosophical discussion. Tried to grasp the idea that someday they would cease to exist. And, worse, the most painful betrayal of all: the world would continue.
But it was a very different thing to stare in the mirror and realize that the question wasn’t someday. It was right now, today, tonight.
Keep it together. She needs you. You have to believe you’re going to win.
You have to believe that at the end of the night, you will be holding a loaded gun—and Bennett will not.
Glanced at his watch. Five-twenty-nine. Daniel pulled the pants from the hanger and began to dress.
When he stepped out of the dressing room, an angel of cream and gold stood in front of the mirror. Laney wore silver sandals and a peach dress that looked like it had been cut just for her. It was backless but fell below the knee, and when she spun, the hem whirled out. She caught him catching her legs, and smiled.
“Wow.”
She popped a hip, put her hands at her sides. “You like?”
“Wow.”
“And you,” she said, “look like James Bond.”
“Connery?”
“Craig.”
He laughed. “You’re missing something.” From his pocket he took the necklace, stepped behind her. She lifted her hair so he could fasten the clasp.
They stood side by side in the mirror. The two of them staring into it, and the two of them staring out of it.
Such a long time to wait. And such a short time to live.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said.

“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“Laney . . .”
“Turn left.”
“We don’t have time—”
“Park over there.”
“The beach?” After they’d paid, she’d led him out to the car,

tossed him the keys. Then she’d steadfastly refused to tell him anything beyond directions. But “over there” was a wide parking lot at the foot of broad expanse of sand; Manhattan Beach, he guessed, not that it much mattered. The western hundred yards of the whole coast was bright sand, one beach blending into the next. He pulled into a parking space. “Now what?”

Laney reached in the backseat for her purse, slung it over one bare shoulder—man, that dress—then opened the door. “Come on.”
His first instinct was frustration, the sense that this was a waste of time. Then he remembered how very little time they might have left, and he followed her.
She walked fast, designer sandals flashing on the pavement. The air smelled of salt and sun. The sky was all the colors of autumn. He caught up to her just as she reached the sidewalk fronting the beach.
“Now what?”
Laney bent one knee, reached down to undo the strap of her sandal, then repeated it with the other. What the hell. He unlaced his new shoes, pulled off his socks, and then joined her on the beach. It was cool beneath his feet, and good. He wriggled his toes, took in the sensation of sand moving between them.
The world is so beautiful.
“Ready?”
“For what?”
She smiled. “Go!”
And then she was sprinting, hair whipping behind, the hem of her dress flapping, one hand up to hold her purse strap to her shoulder.
He leapt after her, a dress shoe in each hand, bare feet digging deep into the beach. Every planted step dug to the cooler sand beneath. The wind pressed against him, constant and sweet. His slacks tightened at his knees, the tie flipped over his shoulder like a tail, and there was something so ridiculous about running on the beach in a new thousand-dollar suit that he found himself laughing without a sound, that inner laugh that was a soul’s cry of joy, and he gave himself over to it, leaned into the run. The soles of her feet flashed, and the dress, backlit against the burning sky, clung to the curves of her hips. She looked over her shoulder, mouth wide, eyes sparkling, a moment straight out of an advertisement or a dream. Light like melted butter burnished the air, and the sound of his breathing, and the
scruff-scruff
of the fabric on his legs, and it was perfect, the rest of the world forgotten. Laney was angling for a faded lifeguard stand the color of seafoam, and he pushed harder, not to win but just because it felt so good to throw himself into this moment, to have nothing but this, to hold it full and complete and wondrous and yet fleeting as a drop of rain.
She beat him to it by a second or so, slapping the wood with one hand, then raising her arms high. “Victory!”
“Oh yeah?” He stepped forward, hoisted her up over his shoulder. She squirmed and laughed, hair whipping around his waist, hands beating on his back and thighs. Ten paces took him to the hard-packed sand and pewter lace of the surf.
“You’ll wreck your suit,” she warned.
“I don’t care.” He stepped into the water, the cold of it lovely shocking, running up over his feet, his shins, his knees. The fabric of his trousers swirled in the surf. “In you go.” He braced himself.
“No!” Her hands went from batting to grabbing, snatching handfuls of his clothing. “No.”
He laughed, then lowered her down gently, feet first. The next wave slapped at his calves, splashing around them. She shrieked and danced back, pulling him with her, until they were only ankle deep. Daniel put his arms around her and kissed her as the Pacific rolled in and out, endless.
Finally, she lay her head against him and spoke to his chest. “You know what this reminds me of?”
“Yes.” Sand slid over and under and around his feet. “I just wish I remembered it myself.”
“You will. But until you do . . .” Laney pulled back, slid her purse to the crook of one elbow. She dug for something, came out with her hand closed. “Until you do, we’ll just have to make new memories.”
She opened her fingers. A silver ring glinted. He looked at it, at her.
“Daniel Hayes, will you stay married to me? Even though you don’t know who you are, and I’m dead?”
He looked at her, this woman he had lost and found and for whom he was risking losing everything again. Then he took the ring and slid it on his left hand. With its presence he was conscious suddenly of the absence that had been. A piece of himself, returned. He spun it on the finger. “I will.” Then he looked up and smiled. “So long as you don’t start to smell.”
5

They lingered as long as they could. There were a few others on the beach, but enough sand and distance separated them that they could pretend to be alone. The sun vanished and the sky darkened and the water turned from silver to slate. The wind never let up, and Daniel found himself thinking about how far it had come. All the way across the ocean, just to blow against them.

Finally, he couldn’t pretend any longer. “We—”
“I know.” She sighed. “Time to go.”
He rose, brushed the sand from his pants, held a hand down to

her. They walked up the beach together. When they made it to the sidewalk, Laney looked around, said, “I’m gonna run to the bathroom. No point dying with a full bladder. Hold my purse?”

“Sure.” He leaned against the low wall separating the parking lot from the beach. It never got truly dark in L.A., but he could see a few stars, and the wind felt so good that it was a pleasure just to sit here. To soak up every sensation.

It was a man’s voice, and familiar. Daniel whirled, looked behind him. No one.
“Ring, sweetie.”
The top edge of her purse was lit from within. Her cell phone. Someone was calling her. The voice was Robert Cameron’s. Her ring tone.
Who would be calling?
He reached into her purse and pulled out the phone. The display had no name, just a string of digits. Wrong number? He put a finger on the button to reject the call, then decided to let it ring through to voice mail on its own. The phone vibrated again, Robert Cameron spoke one more time, and then the call dropped, leaving the recent calls list on-screen, this number at the top of it, and below—
The world tilted. Daniel reached down with his other hand to steady himself. The wind knifed through his clothing. His throat tightened.
He looked up. She was still in the bathroom.
There was a roaring in his ears. He looked at the phone again, sure he must have imagined it.

Bennett
310-209-0415
Yesterday, 3:12 pm

Yesterday, 3:12. That would have been . . .
In the hotel.
Shortly after they’d made love. When she was taking her endless

He’d opened the door, and almost leapt out of his skin to see her aiming the pistol at him. She’d been standing at the sink, still wet, skin flushed with heat. Her purse on the counter—

The screen was lit up. You didn’t notice at the time, not really, but some part of you did.
She had been talking to Bennett. And she’d lied to him about it. Lied and smiled and asked him to order her a salad.
That sudden mysterious errand, her “friend” that might be able to help . . .
The way she freaks out at any mention of the police . . .
The tiny hesitation that’s flickered in her eyes a dozen times . . .
The way she keeps wanting to pay Bennett off, despite everything . . .

Muted by the cinder-block walls, he heard the institutional roar of a flushing toilet. Daniel closed the call list. Grabbed her purse, stuffed the phone inside. He slid his sweating hands into his pockets. The wind had grown cold and smelled of rotting seaweed.

Laney came out of the bathroom shaking wet hands. Dynamite in a designer dress and mussed hair and a television smile. “Ready?”
Daniel looked at her. “As I’ll ever be.”

potlights crissed and
crossed, searching fingers scraping the low bellies of purple clouds. It was eight-thirty, early by Los Angeles standards, but even so, the parking lot for Lux had a good crowd of cars. Bennett ignored the valet, rolled down the lane, found a spot near the exit, did a quick three-point turn to pull the Jaguar in facing forward. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles.

He pulled the Colt from his belt, locked the safety, tucked it beneath the front seat. From the duffel bag on the passenger seat, he took the cheaper of his camera bodies and attached a fixed 500mm lens. Though the shake was bad, it let him read a license plate across the lot. Good. He grabbed the parabolic and a pair of earbuds, and then started for the club.

Lux looked better at night. The gold paint shimmered and sparkled, some sort of metallic flecks in it. Not sophisticated, but it made for a nice backdrop to the red velvet rope line, and the oversized framed posters for the movie.

The line was still manageable at this hour. He stood behind a couple of shiny girls in short dresses, both of them posing and preening, pretending the cold wasn’t bothering their bare legs. Every time someone walked into the club, a bite-sized blast of music poured out.

The bouncer nodded, said, “Can you take off the camera and hand it to him, please? And that thing too. What is it?”
“It’s a microphone.” Bennett handed both to another bouncer, this one Hispanic but otherwise indistinguishable.
“I’ve done some work, never seen a mic like that. Raise your arms, please.” The bouncer ran a handheld metal detector up Bennett’s legs, around his back, down both arms.
“You’re an actor?”
“Mostly stunt work so far. I had a part in that last Tobey Maguire film.”
“Speaking?”
“Don’t you fucking move.”
“Huh?”
“That was my line. ‘Don’t you fucking move.’ I was Enforcer number two.” The metal detector beeped. “Lift your shirt, tilt out your belt?”
Bennett showed him the belt buckle, his belly behind it. The other bouncer took off the camera’s lens cap, peered through the viewfinder.
“Tobey and I hit it off, though. He’s going to use me in his next picture.”
“I bet he is, dumb fuck.”
“Huh?” The guy’s eyes narrowed.
“I said I bet he is. Good luck.” He smiled blandly. The bouncer shook his head, said, “Give the paparazzi his gear.” Bennett slung the camera, moved for the door. From behind, he heard the guy say, “And I better not catch you crashing the VIP. That’s invites only.”
“Yep.” He opened the door. The bass line hit him square in the belly,
thoom-thoom-thoom-thoom.
The chandelier blazed above, the light making the red velvet draping the walls richer. A staggeringly hot blonde asked if he was with the movie party; when he said no, she charged him $25, told him the VIP room was closed for the night.
That’s okay, sister. I have different VIPs in mind.
Bennett walked past the staircase and through the broad double doors into the main bar. Several hundred people milled about, scattered between the bars on either side of the room and the café tables placed in clusters. The dance floor had maybe twenty people on it, that usual crew of near-professional dancers who came to be watched. Tight spotlights flashed overhead, sharp stuttering white beams. Every time light struck one of the thousands of crystals, the glass showered down rainbows. The effect made it seem like the air itself was sparkling. The beat came from everywhere, surrounding him, compressing him, ringing through the soles of his feet and the skin of his arms. He didn’t recognize the tune, a dance remix of some rap song, probably one of Too G’s.
He kept to the side, and found an unclaimed table with a good view. Daniel and Laney had said nine-thirty, an hour from now. He scanned the crowd to be sure—it wasn’t yet at the humid, shoulderto-sweaty-shoulder press that would come by eleven—but didn’t see either of them.
Bennett leaned back, drew his anonymity around him like a hood. Just a man at a table. He put the parabolic mic on a chair, ran the earbuds up under his shirt. Entertained himself by aiming the mic up at the VIP lounge, where Too G’s movie folks would later be partying.
“—heard his agent got him three for the picture.”
“Too made three, huh? Well, good. After all he been through.”
“Hard life.”
“That’s truth.”
Bennett smiled, flipped the off switch. He leaned back, eyes moving, sorting, categorizing. Marking the bouncers, the security by the bar. The employee exit that would lead to a storage room, an office maybe, probably an exit. Gauging the crowd, looking for threats.
His body tingled, and he rolled with it, that in-the-moment tingle that let him feel the flow of blood through his veins, sense the shifting weight of each body in the bar, anticipate the flicker of spotlights.
Killing time.