Die A Little Part 22

Not saying a word, he jerks his unshaven jaw to gesture me in, a highball gla.s.s in his hand.

Somehow-I would never understand this later-I am not afraid. Not of him. At least.

All the blinds are closed, and I sit on the edge of one of the thick leather chairs.

"Olive told me you might be by," he says gruffly. "I can't figure out what you're up to, Miss King. Not for the life of me. I oughta call your f.u.c.king brother and threaten you dead if he doesn't stop."

I think of clever Olive MacMurray playing both sides, working Joe Avalon while agreeing to help frame him.

'You could call him," I say evenly. "But I don't think you will."

"Why not?"

I pull my brother's pistol out of my purse and direct it toward his stomach. His smudge-circled eyes barely widen. 'You gotta be kidding me,"

he mutters. "I've lost all instinct about you girls."

"I want to know what happened. To Lois."

'You aren't going to use that." He gestures toward the pistol. "I could get it from you in under a second."

"Maybe." I nod. "But like you said, you've lost all instinct. I think you'd rather be careful. I think you're nothing if not cautious. I'm asking very little."

He sighs, sitting on the arm of the sofa, resting the gla.s.s on his knee. He is a very tired man. All these men are so, so tired.

"I knew Schor might end up doing something like it, but Alice kept saying, Lois can take care of herself. Don't want to lose the b.u.t.ter and egg man."

"Alice?"

He smiles. "For toughness, I got nothing on her, honey. You don't even know. I'm a f.u.c.king ingenue. Never saw one like it, and that includes three dances in San Quentin. You have no idea."

"But-"

"Schor did her, but Alice and I, we took care of it. Alice didn't want to stop the gravy train. She was ready to keep Schor happy."

"Why did she do it?" I demand. "She had everything. Why didn't she just cut ties?"

He shrugs, his eyes suddenly dreamy. "Never could explain her. Not that one. She couldn't step out of it. And it served her. But Lois was getting too close. Talking too much. To everyone. To you." His eyes turn harder, quite suddenly. "Those girls, they'd have been nothing without me and they both f.u.c.ked me. Even if I slip out of this frame, I still gotta leave town."

"And Edie Beauvais?"

"You know about that one?" He seems almost impressed. "Alice introduced us. She had a liking for some bad stuff, had been sampling it with Alice, two housewives sitting on the patio in the middle of the day doped up to their pearl necklaces. It ended up getting the best of her. There's no darker story than that, as far as she goes. It was one long suicide."

"I see."

I'd never imagined Edie as anything more than the slope of her stomach, waiting to be a mother. To me, she was still Sunday dinners at Charlie's table, flitting around, arms bending under serving dishes. Somehow, that wasn't her, not really, cracked and tilted, on the bathroom floor of the bungalow apartment on Pico Boulevard. One long suicide. All these lost girls...

"Well, Alice and I were cleaning everything up. But then you, little girl." He points a long finger at me. "You sicced the law on us. It f.u.c.ked everything up. The cop you've been dancing with started following me. He was following Alice. I had to start playing for myself, and apparently so did she. But she had the had.A.'s office on her side. At least one member of it. Tough compet.i.tion. She told her daddy-your brother. Fessed up to a version of the truth, far as I can tell. And what do you know, he's come out guns blazing to save her skin."

"You don't-"

"Hey." He leans back, touching his chest lightly with his fingertips.

"Is it my fault your brother developed such a taste for trash? Too many years tunneling through it on the job and it's in him."

I feel my knuckles shake against the pistol. It is all I can do not to squeeze the trigger. The feeling is so strong that I terrify myself.

"Should I let you out of here?" he continues, not noticing my hand, my quavering fingers. "How do I know you're not out to f.u.c.k me, too? You don't even know how to use that thing."

"I don't care," I say, my voice tremulous, eerily wailing like something inhuman, trapped. "I'll keep pulling the trigger until I get it right."

He watches me closely. "I think I know what you could do and what you couldn't."

"How could you?" I say with a keening hum. "How could you when I don't know?"

I feel an awareness nearly come crashing in.

"Look at what I'm doing. Look at me," I find myself saying, my face hot.

His eyes fix on mine. In the dark room, I can see them glistening, reading, piercing. I let him see it all. I let him see everything.

He holds my gaze for a long twenty seconds, then, with a twitch, he shakes it off. Narrowing his eyes suddenly, he barks, "But I think you got something for me. I think this goes two ways."

"It will all happen tomorrow."

My brother's voice, tingling through my head, touching lightly every nerve -no, like ink spreading: "I had to do it. Otherwise, it meant nothing."

... like a door shutting somewhere ...

I pick up the phone and hold it in my lap for a moment. Then I take a deep breath.

"Gardenia two-five four three five." I read the number off the small card Joe Avalon has given me.

"One moment."

I let it ring twelve times. No answer.

I walk around my apartment three times. I wash my face and hands. I stare in the mirror, smoothing my eyebrows, my hair.

I call again.

No answer.

I walk into my kitchen and pull out a mop. I clean the floors with extra bleach. Open a window. Notice the sheen of dust on the sill. Pull out a dust rag and dust every window in the apartment.

I call again.

No answer.

I run the carpet cleaner over the figured rugs. I straighten the shoes in my closet, adjusting the shoe trees. I run down to the lobby to get my mail. It hasn't arrived.

I call again.

"Yeah?" Joe Avalon's voice, but even harder, icier than the night before.

"Are you ready?" It isn't me talking, but someone is talking.

Some cool, measured voice with firm enunciation. Fine as piano wire.

"Go."

"She's going to be at the San Pedro Port, boarding the SS Tarantha at 6 P.M." And I set the receiver back down on the base curled in my lap.

Later, I remember looking in the mirror for a long time, struck.

I imagine it in advance. My brother's pleading voice.

-I have to go, Lora.

-You said you'd protect me.

-You don't need me now. Alice does. I can save her.

I imagine it and know it won't work, not like that. To make him believe he needs to stay, I have to make it so that he can't leave.

Timing is the linchpin, and luckily I know the schedule. I make several calls to the D.A.'s office to track Bill's movements. I figure he plans to meet Alice by 5:30, but by then, if everything falls as it should, he will be speeding his way, siren on, to my apartment in far-flung Pasadena.

I go to the Western Union office first and write the telegram to be delivered the following day.

I return to my apartment, mind racing, imagining scenarios, plotting as though I've been living this way my whole life. I look at my watch and wait for the minute hand to strike five minutes to five -the time his shift is supposed to end.

I pick up the phone and dial him.

"Bill."

"Lora. You just caught me on my way out." How can he try to sound as if everything is normal, thinking, as he does, that he will be abandoning everything within a few hours?

"Bill, it's over." I feed a light sob into my voice.

"What? Lora, what's wrong?"

"Don't blame ..... don't blame ..."

"Lora. Is this about Standish? I knew last night... Did he hurt you?"

Out of my mouth, the half-remembered lyric.

"This, my darling, this is the end of everything."

And as I hang up, I can hear him say, "I'll be right there. Don't do anything, Sis. I'll be right there."

The irony is blissful. He thinks it is he who is saving me.

I walk out my apartment door and head toward the stairwell, my feet clattering on the tiled floors.

Something inside me jerks, and it feels like a surge of cold air slicing through me.

I stand at the top of the first flight, twelve steep faience-covered steps. I look down at the shining lobby floor.

I can't say there is even a thought.

I can't say I pause at all, somehow knowing I can't.

The second my heel hits the top of the stair, I swivel it around and twist my body as hard as I can, my hip hitting the railing and my body rising and then crashing and then How like the astonishing leaps my brother and I used to take off the warped and quivering dock at our grandparents' house. Leap after leap into the sludge-thick water. It was easy, as true and as ancient as anything I'd ever known.

By the time I limp back up the stairs to my apartment, a throbbing wound is hanging heavily over my right eye. My ankle is swelling neatly. The sharper pain in my chest makes me think I probably cracked a rib or two.

I make it to my living room. My head growing foggier, my stomach pitching with nausea, in a flash I am no longer upright.

By the time he arrives, like some Wild West sheriff storming through my door, my head feels strangely suspended, refusing my body entirely.

I can barely feel his hands on me when he lifts my head off the floor and slides a pillow underneath. He is careful not to move me. Even in his rage, his gorgeous, frustrated rage that nearly terrifies, he knows what to do and not do. Or he's remembering.

The sounds from his mouth fade in and out. "... did this to you ... I knew ... I knew ... what happened ... can't you tell me ... doctor ... hospital ..."

And then, as he winds down, as the ambulance comes and as he curls up beside me before they place me on the gurney, grave whispers, breath on my ear, heart pressed against my chest, sighing promises, and I know I have him.

I am in the hospital for three days with bruised ribs and a concussion and a sprained ankle. How could I know my brother would go to Mike Standish and break his jaw, two teeth, and his own hand in doing so?

Mike took the beating and kept his mouth shut. That is what Mike does.

When urged to press charges, I merely turn my head to the side and look away. In this way, I never have to tell another story.

Within a week, we are home. Bill moves my things into his house and closes out my lease. He tells me he has filed a missing person's report for Alice King nee Steele, who apparently has left town.

I listen to his lies, all of them, with sympathetic eyes. Bill tells me he has found out that Alice bought a ticket to South America. That she planned to leave him. But that she never showed up on the ship's pa.s.senger list, so she could be anywhere.

"Are you going to try to find her? Take a leave of absence?"

His expression stiffens, in his eyes something distant and unbearably close at once. "No. No, she'll come home when she's ready."

"Of course she will," I say, pouring him his morning cup of coffee.

His eyes float over to the window above the sink, as if she might suddenly appear there.