White Jazz Part 63

Keep the money you took. I'm not optimistic, but I hope the pa.s.sport helps. I won't apologize for the way I used you, since I believe the Smith situation justified it. He's neutralized now, but if you consider the justice you meted out less than absolute, you have my permission to follow it up more thoroughly. Frankly, I'm through with him. He's cost me enough as it is.

Indirect order: kill him.

Not HIM--THEM.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

"We used to be a great-looking pair."

"That part's all on you now"--Ioose teeth, painful.

"You're different, David."

"Sure, look at me."

"No, it's that we've been together for five minutes and you haven't asked me to tell you things."

Glenda: carhop suntan, close to gaunt. "I just want to look at you."

"I've looked better."

"No, you haven't."

She touched my face. "Was I worth it?"

"Whatever it cost, whatever it took."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah, just like that."

"You should have grabbed that movie contract way back when."

Money bags by the door--time closing in.

Glenda said, "Tell _me_ things."

Back to then, up to always--I told her EVERYTHING.

I faltered sometimes--pure horror jolted me silent. That silence, implicit: _you_--tell _me_.

Light kisses said no.

I told her all of it. Glenda listened, short of spellbound--like she knew.

The story hung between us. Kissing her hurt--her hands said let me.

She undressed me.

She slid out of her clothes just past my reach.

I roused slow--just let me look. Persistent Glenda, soft hands--inside her half-crazy just from looking.

She moved above me--propped up off my bruises. Just watching her felt wrong--I pulled her down.

Her weight on me hurt--I kissed her hard to rip through the pain. She started peaking--my hurt ebbed--I came blending into her spasms.

I opened my eyes. Glenda framed my face with her hands--just looking.

Sleep--day into night. Up startled--a clock by the bed--1:14.

January 26.

A camera on the dresser--Pete's ex-wife's. I checked the film--six exposures remaining.

Glenda stirred.

I walked into the bathroom. Morphine Syrettes in a dish--I popped one and mixed it with water.

I got dressed.

I stuffed two hundred grand in Glenda's purse.

The bedroom-- Glenda yawning, hands out, thirsty--I gave her the gla.s.s.

She gulped the water down. Stretches, little tucks--back to sleep.

Look: A half-smile brushing her pillow. One shoulder outside the covers, old scars going tan.

I snapped pictures: Her face--eyes closed-dreams she'd never tell me. Lamp light, flashbulb light: blond hair on white linen.

I sealed the film.

I picked up the money bags--heavy, obscene.

I walked out the door bracing back sobs.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Easy: I took a bus to L.A. and got a hotel room. I had a typewriter sent up--one blank pa.s.sport rendered valid.

My new name: Edmund L. Smith.

Picture valid: photo-booth snapshots, glue.

My ticket out: Pan Am, L.A. to Rio.

My wounds were healing up.

My new face was holding: no handsome Dave Klein showing through.

Morphine pops kept me calm and crazy exultant. This crazy notion: you walked.

Not yet.

CHAPTER SIXTY

I bought a new clunker--two hundred dollars cash. I took a detour airport-bound: 1684 South Tremaine.

8:00 A.M.--quiet, peaceful.

Voices inside-bellicose male.

I walked back, tried the rear door--unlocked. Laundry room, kitchen door--yank it.

J.C. and Tommy at the table, guzzling beer.

Say what?

What the-- J.C. first--silencer THWAP--brains out his ears. Tommy, beer bottle raised--THWAP--gla.s.s in his eyes.

He screamed: "DADDY!"

EYEBALL MAN! EYEBALL MAN!--I shot them both faceless blind.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Airport heat: Feds, Sheriff's men, mob lookouts. Right through them--no blinks-- up to the counter.

Friendly service, a glance at my pa.s.sport. I checked my money bags through--"Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Smith."

Gone--just like that.

The will to remember.

Fever dreams--that time burning Old now-a grin go exile rich off real estate. My confession complete-- but still not enough.

Postscripts: Will Shipstad--private practice from '59 up.

Reuben Ruiz--Bantam champ, '61--'62.

Chick Vecchio--shot and killed robbing a liquor store.

Touch V.--managing drag-queen acts in Vegas.

Fred Turentine--dead--cirrhosis. Lester Lake-dead-cancer.

The place lost/the time burning/close to them somehow.

Madge Kafesjian--alone--that house, those ghosts.