Ryan Jahn - Low Life

‘In what’s happening to me.’

‘What is happening, Jeremy?’ His voice was calm and his eyes were large and kind despite their sleepy redness.

‘That’s what I want you to tell me.’

‘You’re not giving me much to go on.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘How can I help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on?’

‘Help me? You think I believe you want to help me?’

‘What do you believe?’

‘I believe you’re part of this. What I want to know is how big a part – and why. Is Robert involved too? How long have you been planning it?’

‘Who’s Robert?’

‘You mean he’s not a part of it?’

‘Part of what?’

‘What’s happening to me.’

‘You’re talking in circles, Jeremy.’

‘You’re the only person connected with both lives.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Simon Johnson.’

Zurasky was silent for a moment, eyes looking up at the ceiling to his right. Finally he shook his head. ‘Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘He was a patient of yours.’

‘When?’

‘Up till last April – or maybe May, but I think April.’

‘For how long?’

‘Couple of years, on and off – mostly off.’

‘No. I would remember that.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Jeremy.’

‘He called you just over two weeks ago to make an appointment, then cancelled.’

Zurasky’s bottom lip stuck out, a thin layer of whitish skin coating it. He shook his head again.

Simon closed his eyes. He felt confused.

‘When we have sessions,’ he said, ‘what do we talk about?’

‘Whatever you want to talk about. You lead the conversation, Jeremy.’

‘What do I usually want to talk about?’

Zurasky shrugged.

‘Marriage troubles, problems at work, the accident. Speaking of which, I noticed you cut yourself again.’

He traced a finger across his own face from cheekbone to chinbone.

‘Again?’

Zurasky nodded, then said, ‘After the accident,’ as if that explained everything.

‘What accident?’

Zurasky sighed. ‘You know damned well what accident, Jeremy,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?’

‘You tried to kill me.’

‘I – what?’ He looked genuinely shocked.

‘You’re playing head games with me. You’re trying to confuse me. But I know you did. You sent Jeremy to kill me. What I want to know is why. I’ll get it out of you one way or another, so you might as well tell me.’

‘You’re not making the least bit of sense.’

‘My name is Simon Johnson. I live at the Filboyd Apartments on Wilshire. You know the place. A little over two weeks ago Jeremy Shackleford broke into my apartment and tried to murder me. He failed. Jeremy Shackleford was a patient of yours. So was I – once. You’re the only human connection between us. What I want to know is why you did it. I want to know what you’re up to. What I want, in short, is answers.’

Zurasky was silent for a very long time. His face was pale. He looked afraid. Simon thought that was a good thing. It meant he was on the right track. It meant he was getting to the good doctor.

‘What’s the matter? You seem a little—’

There was a knock at the door.

Simon jumped to his feet.

‘Who is that?’

Zurasky set his coffee down on the table and stood up.

‘Calm down, Jeremy. It’s the police. I called them when I was in the kitchen. I was worried about you.’

‘You son of a bitch.’

Simon looked around frantically, trying to find a way to escape. Zurasky had set him up. He probably had the body stored somewhere. Maybe it was in the trunk of his Volvo. Maybe this had all been part of it. Maybe Zurasky hadn’t even wanted Jeremy to kill him. Maybe he’d planned this step by step and this was what it had all been leading to – his arrest for the murder of Jeremy Shackleford – his way of getting rid of both him and Jeremy. Hell, if it had happened the other way, then he’d be dead and Jeremy could be arrested for his murder. It wouldn’t even matter who killed whom, as long as someone died. And Zurasky could get it done without bloodying his own hands at all – his own hand. But it was Simon who killed Jeremy, and Zurasky had put the body in the trunk of the Volvo and then tipped off the police as to where it was. That’s what had happened. And now they were here and—

Zurasky reached out and put a hand on Simon’s shoulder.

‘Calm down, Jeremy,’ he said. ‘They’re here to help.’

Simon jerked away from him.

‘You calm down.’

He swung the pen in his fist toward the doctor, shoving several inches of it into the meat of his bad arm, right through his T-shirt’s short sleeve. Zurasky let out a scream. Blood poured from the wound, into the cotton of the T-shirt, down his arm, and dripped from the end of it. The doorknob rattled – ‘Police! Open up!’ – but the door was locked.

Simon turned and ran toward the back of the house.

He heard Zurasky unlatch the door lock, heard hinges squeak in the living room.

In the laundry room he found a door leading into the backyard. He swung it open and the darkness greeted him.

He ran out into the night, leaping over a fence and into the next yard.

Half an hour later the police had left. As had Zurasky – in an ambulance. Simon had watched from a distance and no one had even glanced at the Saab. He got lucky there.

He made his way to it and got inside. He started the engine and drove away. It was three o’clock in the morning and he was exhausted. He needed to find a place to sleep.

He took the 101 south and got off the freeway in Hollywood. He figured if he drove around he could find a dive that would take cash and wouldn’t ask too many questions. He stopped at three seedy joints before he was proved correct. It seemed in this day and age even gray-market businesses expected some form of ID and a card with the Visa logo.

At first the guy behind the counter, a jowly fellow who looked like he might have insects living in his hair, wanted to charge him for thirty minutes and to see the girl Simon was bringing in – he must have just had that whoremonger look – but eventually he convinced the guy that he wanted a room for sleeping purposes only.

The guy scratched a fat face beneath a gray beard, looked at what he’d managed to scrape off with a fingernail, flicked it away, and said, ‘Suit yourself. It’ll be a hundred and forty,’ and slapped a key onto the stained yellow counter. ‘One thirteen’s around the corner, third door on the left.’

Simon thanked the guy, grabbed the key from the counter, and went to find room 113.

It stunk of misery. The threadbare yellow curtains seemed to be dripping with it. Rape and abuse and a thousand different sadnesses permeated the walls.

Simon closed the door behind him, locked it, and walked to the bed. He didn’t bother undressing. He simply laid himself down on top of the covers and stared at the ceiling. He felt ragged, but didn’t think he’d be able to sleep. He’d been through far too much today for that kind of peace to find him – for any kind of peace to find him.

Forty-seven seconds later he was snoring quietly.

He awoke to the sound of a phone ringing. It was daylight outside, sunshine splashing in through the curtains. His eyes stung. He felt like he’d just closed them. His head felt like it was stuffed with broken glass and rusted screws – and now the phone was ringing. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his face and padded to the writing desk on the wall opposite and picked up the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Checkout’s in thirty.’ He recognized the voice. It was the desk clerk he’d met last night.