Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

At 9:15 he left his room again, crossed the street to the twenty-four-hour gas station, and shut himself into a public phone booth with a bifold door. He put a couple of coins in the slot and dialed Jon Corso’s number. On the street a car slowed, turned in, and stopped in front of the pumps. Walker lowered his head, obscuring his face. He was behaving like a fugitive.

After four rings Jon picked up, sounding brusque. He was probably working on a new book, irritated at the interruption. “Hello?”

“We need to talk.”

There was a pause of four seconds. “About what?”

“I’d rather not say on the phone.”

“And why is that?”

“Shit, Jon. You’re the one who’s paranoid. I’m taking my cue from you.”

“Where are you?”

“At the gas station across the street from the bank. I’m using a pay phone.”

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” Jon said, and hung up.

Walker checked his watch, unsure what to do with himself until Jon arrived. He went into the minimart adjacent to the service bays, which were dark now. The place was empty except for a clerk who sat at the register reading a comic book. Walker ambled up and down the aisles, looking at the gaudy array of potato chips, Fritos, Cheetos, tortilla chips, sun-baked chips, and pretzels, along with nasty-looking jars of salsa and a cheese product as viscous as glue. Crackers, cookies, candy bars, Twinkies, packaged cupcakes covered in coconut. The refrigerated coolers were stocked with cheap beer, canned and bottled sodas, and a row of jug wines. He came to an ordered row of sandwiches and read the labels. Tuna salad, ham and cheese, a bologna with mayonnaise on wheat bread. He selected a bologna sandwich, which he hadn’t eaten in years. At the counter he added four candy bars and paid for the lot. The clerk put everything in a bag for him, which he tucked under his arm. He went outside again and crossed to the half-wall at the far end of the paved area. He sat down, wishing he’d bought a soft drink, but too lazy to go back.

He opened the sandwich and took a bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the mild flavor of bologna, the sweet tang of mayonnaise. Montebello Bank and Trust was just across the street. He could see a light on, a low-tech burglar deterrent. Traffic was scanty, though he was certain that farther up the block, where bars and restaurants were clustered, the valet car parkers would be hustling back and forth.

Jon’s black Jaguar finally tooled into sight at a leisurely speed. Walker was guessing he’d bypassed the freeway, opting to drive along the beach. It would be like him to take his time, leaving Walker to loiter on the corner like a bum. Jon pulled over and Walker opened the door on the passenger side, sliding into the seat.

Walker said, “Shit, this feels like we’re having an affair.”

“I didn’t think you did things like that.”

“Once for two months. Miserable experience. I swore off.”

“Carolyn catch you at it?”

“She knew something was going on, but she never figured it out.”

“Good for you. So where to?”

“You pick. I’m sick of being cooped up.”

Jon made a leisurely U-turn and headed for the entrance to the northbound 101. The car was silent and the ride was smooth. There was no conversation. Walker slouched in his seat and closed his eyes, so relaxed he nearly fell asleep. Nights at the Pelican were a bad mix-headlights turning into the parking lot at odd hours, pipes thumping. Walker would wake to the tap and scratch of footsteps passing along the walkway outside his door. The place wasn’t cheap, located as it was in the heart of Montebello, but the builder had cut corners. The shower was fiberglass and the bathroom vanity looked like something purchased from a cut-rate catalog. The kitchenette consisted of a hot plate, a toaster oven, and a tiny under-the-counter refrigerator too small to hold a pizza box.

Jon took an off-ramp and Walker raised an eyelid long enough to see that they were on Little Pony Road. Moments later Walker felt the car slow, turn left, and stop. Jon got out of the car, leaving the engine running. Walker roused himself from his reverie and looked out. He knew the place well, a pocket park once known as Passion Peak. Jon removed a chain stretched between two posts, barring vehicles. He returned to the car and took the road up and around two big bends until he reached the parking lot, where he pulled in, nose against the retaining wall. He shut down the engine. The two got out and began climbing the hill. They were well above the town, and once they reached the crest, the town would lie beneath them like a jewel. Walker carried his paper bag as they ascended from the parking lot to the small grassy meadow at the top, where six picnic tables were laid out.

Jon sat on a bench. Walker perched on the table, his legs dangling. A mist hovered at ground level, airy drifts of white. Trees sheltered the spot on three sides and the fourth was open to the view. The blackened remains of the bandstand hunkered in the dark behind them. In high school, this was the spot where the two of them had brought girls, more times than he cared to remember. He usually got the pretty one while Jon got stuck with the homely best friend. Walker opened his bag and removed the four candy bars. He offered Jon a Three Musketeers bar and kept the other three for himself.

Jon said, “I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth.”

“It’s weird. Now that I’m off alcohol, I crave sugar.”

Jon pulled the paper off his candy bar and bit in. “So what’s the big emergency?”

“I saw Michael Sutton this afternoon and he saw me. I came out of an AA meeting and he was there in the parking lot, picking up a girl. When Brent drove me back to the office, he followed.”

“So?”

“So why’s he tailing me? What if he goes to the police?”

“And says what? Two decades ago, we dug a hole. Big deal.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Oh, for god’s sake. You haul me out in the dead of night for this? You could have told me on the phone. The kid’s a punk. Nobody’s going to take him seriously. Besides, I can get to him anytime I want. He’s not a problem.”

“Get to him? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know where he lives. I’ve kept an eye on him for years, following his illustrious career path. He’s not a threat. He’s a loser and a wimp. He’s what we call ‘malleable.’ You can talk him into or out of anything. Everyone knows that.”

“There’s something else,” Walker said. He was silent for a moment. “I think I might turn myself in.”

The sentence hung in the air between them.

Walker couldn’t believe he’d said it, but once the words were out of his mouth, he knew the idea had been hovering at the back of his mind for weeks.

Jon’s expression was neutral. “What brought this on?”

Walker shook his head. “I’ve been having panic attacks and they’re wearing me down. I’m tired of feeling tired. The damn anxiety’s tearing me apart. It didn’t bother me so much when I was drinking, but now…”

“So talk to your doctor about a sedative. Better living through chemistry.”

“Wouldn’t help. I mean, look at me. My life’s in the toilet. Carolyn’s kicked me out. I hardly see my kids. I killed a girl, for Christ’s sake. I can’t live this way.”

Bemused, Jon said, “Which step is this?”

“What?”

“AA’s famous twelve steps. Which one is this? Your ‘fearless moral inventory,’ am I right?”

“You know what, Jon? I don’t need your snide fucking comments. I’m serious about this.”

“I have no doubt. And what do you propose?”

“I don’t know yet. You should have seen me today, skulking around on side streets so Michael Sutton wouldn’t spot me and figure out where I work. It’s all catching up with us. And here’s the irony: for years, I drank to wipe out the guilt and all I managed to do was turn around and kill someone else.”