Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

The three of us left the office, Linda walking several paces ahead, no one talking.

Outside, the street was still silent and seemed more dank, a sump for the haze. The Escort looked like a piece of junk sculpture. Linda got in through the passenger door. When she closed it, it made an unhealthy, rattling sound, and a few pieces of glass fell onto the street and tinkled like wind chimes.

Milo and I stood by as she jammed the key into the ignition. The little car sputtered and belched and for a moment I thought there’d been mechanical damage. Then I remembered that it had sounded that way the first time I’d heard it.

She kept trying. Milo said, “Gutsy lady.”

I said, “You think this is the right way to handle it?”

“She’s the victim. It’s her choice, Alex.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He ran his hand over his face. “Matter of fact, she’s probably right. She knows the way things work, knows we’ll never catch the assholes. All she’d buy would be more cameras and print space.”

The Escort started, then stalled and died.

I said, “Okay. Sorry for calling you out for nothing.”

“Forget it. I was restless anyway.”

I recalled his grogginess over the phone but said nothing. He took out his keychain and began swinging it like a lasso. Looked at the swastika, then out at the row of darkened homes.

“Lovely times we’re living in, Alex. National Brotherhood Week.”

That reminded me of something. “How’d your meeting with Ferguson go?”

“Nothing dramatic. Call me tomorrow and I’ll run it by you. Meanwhile, go and do your civic duty.”

“What’s that?”

“Make sure Dr. Blondie gets home in one piece.”

He patted me on the shoulder and shambled to his car. Just as he drove away, the Escort’s engine caught and stuck. Linda fed it gas. I walked up to the shattered window.

“I’ll follow you home, Linda.”

“Thanks, but I’m okay, it’s really not necessary.” Her face was streaked with tears but she was forcing a tough look- almost comically grave. The hand on the steering wheel was taut and ghost-white. I touched it. She pumped the gas pedal several more times. The Escort made a noise like an old man clearing his throat.

I said, “You might have radiator damage, something that’s not obvious. The last thing we need is for you to get stranded somewhere.”

She looked up at me. Lots of fine pale hair had come loose. Her mascara had run, creating sad-clown streaks.

I touched her cheek. “Come on- what are friends for?”

She looked at me again, started to say something, closed her eyes, and nodded.

I followed her east on Sunset, then south, past the dark-ened movie marquees of a deserted, littered Westwood Village, all the way beyond Pico and the post-moderne excess of the Westside Pavilion. Not far from Overland Avenue, where I’d lived in a dingy flat during indigent student days.

The Escort clanged along- no taillights, one headlight- molting bits of glass and flecks of paint. The swastika made me think of a battered Nazi staff car. But despite its pathetic appearance, the wreck moved fast enough and I had to concentrate in order to stay with her as she made a series of abrupt turns down side streets. She came to a halt at an apartment complex at the end of a cul-de-sac.

The building was monolith-graceless, four stories of peach-colored texture-coat, with aqua-green tubular iron railing and just enough landscaping to satisfy the zoning laws. There was a low roar in the distance: Through the branches of a malnourished pepper tree, the San Diego Freeway was a frantic light show.

A steep drive led down to a subterranean parking garage blocked by an aqua-green gate. She put a card in a slot and the gate slid open. Leaving the card in place, she drove through. I pressed the card to keep the gate open, retrieved it, and followed her. The garage was half empty and I found a spot next to her.

“Home sweet home,” she said, getting out. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks rosy. She touched them. “Ah, the bracing vapors. There’s something to be said for open-air motoring.”

“I’ll walk you in.”

She said, “If you insist,” but didn’t sound annoyed.

We walked across the garage, took stairs up to the lobby, which was oppressively small, furnished with a single upholstered bench and a fire extinguisher, and papered in green foil patterned with silver bamboo.

“I’m on the third floor,” she said and punched the elevator button. The lift was closet-sized. As the doors slid shut, we found ourselves standing close together. Flanks touching. Smelling each other’s breath. Her perfume. My after-shave. All of it overlaid with the bitter, hormonal essence of stress.

She looked at the floor. “Some date, huh?”

“Just don’t say I never took you anywhere interesting.”

She laughed, then broke into loud, spasmodic sobs and tucked herself into a corner of the elevator. I put my arm around her and drew her to me. She put her head on my shoulder, hiding her face. I kissed the top of her head. She cried some more. I held her tighter. She looked up, mouth slightly parted. I wiped her face. Her cheeks felt frozen.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened.

“At the far end,” she mumbled.

We made our way down a green-foiled hallway that smelled of mildew, both of her arms around my waist.

Inside, the place was sweet with her perfume. The living room was small and boxy, with oyster walls, potted plants, teak and polished-cotton furniture, apartment-grade gold carpeting ruled with vacuum tracks. Everything neatly ordered and lemon-oiled. I sat her down on a couch patterned with a fleecy blue-and-pink stripe, put her feet up on a matching ottoman, and removed her shoes. She covered her eyes with one arm and reclined.

The kitchen was tiny and opened to a six-by-six dining area that barely accommodated a stout-legged butcher-block table. A Mr. Coffee machine, a stack of filters, and a can of Colombian dark-roast sat on the counter next to an unmarked blackboard labeled THINGS TO DO. I brewed a couple of cups’ worth and filled two L.A. ZOO mugs- zebra and koala- that I grabbed from an assortment hanging on an accordion rack next to the phone.

When I got back to the living room, she was sitting up, watching me, looking dazed, her hair still windblown.

I gave her the coffee, made sure she had a firm grip on the cup before taking a seat across from her.

She lowered her lips to the rim, breathed in coffee steam, and drank.

I said, “Anything else I can get you?”

She looked up. “Come closer. Please.”

I sat next to her. We drank, drained our mugs.

“More?” I said.

She placed her mug on the coffee table, said, “Oh, Lord, what’s next?” and rested her head on my shoulder again.

I put my arm around her. She sighed. I nuzzled her hair, smoothed it. She turned her head so that her mouth brushed against mine- the merest contact- then turned back the other way and pressed her lips to mine, first tentatively, then harder. I felt them yield. Her tongue was hot and mocha-rich, exploring my teeth, sidling against my tongue, pressing against it, teasing it.

Without breaking the kiss, I put my own cup down. Fastened, we hugged each other, squeezing hard.

She shuddered and stroked the back of my neck. I mas-saged her shoulders, allowed my hands to dip lower, run over the knobs of her spine, the lean contours of her body. She kissed me harder, made throaty urgent sounds. I touched padded hips. A knee. She guided me higher. I felt the inside of her thigh, smooth and cool and firm through nylon. She lifted herself, tugged down at her panty hose, denuding one long, white leg. I touched her. Bare flesh. Softer, cooler. Then a wave of heat. She flushed, shuddered harder. Her hands left my neck and scrambled at my fly. More fumbling, eyes closed. Then she located me.