William Lashner - Marked Man

“And your sister’s a saint?”

“Why not?”

“If you have such faith, then why are you so nervous?”

“What if I’m not good enough? What if she rejects me? Victor, don’t tell her what I do. Promise me you won’t.”

“I promise.”

“I work in a law office. I’m dating a nice young man. I have a dog.”

“But you do have a dog.”

“Victor.”

“Monica, tell her whatever you want to tell her. That’s between you and her. I’m just there to listen.”

“You don’t believe in her. Still.”

“What did I tell you about him?”

“But maybe he’s telling the truth?”

“And maybe fish fly and birds swim.”

“But they do, don’t they? It’s a matter of faith, Victor. Do you believe in anything?”

“Pain and money. Everything else has disappointed me.”

“That’s sad. Really. No, really. You should get some help, something to change your outlook on your life. Maybe a tan, for starters.”

“What do you believe in, Monica?”

“Chantal.”

“You want to know something strange? In my own way, so do I.”

The address Purcell gave us was in West Hollywood, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. It was one of those beige apartment complexes they don’t have on the East Coast, places with names too fancy for the building, with two levels of bland apartments surrounding a small, cloudy swimming pool, with a tattooed super and rusted wrought-iron railings and the old, pale-faced lady in apartment 22 who clutches her housecoat as she answers the door for the liquor-delivery boy and tells him she was once in a movie with Jean Harlow, yes, Jean Harlow, a real star, not like these skinny little waifs they have today. The place was called the Fairway Arms, though the nearest golf course was twelve blocks south.

The two visitor spots in the underground lot were taken, so we parked where we could, space 22 to be exact. No harm, I figure, since the old lady’s car had probably been repossessed in 1959. At the complex’s front entrance, Monica danced around a bit and then finally pressed the button for apartment 17.

Monica was about to press it again when a voice came from the speaker. “Who’s there?” A female voice, strangely familiar.

Monica froze, unable to respond, her hand still reaching for the button like the hand of Michelangelo’s Adam reaching toward the white-haired guy.

“Mr. Purcell sent us,” I said into the speaker. “We’re here to see Chantal?”

“There’s only the two of you?”

“That’s right.”

“Come on in, then,” said the voice as the buzzer buzzed. “And don’t worry about Cecil. If you keep your hands in your pockets, he won’t bite them off.”

Cecil turned out to be a dog, white with one spotted ear, a blunt nose, and a body like a single clenched muscle. He silently rose from his spot on a chaise by the pool, jumped down, aimed himself at us, and trotted our way. He wasn’t big, his back was the height of our knees, but it only took a second look to realize that this torpedo-shaped thing could take me apart with a leisurely snap of its jaw and jerk of its neck. I put my hands in my pockets. Cecil took that as a sign to close upon us even faster.

I stepped back, Monica stooped down. She reached out her hand, palm up. Cecil swerved toward her, stopped suddenly, sniffed Monica’s fingers, tilted his head as if confused by something, and then rubbed her hand with the muzzle of his nose.

“That’s a nice boy, that’s a sweet boy,” said Monica. “He’s just like Luke, all he wants is to be hugged.”

“Cecil, come here,” came a voice from the side of us.

The dog gave Monica’s hand a quick lick and then trotted over to a now-open door and rubbed his nose against the leg of a tall young girl in jeans and a T-shirt. She was pretty and blond and stared at us with a flat, unselfconscious gaze. Bryce. How could I have been surprised?

“He doesn’t usually take to strangers,” said Bryce.

“Is he yours?” said Monica, standing.

“He belongs to the super. But I take care of him.”

“How are you, Bryce?” I said.

“Fine. I figured it was going to be you, what with the tattoo and all.”

“Do you know Chantal?” said Monica.

“I guess, if that’s what you’re calling her.”

“What do you call her?” I said.

“Mom.”

“Oh, sweetie,” said Monica, stepping toward her. “Look at you. Look how lovely you are. Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“I thought you said your mother’s name was Lena,” I said.

“It is. Or was. Or something, I don’t know. It’s L.A., right?”

“How about your father? Who’s your father, Bryce?”

“He lives in Texas. His name is Scott.”

“Scott, huh? You see him much?”

“Holidays and stuff.”

Just then from behind Bryce appeared her mother, no more the competent poolside secretary. She was wearing jeans, a loose white shirt, her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, her hands clutched nervously together.

Monica took a step forward. “Are you Chantal?”

The woman nodded.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Hi. I’m your sister. Monica. How are you? Oh my God, I can’t believe I finally found you.”

And with that, Monica burst into tears and lunged forward, reaching out to embrace her long-lost sister and her niece. Blinded by love and longing, by a need that was raw and unyielding, swept away within the obsession that had taken hold of her life from its earliest dawning, she didn’t notice how Bryce shied away, she didn’t notice Cecil sneering as he scurried back to his spot on the chaise by the pool, didn’t notice the expression of panic and fear on Lena’s face. She didn’t notice any of it, because for a moment the gaping hole in her life had been filled with something rich and full, something loving and warm, something close to hope.

We’ll call her Lena,because that’s the name she called herself. Lena sat primly on the edge of her sofa, her hands clasped together on a knee, her lips tense. Lena had been in a few movies many years ago. Theodore had been able to help her get the roles when she was still in high school. She had been Girl Number Three in a Chevy Chase film, she had been Sue Ellen in a slasher flick that actually made a ripple at the box office. She wasn’t one to blow these accomplishments out of proportion. With a shrug she told us there were thousands just like her, pretty girls who made a little money and had a little fun but never had the talent or fierce determination to make a career of it.

“Mom, do you know where that shirt is?” called out Bryce.

“Which shirt?”

“The one with the things on the you-knows.”

“It’s hanging in the bathroom, on the shower rod.”

“Thank you.”

We were sitting in the living room of Lena’s small apartment at the Fairway Arms. The sofa was faded, the chair slightly greasy from age, but the paint on the walls was fresh, and the pictures were bright, and the television was a wide-screen LCD hooked up to all kinds of electronic contraptions. Compared with the wreck I had waiting for me back in Philadelphia, Lena had done pretty well for herself, and for Bryce, too.

Lena had been married, she told us. Her husband’s name was Scott. He was a cowboy, who had traded in his horse for a limo. He had driven Theodore and Lena to a premiere one night. Scott hit on her, they hit it off, and the hits just kept on coming. He was older than Lena, and drastically good-looking, with an edge of anger that both scared and attracted her. He was a mistake from the start, but at the time she was nineteen and desperate to get out of the house. Theodore was strict about her hours, her life. No drinking, no late-night dates, no clubbing. She was young enough still to enjoy her life, she thought, and certainly young enough to ruin it on her own, so she ran off with Scott. They lived in Texas for a while, came back here after she had the baby. Scott thought it was the perfect time to hit up Theodore for some money and a job. But Theodore, who was still angry at the whole elopement thing and knew how to hold a grudge, told him to hit the pavement. After a while, as their debts grew and taking care of the baby got so hard, Scott finally hit the road. That’s when Theodore came once again to her rescue.