Denise Hamilton - Los Angeles Noir 2

“But there’s nothing there,” she said.

“Yeah, there is. There always is if you know how to look,” Lenny told her. “How many people by the door? How many steps?”

He was talking about the door across the boulevard. His back was turned. She didn’t know.

“Four steps,” Lenny said. “Nine people. Four women. One odd man. I look. I see.”

She was counting the people on the steps in front of the meeting. She didn’t say anything.

“Let’s get a coffee later. That’s what you do, right? You can’t get a drink? You go out for coffee?” Lenny was studying her face.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“You don’t think so? Come on. I’ll buy you coffee. You can explain AA to me. You like that Italian shit? That French shit? The little cups?” Lenny was staring at her.

“No, thank you. I’m sorry,” she said. He was short and fat and sweating. He looked like he was laughing at her with his eyes.

“You’re sorry. I’ll show you sorry. Listen. I know what you want. You’re one of those smart-ass teachers from Beverly Hills,” Lenny said.

“Right,” she said. She didn’t know why she bothered talking to him.

“You want to get in over your head. You want to see what’s on the other side. I’ll show you. I’ll take you there. It’ll be the ride of your life,” Lenny said.

“Goodbye,” she answered.

Lenny was at her noon meeting the next day. She saw him immediately as she walked through the door. She wondered how he knew that she would be there. As she approached her usual chair, she saw a bouquet of long-stemmed pink roses.

“You look beautiful,” Lenny said. “You knew I’d be here. That’s why you put that crap on your face. You didn’t have that paint on yesterday. Don’t do that. You don’t need that. Those whores from Beverly Hills need it. Not you. You’re a teacher. I like that. Sit down.” He picked the roses up. “Sit next to me. You glad to see me?”

“I don’t think so.” She sat down. Lenny handed the roses to her. She put them on the floor.

“Yeah. You’re glad to see me. You were hoping I’d be here. And here I am. You want me to chase you? I’ll chase you. Then I’ll catch you. Then I’ll show you what being in over your head means.” Lenny was smiling.

She turned away. When the meeting was over, she stood up quickly and began moving, even before the prayer was finished. “I have to go,” she said softly, over her shoulder. She felt she had to apologize. She felt she had to be careful.

“You don’t have to go,” Lenny said. He caught up with her on the steps. “Yeah. Don’t look surprised. Lenny’s fast, real fast. And you’re lying. Don’t ever lie to me. You think I’m stupid? Yeah, you think Lenny’s stupid. You think you can get away from me? You can’t get away. You got an hour. You don’t pick that kid up from the dance school until four. Come on. I’ll buy you coffee.”

“What are you talking about?” She stopped. Her breath felt sharp and fierce. It was a warm November. The air felt like glass.

“I know all about you. I know your routine. I been watching you for two weeks. Ever since I got to town. I saw you my first day. You think I’d ask you out on a date and not know your routine?” Lenny stared at her.

She felt her eyes widen. She started to say something but she changed her mind.

“You live at the top of the hill, off of Doheny. You pick up that kid, what’s her name, Annie something? You pick her up and take her to dance school. You get coffee next door. Table by the window. You read the paper. Then you go home. Just the two of you. And that Mex cleaning lady. Maria. That her name? Maria? They’re all called Maria. And the gardener Friday afternoons. That’s it.” Lenny lit a cigarette.

“You’ve been following me?” She was stunned. Her mouth opened.

“Recon,” Lenny said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“In Nam. We called it recon. Fly over, get a lay of the land. Or stand behind some trees. Count the personnel. People look but they don’t see. I’ll tell you about it. Get coffee. You got an hour. Want to hear about Vietnam? I got stories. Choppers? I like choppers. You can take your time, aim. You can hit anything, even dogs. Some days we’d go out just aiming at dogs. Or the black market? Want to hear about that? Profiteering in smack? You’re a writer, right? You like stories. I got some tall tales from the Mekong Delta for you, sweetheart. Knock your socks off. Come on.” He reached out and touched her arm. “Later you can have your own war stories. I can be one of your tall tales. I can be the tallest.”

The sun was strong. The world was washed with white. The day seemed somehow clarified. He was wearing a leather jacket and shaking. It occurred to her that he was sick.

“Excuse me. I must go,” she said. “If you follow me, I shall have someone call the police.”

“Okay. Okay. Calm down,” Lenny was saying behind her. “I’ll save you a seat tomorrow, okay?”

She didn’t reply. She sat in her car. It was strange how blue the sky seemed, etched with the blue of radium or narcotics. Or China blue, perhaps. Was that a color? The blue of the China Sea? The blue of Vietnam. When he talked about Asia, she could imagine that blue, luminescent with ancient fever, with promises and bridges broken, with the harvest lost in blue flame. Always there were barbarians, shooting the children and dogs.

She locked her car and began driving. It occurred to her, suddenly, that the Chinese took poets as concubines. Their poets slept with warlords. They wrote with gold ink. They ate orchids and smoked opium. They were consecrated by nuance, by birds and silk and the ritual birthdays of gods and nothing changed for a thousand years. And afternoon was absinthe yellow and almond, burnt orange and chrysanthemum. And in the abstract sky, a litany of kites.

She felt herself look for him as she walked into the meeting the next day at noon. The meeting was in the basement of a church. Lenny was standing near the coffeepot with his back to the wall. He was holding two cups of coffee as if he was expecting her. He handed one to her.

“I got seats,” he said. He motioned for her to follow. She followed. He pointed to a chair. She sat in it. An older woman was standing at the podium, telling the story of her life. Lenny was wearing a white warm-up suit with a green neon stripe down the sides of the pants and the arms of the jacket. He was wearing a baseball cap. His face seemed younger and tanner than she had remembered.

“Like how I look? I look like a lawyer on his way to tennis, right? I even got a tan. Fit right in. Chameleon Lenny. The best, too.” He lit a cigarette. He held the pack out to her.

She shook her head, no. She was staring at the cigarette in his mouth, in his fingers. She could lean her head closer, part her lips, take just one puff.

“I got something to show you,” Lenny said.

The meeting was over. They were walking up the stairs from the basement of the church. The sun was strong. She blinked in the light. It was the yellow of a hot autumn, a yellow that seemed amplified and redeemed. She glanced at her watch.

“Don’t do that,” Lenny said. He was touching the small of her back with his hand. He was helping her walk.

“What?”

“Looking at that fucking watch all the time. Take it off,” Lenny said.

“My watch?” She was looking at her wrist as if she had never seen it before.

“Give it here, come on.” Lenny put his hand out. He motioned with his fingers. She placed her watch in the palm of his hand.