John Locke - Lethal People

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said, “in my experience, most freaks don’t appear to be freaks.”

“I’ve found that to be true in my experience, as well,” I said. She extended her hands in front of her, palms open, as if to say, Help me out here, will ya ? Then she said, “But if someone were to ask me for an assessment at this stage of our relationship …” she paused a beat. “Can you understand why I might question your sanity?”

“You’d be crazy not to,” I said.

She nodded slowly.

“Would you like me to take off my clothes now?” she said.

“I’d like that a lot. If it’s your choice.”

“It’s what you’ve paid for,” she said.

“Actually, I don’t look at it that way.”

She flashed me a skeptical look. “You don’t, huh?” There was an edge of sarcasm in her voice.

I said, “Sex isn’t the same as intimacy. Intimacy only works if it’s a choice you’ve made about me.”

She stiffened a bit. “A choice,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Like letting you beat me up?” I saw the anger flash through her eyes. Now that she trusted me not to hurt her, she was fired up.

“It’s nothing personal,” I said, hoping to diffuse the fireworks I could see coming.

“Really? Nothing personal, huh? So your offer had nothing to do with the fact that I’m just a low-life hooker? Tell me, Scarface, how many teachers, nurses, and housewives have you offered to beat up for money?”

I heard her. I don’t mean I listened to her; I mean that what she said and the way she said it made me see it from her point of view. Now what could I say, except that she had a point.

“Lauren, you’re right, of course. That was a big part of it, the fact you do things for money.”

We sat there quietly and looked at each other, neither of us knowing quite what to say.

“There was something else,” I said. “I didn’t give you my reasons, but a big part of it had to do with an uncanny resemblance. But again, I’m sorry I brought it up. I feel terrible for scaring you. I really care about you and always have.”

We were out of orange juice, but she reached for the champagne and poured some into a clean flute. She glanced at her champagne glass and a strange look crossed her face. She picked it up and held it to the light and stared at the amber liquid. What now ? I wondered. Maybe there weren’t as many bubbles floating to the surface as she thought there should be. Maybe …

“It’s not drugged,” I said.

“Then you drink it.”

I sighed. “I’ve lost your trust, and for that I apologize.” I took the champagne flute from her hand, put it to my lips, and drained it. Then I refilled the glass, handed it back to her. She nodded slowly and took a sip. Then, to her credit, she winked at me.

“Hookers have feelings, you know.”

I smiled. “It’s not because I think you’re unworthy of being treated well. It was never that. If it makes you feel any better, you’re the only person I’ve ever offered to pay to beat up.”

Lauren had a light, airy laugh. Now, for the first time since she’d run out, she showed it. “Why the hell would that make me feel better?” she asked.

I laughed, too. “I’m sorry, Lauren. You’re right. I prejudged you. Now I’m making it worse trying to talk about it. Big surprise: I’m not very smooth with women.”

“Hey, ya think?” She smiled.

“Now you know why I have to pay for sex.”

“Intimacy,” she said.

“Yes.”

“A choice,” she said.

“It is,” I said. “Or should be.”

She nodded slightly, as if confirming some private thought. Then she took off her clothes and helped me with mine. Then she did the things Janet used to do to me all those years ago, things she was surely doing to Ken Chapman every night for free.

Lauren held me afterward and kissed my cheek.

“Just for the sake of argument,” she said, “how much would you have paid?”

CHAPTER 18

“ Isee you had better luck finding me this time,” Joseph DeMeo said, flashing a grin I knew to be insincere. It was Saturday, and we were in the George Washington section of Hollywood Hills Cemetery near Griffth Park. DeMeo stood on the landing above the sidewalk next to the flagstone wall that shaded Buster Keaton’s grave. He wore a black suit and a lavender silk shirt, buttoned all the way up, with no tie. DeMeo was flanked on either side by two dead-eyed thugs whose ill-fitting suits could barely contain their musculature.

“Your pets look uncomfortable,” I said. “I hope they didn’t squeeze into their prom suits just for me.”

“No need to taunt,” DeMeo said. “We’re all friends here.”

“That right?” I said to the goons. We all looked at each other a minute, trying to decide who could take whom, if it came down to it, and how best to do it. I didn’t know these particular guys but I knew their type. Violence leaked out of them like stink on a wino.

Joseph DeMeo chuckled and walked down the steps toward me. “Walk with me,” he said and passed me without shaking hands. I stood my ground. I wasn’t comfortable walking with him if it meant turning my back on his goons. DeMeo chuckled again and said, “Don’t worry about them. They’ll follow at a respectful distance. Same as your giant,” he added.

His comment rattled me. Quinn was my only backup, which meant he and I were as good as dead. Unless I could convince DeMeo I had another backup. In the meantime I had to display confidence.

“Big as he is,” I said, “not many people can make Quinn. What’d he do, fall asleep?”

“I have the advantage that comes with setting the location,” DeMeo said.

“Speaking of which,” I said, “what’s this fascination you have with cemeteries? Two years ago, it was Inglewood Park, James Jeffries’ grave. This time it’s Hollywood Hills, Buster Keaton.”

“I meet people where it is fitting to do so. If you were an artist, I’d meet you at a gallery or art museum.”

“Where do you meet Garrett Unger? Snake oil conventions?”

Forest Lawn Hollywood Hills is an oasis surrounded by bustling traffic. Though Disney, Universal, and Warner Brothers all have studios located just minutes away, the vast acreage has a self-contained quality that keeps it isolated and tranquil. Uncluttered by mausoleums, it features mountain views, gently rolling hills, fussy landscaping, and bright white statuary.

DeMeo suddenly stopped short and placed his hand on my arm, and I nearly came out of my skin. I spun out of his grasp and jumped into a fighting stance. I swept the area with my eyes to make sure the goons were where they should be. They were, but they had their guns drawn, waiting for any type of twitch or signal from DeMeo. I had no idea where Quinn was, but I believed he was wherever he needed to be to keep me safe. DeMeo seemed not to notice my jumpiness, focused as he was on something in front of us.

“Look at that,” he whispered.

I tried to force myself to relax. I turned my head and followed his gaze and saw nothing, but his eyes were fixed on something. “What, the bird ?” It was the only living creature I could detect in front of him.

“Not just any bird,” he whispered. “A Western Tanager.”

When I’m keyed up like that, I’m ready to kill or be killed. I want to kill or be killed. It was hard to focus on the bird. I looked behind us again. The goons’ expressions had never changed, but at least their guns were holstered. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for them, having to guard their nut case of a boss. I got my breathing under control and said, “Western Tanagers: are they rare or something?”