Hard Bite (17 page)

"C'mon Marty, let's talk around the corner. Sunset Saloon. Ever been there?"

He shakes his head no, and I lead the way. Marty's more of a west-side guy, unused to the seamy side of Venice. The crowd parts willingly as Marty and I make our way around the corner. I know he's studying me, making up his mind about spilling his secrets, and I'm doing the same to him, but a little more discreetly. As we pass through the beach parking lot, to the sidewalk that joins Washington Boulevard, I notice Marty's shoes are scuffed. Maybe he wore an old pair on account of the sand. He's wearing dress pants and a sport jacket, but the elbows have patches. Not patches to cover holes, but patches from the 80s. Isn't that when they were in style? He doesn't have a very good haircut either. I'm one to talk about presentation, but at least I have a decent haircut.

The Sunset Saloon has an unreadable sign out front, and Marty opens the door for me. "Go ahead," he says, in a tone that passes as polite in California, and sounds like, "Gah Head." Inside, the Saloon has sawdust on the floor, and the kind of ambience that serves as a fast-acting repellant on decent women. When the door closes behind us, it takes all evidence of daylight with it, leaving a murky, boozy gloom for those who take drinking seriously. The white-trash music and background chatter are just noisy enough that what we say will remain private; not so loud that we need to scream to be heard. I lead the way to a back table.

"So!" I start, putting some "getting down to business" emphasis in my voice after the waitress slides a couple brews our way. "My editor can't wait to hear your story, Marty. Fully confidential, of course. He just knows you as Mr. X."

"Mr. X?" Marty picks up the glass and slides his lips toward the ale.

"Or whatever you want your name to be."

His mud-brown eyes twinkle a little. "How about Mr. Gray? Like a takeoff on Reservoir Dogs."

I nod my head, smiling. "Sure, sure. Screenwriter, huh?"

"Well no I, uh, I just meant…" he squirms under his shirt.

"Bad habit, making LA jokes. I relocated a long time ago, but I can't quit the habit. Forgive me."

Marty gives a good-natured laugh and the moment lightens. He takes the opportunity to turn the tables. "Your editor—who do you work for again?"

"Love to tell ya, but I'd have to kill ya." I clink my beer mug on his. "Subject matter like this, the less you know, the better."

Marty mulls that one over. "You mean it about protecting sources…even if somebody asks?"

"Some journalists are willing to do prison time to protect sources. I'm one of them."

Marty's eyes widen a little. I've got him on my hook. "And I'll tell you another thing…" I lower my voice conspiratorially. "My editor says this piece has Pulitzer written all over it. This is going to be a groundbreaking piece of investigative journalism."

"And you're paying. Right? You said three hundred?"

"Hundred dollar bills okay?"

"Sure."

I produce a hundred dollar bill, folded so the denomination is visible and put it on the table. "A down payment. Feel free to have the barkeep check if it's real for you."

"Naw, that's okay." His hand closes over it and I can tell he's rubbing the paper a little, checking the feel to make sure it's real. It's real alright. I'm here to murder the guy, not rip him off. He opens his wallet to put it away and I see his full name on the license: Martin Hatchfeld.

"All the beer you can drink. Compliments my editor. It's not costing me a penny and I want you to feel comfortable."

"In that case…" Marty says, and drains his mug dry. The waitress catches this and hustles to slide another one in its place.

"Before you tell me about the accident, Marty—I know you explained it was an accident—after all, nobody leaves the house intending to hit and run."

"Exactly," he says. "Strictly an accident."

"Tell me all about yourself. Start at the beginning."

***

Marty's lips move and I plant a sympathetic and attentive expression on my face as my attention wanders. What I'm interested in is how drunk Marty's getting, and making sure I mirror his facial expressions and tone until I have his trust locked in.

After small talk, I steer him to the accident. I ask about his car and he spins a long jive about how it was totaled and he just took off on foot from the scene. I can tell Marty's lying through his teeth, massaging his story so he's seen in the most favorable light with little or no pity for the person who got hit and killed. Hell, to hear him tell it, it's almost the victim's fault for standing there in the crosswalk.

I nod and sip and murmur as the hands of my watch creep around. Someone leaves and lets in light from the outside, turned a deep gold. The day is fading. I ask the waitress for a couple of burger platters. First, I don't want us getting cut off from more beer, and second, a small plan is forming in the back of my mind. Wouldn't it be great to take this guy out? My parting gift to LA…

After we eat—and I must say, those big, fat Saloon burgers do look delicious, I'm only pretending to nibble at mine—I start pouring it on a little thicker. My murmurs escalate to "That's awesome" and "Wow." It's like the more Marty talks, the more he can talk. The most inane questions set him off on a tangent for uninterrupted minutes.

"You know something, Marty?" I say.

"What's that?" He pauses for the first time in two and a half hours.

"I think you're a really good guy."

"Gee, thanks. You're okay too."

"I can tell we can do a lot more talking. What do you say we go to my place for a pot of coffee? I'll double your fee. If you're not too tired that is."

"The time's gone real quick. Sure I can talk some more. Double? That's six hundred, right?"

"Hundred dollar bills work for you?"

"How do we get there?"

"Just follow me up Sepulveda."

He looks a little dubious.

"I have a handicap-access van, modified for my special needs," I explain. "Been driving it for years."

The explanation works with five beers in him already. "Where you parked?"

"A few blocks from here. I just need to roll over there and get it."

"I'm in the beach lot."

"Pull out and look for my van. I'll wait on Washington pointed east."

I signal the waitress and leave a hefty tip. Another minute and I'm headed down the street to Del Rey Tower while Marty gets his car. It gives me time to consider that even though a revisit to Malibu would be closer and more convenient, Sepulveda is in Los Angeles Police Department territory. Sepulveda is the longest street in LA County, running from Long Beach to the San Fernando Valley. It's good to kill in different jurisdictions, disrupt my geographic profiling, my zone of behavioral activity, as the Homicide Investigation Standards and Practices Handbook puts it. The insurance actuary in me weighs my exposure. Up until now, I've killed exclusively on LASD turf.

How well do the LAPD and the LASD work together? About as well as the FBI and the CIA, I'd guess. In other words, nothing to worry about in terms of co-operation. I decide to lead Marty up Sepulveda, past the tunnel through the mountain. When you come out the other side it's trippy runoffs. And after dark, it's like a ghost town.

***

Sid and I wait patiently until Marty appears in the rearview, driving an elderly Volkswagen Rabbit, with the top down. He must have replaced the car he totaled with this creampuff. Is everything about this guy out of date? I'm one to talk, driving my relic, of course. Sid eases the shifter into Drive and we pull out just ahead of the Rabbit. I wave cheerily out the window and settle for a sedate thirty-five miles per. The darker this night gets, the better. My cell dings. It's a text from Cinda who is probably through with her client. She'll have to wait.

Arlington Cemetery comes up on the right—west coast version. Mercury vapor streetlights cast deep yellow light and long shadows. To the left, the Getty Museum on the side of the hill is lit up like a castle—parapet and all.

9:06 P.M. We drive under Sunset Boulevard. Behind, Marty's coming right along. I accelerate to forty and he matches me. Visions of hundred dollar bills must be dancing in his head.

9:09 P.M. Three minutes since we passed a car. We're the only ones heading north.

Civilization ends at about Moraga Boulevard and street lights are getting fewer and farther between. There's two lanes of traffic on either side and houses are thinning out. Now only trees are on either side of us, plus a big retaining wall that abuts the 405.

9:11 P.M. One car passes heading south. Even if there is an accident, there's no guarantee anyone will pay attention or stop or call for help. This is LA. I'll take my chances.

Climbing to the Skirball Centre. Signs say North parking and East Parking, but the whole theatre is dark tonight. No plays, no entertainments, no audience.

The road narrows to one lane in each direction. The tunnel is ahead, a hole cut right into the mountain rock. It swallows us. Overhead, a strip of painfully bright mercury vapor lights. Marty dutifully stays one car space behind. In the glaring light I can see the tattered edges of the Rabbit's roof fluttering. Now I know why he's got the top down—it's torn to shreds. The tunnel ends, and going out the other end another car passes us going south. 9:16 P.M.

I pull to the left side of the lane and slow down till I'm alongside Marty's car. He looks at me inquiringly, and I make a motion for him to pull ahead of me. As he does, I accelerate, so he has to go faster, keeping him alongside. I can hear the rhythm of our tires spinning on the pavement. A few seconds later we pass Valley Meadow. Lots of elm trees and a slope beyond. There are no houses for hundred and hundreds of yards past this spot.

Again, Marty throws me a querying look but I motion him ahead and smile. We're doing almost fifty as we hit the turn and I lean the heavy van into him, forcing him to go with the centrifugal force of the curve. We race downhill and on the right shoulder is a wooden fence—so weathered it's silver, meaning the wood is extremely soft. Behind the fence is a steep drop into a culvert. The Rabbit will go through that wood like it was made of toothpicks and drop out of sight till morning.

A quick look to my right. Marty's growing frantic. This is it. He takes one hand off the wheel to blare the horn. A mistake in my favor. All it takes is one turn of the wheel. I throw all my weight behind it and heave into the Rabbit side-on. CLASHHHH. Metal on metal. Sid shrieks. My Chevy thrashes and rocks. The Rabbit jumps the shoulder and takes out the weathered fence—shattering into brittle sticks. I pump the brakes and look back. The Rabbit's nowhere in sight, the fence has a big vacancy smashed in it. Dust and splinters dance in the void. Marty lies in the road—thrown clear of the wreck.

I should run. I should finish the drive to the end of Sepulveda where it spits out onto Burbank Boulevard. I should but I don't. I can't. I reverse back down the lane and pull alongside Marty's body. He's shaking and still breathing. I pull off to the side, tie Sid to the steering wheel and put down the hydraulic ramp. I hurry down it, toward him. My wheelchair sounds pathetic in the wake of mayhem—a slow squeaking. He opens his eyes. "Why'd you do that?' he says in a matter-of-fact way. I match his tone, " "Because you're a fucking hit and run driver. You deserve to die."

He groans and shuts his eyes. Opens them again and heaves himself on all fours. He starts crawling to the road shoulder. The patches of his old sport coat are torn. His shoes are missing and one sock has a hole in it. "I'm not, I'm not…" he gasps.

"That's what they all say, Marty. All hit and runners are innocent. According to them."

"No. I made the story up. I'm a screenwriter… Marty reaches the shoulder and scrabbles at the dirt. He can't quite make the three-inch lift. Instead, he rolls onto the shoulder and pushes up on all fours again. "I needed money."

"You what?"

His eyes meet mine. In the van's headlights, they sparkle—a direct gaze animated with honesty. Marty is telling the truth.

"You stupid A-HOLE! MADE IT UP???"

His eyes fog and he collapses, slow-motion, in the dirt. I'm frozen for a beat, two beats, three. I roll over to him. "Marty, wake up! Wake up!"

I scramble for my cell and laboriously dial 911. They pick up right away and I spit-shout, "A crash. Top of Sepulveda. Send an ambulance."

"What is your location, sir?"

"Just past Valley Meadow, north."