Revision of Justice (34 page)

I put my key in the door and let myself in. Across the room, the red light was blinking on my answering machine.

I poured a glass of wine and sat on the edge of the bed, staring stupidly at the flashing light, wondering if it was a message from Anne-Judith Kemmerman professing her innocence, but too wrung out to really care.

“Hello, Danny.”

He looked up as I stepped into his room. The color was back in his face, the strength in his voice. It was Thursday evening. Just four days of the right treatment had made a noticeable difference.

“Hey, stranger.”

His hospital gown was lowered to his waist while a doctor sat on the bed, moving a stethoscope over his chest.

“Dr. Bergman—this is my buddy, Ben.”

The doctor studied my face while he worked on my name.

“Benjamin Justice—the reporter?”

“Ex-reporter, for the most part.”

“I’ll be through here in a moment, Justice.”

His voice was cool, close to rude.

“It’s OK, Doc. He’s a friend.”

Bergman eyed me critically. He was a small, intense, bearded man in his forties with a prominent nose that propped up a stylish pair of spectacles. He removed his stethoscope from his ears, folded it into a pocket of his white coat, then turned to help Danny back into his gown.

“Would you mind closing the curtain, Justice?”

I pulled it closed as Bergman lowered the sheet and lifted Danny’s gown, inspecting him below the waist.

I stepped through the curtain and crossed to the window, where I could see orange flames massed against the dark hills above Franklin Avenue. The wind had scattered embers like seeds into the surrounding mountains, where smaller fires blossomed like bright flowers.

A minute later, I heard the curtain being drawn open around the bed. When I looked back, the doctor was sitting beside Danny again, laying a fatherly hand on his head.

“You’re doing much, much better, Danny. I’m checking you out of here tomorrow, since that’s what you want. You should be walking fairly well for a while.”

He pressed one of Danny’s hands between his own.

“I guess you have some decisions to make, don’t you?”

“I’ve pretty much made ’em, Doc.”

“If you have any questions, or just need to talk, call me. If I’m busy, they’ll find me.”

“Thanks for everything you’ve done for me, Doc. You always made me feel real special.”

“You are special.”

The doctor kissed Danny on the forehead, then nodded curtly to me on his way out the door, where two uniformed cops stood drinking coffee.

I took his place beside Danny on the bed.

“I’m sorry about the mess I caused. All the reporters—”

“Fuck ’em. Isn’t that what you always say?”

I grinned in spite of myself. He reached for my hand.

“I missed you the last coupla days. A whole lot.”

“I had a few things to sort out.”

His eyes moved keenly over my face and arms as he did an inventory of the latest damage.

“You’re all banged up, worse than before. What happened?”

“I fell out of bed.”

This time, he grinned.

“Somebody probably pushed you out. For gettin’ fresh, like you did with me the other day.”

We both laughed, but it didn’t last long.

“Look, about what I asked—”

“I’ll do it.”

“No, Ben. Not if—”

“I’ll do it, Danny. If that’s what you need from me. I ran out of here the other day thinking I never could.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Remembering what it feels like to let someone down. Knowing how hard it is to live with yourself afterward.”

“If we’re gonna do it, I don’t want to wait around. I want to get to it as soon as we can.”

Get to it
. The conversation was starting to feel unreal again.

“Why so fast?”

“I don’t dig the idea of sitting around for a week or two thinking on it. I’m feeling OK about it. I’m ready.”

He squeezed my hand. He had to know that I was having a lot of trouble with this.

“You’re calling the shots, Danny.”

“They’re checking me out of here tomorrow. It’d be cool if we could be on our way tomorrow night. Hike into the mountains Saturday. Take care of it Sunday.”

Take care of it. How easily he talked about it.

“Sunday,” I said. “Three days.”

I watched him shrug.

“Seems like a good day—religious and all.” He pursed his lips bravely. “The day we’re supposed to get closer to God.”

I wanted to smile for him, but couldn’t.

“Sunday, then.”

A female nurse came in to check Danny’s IV drip, then padded out silently in her white shoes.

“How’s your friend Alexandra?”

“Out covering the fire. With Harry.”

“I guess it’s pretty bad.”

“They’ve evacuated a lot of the homes up in the hills.” I shook my head. “Do you really want to talk about the fire?”

“What I really want to do is close my eyes while you’re sitting with me. Go to sleep knowing you’re here.”

“That’s easy enough.”

I pulled a chair up next to the bed, while he settled his head against the pillow. I eased myself quietly into the chair and opened Gordon Cantwell’s script again to the title page.

NOTHING TO LOSE

An Original Screenplay

by Gordon Cantwell

In the lower right-hand corner was a WGA script registration number and a date that set it at ten days before.

I turned to the next page, saw the words F
ADE
I
N
, and started reading. Two hours later I was on page ninety-nine, with the cancer-ridden convict about to undertake the final and most dangerous phase of his journey, and the determined warden closing in with the police.

Danny slept. I put the script aside and went for coffee. Before another hour had passed, with the coffee gone, I reached the bottom of page 131 and the words F
ADE
T
O
B
LACK
.

I turned to a fresh page in my notebook and jotted down my final notes.

Even as a Hollywood outsider, I could understand why Tom Cruise and Paramount Pictures had been willing to pay so much for Cantwell’s screenplay, even if they had to lop twenty-five years off the protagonist’s life to accommodate the youthful star. The characters were complex and believable, the story suspenseful and poignant, the dialogue spare but realistic, the hero’s goal worth fighting for. The weighty theme—a dying criminal trying to redeem his misspent life before time runs out—added special substance to a story that was already well crafted and compelling.

In every respect,
Nothing to Lose
was different from and far better than anything Cantwell had previously written.

Danny opened his eyes as I was scribbling the last of my notes.

“You’re still here.”

“I’m staying the night—unless they throw me out.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

He kept his eyes on me, searching for something.

“You’re sure about this?”

I nodded, hoping we wouldn’t have to talk about it anymore.

He asked for his water and I held it for him while he sipped through a bent straw. On his chin and upper lip his whiskers were coming in again.

“I’ll give you a shave in the morning.”

“That’d be nice.”

I put the glass back and folded up my notebook.

“You’ll return home looking very handsome. Fred and Maurice never turn away a handsome man.”

“They were here a couple times.”

“Fred and Maurice? When?”

“The last coupla days. When you were gone, sortin’ things out.”

He smiled, looking incredibly at ease with things.

“Fred says they’ll keep Maggie for me, if she ever needs a home. Says he’s wanted a dog for a long time. I think she’ll like it there.”

I looked away because I could feel tears coming. I was afraid that if I started, I wouldn’t he able to stop.

Danny reached through the railing of the bed and touched my hand.

“It’s gonna be all right, Ben. It’s gonna be fine.”

I sneaked Danny out of the hospital early the next day, bypassing the reporters and photographers who hovered in predatory packs around the main entrance.

I had the top up, with Danny under a blanket in the backseat, and cruised away from the hospital and through Boy’s Town without incident. As I turned off Santa Monica Boulevard toward the Norma Triangle, I was doing my best not to think beyond today.

Maggie started running around barking when she saw him, which eased him back into life on Norma Place almost as if he’d never been gone.

We celebrated with a champagne breakfast, but after that I had work that couldn’t wait, so I turned Danny over to Maurice and Fred. A few minutes later, they drove away in Fred’s Jeep with Maggie in the back.

Neither Maurice nor Fred knew what Danny and I had planned. Danny wanted it that way, to keep them clear of possible legal complications and his good-byes to a minimum. I would tell them after it was over. They’d been through it themselves, several times, as they eased the passing of dying friends. They knew the rules and would understand.

I unlocked the garage and dragged out the four trash bags I’d collected the previous week at Gordon Cantwell’s house. I spread a big plastic sheet in the yard, emptied the contents of the bags into the middle of it, and began to sort through it item by item, scrap by scrap.

Most of it was comprised of aluminum and glass beer and wine empties, followed by fruit juice and bottled-water containers. Those went into the recycling bins Maurice and Fred kept beside the garage, along with a dozen jars and cans that had held an assortment of nuts and other goodies. There were also a couple of dozen empty bags that had contained taco chips and various other snacks, which I crammed into the regular trash.

When I finally came upon my first Grolsch bottle—emerald green, etched with imprints of barley and hops, a hinged cap dangling from its top—it was like discovering a precious lost jewel for which a setting was already waiting in the mosaic of Reza JaFari’s murder.

By the time I’d sorted through every speck of trash, I’d found three more of the green bottles, along with a receipt for a six-pack of Grolsch and a bag of taco chips from a market near the mouth of Beachwood Canyon.

I checked carefully and found no more Grolsch bottles—just the four.

By then, Fred’s Jeep was pulling into the driveway, followed by Danny’s pickup, with Danny at the wheel and Maggie beside him. In the bed of the truck was the table he’d been working on when I first met him.

Danny climbed out and stood aside, while Fred and I lifted the table out and set it on the ground.

“What a lovely table,” Maurice said. He thumped on Danny’s chest with a gentle finger. “You have a real talent for woodworking, young man.”

“I been doin’ it awhile.”

“And where would you like to keep this fine piece?”

Danny turned to me.

“I want Ben to have it.”

His gift caught me by total surprise.

“Are you sure?”

“’Course I’m sure.” He ran a finger along the table’s polished edges. “It’s supposed to be for eating. But I figure you can use it to write on too.”

“Benjamin’s going to be doing quite a bit of writing from now on,” Maurice said. “I just know it.”

“I carved my name underneath,” Danny said. “Along with the date. I just wish I had chairs to go with it.”

“Fred, don’t we have a set of old chairs in the garage?”

Fred nodded and disappeared with Maurice through the old rolling doors of the garage. Danny’s eyes connected with mine.

“Now that you got a table and chairs, I guess you can have people over for dinner.”

“That means I have to cook.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“Feels a little too civilized, I guess.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea, Ben. Getting acquainted with people again. Letting ’em into your life.”

“I
have
let someone into my life.”

“And when he’s gone, you gotta move on, meet somebody else. ’Cause that’s the way he’d want it.”

We watched Maurice and Fred haul four chairs from the garage and set them in the driveway. They were straight-backed walnut pieces with seats upholstered in a paisley design. Maurice found a rag and went to work dusting them off. Then they each carried two chairs over, positioning them around the table.

Maurice was beaming.

“Perfect! Ethan Allen couldn’t have done better!”

Fred helped me haul the table up to the apartment. Danny and Maurice followed with the chairs. Danny climbed the stairs without pain, looking almost strong.

We got the table through the door by turning it sideways, and set it upright in the kitchen, next to a window that looked down on the yard.

“I’m going to wash that window first thing tomorrow,” Maurice said. “Fred, you can build a little flower box. Benjamin can look out on geraniums every morning while he drinks his coffee and thinks about what he’s going to write!”

He and Fred took their plans with them down the stairs, leaving Danny and me alone for the first time since he’d come home.

“When I was in the hospital, I wrote letters to people. There weren’t that many, but I wanted to say good-bye just the same. Maybe we can mail ’em on our way out of town tonight.”

“If that’s what you want, Danny.”

“I got all my papers in order and I left a forwarding address to the house. I’m giving you power of attorney, which means you can cash my last Social Security check when it comes in. Maybe you can give the money to Fred, to help pay for Maggie—she’ll need her shots. Or the search and rescue people, if there’s a bill.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“I gave Fred my tools, and I’m signing the pink slip for the truck over to you. It’s not worth a whole lot but it runs good. I rebuilt the engine last year, put in a new transmission.”

I knew what he was doing—trying to get everything said, so it wouldn’t get in the way later. After Jacques died, I’d found all his possessions in boxes, neatly labeled with the names and places where each box was to be sent.

I folded my arms around Danny, pulling him close. Each time it was harder to let go. I wanted to somehow draw him into me until he disappeared and became part of me, so I could hide him from the disease, from what was coming. He must have sensed that I was holding on too tight, because he pulled away.

“I’m gonna take Maggie for a walk. Stretch my legs. Spend some time alone with her.”

“OK.”

I kissed him but he wouldn’t let it last. Then he was out the door and down the stairs.

I pulled out one of the chairs and sat down at my new table. It felt as smooth and solid and durable as any table I’d ever worked on, and it was far more beautiful. I’d never owned a piece of furniture so fine.

I liked the idea that it would be around long after Danny was gone. Or Maurice or Fred or me. The fact of it was, none of us was meant to last as long as a well-built table. None of us was guaranteed to last any time at all.

I opened my notebook and worked on a final set of notes, putting all my information in order to be sure it added up correctly.

An hour had passed that way when Danny came in with a tall glass of cold juice for each of us. He stood over me a moment, touching me affectionately but fleetingly, as if preparing me for the leavetaking he’d already accepted within himself.

Maggie came padding in and they lay down on the bed. Danny was asleep almost immediately, curled into an S, with Maggie tucked inside.

I went back to work.

I looked through my notes one more time, double-checking to see that all the dates and times and places were marked and in chronological order. Yet it didn’t feel quite complete; I still had a nagging question or two.

Dusk had fallen; the room was in shadow. I heard the jingle of Maggie’s dog tags as she raised her head alertly to the sound of something outside.

I stepped to the window and looked down the drive. Hosain JaFari was striding toward the apartment, looking grim and determined.

I hushed Maggie and fixed the lock on the screen door, ready to close and lock the inside door if necessary.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, short and heavy. Moments later, the shadowed face of Hosain JaFari was peering in.

“Mr. Justice?”

I stepped into view.

“I’m right here, Mr. JaFari.”

“Lieutenant DeWinter told me where I might find you. When I explained to him my need, he did not think you would mind.”

“I’m sorry about the way the media has handled the story of your son’s death, Mr. JaFari. It must be very painful for you.”

“We are in God’s hands, Mr. Justice. It is all beyond our control.”

“You said you needed to talk with me.”

“Yes, about something I believe you saw in my restaurant. In the food locker.”

I kept listening.

“As a Muslim, I am forbidden from drinking alcohol, or from serving it in my place of business. Yet I keep several bottles of beer there, on a refrigerator shelf, toward the back.”

“Well hidden, Mr. JaFari?”

He hesitated, a mix of feelings clouding his face.

“You see, I kept the beer there for Reza, for my son.”

“At his request?”

“No—it was my idea. You see, my son is not so religious as I. He likes this beer very much. Though it was wrong, I kept some for him at the restaurant. Trying to make him feel more welcome. Even my wife did not know.”

“Your son was more important to you than even the vows of your religion?”

“It was a choice I made, for the sake of our relationship.”

“You must have loved him very much, then.”

He dropped his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice trembled with emotion.

“Yes, I loved my Reza very much.”

“Did he visit you often, Mr. JaFari?”

“Not so often as I wished. I would cook him a good meal, serve him the beer he liked, try to talk with him. I told him he was welcome to bring his friends, but in all these years, he brought only one.”

“When was that?”

“A few weeks ago. I remembered this only when I saw the bottles of beer in my restaurant kitchen. Reza and this man came late in the evening, after we closed.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He was someone from the movies, with whom Reza had some business. They sat at a table in the corner, by the front window, talking very low but with great excitement. I heard him tell Reza to speak to no one about their project, to trust no one.”

“They drank beer?”

“Yes, the imported beer, the Grolsch. I made a joke about it—I told Reza’s friend that was the only beer my high-class son would drink. That he would touch nothing else.”

“Do you recall this man’s name, Mr. JaFari?”

“No, I cannot say that I do. It was just the one time, Mr. Justice.”

“Gordon Cantwell, perhaps?”

“Yes, Cantwell. That was his name. Do you know this man?”

“Better all the time.”

JaFari dropped his eyes respectfully.

“At any rate, Mr. Justice, I wanted to speak one more time with you. Face to face, as men should. To explain the beer but also to apologize for any rudeness I may have shown to you.”

“And I as well, Mr. JaFari.”

“Good luck to you, Mr. Justice.”

“And to you, sir.”

He turned and trudged down the stairs, leaving me with all the answers I needed. I sat at the table, jotting down what he had told me in the place where it belonged, feeling my heart pound.

I was erasing the last of my question marks when the phone rang. Christine Kapono’s husky voice was at the other end.

“Gordon called me a few minutes ago. He wanted to know where his passport was.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I gave him a general area to look, but in the wrong room. To buy some time.”

“You have any idea where he might be going?”

“He keeps a small house in Bali. Also, a bank account there.”

“Cantwell takes trips all the time, Christine.”

“Not when he’s just signed the movie deal he’s been waiting for all his life. Not after somebody’s just been murdered at his house—somebody he may have been doing secret business with.”

“You’ve been doing some deduction of your own.”

“The way you’ve been asking certain questions, Justice—let’s just say I figured you’d want to know about the passport.”

“You figured right.”

“You’ve been pretty hard on people. I still don’t like it, but I’m beginning to understand it a little.”

“A little’s better than nothing.”

“Kick ass, Justice.”

“Hang ten, Kapono.”

I cut the connection, heard a dial tone, called information, and asked for the number of the Indonesian consulate. I used it, got through to the right person, and learned what I’d already suspected—Bali had no extradition treaty with the United States.