Shamus In The Green Room (23 page)

I closed my eyes and massaged my temples. Nate handed me

a bottle of water. I took a slug, then felt like I had to throw up.

“I’m going to be sick,” I said.

The man with the cap looked stricken. “Put your head be-

tween your knees and take deep breaths.”

I could feel him watching me. “You okay?”

I raised my head tentatively. “I think it’s passed.”

“You know, I’ve seen cars come back from worse accidents

than this one,” said Nate cheerfully. “It’s the alignment that

usually suffers, but that’s my specialty. I think your car’s gonna

make it.” He smiled. “But, if you don’t mind my saying, you

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should’ve known better than to make a turn like that. Didn’t

you see the sign?” He pointed to the No U-Turn sign directly

above my head.

Of course I’d seen the sign. But I’d thought I knew better.

I sighed deeply. If only I’d continued up the road. But, no. I

was too lazy. I didn’t want to have to figure out the way back. I

wanted to go the way I knew. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The guy in the baseball cap said, “I’ve been telling the peo-

ple I work for, they need a guardrail up here.”

“Rich folks.” Nate wiped his hands on his pants. “I could

tell you stories.”

I struggled to my feet and ran over to the side of the road

and vomited into a pile of dead leaves. Then I sat down on the

curb and wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve. Some-

thing was very wrong here. I tried to remember what had hap-

pened, but it was all so hazy. I’d had both hands on the wheel.

I’d started to turn left, hand over hand, just like my father had

taught me, and all of a sudden I was hurtling down the hill.

I remember seeing black. Black smoke.

And blue. Blue sky.

And green. Something green. In my rearview mirror. The

reflection of my ring? I looked down at the emerald on my left

hand. Couldn’t be. I’d seen it just before I’d felt the wheel spin

out of my hands. If I didn’t know better—but no, it was im-

possible. Nate, the guy in the baseball hat, the paramedics,

who’d already come and gone—somebody would’ve said

something by now. You couldn’t do something like that and

have nobody notice.

Or could you?

“Nate?” I asked.

“At your service.” He sat down on the curb next to me.

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“Did anything about the rear of the car strike you as odd?”

“How do you mean?”

I went over to my Camry, and pointed toward the general

vicinity of the trunk. “Around here, I mean. Any strange dents

or marks or anything?”

He followed me over. “Try to remember what happened,

miss. You rammed the front of your car into the trees. Why

would I see anything strange back here?” He ran his hand over

the rear fender. His veins were thick and ropy. “No,” he said.

“Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.”

I started stabbing at the car with my finger. “What about

this?” I stopped stabbing.

Nate looked at me with genuine concern. “It’s called a

scratch, miss. And I think the paint job is the least of your

troubles at this moment in time.”

“That scratch wasn’t there before.” I was sure it wasn’t there

before. Ninety-seven percent sure. Eighty percent sure. Shoot.

“So you’re saying?”

I spoke in a whisper. “Could somebody have given me a lit-

tle bitty push?”

He looked at me like I was a little bitty crazy. “People don’t

go around doing stuff like that. You better lie back down,

miss.”

I got my purse and sat down on the chaise longue to call

Gambino. He wasn’t answering. I tried Annie next, but she

was out, too, and didn’t have a cell phone. Looked like I was

going to have to hitch a ride back to the garage with Nate. I

thanked the guy in the cap for all his help, gathered together

my things, and climbed into the cab of the tow truck.

What about the green Toyota truck at the trailer park? Lisa

Lapelt Scofield had a green car, a Honda Odyssey. What color

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car did Oscar Nichols drive? What about the psycho security

guard? How many people in Los Angeles drove green cars?

According to scientists, the human eye is more sensitive to

the color green than to any other.

My phone started to ring.

It was Rafe. He was on the 10 heading west from down-

town, which, given his history, could mean anything: that he

was on the 405 heading east, that he was around the corner,

that he was in Athens, Georgia. He said he had to see me. I said

I’d be at D.J.’s Garage in the Palisades in half an hour.

While Nate was rooting through his glove compartment for

a pen, I suddenly remembered that Rafe had a green car, too.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVEN

But it was a black Land Rover that hopped the curb at

D.J.’s, music blaring. Rafe stepped out and caused the

usual commotion. Customers stopped filling their gas tanks.

Mechanics emerged from the shadows, wiping their dirty

hands on their coveralls. The cashier, wearing a beautiful gold-

and-blue sari, came running outside, waving a small camera

phone in his face: “You are at this moment looking at Rafe

Simic. Please say hello to my sister in New Delhi, Rafe Simic!”

Rafe was sweet as pie, for a while.

“You see that?” he asked with a grimace, indicating two

men on the other side of the street. Their telephoto lenses were

pointing in our direction. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over

my chest. “The fat guy in the motorcycle jacket? I’ve got a re-

straining order out on him. Asshole can’t come within a hun-

dred feet of me.”

“Let’s go inside,” I suggested.

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We went into the minimart. Rafe bought a tin of cinnamon

Altoids and signed some autographs while I finished filling out

the paperwork.

“Would you mind spelling your name for me?” Rafe asked,

pen poised over paper.

The cashier nodded her head. “D-E-V-I J-A-Y-A-S-H-R-I.

My American friends call me D.J.”

“It’s really a shame,” Rafe said, handing D.J. the slip of pa-

per with a smile. “What happened to you earlier, I mean. Is

your insurance going to handle the rental?”

“Don’t you worry about me.” I returned D.J.’s clipboard.

She tore off the top sheet and handed it back. “Seven to ten

days, minimum.” She addressed me in clipped tones. “We will

telephone you. Do not telephone us. We are very busy.” They

were so much friendlier at Hollywood Toyota. I felt like a

turncoat.

“You’re lucky you weren’t hurt,” Rafe said, staring at my

bandage. “I don’t think that cut’s going to leave a scar, do you?”

“Where’s the sports car, Rafe?”

He jangled his keys in his pocket. “In the shop. Where

those things usually are. I’ve got Will’s car today. It’s decent

enough, but I think I’m going to get something sensible next.

Maybe a Camry, like you.”

Yeah, right. “You should get an electric car. There are long

waiting lists, but Will could fix that, I’m sure. It’d be good for

your image.”

“You think my image needs work?” he asked.

It might.

“Do you, Cece?”

“Is there someplace around here to get a good cup of cof-

fee?” I asked D.J.

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She ignored me.

“Excuse me,” Rafe asked in honeyed tones, “can you rec-

ommend a place to get some coffee?”

D.J. indicated the cappuccino cart in the corner. “Low fat,

nonfat, regular fat. All are available. For you.” She blushed

prettily.

“On second thought, I think we could use some fresh air.”

Rafe took me by the arm. “C’mon.”

Once we were back outside, the photographer in the motor-

cycle jacket started yelling. “Miss, look over here! Rafe! Over

here! Give me a break, wouldja? I gotta earn a living!”

“Can you believe this shit? This place looks fine,” Rafe

pulled me into the doughnut shop next door. We took the back

booth. I ripped a few napkins from the dispenser and wiped

off the table. The window was already decorated for Christ-

mas, or else that was powdered sugar. Rafe went to the counter

to order.

“What do you want?” he called over.

I was suddenly starving. I told him two old-fashioneds and

a coffee. Black. Normally, I liked it with cream and sugar, but

not with sweets.

Rafe came back with two black coffees and two old-

fashioneds.

“You’re not having any doughnuts?” I asked.

“Nah.”

“You do know that you look awful.”

“Thank you. This jacket cost four thousand dollars. And

you’ve looked better yourself, since you brought it up.”

“I’m not talking about the jacket.” It was suede, the color

of bittersweet chocolate. “You’ve gotten way too thin.” He ac-

tually looked better than he had the night of his party, but that

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was probably because it was still too early in the day to have

started drinking.

“All this crazy dieting isn’t good for you,” I continued,

Steve Terrell’s voice in my ear. “You need to calm down and to

remember that your job is to entertain people.” Why was I

helping Steve Terrell exactly? I’d forgotten. My head was

throbbing. I grabbed one of the doughnuts and stuffed it in

my mouth. Nothing could kill my appetite, unfortunately. “It’s

not going to help anybody,” I said, “if you go overboard.”

Rafe looked at me curiously. “Since when do you tell me I

shouldn’t take my work seriously?” He stretched out his arms

and clasped them behind his head.

He was still talking, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

In addition to the pounding in my head, there was now a roar-

ing in my ears.

Everything had changed.

Guns do that.

I saw a gun.

When Rafe stretched out his arms and his jacket pulled

away from his chest, I saw a gun.

“Cece,” Rafe said. “I asked you a question.”

“Why did you need to see me, Rafe?” My voice was quaver-

ing. My mind was racing in a million directions. “You said it

was important, so here we are.”

“Will told me what he did to you.”

“What he did to me?” What you did to me. Someone shot at

my window. Gambino was sure it was one of Julio Gonzalez’s

thugs, but sometimes even Gambino got it wrong.

I saw a gun.

I didn’t know what to do, what to think. Then, something

from Hammett’s story “The Gutting of Couffignal” came to

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me. It was something the Op said to the Princess Zhukovski.

She was wrong, he said, in thinking that because he was a man

and she was a woman she was safe. He wasn’t a man and she

wasn’t a woman; he was a hunter, and she was the thing run-

ning in front of him.

Rafe looked confused. “Will fired you, of course. Without

asking me, which was not cool.”

A hunter does what hunters do.

A detective does what detectives do.

The Op shoots the princess.

Ready, aim, fire.

“Will didn’t fire me, Rafe,” I said. “We came to the end of

our work.”

“I don’t think so. This isn’t the end. What I mean is, I want

you on set with me. It’s important that you say yes.”

I didn’t answer.

“As a kind of coach, I’m talking. You know,” he said, “help

me with motivation, focus. You’re good at that.”

Did he want me on the set to keep an eye on me? To make

sure I stopped making trouble for him? I could see the door

from my seat. All I had to do was get up and walk out. But he

wasn’t going to shoot me. This was crazy. He wasn’t going to

shoot me here. He wasn’t going to shoot me anywhere. He

wasn’t a hunter. He wasn’t the Op.

“Look, don’t say no right away,” he pleaded. “Will and I,

we’re going out of town for the rest of the week. We’ll be back

on Sunday. You’re right, of course. I’m a little tightly wound.”

He laughed. “See, I’m admitting it. We’re going to go out to

the desert. I’ve got a house out there. We’re going to do some

hiking, look at the stars, then we’ll be ready to go first thing

next Monday morning. That’s when the shoot starts, bright

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and early. Just think about it, okay? Think about being there

with me. You can give me a call on my cell when you’ve made

up your mind. No pressure.”

No pressure.

“I saw the gun,” I blurted out.

“Fuck.” He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“And now I magically understand what I’m supposed to do,

like you understood what you were supposed to do when you

got Maren’s letter. Is that how it works?” I asked.

He looked at me, then started to shake his head. “You’ve

got it all wrong, Cece. This has nothing to do with you. Or

with Maren. I can’t believe—well, since you saw the fucking

thing, here it is: Will gave it to me, okay? It’s his gun. I’ve got

some kind of crazy stalker, been writing all kinds of notes,

threatening ones, lunatic stuff. Calling, too. Will’s got her on

tape, of course. But he’s worried for me. He told me it made

sense for me to carry this thing, for protection.”

I had no idea if what he was saying was true or not. After a

while, I wasn’t even listening. I was staring at the scar on his