Natural Causes Page 17

“Who do you think you are, man?” she said with a laugh. “Another prince? I don’t fuck princes anymore.”

  She turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

  26

  I OPENED the sliding glass door and went out onto the terrace. The kid on the chaise looked up at me. He wanted to be pals, now. I could see it in his face. Now that I’d joined the Marsha Dover Club. He didn’t realize it, but he’d picked the wrong moment to buddy up to me.

  “She’s really something, isn’t she?” he said. “Really wild.”

  I kicked the chaise over, and the kid tumbled onto the tiles.

  “Jesus,” he said frantically. “Take it easy. What are you? Her old man or something? I thought he was dead. Honest to God, mister. She told me he was dead.”

  I felt the anger drain out of me. It had been a stupid thing to do. “I’m no relative,” I said.

  He nodded uncertainly—on all fours, on the terrace. “Just take it easy, O.K.?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Me?” He pointed to himself “Me—I’m nothing, man. Just the phone repairman.”

  I started to laugh.

  He smiled weakly and got to his feet. “You ain’t gonna report me, are you?”

  I shook my head. “C’mon. You can relax. I’m not going to do anything to you.”

  “Sure?” he said.

  “Yeah. I shouldn’t have leaned on you in the first place.”

  “‘S’all right,” he said, waving his hands. “No problem.”

  He tipped the chaise back onto its feet, started to sit down, then looked at me. “Is it O.K.?”

  “Christ, yes,” I said. “I told you—forget it. What are you out here for, anyway?”

  “One of the phones is fucked,” he said. He sat down gingerly on the chaise. “Marsha put call-forwarding on it and forgot how to take it off. Marsha...she don’t seem real bright about phones and shit. All she had to do was press a couple of buttons and hang up. I fixed it.”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  “Hey,” the kid said. “What are you going to do when it’s thrown in your face? I got a wife. I got kids. But, Christ, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You know? I mean I couldn’t believe it.”

  “I guess not.”

  “She wanted to do some funky things. Backdoor, you know? It was O.K. with me. Plenty O.K. But I think I might have hurt her.”

  I stared at him.

  He stood up suddenly, as if he figured he’d spent enough time humoring me. “I better get going,” he said. “O.K.?”

  “Yeah. You can go.”

  “Thanks.” He walked slowly across the terrace, scooping up a workshirt where he’d dropped it on the tiles. When he got to the stairs, he picked up his pace. He was running by the time he got to the garden—past Cupid and the rosebushes and out to the lawn.

  ******

  I sat down on the chaise and waited. The sun started to set over the garden, lighting up the oaks. After a time, she came back out onto the terrace. She had on a terry robe. There was another glass of booze in her hand.

  “You still here?” she said.

  “Still here.”

  She walked over to the edge of the terrace and looked down at the garden. The setting sun caught in her hair, making it glow.

  “Why?” she said without looking at me.

  “I wanted to say I was sorry.”

  She turned around, bracing her hands behind her on the balcony rail. The wind tossed her golden hair and the lapel of her robe.

  “That’s not why,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “It isn’t.” I got up and walked over to where she was standing. She smiled—a little triumphantly. Enough to make me feel vaguely ashamed.

  “You’re not one of those reformer types, are you?” she said. “If so, you’re years too late.”

  I pulled her to me. She didn’t resist. She came into my arms almost involuntarily, as if it were a reflex with her, and laid her head on my chest.

  “He wasn’t bad,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make him sound bad. He was just scared, you know? All the time scared.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Quentin,” I said.

  “That’s funny,” she said with a laugh. “I do.”

  I put my arms around her.

  Marsha reached down and undid the belt of her robe, letting it fall open on either side. She was naked underneath it. She pulled my head close to her face and held it steady for a moment, like a mother looking searchingly at her child.

  I wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but her eyes glazed over suddenly, as if it didn’t matter after all. She pulled my head to her and we kissed. She began to groan, grinding her naked pelvis into my groin.

  “Do it, babe,” she whispered hoarsely. “Right out here. Do it.”

  ******

  When it was done, she got up, naked, and walked across the dark terrace to the study. She flipped a switch by the sliding glass door and the pool lights went on—a soft aqua glow. She came back out with two glasses of booze and sat down on the apron of the pool, paddling her feet in the water. I worked my way, bare-assed, across the cold tiles and sat down beside her.

  She handed me a drink. “Well, that was different,” she said. “I’d almost forgotten what straight sex was like.”

  I stared at her for a moment. The pool lights rippled across her body, making her look like she was underwater. “You’re very beautiful,” I said.

  She laughed, glanced at me, and laughed again. “You go to too many movies, you know? You had me pegged right the first time. I’m a real cunt.”

  “It sounded like you had some help,” I said, sipping the Scotch.

  “Oh, don’t go getting pissed off at Quentin,” she said. “You don’t have much right now, do you?”

  I wondered for a second if that was why I’d taken her—to get back at him. I hoped she was wrong.

  “Anyway, like you said, it takes two to tango. I didn’t have to do it. I guess I wanted to. I guess, maybe, I wanted to all along.” She pulled one leg out of the water, cocked it on the tiles, and planted her chin on her knee. “Toward the end, he wanted me to stop. The last two weeks, especially. But once you get locked into a game like that...you just can’t go back again. No matter what. Like on Thursday, the day before he left, he just wanted it to be him and me again, you know? He was scared. He’d been having bad dreams. About his dad.” The girl turned her head on her knee and stared at me. “He would have been all right if she’d have left him alone.”

  “Connie?”

  Marsha nodded. “But she just wouldn’t ever let him forget what a fuck-up his old man had been and how he had to watch out or he’d end up that way, too. Like everything he did had to be different or he’d croak like his dad.”

  “Of heart disease?” I said.

  Marsha laughed. “Is that what she told you?”

  “She didn’t tell me anything. A man named Murdock told me that.”

  “Oh, yeah. Old man Murdock. He’s a nice old coot. Quentin liked him because he acted like his dad—always making him toe the line and shit. Quentin liked that. I guess that’s why he put up with Connie, too. All he ever wanted was for somebody to tell him what to do.”

  “What did Quentin’s father die of?” I asked.

  Marsha put a finger to her temple and pulled an imaginary trigger. “He blew his head off. Quentin was there, you know?” The girl shuddered. “The poor fucker. He used to have dreams about it all the time. Real screaming nightmares.”

  “His father didn’t have heart disease?”

  “Yeah, he had that, too. That’s why he killed himself. He just couldn’t take it—waiting to die. Then I guess living with Connie didn’t help any. You know, sometimes I think that’s what she wants me to do. Sometimes I think I want to do it myself.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Why?” she said. “Not talking about it ain’t gonna change anything. My life’s fucked. Quentin was all I had left.”


  “Then I feel sorry for you,” I said.

  “Well, don’t,” she snapped. “We understood each other. In spite of all the shit. It might not have been love anymore, but it was better than nothing. Better than this.”

  She looked at me, and I blushed.

  “The only thing I wish is that I’d spent that last night with him, like he wanted. It wouldn’t have been any skin off my nose. And it would have meant a lot to him.”

  “That was the last time you saw him—Thursday night?”

  “Yeah. Right before I went out.”

  “He didn’t say anything to you, did he? About where he would be or what he’d be doing?”

  “No. He didn’t even say goodbye.” Her eyes got hazy. “The poor son-of-a-bitch. He was so alone.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder. “Do you want to go out?” I said after a time. “Get something to eat?”

  She laughed. “I don’t eat. I drink. No thanks, Harry. That is your name, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Harry.”

  “You can go if you want.”

  “I don’t feel right about leaving you here,” I said.

  She pressed my hand against her shoulder. “Don’t be a jerk. It isn’t gonna make a difference.”

  She dropped her hand from mine and I stood up.

  “Maybe I’ll stop by again tomorrow,” I said.

  “Anytime,” she said. “We’re always open.”

  I bent over and kissed her. “Goodbye, Marsha.”

  “Goodbye, Harry.”

  I slipped into my clothes and left her sitting by the pool.

  27

  I GRABBED a bite to eat at a hamburger joint in Kenwood, then drove back home. It was almost ten when I stepped into the apartment. I took a hot shower, toweled off, and went into the bedroom to lie down. I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn’t relax. I kept thinking about the girl. I shouldn’t have screwed her, I knew that. But I’d gone ahead and done it anyway, because she was so beautiful and so hurt. And so easy. What are you going to do when it’s thrown at you? That’s what the phone guy had said. Lying there in the darkness, I couldn’t see much difference between him and me. Or between me and all the others.

  The thought bothered me so much that I got up. I decided to call Wattle in L.A. It was only about eight-thirty on the coast. He answered on the second ring.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “It’s me.”

  “Oh, yeah. Stoner. I tried to call you earlier tonight.”

  “I went out,” I said.

  “I’ve got that phone number you wanted.”

  He read it off to me.

  “Do you know whose it is?” I asked.

  “Dover’s,” he said. “It’s his private phone. The wife told us on Monday. It just slipped my mind.”

  “He called Marsha on Friday night?”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  “She didn’t say anything about it to me.”

  “Take it up with the lady,” Wattle said. “Oh, by the way, I got some news for you. You know the Mex maid, the one who found Dover’s body?”

  “Maria Sanchez?”

  “That’s the one,” he said. “Well, somebody offed her last night.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yeah. Her and her kid both.”

  “Jesus. How?”

  “Some psycho broke into her house and cut them up. I don’t know all the details. The Pacoima police are handling it.”

  “You got their number?”

  “Just a sec.” He went off the line. When he came back on, he gave me a number in L.A. county. “Look, Harry, if there’s some connection here, I want to hear about it. This is murder, man. Can’t play footsie on the big Number One.”

  “I talked to the girl,” I said. “On Thursday night. She told me a few things about Dover. I can’t see how it would have gotten her killed.”

  “Why not let me be the judge of that?”

  I told him what Maria had told me—that Dover hadn’t been in his room on Friday night or on Saturday.

  “Well, where was he, then?” Wattle asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I thought he was working on some TV thing.”

  “That was a lie.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I just found out about it myself, Sy. I was going to tell you. You can forget about TV. At least, I think you can.”

  “How ‘bout my two hundred bucks?”

  “I’ll get it to you through Jack.”

  “Don’t you forget, man,” he said. “And if you find out where Dover went, let me know.”

  He rang off. I put the phone down, lay back on the bed, and thought about that candlelit room and the little boy, hiding in his mother’s skirt. I took a cigarette from the pack lying on the nightstand. When I went to light it, I could see my hand shaking in the matchlight. I blew the match out and smoked for awhile in the darkness. Then I made the call to the Pacoima police.

  I got a duty sergeant named Jackson—a black man by the sound of his voice. He was cautious but fairly cooperative.

  “What can you tell me about the Sanchez killings?” I asked, after I’d given him my name, address, phone number, social security number, and Sy Goldblum’s name and address, to boot.

  “I can read you the official bulletin: ‘Maria Sanchez, female, Hispanic, 24, was found dead in her home, 4420 Coronado Avenue, at seven A.M. on Saturday morning. Her son, Rafael, 6, was found dead with her. Homicide is suspected.’”

  “Can you tell me how she died?”

  “We don’t usually give out that information.”

  “Make an exception,” I said. “Call Goldblum if you want to verify my credentials.”

  Jackson sighed. Either it was a busy night or I’d made a convincing case for myself, because he relented. “All right. She died from burns and stab wounds.”

  I was sorry I’d asked.

  “She was stabbed thirty-two times with a short-bladed knife. Parts of her body had been painted with plastic glue—you know, the kind that kids use on model airplanes. The glue patches had been set on fire. It burns for a long time, man. Like napalm.”

  “Jesus,” I said, feeling sick. “The boy, too?”

  “The boy first, near as we can tell.”

  “He was tortured, too?”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “You get Goldblum to call us,” he said.

  I took that as a yes. But I didn’t press him on it. He was right. I should have been letting Wattle do the work. I thanked Jackson for his help and hung up. Then I called Wattle back and told him I wanted everything he could get on the Sanchez murders.

  “What’s the big deal?” he said. “Like you said, I don’t see the connection.”

  “I didn’t know how she died before. She was tortured, Sy. Her kid was tortured to death in front of her eyes.”

  “This ain’t Cincinnati,” Wattle said.

  “There has to be a reason why she and the boy were tortured.”

  “Why?” he said coldly. “Maybe somebody just wanted to see them suffer. They come like that out here, man. Or maybe she got on the wrong side of the Mex maf’. Those greasers like to make lasting examples of folks they don’t like. You don’t really think this has anything to do with you, do you? Because I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re not that big a deal. This is L.A., man. Nobody gives a shit about you.”

  I said, “Maybe Dover was the big deal.”

  “Dover died in the shower,” Wattle said. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and find out why his wifey forgot to tell you about the phone call?”

  “I still want to know about the killings.”

  “All right. But it’s gonna cost—”

  “Put it on my tab,” I told him.

  ******

  After I hung up, I went for a drive—to cool out completely. I thought I’d end up closing
some bar, seeing what a few double Scotches would do for the ache in my small-town gut. But I was northbound on 71 before I knew it. And then I was off it, on the oak-lined boulevard that led to her house—to Quentin’s house.

  I pulled into the driveway, flipped off my lights, and coasted to a stop in front of the garage. There was moonlight on the lawn and in the dark, broad-limbed oaks. It was shining on the rooftops and reflecting off the dormers and leaded casements. I sat in the car and studied the house, wondering what I was doing there. It wasn’t just Quentin’s phone call—that would have waited until morning. It wasn’t just Maria Sanchez and her little boy. I wasn’t sure I wanted to give myself a reason for being at that house. It might have been a good reason to leave, as well. It was enough that it was late and that I was low and that I was already there.

  That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I got out of the car. But halfway up the walk to the front stoop, I started to feel foolish. I glanced at my watch—it was past two—and asked myself again, “What are you doing?” It felt too much like high school, standing there in the moonlight at two in the morning on that broad, empty lawn.

  I looked up at the second story. A lamp clicked on behind a moonlit window. The moon disappeared and I could see a curtain and the shadow of a woman. There was another shadow beside her. I walked back to the car and got in. As I was backing out of the driveway, the light went off and the moon reappeared, reflected off the windowpanes.

  28

  I CALLED the girl the next morning about eleven and asked if I could come out to talk. She sounded sleepy and hung-over. She also sounded as if she weren’t alone.

  “Give me an hour, O.K.?” Marsha said.

  Around noon, I drove out to the Dover house. The boy on the mower was back at it, cutting long parallel lines on the huge lawn. Sprinklers were on, buzzing and whisking like wasps beneath the oaks. I walked up to the stoop and tried the doorbell. When no one answered, I walked around the house, through the topiary garden, to the terrace stairs. Someone had hung a Dixie cup on Cupid’s foot. I gave it a spin and went up to the pool.

  Marsha was sitting on the chaise—a glass of tomato juice in her right hand. She was wearing those aviator glasses and a string bikini. I watched myself in the sunglasses as I walked up to her—a big, sandy-haired man in a short-sleeved shirt and slacks.