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‘How could I get a gun without anyone knowing?’
‘Without even me knowing? Buy it mail order under an assumed name, I guess.’
‘Could I have it sent to you?’ he said.
‘But then I would know,’ I said, keeping my tone real negative. I didn’t want him mailing guns to my office.
‘It’s like this,’ Budd said, making a futile gesture with his hand. ‘I have a friend who is being threatened. She needs a gun.’
‘Well, you tell her to order one through the mail and have it sent to a post office box,’ I said. I guessed we were into some kind of show-biz fantasy, and I wasn’t in the mood for that kind of crap. I looked at my watch. ‘I’m going to have to kick you out of here. I’ve got a heavy schedule.’
‘Sure, Mickey, sure.’
He reached for his hat and went to the mirror to be sure it was on exactly right. Then he turned to shake hands firmly and say a soft goodbye. There was something he still hadn’t said, and I plowed my brain to guess what it might be. What new bullshit was he going to hang on me now?
His dark, lustrous eyes focused and he said, ‘If an intruder was shot on my premises … what could happen?’
‘Stay out of it, Budd,’ I advised sincerely. ‘Buy your friend a subscription to Shooter’s Monthly and call it a day.’
‘Okay,’ he said, in a way that made it clear it wasn’t advice he was likely to heed. Then, hands raised Al Jolson style, he struck a pose. ‘What do you think of the snazzy outfit?’
‘You got a portrait painting somewhere in your attic, Dorian old buddy?’
‘Just termites,’ said Budd. He was in an entirely different mood now. Lots of actors are like that; they go up and down with disconcerting suddenness.
When Budd had departed I went and looked out the window. That was enough to make anyone want to buy a gun. It was indeed a lousy block. My neighbors were mostly immigrants who quickly became either entrepreneurial, destitute, or criminal. I shared this ancient office building with a debt collection agency, an insurance agent, a single mothers advisory center, and an architect. These law offices were the best in the building. Miss Huth’s reception area gave onto three rooms. Mine was the only one with a white carpet, but the others had two windows each. Equipped like that they could handle two suicides at a time.
I’d moved in right after my divorce, to share expenses with two Korean immigration lawyers who had a sideline in fifty-dollar flat-fee divorces. People all said we’d never get along together, they said Koreans were combative people, but I found Billy Kim and Korea Charlie to be congenial partners. We would share our business, each passing our most troublesome clients to the other. Then we’d compare notes and have some great laughs together. Korea Charlie was the founding member of the partnership. He was a fat old guy who knew everyone in the neighborhood and built up a colossal reputation getting green cards for local illegals. Then, just as everyone was saying that Korea Charlie was the richest, happiest lawyer in town, one of his grateful clients accidentally shot him dead during a drunken celebration in a bar in Crenshaw.
Now, apart from the token lawyer whom Petrovitch would assign to us to make the takeover legal, I had only one partner, Billy Kim, a thirty-year-old go-getter who was attending his brother’s wedding in Phoenix. He’d been due back this morning, but there was no sign of him so far and no message either. Either his brother had chickened out or it was one hell of a party.
On all sides of this block were single-story buildings that in any other city would have been temporary accommodation. From ground level LA may be a paradise, but from this height it’s hell. The paved backyards of these cheap boxlike buildings were littered with dented cars and pickups, and their rooftops were a writhing snakepit of air-conditioning pipes. Directly across the street was a parking lot surrounded with a chain-link fence; parked up tight against the entrance, a converted panel truck was selling soft drinks, tacos, and chili dogs. Now that we were to become a part of the Petrovitch organization I was going to press them to finance for us a proper office with Muzak, up-to-date magazines in the waiting room, distressed-oak paneling, and yards of antiqued leather books behind glass doors on stained wood shelving.
I tidied my desk and reminded Miss Huth that I was going to see my son. I didn’t give too much thought to the task of getting a gun for Budd. I figured by next week the desire for a gun would have worn off. Budd was like that.
I went down to the garage. That was the best facility of this ancient building: it had a lockup garage so I could come back to my car and find it complete with radio antenna and hubcaps. Since I drive a beautiful 1959 Cadillac, that means a lot to me. It was one of the reasons I came here. I wouldn’t move to another building unless it had an equally dry, airy garage with someone guarding it. This one was not really subterranean, it was a semi-basement with ventilation slots that let air and daylight in. Ventilation is important for a car: condensation can do more damage than the weather, especially in California. The story was that the landlord had wanted to make this lowest floor into accommodations but the city ordinances forbade it.
When I got down there I saw Ratface talking to the janitor. They both stopped talking as I went past them. I had a strong suspicion that they were comparing my shortcomings. They watched me without speaking.
‘You’re still dripping oil, Mr Murphy,’ the janitor called as I was getting into my car. I pretended I hadn’t heard him, but as I pulled away I glanced in the mirror and could see the dark patch shining on the garage floor. Okay, so it’s an old car.
My son, Daniel, is studying philosophy at USC – the University of Spoiled Children – and living with a girl named Robyna Johnson. They share an apartment in a rooming house off Melrose near Paramount Studios. Melrose is a circus, but the kids think it’s smart to be near where the movies are cranked. When you reach the studios, the first thing you see is that vast rectangular slab of blue sky that is the backdrop for the Paramount water tank. And if you know where to look inside the back lot you can spot the old Paramount Gate, the most evocative landmark still left of real Hollywood. That gate is the same way it was in the old days. I never see it without remembering when Gloria Swanson’s Rolls-Royce purred through it in Sunset Boulevard.
My son doesn’t live on the posh side of Melrose. Where he lives is as bad as where I work. They have steel gratings on the liquor stores and fierce guard dogs in the hallways. When I was a kid it was an Irish area and there was a great neighborhood atmosphere, but when Grace Kelly married into Monaco, the Irish here got big ideas and bank mortgages and bought homes with pools in the Valley, and the area filled up with weeds, rust, and sprayed graffiti. I waved to Danny’s landlady, Mrs Gonzales, as she dragged the curtain aside to see who it was. She was a whiskery old crone: she scowled and ducked out of sight.
Danny shared a two-room apartment on the second floor. The buzzer didn’t work, so I rapped on the door with my knuckles. They were watching a game show on TV, The Price Is Right: I could hear it through the door. The Price Is Right! After all that griping these kids are always giving me about materialism.
‘It’s your father,’ said Robyna, after she’d undone the mortise lock, slipped the bolts, and opened the door as far as the chain would allow. She stared at me for a long time before unhooking the chain to let me in. She never says, How nice to see you, or anything. I always get the same treatment: she snaps her head around, so her long, straight blonde hair swings in my face, and calls over her shoulder, ‘It’s your father,’ in a voice marine color sergeants use to announce the arrival of incoming artillery fire.
‘Hello, Robyna,’ I said affably. ‘Do you mind if I talk to Danny in private?’ She shook out her skirt – a long cotton one with African tie-dye designs – slipped her feet into jewel-encrusted sandals, picked up her makeup box, tossed her head to make her hair shake, and strode past without looking at me. She didn’t even say goodbye. ‘Come back, Jane Fonda, you forgot your muesli!’ I called.
‘Drop dead!’ she snapped over her shoulder as she flounced out and slammed the door.
‘Is your girlfriend always so charming?’ I asked Danny.
‘I don’t know,’ said Danny. ‘I don’t tell her to get lost the way you do every time you arrive. She pays half the rent, you know.’
The TV was still going, and Danny was searching to find the remote control to turn it off. Eventually he grabbed a pair of jeans from somewhere and draped them over the screen. He just couldn’t bear to switch the damned thing off: he’d always been like that about TV; he just had to have it going all the time.
‘Robyna must have the remote in her pocket,’ he said apologetically.
There was a smell of burning incense in the room. It had a sweet flowery smell. I sniffed here and there. Although I looked all around, I couldn’t see where the smoke was coming from. ‘She’s not on drugs, is she?’
‘You always ask me if she’s doing drugs,’ said Danny wearily. ‘We’re vegetarians.’
‘So maybe she passes on red meaty drugs.’
‘She won’t even drink tea or coffee because of the caffeine. No, she’s not on drugs.’ His search for the remote finally forced him to get up on his feet. Under some schoolbooks he discovered two paper plates containing a half-eaten burrito and a squashed package of tofu. He gave up trying to find the TV control and sank back, dropping his weight into the sofa with spring-shattering force. He’d wrecked all the best chairs at home doing that, but I tried not to remark on it this time. I hate to fight with him.
‘Is your mother here?’
‘Betty?’ He always called her Betty. He never said Mom or Mother even when he was small. I blamed Betty for that. She never disciplined him. That’s why he was slouching here with a stubbly face, long unwashed hair, and a dirty T-shirt printed with the slogan Go away, I’m trying to think. ‘You can see Betty’s not here; I don’t know where she is.’
‘How would it grab you if I told you she just now forced her way into my office and climbed out onto the window ledge?’
Danny took the news very calmly. I mean, this was his mother. He nodded. ‘She did that with Uncle Sean in Seattle. He called the Fire Department.’
‘So did I. I called the Fire Department, but she made herself scarce before they arrived. So of course they prowled through the office trying to find ways to give me a bad time.’
‘Why?’ He was always unnaturally calm with me. Calm in a studied and exaggerated way so I sometimes wondered if it was an effect I had on him. With other people he always seemed more animated. Did I make him ill at ease or something?
‘Why did I call the Fire Department?’ I said to clarify the question.
‘Why did they want to give you a bad time?’
‘It’s a long story. The sprinklers never did work.’ The more I thought about it the more angry I became. ‘Soon after we first moved in, Denise – remember Denise, my old secretary, who used to send you those religious cards with St Daniel and lions on your birthday? – when Denise felt like celebrating, she used to buy those throw-away barbecue packs and grill some steaks for our lunch. It’s a wonder she never set the office ablaze. A couple of times she threw out the charcoal while it was still hot and set fire to the trash. Now I come to think of it, I remember those sprinklers never did work; the whole building is like that. Why pick on me? Those firemen were out to make trouble, and that Huth woman was no help; she said no one had ever told her where the fire exits were. I’ll have to get rid of her. Thank goodness she didn’t discover that Betty was my ex.’
Danny looked at me solemnly. He doesn’t like me referring to Betty as my ex. ‘What did she want?’
‘Are you kidding?’ Betty only came to see me when she wanted money for something.
He pulled a face and ran his hands under the cushions as if he was still trying to find the remote.
I said, ‘Have you been encouraging her?’ Yes, yes, yes, of course. I should have guessed it was Danny who kept sending her around to dun me for money. They both thought I had some kind of bottomless pit replenished daily with bullion.
‘She had to have two root canals done, and she needs clothes and stuff. She doesn’t earn any money working for that aroma therapy work shop.’
‘Look at me. Look at me. If you’re going to go to bat for her, look at me.’
He looked up.
I said, ‘Are you doing her accounts or something? Why doesn’t she get a paying job?’
‘The aroma therapy workshop is a charity. It’s for poor people. No one pays. She wants to help people.’
‘She wants to help people? She works for nothing and I give her money. How does that make her the one who helps people?’
‘She’s really a wonderful person, Dad. I wish you’d make a little more effort to try and understand her.’
‘It’s always my fault. Why doesn’t she make an effort to try and understand me?’
‘She said you’re getting millions from the takeover.’
‘You two live in a dream world. There are no millions and there is no takeover. You can’t buy a law partnership unless you are a member of the California bar. Petrovitch picked up the pieces, that’s all that happened. He simply retained our services, put in a partner, and absorbed nearly a quarter of a million dollars of debt. I told you all that.’
‘She clipped a piece about Zach Petrovitch from the Los Angeles Times Business Section. It said in there that he’d paid a hundred million—’
‘But not for my partnership. I’ve heard all that talk. He picked up a Chapter Eleven recording company with a few big names on the labels and sold it to the Japanese. That all happened nearly three years ago. There’s been a goddamned recession since then.’
‘Petrovitch only buys companies he has plans for.’
‘Is this something they tell you in Philosophy One-oh-one, or did you switch to being a business major?’
‘You can’t keep that kind of pay off secret, Dad,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows.’
‘Don’t give me that shit, Danny. I’m your father, and I’m telling you all we got is a retainer with a small advance so I can pay off a few pressing debts. Who are you going to believe?’
‘You want a beer?’ He got up and went into the kitchen.
‘You haven’t answered the question,’ I called. ‘No. I don’t want a beer, and you’re too young to drink beer.’
‘I thought it was a rhetorical question,’ he called mournfully from the kitchen. I heard him rattling through the cans; I don’t think he’d ever thought of storing food in that icebox, just drink. ‘I’ve got Pepsi and Diet Pepsi; I’ve got Sprite, Dr Pepper, and all kinds of fruit juices.’
‘I don’t want anything to drink. Come back here and listen to me. I’m not a philosophy major; I haven’t got time to sit around talking for hours. I have to work for a living.’
I found a cane-seat chair and inspected it for food remains and parked chewing gum before sitting down. This was just the kind of chaos he’d lived in at home, like someone had thrown a concussion grenade into a Mexican fast-food counter. On the walls there were colored posters about saving the rain forest and protecting the whales. The only valuable item to be seen in the apartment was the zillion-watt amplifier that had made sure his guitar was shaking wax out of ears in Long Beach while he strummed it in Woodland Hills. Near the window there was a small table he used as a desk. There was a pile of philosophy books, an ancient laptop computer with labels stuck all over it, and a paper plate from which bright red sauce had been scraped. There was a brown bag too, the kind of insulated bag take-away counters use for hot food. I looked into it, expecting to find a tamale or a hot dog, but found myself looking at a stainless steel sandwich.
‘What’s this?’ I said.
Danny came out of the kitchen with his can of drink and a package of non-cholesterol chili-flavored potato chips. ‘It’s only a gun,’ he said.
‘Oh, it’s only a gun,’ I said sarcastically, bringing it out to take a closer look at it.
It was a shiny new Browning Model 35 9-mm automatic. I pulled back the action to make sure there were no rounds in the chamber. The action remained open, and from the pristine orange-colored top of the spring I could see it was brand new.
‘And what the hell are you doing with this?’ I took aim at Robyna’s save the whale poster and pulled the trigger a couple of times.
‘Relax, Dad. I loaned a Jordanian guy in my religion class two hundred bucks. He was strapped, and instead of paying me back he gave me the shooter and a stereo.’
‘You were ripped off,’ I said.
‘You’re always so suspicious,’ he said mildly. ‘A gun like that costs about five hundred bucks. I can pawn it for three hundred.’
‘How do you know it’s not been used in a stickup or a murder?’
‘His father had just bought it for him; it was still in the wrappings. So was the stereo.’
‘His father bought it? What kind of dope is his father?’
‘Don’t keep doing that, Dad. It’s not good for the mechanism.’
‘What do you know about guns?’ I said and pulled out the magazine and snapped it back into place a couple more times just to show him I wasn’t taking orders from him. ‘You’re talking to a marine, remember. Have you ever fired this gun?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Budd Byron was in the office today asking me how he could buy a gun. This whole town is gun crazy these days.’
‘What does he want a gun for?’
‘Budd? I don’t know.’ I looked at the gun. It was factory-new. ‘In the original wrappings, you say? In the box? Then this is part of a stolen consignment.’
‘It’s not stolen. I just told you I got it from a guy I know at college. He does Comparative Religion with me. Next week he’ll probably want to buy it all back. He’s like that. He’s an Arab; he’s a distant relative of Kashoggi the billionaire.’
‘Do you know something? I’m still looking for some Arab in this town who is not a relative of Kashoggi. My mailman mentioned that he is Kashoggi’s cousin. The guy in the cleaners confided that he is Kashoggi’s nephew. They’re all just one big happy family.’
The TV was still muttering away: the ads are always louder than the programs. ‘You’re in a crumby mood today, Dad. Did something bad happen to you?’
‘Something bad? Have you suddenly gone deaf or something? Your mother dropped by to throw herself out of my office window.’
‘That was just a cry for help. You know that.’ He ate some chips, crunching them loudly in his teeth; then, leaning his head far back, he closed his eyes and held a cold can of low-cal cranberry juice cocktail to his forehead.
He wouldn’t hear a word against Betty. Sometimes I wondered if he understood that she walked out on me – walked out on us, rather. Yet how could I remind him of that? I said, ‘Will you find out where your mother is crashing these days? If she keeps pulling these jumping-off-the-ledge routines, she’ll get herself committed.’
He came awake, snapped the top off his cranberry juice, and took a deep gulp. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand and said, ‘Yah, okay, Dad. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Tell her I’ll maybe look at her dentist bills. I’ll pay something toward them.’
‘Hey, that’s great, Dad.’
‘I don’t want you getting together with her and rewriting the accounts, trying to bill me for a Chanel suit or something.’
‘What do you mean?’ Danny said.
‘You know what I mean. Do you think I’ve forgotten you using the graphics program on my office IBM to do that CIA letterhead that scared the bejesus out of old Mr Southgate?’
‘He deserved it. I should have gotten an A in his English class. Everyone said so.’
‘Well, I had to calm him down and stop him from writing to his senator. You promised you’d be sensible in future, so leave it between Betty and her dentist, will you?’
