Boulevard (25 page)

They drove all around the tony neighborhood, passing one huge place after another, Jimmy slowing at each one to check out the doors.

“That's it!” Tara said.

“That
is
a cool knocker,” he said. A green iron dragon with its tongue shooting out. The dragon's spiky tail curled into a loop, forming the knocker. They were in front of an enormous Tudor-style house.

“You're sure this is right?” Erin said.

“Oh, yeah. I was here a couple of times. I wish I could remember the guy's name.”

“That's okay,” Erin said, “We'll get it.”

“He probably gave you a phony one anyway,” Jimmy added.

“See the big window, upstairs on the left?” Tara said, “that's where he got his picture taken.”

“You're absolutely sure?”

“Definitely. Mark said he wished all my johns had such big windows.”

Jimmy wondered where those pictures were now, and how many other johns' pictures were in the same filing cabinet.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Erin said.

Jimmy didn't know if Tara even heard her. She had dropped back down and was instantly asleep again.

They dropped Tara off at a crummy apartment building on Cherokee, just above the Boulevard. On the way back to the stationhouse, Jimmy realized in all his tiredness, he fucked up.

“I screwed up,” he said. “I should've gone behind the house to see if there were any cars to run the plates.”

“I should've thought of it too.”

“Nah. It's my bad. I'll drop you off.”

“I'll come,” Erin said.

Jimmy was about to go into how it was his mistake, and he should do it—but then he told himself,
shut the fuck up. She's coming.

“Really?” he said.

“I don't mind.”

At this time of night, it took fifteen minutes to shoot back to Beverly Hills. They went down the alley behind the house and by the garage there were two Mercedes. Of course. Erin wrote down the plates and as they drove away, Erin turned to Jimmy.

“You tired?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“That's okay, then …” she said.

He turned to her. She was barely visible in the dark. A floodlight mounted on a garage cast a soft white light though Erin's blonde hair and fell onto the side of her face. She was looking into the distance, as though not only her gaze, but her thoughts were someplace else. She was as beautiful a woman as Jimmy had ever seen.

“What is?” Jimmy said.

“Nothing. Just wanted to know if you wanted to get a cup of coffee or something?”

52

I
nstead of staying at the 24-hour Peet's, they took their coffees and drove to a little park on Sunset. Dawn was still a couple of hours away and they had the place to themselves. They sat on an old-fashioned iron bench and looked across a small field of closely cropped grass, and beyond it, framed by gently swaying palms was the Beverly Hills Hotel. The hotel was from Hollywood's glory days in the twenties, Spanish-style and lit by a wash of green and amber lights. Every window was dark. This was as calm as LA got, as peaceful as it would ever be.

“It's pretty,” Erin said, sipping her coffee.

“You been in there?”

“Once. I went with a doctor.”

“Not bad.” Of course she would be dating doctors.

“It's not what you think,” she smiled. “For work. Back when I was going to be a nurse.”

“You could still be doing that. Most cops, they don't have any other choices.”

“Or they think they don't.”

“Right.”

“You ever wish you were doing something else?” Erin said.

“Sometimes … There's days when I can't stand it. It's like we're emptying the ocean with a teaspoon. But even worse than that …” He stopped.

“What?” she asked.

“Just … my son. And if that doesn't make you feel like a failure, what will?” The instant he said it, Jimmy wondered what was wrong with him—yeah, it was true he felt that way—every day—but he had never told anyone before how he really felt.

“You're not a failure,” Erin said.

“I dunno.”

“You're not. You can't think that way. I know. Because I had the same kind of thoughts myself. All the time. After my baby, I kept thinking everybody else out there can produce a normal, healthy baby. What's the matter with me?”

“But that's not right. You know that.”

“Sure, in your mind you know it. But deep down inside, you know you're a complete failure. When the baby was alive, I had a focus, a mission. Everyday I was at the hospital. All I thought about was, how do I make his short life better? What can do I for him today? And I think I was pretty good at it. But when he died, you're left all alone. Your failure. And then feeling that way back on the street …”

“Seeing the shit.”

“Seeing the shit. And at the same time, thinking about my beautiful baby. Take in the shooter, the guy bloodying his wife. Drag yourself home. Rick's a good guy. But he's in his own world. He's do anything but talk about our baby. If I brought him up, Rick would change the subject. So I learned not to. I just tried to sleep and forget. But it's so hard to sleep. When you finally do, and the alarm goes off, getting out of bed is the last thing you want to do. But two things happened to change all that.”

“What were they?”

“The first was, as crazy as it sounds, I found a kind of strange comfort on the streets.”

“Helping?” Jimmy said.

“Yeah. A thirteen-year-old girl is raped by some horrendous animal down her block. The perp is in jail, but nobody cares about the girl now. Not her own family, and definitely not Child Protective Services. I stop by, we have a Coke, just talk. She's incredibly grateful and I feel like I'm doing something. Or the little Guatemalan kid whose dad was shot in the liquor store on Gardner, I would go by and see him too. It's not changing the world, but it is something. To them and to me.”

“What's the second thing?” Jimmy said.

“The second is, this case … and working with you. I wish we'd been made partners a long time ago.”

So did Jimmy. Like nothing else.

They sat in silence for a moment. Jimmy felt like a teenager, a knot in his stomach. After all this time, had he finally drawn the royal flush? He looked over at the hotel and then back towards Erin. She was looking at him. He brushed a strand of hair off her face. Her eyes held his. He didn't know what they were saying… . He leaned over and put his lips on hers. She pulled as close as she could—and then closer, like she had found what she wanted and was never going to let go. Jimmy always wanted to feel this way—it was the first kiss of the rest of his life.

53
Casey

T
he sky rolled out of black into electric blue and Casey and Dragon were the first customers into Starbucks when the UCLA kid unlocked the door. Casey needed her big green chair, to fall into its felt, be sheltered by the soft cushions. The kid gave them the coffees for free, and in huge mugs. She slipped into her chair and Dragon sat on the couch next to her. The chair's soft prickles on her back felt good—about the only thing in her life that did. Tulip filled her head and would always fill her head. Dragon looked into her moist eyes. Casey took a sip of the coffee. It warmed her. But did nothing for the pain.

“It's more than Tulip,” Casey said. “It's Paul … and the jerk … It's everything.”

And then Casey told her …

Back at the Chateau. Casey was dancing with Paul. The Neville brothers were singing their sweet song.

You know life is too short to have sorrow. You may be here and gone tomorrow. You might as well get what you want. Baby, baby don't leave. Baby, baby don't leave …

It was their last night in the great, soft bed. Casey jumped in first, still wearing the bathrobe. Paul was still on the balcony, looking down over the Strip. He took a big swig from the champagne bottle. Casey had drunk only a little, but Paul had almost finished it off. Tomorrow they would be on their way.

“Coming?” she said.

“In a second.”

They would travel together. It would be like being married. Not really married, but sort of. Live together, cook together, and if Paul wasn't seeing anyone, sleep every night in the same bed.

She fell asleep. At some point, she woke up as Paul kissed her on the forehead and said, “I love you, Casey.” The words surged through her veins like wave of heat, and she slipped back to sleep.

Bright rectangles of light shot through the French doors, stretching across the carpet. Casey was alone in bed, but heard dripping water in the bathtub. She slid off the sheets, pulling the bathrobe belt tight, and opened the bathroom door. And saw Paul in the bathtub, the water crimson with blood. She screamed and raced to him. His head was just above the water. She yelled his name. But nothing. She dropped her arms into the water and shook his head. Nothing. She shook him again. Still nothing. She lifted Paul's arm and saw a jagged cut on his wrist, and on the other, the same thing. She called his name over and over and over again.

She sat on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped tight around them.

She stayed that way. She had no idea how long. She felt as though someone was sawing into her heart, her guts. A pain that would never get any better. Then she saw it. Beside the bathtub was the razorblade Paul had used. It was tiny, like it had come from a disposable razor. It was stained with Paul's blood. Casey slowly rolled the razor in her hand. It had to be sharp enough to take care of more than one person. Home was worthless. Asshole father. A mother who cares more about her jerk boyfriend than her own daughter. Come to Hollywood, get raped by Dennis, get raped by his disgusting friends. Sleeping in a freezing construction site. Have to suck dicks. All shit. What good was there anywhere? … Paul. All she had was Paul. And now what? Nothing. Take the razor. Be brave. It was on her wrist. It doesn't feel so bad. It doesn't feel like anything at all. Just push down hard and slice across. Go. Use it like he did, and that's the end of the shit and the end of the pain. It has to be better than this. It couldn't be worse. Go …

The telephone rang. Casey looked up, the spell broken. The razor was pressing down on the vein on her wrist, about to break through. The phone rang again. She let it ring until it stopped. She looked at Paul in the bathtub. Still so cute. She put the blade in her bathrobe pocket.

Night came. Casey was in the exact same place. Hours ago, the maid had knocked and Casey said they didn't need anything. A lady from the desk downstairs knocked and asked when they were checking out. She said ‘tomorrow,' and that was fine with them. The telephone rang a bunch more times, but why should she answer it? Who did she want to talk to? Who on the whole planet was really going to care that when they opened the door in the morning, there would be two dead kids and not one?

She went over to the tray on the bed for what was left of the strawberries—strawberries that they shared last night. She wiped the meat residue off Paul's steak knife and cut a piece of apple. And then she went back to where she felt best, sitting on the cold tiles, beside the bathtub. She reached in her pocket for the razor. It felt good, having it there. She pulled her knees tight against her chest again.

There was a knock. She ignored it. But the knock came again.

“I told the lady before, we have everything we need.”

She heard noises. A key went into the lock. The door opened and shut, and before she could get up, standing in the bathroom doorway was the guy with the blue Mercedes—Mark Lodge.

He looked at Paul. “Oh, shit.”

Casey scrambled to her feet.

“What did you do?” he yelled.

“What did
I
do? What do
you
do? Pimp kids, then fuck them over.”

She hated him. She pushed past him, heading for the bedroom. As she flew by, Lodge grabbed her arm.

“Where you going?”

Casey couldn't even look at the asshole. She pulled away from him. She was outta here.

“Where you going?” he said again.

Then she got it. She wasn't going. Not yet. She grabbed the phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling 911. Gonna tell the cops what you did. What you did to Paul.”

There was fire in his eyes. But a second later, he seemed calmer.

“Look,” Lodge said, “let's talk this through.”

“What for?”

“So we don't do anything dumb.”

“Dumb?” Casey said.

“Let's look at the facts. You're here with a dead boy in the bathtub. How do you think that looks?”

“Know something?—I don't care! I'll tell them the truth.”

She leaned over to dial.

“And you think they're going to believe you had nothing to do with it?” Lodge said, getting angry again.

“I don't care. I don't fucking care!”

Lodge went over to her. “Give me the phone. Come on—”

Fuck him.

“Give it to me!”

Fuck him. She punched the numbers. It was ringing.

“I said to give it to me!”

He lunged for the phone and jerked it out of her hand. He slammed it back down. As Casey reached for it again, he thrust her down hard onto the bed with a strong open palm. Her head fell onto the room service tray, sending apples rolling to the floor. Casey jumped back to her feet.

“Take the phone!” she yelled. “You gonna take every phone in the whole city? The cops are gonna know what you did to him. How you killed him, you pervert!”

“Fuck you, you little whore.”

“Little whore?—now we're talking about something you know all about. How many other kids you pimping? How many other kids you kill?”

She took a wild swing at him. He grabbed her fist before it hit, and took Casey by both arms and threw her back down, slamming her head against the bed backboard. The pain was sharp. She could feel her blood. “Help!” She yelled it as loud as she could. When she yelled it with Dennis, it didn't do shit. But now she was in a fancy hotel. This time it would work. She started to shout again—but Lodge grabbed a pillow and threw it on top of her face. She screamed, or tried to scream. Barely anything came out. Lodge lay on top of her forcing the pillow down. The louder she tried to yell, the harder he pushed.