 
Land of Dreams

By

Eugene Lester

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Eugene Lester

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. Thank you for your support.

This book is a work of fiction and is a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any events, or any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover image: The Angel of Revelation by William Blake

Connect with Eugene Lester at his blog:

www.relicsofcivilization.typepad.com

Father, O Father! what do we here

In this Land of unbelief & fear?

The Land of Dreams is better far,

Above the light of the Morning Star.

William Blake, "The Land of Dreams"

. . . for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams. . .

Matthew Arnold, "Dover Beach"
PART ONE

DOUBLE ZERO

In April 1982 Clendon Lindsey barreled a new white Cadillac down a two-lane highway through spring-green alfalfa fields. Clendon's rawhide briefcase lay next to him on the leather seat. Inside the briefcase were copies of probate records, property tax rolls, and deeds concerning an eighty acre tract of land.

He had worked at the Caddo County courthouse for three days studying county plat maps and deed books, separating the mineral rights from the surface rights, and had discovered that ownership of that eighty acres had been carved up forty-seven ways. He was sure those titles were all clean and now he only needed a fast trip back to Oklahoma City so his boss, Wylie Cobb, president of Cobbco, could sign the standard oil and gas lease offers and authorize paying the drilling bonuses to the owners of the mineral rights. Clendon's commission for untangling the rights and then tracking down and signing that many owners would give him another solid month.

Production companies like Cobbco had a lot of leverage in offering bonuses, because the state's pooling laws allowed drilling whether the owners of the mineral rights agreed or not. When pumping started, and the crude oil began coming out of the ground, state law required that the owners receive a twelve and one-half percent royalty. After expenses and taxes, Cobbco kept the rest.

As a landman in the oil business, Clendon dealt with the land's surface, but the business was really about finding what's under the ground. The petroleum geologists had told Wylie Cobb that this land, part of the Anadarko basin, still had large pools of oil under it. However, the price of oil had been dropping faster than a thermometer in January. Since the recession began, most production companies had stopped drilling and pumping. Rumors had filled oilmen's talk that spring that the Drillers Bank had gone bad and was about to be taken over by the Feds. Clendon figured Cobb's net worth must be about ten million dollars as Cobb kept telling him not to worry, that the Caddo County property would keep the bank from calling in Cobbco's note.

Clendon checked his rearview mirror. It was filling with towering dark clouds and lightning flashes. He unscrewed the cap from a Jack Daniels bottle, took a sip and searched for a radio station that didn't interrupt the music with tornado watches. When he found Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again," he beat time to the music with his open palm on the seat. As he passed the I-35 junction sign and headed up the on ramp, he began singing along.

In half an hour he reached the City. It was thundering and lightning, raining hard and hailing. The Cobbco office was on the northwest side of town, on the eleventh floor in the Pioneer Tower, a modernist spire attempting to imitate the architecture in Dallas. Clendon was glad for the underground parking garage, because he didn't like stepping out of the Cadillac during a thunderstorm and getting water and red mud on his new snakeskin boots.

Clendon, carrying the rawhide briefcase, entered Cobb's office. His boss smiled, which was unusual. Cobb's teeth were stained dark from too much Red Man chaw. He absently fiddled with his Western string tie as he leafed through Clendon's courthouse work.

"Clendon, you're the best goddamn landman in the City, maybe the whole state."

"That's why I drive a Cobbco Cadillac."

"This boom was the greatest two years of my life. Never thought I'd see so many Mercedes-Benzes in this town. Think I was in Germany." Cobb picked a piece of chewing tobacco from his teeth. "Clendon, we have to let you go. Business is so bad my wife can't make payments on her Camaro. I don't have the cash to give out for signing bonuses. Drillers Bank called my note today and the Feds are closing it down any time. When that bank bellies up, it'll take half the city down with it. In another month Cobbco will be history."

Clendon had an angry urge to choke Cobb by his Western string tie.

"You'll get two weeks pay," Cobb said. "That's all I have left. I'll take your briefcase now. Turn in the keys to the Cadillac tomorrow. I expect you'll have arranged other transportation by then?"

Clendon's mind went blank as he slowly walked out of Cobb's office back toward the reception area. There was no receptionist. As he stared through a window at the lightning flashes, a thunderclap shook the building like a bomb and the electricity went off.

Cobb Junior approached Clendon and clapped him hard on his shoulder. Junior was so skinny and nervous that he reminded Clendon of a Chihuahua. Even though Junior couldn't type and had dropped out of three universities, he had been riding Clendon about some paperwork he claimed Clendon had messed up.

"Can you come into my office?"

Clendon followed him down the dark hallway, ready to tell Junior what to do with his paperwork.

Junior's office was dark. Dim storm light leaked through a window. He fingered an old Colt .45 revolver on his desktop.

"I heard you got laid off," he half-whispered. His eyes were red. "We're going to lose it all." He gripped the Colt and raised it. "I'm depressed," he said.

"Don't!" Clendon shouted.

"Why not?" Junior said. "We're ruined." He pointed the revolver at his head and chanted, "Why not, why not, why not," and rocked the barrel against his temple.

"It's only a setback," Clendon said. "It's not the end of your life."

"Life sucks."

Clendon jumped him and went for the .45. Clendon was bigger and stronger and gripped the barrel, forcing it toward the ceiling. He started yelling for help. Junior jerked the .45 and aimed the barrel again at his temple. Clendon yanked back hard. The barrel just cleared Junior's hairline as he pulled the trigger. It felt like a Roman candle exploding in Clendon's right hand and knocked him to the floor. He thought he had gone deaf from the sound. Junior fell, unshot but out cold, still clutching the handle of the big revolver. Little drops of rain began seeping through the bullet hole in the window.

* * *

Clendon began having the same dream every night. In each hand he held a ten-gallon bucket filled with hot, stinking crude oil. Above him was a skyscraper skeleton that disappeared in the sky. Wind howled through the rusting girders. The first stair was made of steel and concrete, and he began the climb. He had to reach the roof without spilling one drop. Flight after flight slid away beneath his feet as his hands ached and his arms turned painful and rubbery. Plains stretched beyond the horizon.

Dizziness spun through him whenever he glanced through the unfinished stairs towards the ground. Sweat rained off him but his mouth went dry. The oil swirled around inside the buckets until it leaped over the top and trickled down the sides. Then, a light shone ahead. It was only two more flights to the top. Sweat puddled in his eyes and blurred the steps as they began to sway in the loud, rising wind. The girders groaned and the stairs rolled. At the top of the last flight, a giant red and blue neon sign blinked off and on: NO EMPTY BUCKETS.

Clendon's buckets were full and the last stair was only a step away. Then a hard gust of wind threw him down and jerked the buckets from his hands. The hot oil blew over him and blinded him. He cracked his shin on the sharp edge of a step and slipped down the stairs, banging his face, head, and knees. He fell as the building clattered around him. The wind swept the oil from his eyes. Before he hit the ground, it turned foamy. When he landed the pain and wind disappeared. Another neon sign flashed: FULL BUCKETS.

He took two new buckets filled with hot crude, and began carrying them up the first flight again.

Valium, barbiturates, Thorazine-- after his Cobbco layoff this small pharmacy had no effect on the dream. Only his waking paranoia grew until one hot afternoon for no rational reason he walked into the Jesus Saves Pawn Shop on 23rd Street and purchased a pre-owned Winchester .410 automatic shotgun and a box of shells. With his still sore hand, he couldn't even grip the barrel and trigger tightly.

Seven hours later outside the Red Dog Saloon, a police officer terminated Clendon's ownership of the Winchester and shells. The officer confiscated them along with a nearly virgin case of Coors because Clendon had an open container in his car. He talked the officer into letting him take a cab ride home instead of taking a cop ride to jail. The deal for that favor was the ownership of the .410.

Clendon called every person he had ever had lunch with at the Kiwanis club, and asked for work at Taylor's furniture store, or Green's shoe store. He could have broken ground for a new First Baptist Church with the number of people who said they would like to help him with a job, if they only could.

Clendon's wife Melody was good as long as she thought he was making a lot of money, and at first she thought he did. They had met while dancing at a redneck bar when they were both very drunk. She was one-fourth Creek and proclaimed that she wasn't hung up about sex "like you white people." After Cobbco axed him, she headed for Houston with a banker who specialized in repossessing oil and gas properties. She left behind a notebook which Clendon found in her dresser. In it she'd written the names of several men, including the banker, and had made notes on how they kissed, what they looked like, what they did to her, and so forth. One evening Clendon stripped himself naked, leaned against his full-length mirror, and stared at his face, his eyes, his arms, his chest, his belly, his dangling penis and balls, his legs, and his feet, and sipped at his Jack Daniels bottle.

After nearly a year of hanging on, going from one temporary office job to another, he felt like a junked Cadillac. One person called him back-- Brooks Boyd. Clendon had roomed with him at the University of Oklahoma for two years. Brooks had been an All-State quarterback in high school, but stuck his foot in an electric fan the summer before his sophomore year at OU. It ended his football career and gave him a small limp. He stayed pissed about his foot and his ruined career for a long time.

At OU, Clendon had an American history class with a girl named Shelley Symmes. He spent most of his time looking at her and not taking notes. He dated her once and she accidentally slammed the car door on his hand. He acted like it was nothing, but after he dropped her off, he went to the student health center and had four stitches. X-rays proved negative. A couple of days later, she came up to him after class.

"If you really like someone," she said, "I mean, if you're really interested in someone, and you're not sure if they like you or even know you, what do you think you should do?"

"Tell that person exactly how you feel," Clendon said. "If the person says 'get lost,' you're no worse off than you are now. But if the person says 'hey, let's dance,' then you have a new life."

Shelley smiled and flashed her silver-blue eyes.

The next evening Brooks told Clendon that he'd meant this "really smart chick named Shelley, who said she was in your history class," and that he was going out with her Saturday night.

After college, Brooks married her and they moved to California. About once a year, he wrote Clendon a feverish letter about his good life on the coast. In return, Clendon had called him a few times. When Clendon married Melody, Brooks sent him a leather cat-o'-nine-tails whip for a wedding present, with a note that read, "Provide your own chains."

Brooks called on a hot September night. Clendon's air conditioner had broken, his lease had a week to run, and he had $40 in the bank. Brooks offered him a job at Brooks's new company in Los Angeles, Boyd-Tek, and sent him a plane ticket. Clendon packed away his few personal relics in storage, and sold his '71 Chevy Nova. The night before he left, he burned all his Cobbco business cards.

* * *

His birth certificate read Clendon Thomas Lindsey, but Clendon's parents called him Hank, because they had wanted to name him Edward Henry, and thought that they had. Clendon's older brother, Louis, who was then 14, had been entrusted to fill out and file the birth certificate. Louis wrote the name Clendon Thomas Lindsey on the birth certificate but never told his parents. Clendon Thomas had been an All-American halfback at the University of Oklahoma, and he was Louis's hero.

When Clendon started school, his parents wrote off for his birth certificate, but there was no Edward Henry Lindsey born on his birthday, or any other day. The health department did find the birth certificate for Clendon Thomas Lindsey. Clendon's parents kept calling him Hank. Louis began calling him C. T. Everybody else called him Clendon.

His father farmed wheat and hogs until Louis was killed in Vietnam. Then his father took to bed and told everyone that he was going to die soon, too. He had been in bed ever since, except to sometimes stroll the farm aimlessly while wearing only stained khaki britches. Once a year he went into town and signed lease papers so other farmers could grow wheat on his land.

Clendon decided he had to go out to the farm before he left. His mother greeted him and led him into the dim, dank bedroom, where his father lay in bed watching _Family Feud_ without the sound.

"Hank, what the hell are you going way ov'ere for?" his father demanded. "Ghee-yawd DAY-umn, son."

"Are you offering me a job?" Clendon asked.

"Watch out for those goddamned city people," his father said. "They're always in a rush, and most of them don't even know where they're going."

Clendon thought he saw his father's eyes twinkle for the first time since Louis had been buried. When Clendon started to leave, his father rose from bed and followed him outside.

"Another thing," his father said. "Remember one thing that my granddaddy Lindsey always told me. 'You can't tell anybody anything. They have to find it out for themselves.'"

Clendon's mother gave him a bloom from the peace rose in her garden.

"Come back and visit us, Hank," she said.

"I promise," he said.

At the country cemetery, the Bermuda grass looked and smelled freshly cut. Clendon scattered the petals from the peace rose on Louis's grave. Across a barbed wire fence, an oil rig thump-thumped in a field. A hawk looking for field mice circled around the rig. There was no shade and even with the wind it was too hot to stay long.

* * *

Two hours into the flight and 34,000 feet below, a dark river uncoiled across the desert, disappeared into mountains, and meandered into Clendon's dreams, where he landed in the dark river and was swept downstream and sucked under. He had fought sleep for twenty-four hours, and thanks to the three whiskeys he had drunk on the plane, he lost. No fear of flying: a fear of dreaming.

The man sitting next to Clendon woke him up.

"You okay? You were kicking me, so I woke you up," the man said. "You were groaning and talking in your sleep about 'full buckets.'"

Clendon smacked his mouth and tried to think.

"Sorry. Can I buy you a drink when we land?"

"No, thank you. I don't drink liquor and my wife is picking me up. My name's Bill Krayder. I manage children's shoes at Montgomery Ward."

Bill held out his hand and Clendon shook it. In his other hand, Bill was clutching a paperback book entitled _The Shroud of Turin_. The picture on the cover showed the shroud with its faint, strange image of a long haired, bearded man's face. The blurb stated that the face scorched onto the shroud was proof of Jesus's miracle resurrection.

The stewardess leaned over, professional concern sculpted on her rouged face.

"Are you having a problem?"

"No."

"Then please buckle your seat belt."

The jetliner was on its final glide path. The Los Angeles grid-sprawl flattened out to the horizon and reflected a white light that made Clendon squint. Brown lumps of mountains emerged from the smog shroud covering the city. The dirty beige smog appeared to have dark streaks scorched across it. After Clendon stared at the streaks for a minute, a familiar face began to emerge. He rubbed his eyes but couldn't get it to go away. The face on the smog shroud began to smile. Clendon blinked at the face, wondered about his own imagination, and decided he needed to buy a good pair of sunglasses upon landing.

The plane dropped and Clendon reached for the airsick bag. His face felt drained white and he stared into the bag until the plane leveled off, dropped its wing flaps, and wound down its engines. It crossed over a freeway and then landed hard.

* * *

Brooks Boyd met him at the airport. Clendon hadn't seen Brooks in almost six years, but Brooks had barely aged-- now only a slight wrinkle at his eyes, but still tall and athletic with flowing blond hair and overflowing confidence. He also still had a slight limp.

"Clendon Lindsey!"

They squeezed hands in a hard grip.

"You look goddamned good, Brooks."

"I know. How's the weather back home?"

"Ninety-four degrees and sprinkling. Nice suit."

"Made in Milano. You'll be wearing a suit like this in a few months." Brooks jerked his head toward the crowded escalators. "I saw Dolly Parton in here a couple of weeks ago. Keep your eyes open-- " His eyes darted around and his head radared back and forth.

They descended an escalator and then headed down a long, glaring, crowded tunnel where they stepped onto a moving sidewalk. When they reached the end of the tunnel, they passed two frazzled men wearing priest collars. Each man was holding a small plastic bucket filled with coins and bills that sported the sign, HELP THE HOMLESS.

Brooks yanked hard at Clendon's elbow.

"They're phonies," Brooks said loudly, and pulled Clendon toward the exit gate. "I read an expose about them in the paper. This town's full of them."

"I like an open scam."

"Leeches. And they need to learn to spell. Baggage claim is to the right."

They took a hard right around a corner.

"How's Shelley?" Clendon asked.

"She's a goddamned clinical psychologist now, a Ph.D. When she got her degree, she made me call her 'Dr. Symmes-Boyd' for a week. Now she thinks she owns a license to print money."

"Symmes-Boyd?"

"Yeah. She's modern."

The baggage crashed down a chute and onto the circling conveyor. Clendon tried to stop thinking about committing adultery.

"Got your claim check?"

"Right here. I need a pair of sunglasses. It's so bright, even inside."

"No problem. You'll get used to it."

"I saw the goddamnedest thing flying in the smog looked like it had Reagan's face imprinted on it. What was it?"

"It's called the Reagan effect. It's the latest tourist attraction."

Clendon's old canvas bag slid onto the conveyor and he picked it up.

"When do I start?"

"Hell, you can start tomorrow. I only go first class now. Pretty soon you can buy yourself a new set of luggage and a new wardrobe. Money gushes out here in barrels, and all you need is a drop of it. Welcome to the land of dreams."

"Have you been doing coke?"

Brooks made a fake snort.

"Avarice," he said. "It's in the air."

Clendon followed Brooks to the parking garage. The license plate on Brooks's new baby shit green Mercedes-Benz 450 SL read IURNDIT. They eased into the leather seats. Brooks started it up and zipped his Benz through a series of ramps, alleys, and detours. Construction cranes and cement mixer trucks bullied the mob of cars, vans, and buses circling through the airport.

"Olympics are in town next summer," Brooks said over the stock market report droning from his car radio. "So they're building a new international terminal. Named after the mayor. For some peculiar reason, they wouldn't name it after me. I deal in international commerce more then he does."

Brooks glanced in his rearview mirror often as he squeezed onto Century Boulevard.

"What exactly is your business?"

"High tech. Very competitive and hush hush."

"Is it so hush hush you can't tell your newest employee?"

"It's in the computer business. I'll take you to Boyd-Tek's office tomorrow. Get you checked in, signed up, and serviced. You work hard, Clendon, you'll be my right hand guy in six months. It's a great business, but it's hard to find people you can trust. Out here a man's word ain't worth the Mercedes he rides around in."

Brooks pointed across the boulevard to the black glass tower of the airport Hilton.

"You're staying there," he said.

He swung a hard U turn against a red traffic light, narrowly missed an Avis bus, and pulled into the Hilton. After he dropped his Benz off with the valet, he glanced around, smiled to himself, and turned his head-bobbing radar off. They went into the lobby crowded with well-dressed American salesmen and Japanese businessmen. Brooks signed for the room and chattered with the clerk about expense accounts, tax deductions, and company image. He tipped the bellman too much to carry up Clendon's bag. In the hotel room Brooks handed Clendon $300 in cash.

"Go to Bullock's this afternoon and get yourself some sunglasses and a bathing suit. Oh yeah." He pointed at Clendon's boots and shook his head. "Deep six that cowboy crap and get yourself something decent."

Brooks pulled open the curtains. They were five floors up, facing mountains cuddled in smog.

"God, it's beautiful," he said.

"The mountains?"

"No, L. A. See that string of high rises?"

He pointed to a cluster of buildings, miles away, hunkered together at the foot of the mountains.

"My office." He smiled. "I need a drink."

The Hilton hotel bar was cool and dim and empty except for a platinum blond woman sitting alone at the bar, hunched over a pina colada. She was wearing a black miniskirt and smoking a cigarette in a holder. She glanced at Brooks. He and Clendon took a booth and ordered shots of bourbon. Clendon downed his in one quick gulp. Something felt sucked out of his spine, right between the shoulder blades.

"You look like a guy with a load of chips on his chest," Brooks said.

"It shows?"

"Like a slaughterhouse in Beverly Hills. How's Melody?"

"I don't know," Clendon said. "The day after I told Melody I'd been laid off, she ran off in my Cobbco Cadillac with another man. Cobb didn't know that Melody liked his company Cadillac better than she liked me. When I told Cobb about the stolen Caddy, he shook his head and said, 'you should've shot that bitch two years ago. Need a ride home?' He was right, too."

"What, that you should've shot her?"

"No, that I needed a ride home."

"What happened?"

"Well, I got a ride home."

"No. To Melody."

"It's been almost a year. I haven't heard a word. Not even divorce papers."

"What happened to the Cadillac?"

"I don't know. I think Cobb reported it stolen. At least he never billed me for it."

"Cobb's a sport. Is he still in business?"

"No. He filed for bankruptcy, then disappeared one day. The police think he went to Mexico with his secretary, because she's disappeared, too."

"What a God forsaken place," Brooks said.

"I'm here now," Clendon said. "Tell me about Boyd-Tek."

Brooks looked very serious.

"Boyd-Tek means future tech. Future tech means high tech. High tech means computers. Computers need software to operate, but certain software is difficult to obtain. A million dollar super mainframe computer is worthless if you can't tell it to do the right things, right? Well, I obtain the software to tell computers to do the right things. Look. It's like this. You're a landman. What's that mean? You find land. But what's so special about that? You want a certain kind of land-- land that has oil under it. You want land that has enough oil in the ground to fuel the country for a year. Land but no oil-- you're a worthless guy. Right kind of land-- with oil-- you eat apple pie with the big boys. So land without oil for you is like a computer with no software. That's my business. I put together hardware and software for the most sophisticated high tech operations in the world and being that knowledgeable and able middle man is very lucrative, old buddy."

"How'd you get started?"

"Worked for Positron as an electrical engineer and computer programmer. Positron-- we call it Posi-- is an aerospace firm that specializes in the high tech shit that's ruining your part of the country. Since Reagan made that Star Wars speech a few months ago, every executive out here has been walking around with a perpetual hard on. The whole Star Wars program is only a dream, but like all massive boondoggles for the good of the country, a lot of people will get very rich and I intend to be one of them. I decided six months ago to start my own damn company with a short client list I'd compiled from meeting the right people in and around Posi. So, Clennie, I'm going to start you as a gofer, have you meet some people, learn the biz, and no shit, buddy, in six months, you could be V. P. in charge of sales for Boyd-Tek."

Clendon stared at his empty bourbon glass. He felt tired, as if he'd jogged all the way to the coast.

"That woman has been watching you," Clendon said.

The platinum blonde smiled at Clendon. She mashed out her cigarette but kept the holder between her fingers. She stood, wobbled on high heels toward them, and stopped at their table. Her eyes were almost black. Clendon decided she was wearing a wig.

"Do you have any Eskimo shoes?" she asked.

She blinked like she couldn't focus and then drunkenly walked away and went into the ladies room.

"It's L. A.," Brooks said.

He whipped out his eel skin wallet, took out a crisp twenty, and placed it on the table.

"Enough talk. Let's get out of here before that woman comes back. We'll get you an automobile so we can start doing some business."

* * *

Brooks drove while Clendon groped in the glove compartment. The glaring sunshine forced Clendon's eyelids into tight slits despite the Mercedes' tinted glass.

"What are you, with the FBI?"

"No, I'm looking for a map. Ah-ha!" Clendon pulled out a Thomas Guide. "I love maps."

"Everyone is allowed one secret perversion."

"No, I used to study all kinds of maps-- National Geological Survey, seismic survey, plat, landform, demographic-- I just like to know where I am at all times and where I'm going."

"A map can't always tell you where you're going."

Brooks drove north on Lincoln Boulevard as it slid through a tight curve and swooped down the side of a long, steep hill and into open, grassy marshlands. Clendon looked at the map.

"Where we going?"

"Marina del Rey."

At European Auto Leasing, Brooks flashed his American Express gold card and his business card, and they handed him the keys to a powder blue BMW 318i.

"Bosses drive the Benzes out here. Lieutenants get the BMW's. It's the pecking order."

"What about Porsches?"

"Porsches are for lieutenants who have feelings of sexual inadequacy. Do you have some problem I don't know about?"

"No problem," Clendon said.

"Good. I have to go work out now at Gold's Gym-- maybe you can go with me next week. But I want you to head for Bullock's and then meet me at ten in the morning at my office."

Brooks handed Clendon a business card. It said "Boyd-Tek, Inc.," and gave an address on Avenue of the Stars, Century City, and a phone number.

"One piece of advice, Clendon. Don't give anybody the finger when you're driving. They might pull out a gun and shoot you."

Brooks jumped into his baby shit green Mercedes, slipped into traffic, and was gone. Clendon decided to buy some polarized sunglasses to block the glare from Brooks's shiny Mercedes. He wanted a clearer look at what kind of rig Brooks was selling.

* * *

Clendon had a fantasy about Shelley. It involved a darkened movie theater and a pair of brushed denim pants, gray. They would be sitting together in the dark theater and Shelley would be wearing gray brushed denims that fit her tightly. She sat on Clendon's right, eating popcorn. The movie started. It could be any Paul Newman movie. Clendon would place his right hand on her left thigh, just above the knee, his fingers cupping the inside of her leg. He would then move his hand up her thigh slowly, about one inch every five minutes. The brushed denims were smooth and erotic. Shelley munched her popcorn, watched the movie, and never acted as if Clendon were doing anything.

It would take about an hour for Clendon to work his hand all the way up her thigh. Her thigh muscle would twitch once. She was almost finished with her popcorn and her left hand would touch and then hold his right bicep. His hand rested at the top of her thigh, his little finger grazed the material of her pants between her legs, and Clendon could feel her heat through the denim. She thrust her hips forward, slightly.

Clendon would move his hand to the button of her pants and unsnap it. Then he would unzip her very, very slowly so that no one could hear the zipper going down. When she was unzipped, he would slip his hand inside her pants and feel her soft lower belly, then move his hand farther down until he touched her first curly pubic hair, and then move his hand down even farther. She would drop her popcorn. Her eyes closed, she began breathing faster, the movie forgotten. . .

When the phone rang, Clendon had been dreaming that he wasn't dreaming the dream that he had been dreaming every night. Instead, he dreamed of Shelley and thick wads of hundred dollar bills. When the phone rang again, his eyes flipped open. When the phone rang the third time, he moved against the crisp hotel sheets, and remembered.

He groped for the phone and lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Clendon?"

"Brooks?"

"Clendon, you awake?"

"No. This is a recording."

"Clendon, do you want to start today? Did you get yourself some nice shades at Bullock's?"

"I charged the whole store to Boyd-Tek. You should be receiving the bill by messenger this morning."

"Ah, speaking of messengers, Clennie, I need you to do some work for me today. Delivery. Easy, quick, and clean."

"Clean. That's a peculiar word."

"It's a peculiar town and a peculiar business, Clennie."

"I guess I'm ready."

"Good. Get your ass out of bed, check your maps, adjust your shades, get in your BMW, and haul over here to my office by ten."

* * *

Clendon slipped on his new Pierre Cardin sunglasses with the blinders. He felt like a real L. A. guy driving the new BMW and wearing his new Allen Solly oxford shirt and his new Calvin Klein slacks and tie. He had kept his boots. The Alfani oxfords he had tried on had hurt his feet.

On the San Diego Freeway, bumper-jammed cars stretched in front of him to the mountains and behind him to the airport. Drivers read the paper. Men shaved. Women brushed their hair, applied eyeliner, and preened in the mirror. Clendon cruised the radio dial and tuned into a talk show.

"This is Dr. Bruce Hoffman. You're on the air."

Dr. Bruce's voice was smooth and overly calm.

"Hello?"

The woman caller was scared.

"Come on, dear. Get to the problem."

"My husband likes to go to the track."

"He gambles?"

"He loves those ponies."

"More than he loves you, you feel?"

"Yes."

"He loses a lot of money?"

"All of his paycheck yesterday."

"And that's devastating to you?"

"Very. And also. . . "

"What, dear?"

"He beats me when he loses."

"He beats you when he loses. Did you call the police?"

"Why?"

"Why? Because he's assaulting you and that's against the law."

"But he can't help it. I've tried to help him. . . "

"You called me. He didn't call me. I can only help you."

"Okay. I just don't know what to do."

"Call the police. Your husband is dangerous and needs to be dealt with by law enforcement."

"But I can't-- "

Locked in on Dr. Bruce, Clendon missed his exit. He squeezed over to get onto the next off ramp. Above it, a billboard loomed over the traffic. It was a painting of a woman's lean, vacant face, her lips pursed in a bored pout. She was gazing into the sky, her eyes arrogantly avoiding any onlooker. On the woman's head sat a pill box hat that Clendon fixed on, mystified, until a red Corvette behind him honked its horn. Finally, he could see that the pill box hat was actually a picture of a shopping center. Beneath the blank gaze of the woman, spreading out behind and beyond the billboard, lay the immense green lawn of a large cemetery, its thousands of identical white tombstones running in perfect rows.

* * *

Brooks's office was in a radiant, glassy spicule of Century City. The building's underground parking garage brimmed with white Rolls Royces, gold Mercedes-Benzes and red Porsches. There were plants in the lobby, Spanish tile floors, and bored security guards. Boyd-Tek was listed on the building directory-- 425.

Clendon rode up the elevator with two bleached blond secretaries. It appeared that they had spent a week's salary on their perfume, clothes, makeup, and hair. They stayed on the elevator when Clendon got off on four. He checked his tie in a full length mirror then went down the hall to a door labeled "Boyd-Tek" in calligraphic lettering. Clendon went in.

Another bleached blonde with her dark roots showing sat at a desk with a nameplate: Tricia. She was about twenty. Her skin had an orange cast from excessive tanning.

"Clendon Lindsey to see Brooks Boyd, please."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes."

Tricia picked up her office phone and pushed two buttons.

Brooks bounded into the hall, grinning. "Clennie! In here babe!" He turned to Tricia. "No visitors, no calls till he leaves." Brooks waved at him. "This is the command module."

Brooks's office had a large computer terminal, a phone with a dozen buttons, video monitors, electronic decks, polished chrome and black leather furniture, Sooner football photographs on the walls and a view of the Santa Monica mountains.

"Look." Brooks pointed out the window across the Avenue of the Stars to a curved, glass-encrusted building. "The Century Plaza Hotel. Site of Reagan's victory party. Right there."

Brooks inhaled deeply, his eyes closed. Clendon sank down on a soft L-shaped ebony leather sofa. Brooks settled into his black leather executive's chair.

"How's the football team this year?" Brooks asked.

"Overrated and out of shape. I saw 'em lose to Ohio State a few weeks ago. It was 105 and who wilted in the heat? Not the Buckeyes."

"I hate to admit it, but I dropped some coins on that game but I came out ahead for the weekend on the pros. How do they look against Texas on Saturday?"

"I wouldn't put a nickel bet against a dollar on the Sooners."

"Clendon, Clendon. I always bet on the Sooners against Texas. I don't care what the spread is, how they're doing, or who's President. I just can't bet against the Sooners when they play those goddamned Texans. I'm betting a quarter on OU."

Brooks's eyes bubbled.

"You mean $25?"

"$25,000."

"You're too serious, Brooks."

"Come on. A little action is what gives juice to life."

"All right. Put me in for ten after I make my first deal today."

Brooks sprang from his chair. "My God, Clendon! Ten thousand for you?"

"No, Brooks. Ten dollars."

Brooks slumped back, sighed, then rose and said, "Enough bullshit." He joined Clendon on the sofa and established eye contact just like every other auger salesman Clendon ever knew.

"Clennie, you won't be dealing with grandmas and drunken blanket asses. Certain software which Boyd-Tek deals in is rare and valued. I decided to hire you after you told me on the phone about the Leikens deal. I want to hear the details."

"I want to settle one small point first. Salary."

"Of course." Brooks smiled. "You'll work on commission. It should average about two thousand a week before taxes. Depends on the job. The figure I'm quoting is based upon your first assignment."

"I can negotiate a better figure soon?"

"Of course. Tell me the deal on Leikens."

Clendon began. "At the height of the oil boom, the summer of '80, Cobb was certain that somebody was stealing oil from our 'Darko basin wells down in Caddo County. So I was sent out to check our properties and compare the slip jars and the stick readings with the truck barrelage. It was way off, by thousands of barrels. That's nearly $30 a barrel in those days, so you figure up our losses.

"A wildcatter down there named Otto Leikens, who everybody thought was just off the boat from some village in Europe, had also bought a rusty old refinery outside Minco and was cracking gasoline out there and selling it to the cheap self-service gas stations that had sprung up like Johnson grass and were running some of the majors out of the retail business even during the boom. I checked around and nobody could figure out where Leikens was getting all his crude. If you hung out at his refinery, you'd see all these oil trucks coming and going, painted with the logos of local production companies. It all looked as legitimate as Ivory soap. Seemed obvious to me that Leikens was just stealing it from some of the production wells down there.

"During the boom, production companies were sinking wells faster than rabbits have babies, and there were hundreds, and nobody could keep track of it, I don't care what the Corporation Commission publishes, and none of the yahoos down there cared anyway. So working on the premise that theft was indeed occurring, and on a scale beyond our ability to respond, I had to take large-scale decisive action. I had the asphalt loading bays around all of the on-site storage tanks belonging to Cobbco sprinkled with phosphorescent dust-- you know, the kind of stuff they stamp your hand with at bars to show you've paid, but you can't see it unless you put it under ultraviolet light.

"I called the Caddo County sheriff and told him what I'd done, and could he please stop a few of these Leikens' trucks on some traffic or safety inspection premise and check out their tires for the glowing stuff? He agreed to, and Brooks, I thought his fee was reasonable, considering the other kickbacks going on down there. Sure enough, some trucks showed up with glowing tires in the next few days, so we went to a judge and got a search warrant and a stakeout and they busted Otto Leikens. His trucks were all bogus. He made bail and skipped the state. I got a bonus from Cobb and my own personal Cobbco Cadillac."

Brooks had listened by hardly blinking or breathing. When Clendon finished, a grin flooded over Brooks's face.

"I honor men of great cunning," he said and nodded his head. "You should have been an adviser to the President, but the pay wouldn't be as good."

After lunch at Harry's Bar and Grill, Brooks gave Clendon an address and told him to make a pick up.

"They'll know what to do when you get there. Just show them my card." Brooks gripped Clendon's shoulder. "Last thing. Your job for me has to be held in secret. I signed a security clearance when I worked on defense contracts. I require the same for work done at Boyd-Tek. I won't ask you to sign any formal written document, but you have to swear."

"When there's a gusher, everybody gets a little greasy."

They shook hands and Brooks smiled again. According to his map, the address was a side street in West Hollywood off Melrose Avenue. Clendon cut through Beverly Hills. Palm trees clustered along the boulevards. A long row of bank buildings watched over the gardeners driving through in pickups. There was a smell in the air that reminded Clendon of freshly printed currency, but he didn't know what it was.

The neighborhood was an island of manicured green lawns and boxy white stucco houses, surrounded by a sea of glass towers. The address was a small house where a white Lincoln limousine was parked in the driveway. "No Parking" signs stuck up everywhere, so Clendon parked five blocks away.

As he walked back to the address, he broke a light sweat under the cloudless sun, and decided that he needed darker, polarized sunglasses. A man that Clendon figured was Mexican ran a loud leaf blower over the sidewalk. The house with the Lincoln glowed white and had roses growing by the front porch. A sprinkler system fizzed onto the green grass that smelled of fertilizer. Clendon took out his Boyd-Tek card and rang the door bell.

A short Japanese man about fifty opened the door and looked Clendon over. Clendon presented his card. The Japanese man took it, looked that over, and said nothing. Clendon removed his sunglasses and smiled. A drop of sweat dripped off his forehead into his right eye, making it sting. He flinched and began rubbing it. The man still said nothing, but raised one eyebrow.

Clendon cleared his throat. "I'm making a pick up for Boyd-Tek."

"Ahhh," the man said.

He nodded and shut the door in Clendon's face. Thirty seconds passed. Clendon rang the bell again. The Japanese man opened the door again the same way and peered at Clendon. The man held the Boyd-Tek card in his hand. Clendon pointed at it.

"Boyd-Tek," Clendon said loudly. "Boyd-Tek!"

The man flinched. "Boyd-Tek!" he said, and nodded his head up and down and bowed slightly and Clendon bowed slightly back. The man smiled and motioned for Clendon to follow him into a small living room.

"Do you speak English?"

"Engrish? No, no." The man kept smiling, showing strips of gold on his front teeth. "Boyd-Tek."

The man waved for Clendon to sit on a green plaid couch and then disappeared. Clendon wiped the sweat off his forehead with his bare hand. A Latina who weighed two hundred fifty pounds walked in, the Japanese man following her. She was wearing a blue muumuu and Tony the Tiger house slippers. The Boyd-Tek card was clenched in her hand. She stopped and looked Clendon over.

"Buenos dias," Clendon said.

She dropped the card to the floor.

"Cut the phony Spanish, gringo. What are you selling?"

Clendon stood.

"I'm not selling anything. I'm here from Boyd-Tek."

"My husband doesn't speak English. Now what do you want? I'm missing _All My Children._ "

"Boyd-Tek sent me."

"Who the hell are they? I don't like letting strangers in my house."

"Uhh, maybe there's been a mistake," Clendon said and offered the smile that had cemented oil deals in Caddo County. "May I use your phone?"

"What the hell for?"

Was Brooks setting him up for some practical joke? He glanced around the room for a hidden video camera.

"What are you doing? Casing us out?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I didn't catch your name. I'm Clendon Lindsey. Mrs.-- ?"

He held out his hand.

"Did you know my husband was lightweight judo champion of Japan in 1957? Do you know what I'm saying?"

Clendon's offered hand hung in the air until he raised it to scratch his chin. He decided maybe he also needed a new razor.

"Where are you from?" she asked. "Georgia?"

"No, ma'am. I'm from Oklahoma."

"Huh."

"I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, but I want to say one more time that I've been sent to this address by Boyd-Tek, an international high tech corporation, to make an important pick up. If you would check the address on the back of his card, I'm sure I'm at the right place, so maybe the company sent me here by mistake."

"Hachiro!"

Hachiro nodded and shuffled as she spoke rapid Japanese and he bent over and picked up the card. She snatched it from him and read the back.

"This is our address," she snapped.

"See? A simple, honest mistake. I apologize for the inconvenience and I'll be heading off now and let you get back to your program."

The woman gave Hachiro a command in Japanese. He bowed to her while she steamed back to her television room, then he pointed Clendon towards the door.

"Who drives the limo?" Clendon asked as the door swung open and the outside light hit his eyes.

Hachiro smiled and nodded his head in tiny head bows.

"Can you take me for a spin?" Clendon asked.

He slid his sunglasses on and stepped out the door. Hachiro kept up the head nodding.

"Say, your wife is a mucho tough hombre. I thought in Japanese families the man wore the pants."

Hachiro's move was quick. His right foot thumped Clendon's balls. Clendon took a step off the small porch and crumpled to the fresh cut grass.

"Fuck you, buddy. You leave now or I do it again."

Hachiro slammed the door.

* * *

Clendon found a pay phone four blocks away. Tricia answered and put him through.

"Clennie! Babe! How'd it go? Did you get it?"

"What was this, Brooks, initiation?"

"Clendon, you sound irritated. Did you have any problems?"

"No problems if I was wearing a jockey strap with a cup."

"You didn't get it." There was a long silence. "You did have a problem?"

"Yes."

Clendon told him the story and Brooks laughed.

"I want you to meet me in one hour at Palisades Park in Santa Monica," he said. "Far north end, by the picnic tables. Right above the beach."

Clendon got there in fifty minutes. At the north end of the park there were joggers, high rise condominiums and few parking places. The air smelled of the ocean and the same scent of new currency as in Beverly Hills. As Clendon drove by, he saw Brooks leaning against the railing at the edge of the bluff and talking to a tall blond man with huge ears. They were looking towards the ocean. Clendon turned on the next street and spotted a place to park about half way up the block. He parked and locked, then walked back as fast as he could.

Brooks stood coolly in the shade of tall trees. When he saw Clendon, he waved him over to the railing. The man with the big ears was gone.

"Hey, it's that cunning landman, Clendon Lindsey!"

"Who was that guy you were talking to?"

"Who?"

"A few minutes ago. I saw you and him right here when I drove by, and you weren't discussing surfing conditions."

"Clennie, relax, buddy. Just a business associate. I have to make a lot of contacts. That's why you and I are meeting in the park." Brooks smiled. "And I like it here."

He gazed at the ocean and pointed towards it. The late afternoon sunlight was turning the surface of the water a molten silver.

"Do you like sail boats?"

A residual ache hung in Clendon's testicles.

"Cut the bullshit for once, Brooks."

"Clendon, your landman cool is slipping away from you. One set back in the big city and you're ready for a fishing pole at Guthrie Lake."

"Those people at the house in West Hollywood never heard of your damn Boyd-Tek, Inc."

"You didn't talk to Mr. Winston? You were supposed to talk to Mr. Winston."

"You didn't tell me to talk to Mr. Winston."

"I didn't?" Brooks frowned.

"Who's Mr. Winston?"

"Mr. Winston has what you as a Boyd-Tek rep were supposed to pick up."

"Which was?"

Brooks sighed. "Software." He put his arm around him. "Was the Lincoln limo there?"

"Yes. Parked in the driveway."

"So Mr. Winston was there. You just didn't get to him. His chauffeur and bodyguard wouldn't let you. They're very cautious. See, you just learned something about security."

"I'll head back over there right now and straighten this out with Mr. Winston."

"No. Something more important has come up. It needs to be handled right now and I want you to handle it."

"If we're drilling another dry hole, I'm gone."

Brooks handed Clendon another Boyd-Tek card with a different address written on the back.

"It's in Beverly Glen. Today is Friday and it's payday."

"Tell me the password this time."

"There's not any. They're expecting you." Brooks inhaled deeply. "Ahhh. . . Smell that? It smells like money, doesn't it?"

"What is it?

"Eucalyptus trees. We're standing in a eucalyptus grove."

* * *

In the BMW's trunk was a locked, dark gray Samsonite briefcase for a man named Adolfo. Clendon had both hands on the wheel as he drove eastbound on San Vicente past tree-shaded mansions and joggers along the grassy median. The joggers made him nervous. He would rather stop for a pitcher of beer and some table shuffleboard, but he didn't pass any roadhouses.

On Brooks's advice, at Bundy Clendon cut over to Sunset and began winding through sharp, landscaped curves at fifty and sixty in a bumper to bumper race with a Jaguar and a Porsche. Traffic began to stagnate at Beverly Glen, but Clendon made a hard left and started up the Glen behind a silver Rolls Royce. The road ascended and narrowed. Jungle growths and entangled leafy trees hung over the road. Sunlight gushed through gaps in the bougainvillea. Palm trees disappeared.

Behind the shrubbery and walls, houses hid from the sunshine. About four miles up, Clendon turned onto a twisting asphalt street. It was short, not more than two blocks. The houses were pushed away from the street behind tall trees and wild bushes. There was an English manor house, a pagoda, and a gabled Queen Anne. Adolfo's house looked like a small Gothic cathedral and was overwhelmed by rose bushes. It sat at the very cul of the cul de sac. Its driveway was empty.

Clendon swung a U turn and parked facing Beverly Glen. A hint of honeysuckle floated past on the ocean breeze lifting up the glen, followed by the smell of eucalyptus. It was very quiet. Clendon took the briefcase from the trunk and carried it in his sore right hand.

Iron door knockers hung from stout double doors. A sign read "Push," so Clendon pressed the intercom buzzer. He waited, then buzzed again, said, "Hello," and put his sunglasses in his shirt pocket.

Both doors swung open. Beneath a vaulted ceiling in a long hallway stood a barefoot Latina in hot pants and a Raiders T-shirt. She was younger than twenty and had a body like a bag full of bobcats. Behind her was a bird bath with a running fountain.

Clendon held out his card.

"Boyd-Tek."

She took the card, glanced at it.

"Come on in. I'll tell Adolfo. I'm warning you-- he's kind of in a hurry." She had a slight Spanish accent. "Follow me."

Lined along the hallway were life-sized marble statues. At their feet were labeled bronze plaques: Santa Monica, Saint Francis, Father Junipero Serra, and on and on. Clendon counted a dozen. He didn't know whether to kneel and pray or become a missionary.

The vaulted hallway ended in a round room sixty feet across. The room had a spiral staircase in the center. The girl ascended it and said again to follow her. On the second floor Clendon trailed after her down a long, carpeted hallway. She led him into an enormous white room with white divans and white carpeting. A white recliner was pulled up close to a big screen projection television that was loudly tuned to _Family Feud_. The man in the recliner was laughing at the show.

"Adolfo, business," she said, and gave him the Boyd-Tek card. Then she smiled at Clendon as she sprawled on a white divan, her smooth brown legs relaxed and opened. Clendon's eyes lingered on her for too long.

"Who's the new mule?" Adolfo asked and turned off the sound of the TV with the remote.

Clendon stared at Adolfo sitting in his recliner. Adolfo had on a long black Cher wig, false eyelashes, cherry red lipstick matching a cherry red dress that looked made of silk and stopped at the knee, and black fishnet hose. A layer of face powder couldn't hide the ink-black two day stubble pushing through it. His dress looked fitted for his broad shoulders. A black automatic pistol rested in his lap. He had one hand on the television remote control and the other on the armrest.

Adolfo looked Clendon over, too, and when he finished he smiled, faintly, and even more faintly licked his lips.

Suddenly, Clendon had to piss.

"I'm Adolfo."

He held out his hand to Clendon like a woman. Adolfo's forearm was thick and hairy. His fingernails were polished cherry red.

Clendon glanced at the girl, who had a perverted glint. He shook Adolfo's hand and glanced around as if asking for a place to sit. It wasn't offered so he remained standing.

"What's your name?" Adolfo asked in an accent basted with Spanish gold.

"Clendon."

"That's a sweet name. Irish?"

"Welsh."

"My wife is Irish. This is my daughter, Sue. She's half-Irish. I'm a full-blooded Mexican, which means I'm three-eighths Indian."

"I'm one thirty-second Cherokee," Clendon said. "And full-blooded American."

"Ah, so we are fellow bloods. Where are you from, Tennessee?"

"Oklahoma."

"Oklahoma. So, blood, let us start our business. May I have the briefcase?"

Clendon handed it to Adolfo who placed it on his lap.

"Clendon, I have to ask you to sit over there."

Adolfo pointed to a white sofa across the room that faced his chair. Clendon nodded and sat there.

"Sue, the key," Adolfo said.

Sue left the room. Adolfo turned the volume back up loudly on _Family Feud_. From Clendon's acute angle on the divan, shadowy, colorless shapes filled the screen.

"Name a famous bank," Richard Dawson said.

A buzzer sounded.

"Wells Fargo!" a contestant shouted.

"Let's see Wells Fargo!"

A bell clanged.

"Yes! You have control-- "

When Sue returned with a single briefcase key that dangled from a long black ribbon, Adolfo shut the television's volume back off. Sue sat on another white divan. Adolfo opened the briefcase and looked inside. Neither Sue nor Clendon could see the inside of the briefcase. Adolfo then slammed it and locked it.

"Yes. Sue-- "

Sue took the briefcase and left the room.

"Damn commercials," Adolfo said and kept the volume off.

"My favorite show."

"My father's, too."

"Really? I just love Richard Dawson, especially on _Hogan's Heroes_. A wonderful satire on the absurdities of fascism."

Adolfo squinted and batted his eyelashes. He pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels and a Bic lighter from his bosom and lighted up, sighing with the nicotine fix. He blew smoke out of his nose, pondered a moment.

"Boyd-Tek does good work," he said.

"I like to think so."

"And how long have you been with them?"

"Two days, but Brooks and I are old buddies."

"How charming. Do you know what happened to the last Boyd-Tek mule?"

"No, what? V. P. of sales at another aerospace firm?"

"Nobody knows." Adolfo paused. "Disappeared. Like Jimmy Hoffa." He touched his pistol.

Sue brought in another dark gray Samsonite briefcase, same make and model, for Clendon.

"Deliver directly to Mr. Boyd," Adolfo said.

"Will do."

Clendon stood and took the briefcase. It was locked. It was heavy enough that something was in it.

"Goodbye, Clendon," Adolfo said.

Adolfo held out his hand again. Clendon shook it, then followed Sue out of the white room. His bladder ached. He groped for his sunglasses. As he slipped them on, he glanced in a corner of the ceiling where a video camera was trained on the room.

In the hallway was another camera. At the bottom of the spiral stairs Clendon asked Sue for a bathroom. They started down another hallway, but halted at the first door on the right.

"Here," she said.

"Thanks."

The bathroom was larger than his hotel room, with thick white carpeting and a sunken tub large enough for six persons. In the corner stood a small statue of a naked cherub peeing water into a basin. Clendon relieved himself in the oversized toilet. Another video camera with a flashing red light was trained on him.

Sue showed him out, down the hallway past the spouting bird bath and the row of holy statues. Clendon watched her ass move. He began counting the months since he had been with a woman, but lost count.

"Sorry, but Adolfo's in a hurry," Sue said as she opened the door. As he stepped out, she flashed him a look that said, "Go play with yourself," and shut the door. The sound reverberated like one thump on a bass drum.

Thick clouds floated overhead and blocked the sun. Clendon secured the dark gray briefcase in the trunk and slid into the driver's seat.

* * *

Clendon didn't know why, but on the drive back to Boyd-Tek, his thoughts drifted back to his eighth birthday, the day before Louis left for Vietnam. He and Louis and his father had gone fishing in their farm pond. He remembered precisely as Louis had shoved off the rowboat and they eased out into the pond.

"Is your life jacket tight?" his father asked.

"Yes."

Clendon didn't like it on because it was damp and smelly and made him hot, and he didn't like getting up so early, especially on his birthday.

"I'll have to teach you how to swim," Louis said. "It's easy."

It was a warm, sticky June dawn. A bullfrog croaked from a tangle of bushes. The pond water was the color of red brick. It had rained the night before and stirred up the mud from the shallow bottom. Louis and his father rowed out slowly. Clendon sat at the bow, leaned over, and dropped his hand in the cool water. He liked the way the boat glided across the still pond.

"Careful, C. T."

"The channel cat run through here," his father said and pointed to where the creek opened out into the pond.

Clendon felt sleepy from getting up while it was still dark. He must have fallen back asleep, because his father nudged him with his oar.

"Quit leaning on me," his father said.

They took out their fishing poles and tackle and bait.

"Crappie should be hitting this morning," his father said.

"I don't like crappie," Clendon said.

They baited their hooks and began to lazily toss their fishing lines into the pond and then slowly reeled their lines back in.

"Want some fried catfish for supper?" Louis asked.

"Sure."

"We'll run a trotline this morning."

Clendon stood up in the front of the boat so he could work his fishing pole more easily.

"Don't stand up. You'll rock the boat and you might fall in."

"Yeah, C. T., it's bad luck," Louis said.

Clendon started to sit when his father got a strike and yanked on his line. It rocked the boat hard.

"Woah!"

Clendon tipped forward and swung his arms for balance, but it wasn't there. He tried to grab onto the rowboat, but he fell into the pond face first.

The belly buster knocked the wind out of him. He lay on his stomach, face down on the water, his arms outspread. The life jacket kept him floating, but he couldn't turn his head to breathe. His ears and nostrils filled with water. There were muffled shouts. His eyes stayed wide open and he stared into the red murk. He couldn't move. Then he decided not to breathe again. He was surprised how quiet it was. He decided he would just stay there.

There was a deep splash. The water bobbed and rocked him. Clendon kept floating and rocking until a strong hand yanked his preserver and his head came up out of the water. He still couldn't inhale.

"C. T.!"

Louis whacked him on the back and then Clendon sputtered and sucked in air. He flipped onto his back. The life preserver twisted around his arms and neck, but his head stayed out of the water. Louis looked at him closely in the face.

"C. T., are you all right?"

Clendon nodded yes.

Louis pulled him back over to the rowboat. Clendon realized Louis was walking on the shallow bottom.

"Grab the side and hold on till I climb in."

Louis climbed into the rowboat and then hauled Clendon in. They both breathed hard for a long time.

"I lost my fish," his father said. "Hank, stay out of the goddamn pond."

His father reached for Clendon's fishing pole that was floating near the boat and gave it back to Clendon.

"I'll have to teach you to swim," Louis said. "I can't always jump in to pull you out."

* * *

It was exactly two hours since Clendon had left Brooks in Palisades Park. The door to 425 was locked. Clendon knocked and Brooks let him in. Tricia was gone. Brooks took a key from a locked desk drawer and opened the briefcase so Clendon couldn't see the inside of it. Brooks examined the contents with a flat expression and closed the briefcase.

"Good work, Clendon."

Brooks went over to his wall photograph of Uwe von Foot kicking a game-winning field goal and pointed at it.

"What a great game. 29-27 over Ohio State."

He pulled on the photograph's frame. It swung open, revealing the door of a wall safe. He spun the combination, opened the safe and put the briefcase inside. He took an envelope out of the safe, closed it and replaced the photograph.

"Pay day," Brooks said and ruffled through currency inside the envelope. "Here." He handed Clendon ten $100 bills. "Your commission and first pay check." He looked at Clendon's boots.

"Clendon, get yourself some goddamn city shoes. Get yourself a good pair of Alfani oxfords."

Clendon took the money.

"This isn't a pay check."

"A formality. Tricia will have a stub for you on Monday. Don't worry. People around here pay a hundred bucks to have their car washed."

"Adolfo told me the last courier for Boyd-Tek disappeared."

"Adolfo has a problem. He loves to scare people. It's his way of denying that he's a nice guy to do business with."

"Do Boyd-Tek couriers get kicked in the balls everyday by Japs-- "

"Clendon, you're such a racist. You have to watch that around here."

"Am I the only person you can get to run coke for you?"

"I'm in the software business, Clendon. Relax. You now have a thousand dollars cash." Brooks clapped his hands together. Sweat beads broke out on his forehead. "Do you want to fly to Vegas tonight?" he asked.

"Las Vegas? Is Shelley going?"

"Shelley? She's out of town this weekend. Shrink convention in Frisco. I don't worry 'bout her in Frisco-- that town is crawling with nothing but fairies. Listen, I got us a room at Caesar's Palace tonight. I'm on their high roller list. Do you know how hard it is to get a room in Vegas, let alone at the Palace, on a Friday night?"

* * *

After they checked in at Caesar's Palace at midnight, Brooks had some bets to make. He punched his rented red Thunderbird into the weekend traffic and cruised the Strip. In the next two hours they hit five sports books from the Strip to downtown. Brooks bet five thousand at each one on the OU-Texas game. Texas was a 4 1/2 point favorite everywhere, and Brooks took the Sooners and the points.

"Can't lose with the points, can't lose with the points," he said.

As they rushed down the Strip back to Caesar's Palace, Brooks spotted a lone blonde driving a shiny black Pontiac Grand Prix. He flicked the power window switch and his window slid down. The blonde opened hers. She looked over at them and smiled. Brooks looked at her and licked his lips. Clendon thought he had seen her somewhere before, then dismissed it. He decided that if he had the patent on peroxide, he could retire in six months.

"Do you both?"

Brooks leaned out of his window and the T-Bird swerved.

"Sure!" he yelled.

"$200" she shouted.

"No problem," Brooks said, gave her the thumbs up and closed his window. "God, I love Vegas."

* * *

Adolfo's daughter wriggled her warm body against Clendon. He ran his hand under her black Raiders T-shirt and caressed her belly and edged up to the underside of her breasts and on up and cupped her nipple. He pressed his erection against her thigh and began kissing her. He stared into her brown eyes until her face dissolved into Shelley's face and Shelley's silver-blue eyes. Clendon kissed Shelley, her tongue hot, tangy, and slippery in his mouth. The bed started shaking and Clendon heard himself moan. Fog swept through. A door slammed and Brooks's voice boomed against his head.

Clendon opened his eyes, sat up and looked around the hotel room. Brooks was fiddling with the television.

"Should've gone with me last night."

"What time is it?"

"Time for the game."

Clendon ordered breakfast from room service: a pot of coffee with extra cream, a large orange juice, a breakfast steak with two eggs over easy, hash browns, a double order of toast with honey and extra jam, and a pitcher of water.

Brooks hunched over the club table close to the television and broke the seal on a quart bottle of Wild Turkey. A bucket of ice sat on the table, along with a new pack of Camel unfiltered cigarettes and a Caesar's Palace ashtray.

After Brooks made his Turkey on the rocks in a water glass and sipped it twice, he opened the pack of Camels and lit one. He took a few deep drags on the Camel, then went over to his luggage, extracted a black shaving bag, and returned to the table. He unzipped the bag, removed a petite gold cigarette case, and opened it. He took a small mirror, a razor blade, and some cocaine out of the case, and made two lines on the mirror.

"Snort?"

"No, thanks."

"Ever tried it?"

"Once. Made me real sick."

"Aw, bullshit."

"Barfed all over the wall."

"Clendon, you're more of a weeny than I remembered. I'm offering to share my last with you. I'm going to score some big powder tonight, though, after my big win today."

Brooks took out a $100 bill and rolled it up. He bent over and snorted the coke. He sat back up and sniffed, then his eyes glowed again like the night before, and he grinned.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" Clendon asked.

"I can't sleep. Big fucking game."

Room service arrived at the end of the first quarter. Clendon had to go to the door in his underwear because he couldn't find his pants and Brooks wouldn't budge from watching the television. While Clendon gobbled breakfast, Brooks kept sipping bourbon and torching Camels.

It didn't look good for the Sooners. They wallowed around, sluggish and confused. Brooks sucked on his Camel cigarette and cursed and screamed on almost every play, insulting the Texas players and coaches, the officials, the Texas fans, and even the Sooners when they made a mistake.

"They can't hear you, Brooks."

"It makes me feel better."

When Texas jumped ahead one touchdown, Brooks did two more lines. His eyes went bloodshot red and his hands shook.

"Don't worry," he said. "I still got 4 1/2 points. We just can't lose to those Texas bastards."

After Clendon drained the coffee pot and the water pitcher and downed all the food, he got dressed. It was the end of the second quarter and the Sooners were losing. Texas was steadily wearing them down. Brooks did two more lines and made a fresh drink.

"I forgot to bet my ten dollars last night," Clendon said.

"That goddamned Switzer won't get his players in shape. Look at that. Their tongues are dragging the ground already."

"Brooks, will you take a ten dollar bet now?"

"Ten dollars on what?"

"The game. I'll bet my ten on Texas."

"You dumb ass, you can't bet on the point spread after the game starts. Oh shit! Look at that!"

"I want to make a bet with you. Straight up. No spread."

"With me? You want to bet ten dollars with me against the Sooners?" Brooks stared at him. "That's stupefying, Clendon. Especially considering your namesake."

Brooks turned back to the game and didn't say anything when Texas scored another touchdown. He reached for a direct hit from the Wild Turkey bottle.

"Can I get a nip?"

"I shouldn't let you touch my Turk now, you're a dangerous person."

Brooks held the bottle out, but wouldn't look as Clendon took it and had a taste.

At half time, Brooks's mood smoldered black. He stomped around the room, clutching the Wild Turkey bottle and taking sips. He wore the same clothes as the day before, only his tie and coat were off. The tie clasp and gold cuff links were off, too, and his powder blue oxford shirt was stained at the armpits to the color of a bruise.

"Brooks, I was only razzing you."

"About what?"

"The bet."

"Clendon, there's certain things you don't razz a man about, and betting against OU in the Texas game is one of them."

Before the second half kickoff, Brooks snorted the last of his coke. He took his seat at the club table and bounced his leg nervously as he flinched, prayed and implored. He twirled the ash tray in his hands and stubbed out one cigarette after another.

"Try telekinesis," Clendon said.

The phone rang.

"Don't answer it," Brooks said.

It rang ten times and kept ringing.

"Goddamn it," Clendon said and picked up the phone.

"Hello."

"Hello," a woman's voice said. "Brooks Boyd, please."

"He's watching the game. He won't come to the phone."

"Tell him thanks for his Eskimo shoes last night."

She hung up.

"What they'd want?" Brooks asked, still watching the television screen. "Oh, that's interference-- "

"Thanks for your Eskimo shoes last night."

Brooks glanced at Clendon. Then he faked a laugh.

"Eskimo shoes? Vegas is crazy, Clendon."

OU mustered a drive and penetrated Longhorn territory. Then it was over-- another Sooner fumble.

"God damn!"

Brooks hollered and slammed the Wild Turkey bottle down on the table. The bottle broke cleanly around its base. The Turkey drained out, puddled on the table, and spilled over the edge in a dribbling liquorfall onto the carpet. The room began to smell of expensive bourbon. Brooks held the broken, bottomless bottle at arm's length, then flipped it across the room.

A couple of plays later, the freshman Texas running back, Simmons, broke up the middle and sprinted untouched 68 yards to the OU end zone, putting Texas up by three touchdowns. Brooks let out a screech, then hurled the ashtray as hard as he could at the television. Cigarette butts flew as the ashtray crashed through the picture tube in an explosion of bursting glass. The television popped, glowed, shot off sparks, and then died. Ashy soot hung in the air.

Brooks never moved from his chair. After staring at the television as if it would spontaneously repair itself, he lit his last Camel. He took a long drag and after exhaling said, "They disgust me."

Clendon followed him down to Caesar's sports book to watch the end. Oklahoma made a feeble rally, but the final score was 28-16, Texas. Brooks was 7 1/2 points short. His face turned the color of old tuna salad. Clendon put his arm around Brooks.

"Come on, you can take a long, hot shower, put on some fresh clothes, go out and have dinner, relax-- "

"I'll have to win it back."

* * *

While Brooks was in the shower, Clendon checked his own wallet for the rest of his bills. They were gone except for one. Clendon peeked into Brooks's wallet and counted twenty-seven $100 bills. Clendon was sure seven of those were taken from his own wallet. He studied Brooks's driver's license and memorized the address, found the keys to the T-Bird, then called the airport for every flight from Las Vegas back to Los Angeles in the next 24 hours.

After his shower and shave, Brooks dressed as if he were suiting up for a big game. He wore a white, baggy Italian sports jacket rolled at the sleeves over a navy blue polo shirt and beige slacks, dark socks and a pair of Australian walking shoes.

They took the elevator down and had the Roman feast. Brooks drank four cups of coffee. The color of life returned to his face and his eyes simmered only half bloodshot. He broke one of the hundreds from his wallet to pay for dinner.

"Roulette," Brooks said.

The casino boiled with racket, neon, felt, chrome, alcohol, dealers, thousands of electric lights and money. Noise seemed to fill the air in solid chunks. Clendon followed Brooks, who went directly to the roulette table.

"This must be a hot wheel."

The croupier, a young woman in a toga and blond wig, was pushing stacks of chips toward four winning players. A man with a white moustache and white goatee, dressed in a white suit and white Panama hat, sucked on a dead cigar and dropped a dozen $100 chips on a single spin.

Brooks sat down next to the wheel, bet on half a dozen spins, broke even, and then ordered a bourbon. Then he didn't hit a single winner for eight spins in a row, despite covering the layout with complex chip combinations, but he never changed his expression.

"Maybe you should quit," Clendon said.

"I never quit. Quitting is for losers."

Every fifteen minutes Brooks reached into his wallet and took out more $100 bills, converted them to $25 chips, and dissipated them into Caesar's coffers. Time drained away. Then he had a short run and made up $700 in minutes. The effect was the same as giving an alcoholic a drink at the end of a dry out.

He gave the croupier a big tip.

"Brooks, let's go get some air."

"Air?" Brooks sucked in a deep breath. "The air in here is great! Haven't you heard that they pump pure oxygen into the casino to make all the players high?"

The croupier spun the ball. It clacked into a slot and Brooks won again. He raked in his winnings. Clendon placed his hand on Brooks's shoulder.

"Brooks-- "

"Back off."

A dark look passed through Brooks's eyes. A toga'd cocktail waitress brought him another drink while he spread his chips around the table.

"Let's go to the craps table," Clendon said. "I've heard the percentages are better."

Brooks filtered him out, so Clendon decided to drift around the casino, past the high rolling Texans in Nocona boots, past the slots where old women in blue lacquered hair sat with their paper cups of quarters, and past the porters dressed like centurians sweeping up cigarette butts.

Clendon looked down at his new oxfords, the ones he'd bought on the way to the airport the evening before. City shoes indeed. Hours passed-- or was it only minutes? Was it three a. m., or merely midnight? He dropped a roll of quarters on video poker and quit.

He looked across the casino. A platinum blond woman was standing next to Brooks. He was making faces as she spoke to him. She paused to smoke a cigarette from a holder. Clendon recognized her black eyes from the Hilton bar, then realized she was also the woman driving the Grand Prix the night before.

He headed for the roulette tables. He could only slowly ease through the crowd, and lost sight of Brooks. When he reached the tables, the woman was gone.

Brooks grabbed Clendon's arm.

"I'm down to my last $100. It's time for red-black-red, double zero."

The man dressed in white had cashed his last chip and had gone. Only an old woman in fur who played one dollar chips in her own secret patterns stuck at the wheel with Brooks, who put his four $25 chips in one neat stack and pushed them onto red. The new croupier, a woman who had a face like molded plastic, stared at Brooks, then flipped the ball into the spinning wheel. He whooped as the ball fell into a slot.

"14 - Red," the croupier said.

Brooks shifted his original bet and his $100 winnings onto black.

"24 - Black."

Brooks now had $400 on the table. He shoved it all on red, and drank all of his bourbon.

"27 - Red."

"Double zero!" Brooks yelled.

"Brooks, you can't-- "

"I have to."

He took his sudden $800 bulge and put it on the double zero, a 38 to 1 shot at true odds. Clendon started to grab for Brooks's chips. The croupier brought her stick down to stop him.

"I'm sorry," the croupier said. "The house limit is $100 on the inside."

"I want to see the pit boss and ask him to raise the limit," Brooks said.

"Brooks, keep your $700, put $100 on double zero if you have to, then let's get out of here."

Clendon gripped Brooks's shoulder. Brooks shucked Clendon's hand off.

"Pit boss, please," Brooks said, then whispered in Clendon's ear. "Double-zero pays 35 to 1. That's 800 times 35, which is $28,000. On one spin!"

A man with a red bow tie appeared.

"I want the house to raise the limit on the inside to $800."

"My friend doesn't really. He's just joking."

"One spin only," Brooks said. "Raise the house limit."

The face of the man with the red bow tie never changed from indifference.

"One spin," he said.

Brooks put his $800 on the double zero. The woman in fur didn't notice. Clendon thought he glimpsed the platinum blonde as she floated past with a man dressed like a sheik. Her lips twitched when she saw Clendon looking at her, then she slid into the crowd.

The croupier flicked the ball into the spinning wheel. The ball bounced crazily into the wheel and settled into a slot.

"Zero," the croupier said.

"Zero!" Brooks shouted. "Zero!"

The croupier raked away all of Brooks's chips.

Brooks muttered "zero, zero," then stopped and focused on the man with the red bow tie. "I have a $10,000 line of credit at this casino and I want to open it up."

"Perhaps tomorrow."

Sweat pearls formed on Brooks's forehead. One dangled on his nose tip.

"Check your records now," Brooks said.

"Take your friend up to his room now," the man with the red bow tie said to Clendon. "Please."

"Brooks, let's go," Clendon said.

He locked both his arms around Brooks's left arm, and took a step.

"Goddamn it!"

Brooks jerked free, stumbled, regained, and turned toward Clendon, who easily ducked Brooks's first drunken swing, but Brooks spun and shot another wild fist that caught Clendon's shoulder. Clendon popped him back, an uppercut that jarred Brooks's stomach and made his cheeks puff.

Brooks clutched his belly and lurched toward Clendon, then said, "I'm going to barf." He staggered into the roulette table and vomited all over the layout in long bursts. The woman in fur stumbled to the floor as her chips flew across the carpet. An aroma rose from the roulette table as undigested Wild Turkey soaked into the green felt and little chunks of Maine lobster clung to Caesar's chips. A small flick of vomit dropped on one of Clendon's new oxfords.

When Brooks was finished vomiting, he said, "Sorry," then wiped his mouth. "I want to speak to the owner of this turkey shoot about my line of credit." Then he gripped his head in a spasm of pain and groaned.

Somebody threw a tarp over the roulette table. Four large men dressed in blue blazers rushed over to Brooks, picked him up, and carried him double time out of the casino and down a long dim hallway to a freight elevator.

Clendon followed beside the man with the red bow tie. They crowded into the elevator. Brooks moaned but didn't struggle. Out of the elevator, they carried him toward the hotel room. Clendon opened the door. The stench of spilled bourbon still hung in the air. They dumped Brooks on the bed and hustled out.

The man with the red bow tie stayed.

"We'll be glad to offer our assistance to help you check out in the morning, Mr.-- "

"Lindsey."

"Yes. Where are you gentlemen from, Arkansas?"

"No. We're from Oklahoma."

"Ahhh. . . I see there's been an accident with the television. Well, good night."

The man went out and eased the door shut.

Brooks lay on his back and sobbed on the bed. "I don't want to die, Clendon, I don't want to die."

"Who does?" Clendon said.

"I don't want to die, I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die," Clendon shouted. "You're drunk."

"Make sure I don't have a Baptist funeral."

"I promise. No Baptist funeral."

"Please--

I don't want to die."

"Jesus, Brooks, why do you think you're going to die?"

"Do you know why Baptists won't fuck standing up?" Brooks whispered. He paused. "It's too much like dancing." Brooks mumbled something else. Clendon thought he heard Brooks say "Eskimo shoes," but he wasn't sure. He bent closer. Brooks's eyelids stuck half-open and his tongue stuck from his mouth like a dead dog.

"Brooks?"

No response.

"Brooks?"

Clendon kicked Brooks's foot. Brooks didn't even quiver. Clendon bent next to Brooks's face, and listened for breathing. He thought it had ceased. He put his ear next to Brooks's nose, and it was there, very shallow. He pulled some covers up and over Brooks and turned the air conditioning up a notch. Then he rolled Brooks over on his belly and pulled his head to the edge of the bed in case he vomited in his sleep.

Clendon took his shoes off and decided to clean them in the morning. He took the pillow and top sheet and a blanket from his bed, crawled into the bathroom, flipped on the ventilation fan, and locked the door. He knew that somewhere Caesar was counting his chips.

* * *

They checked out by noon. Brooks was told to sign a letter stating that all the damage would be billed onto Boyd-Tek's corporate American Express card. On the plane Brooks drank a Bloody Mary and threw up once. He muttered to Clendon something about avoiding arrest by the Las Vegas police for puking on an active roulette game. When they landed in L. A., the sky was swept clear and blue with no shroud of smog. When they reached Brooks's Mercedes, normal color had returned to his face, but his eyes were sunken.

"I'll drive you home," Clendon said and put on his sunglasses.

"No, I'll drive. Just need a pit stop for a couple of quarts of Gatorade and rest up for on Monday."

"Where do you live?"

"I'm having the house remodeled," Brooks said. "A major job. Business has been so good the last few months, we-- Shelley and I-- couldn't resist, but it's a huge mess right now, sawdust and plaster on the kitchen table, paint on the bedspreads. It looks like we've been in an earthquake. I'll take you back to the hotel."

"What are Eskimo shoes?"

"It's a new fad," Brooks said. "It's like baggy shorts." Brooks slapped Clendon's knee. "Hell, I don't know what they are."

"$700 disappeared from my wallet in Vegas and it wasn't a pickpocket."

Brooks said nothing for long seconds. The car key scissored between his fingers.

"I'll make it up to you. I'll have another job for you in a few days, and I'll give you a large commission. This is the one big killing I've been working on. And it might involve a Texan." A wisp of a smile graced his mouth. "Revenge, you know."

"Is that the only way I'll get my $700 back?"

"I don't have the cash. If you want to fly back to Oklahoma, Clendon, I'll put you on a plane this afternoon and I'll pick up the fare."

"I'll take the deal, Brooks, because I need my $700."

* * *

That night Clendon's dreaming returned. Brooks handed him the oil buckets on the ground and then waited at the top of the skyscraper to push him off, but Clendon landed on Shelley, his cock throbbing so hard it hurt. When he awoke, his heart was flipping and breathing was suffocating. . .

He spent Tuesday and Wednesday at the north end of Santa Monica beach where he watched the women in thong bikinis. He spent Tuesday and Wednesday evening draining pitchers of beer at a pub he found up from the beach called the King's Head. Shaving in the morning became a struggle to avoid slicing his face. His last one hundred dollars had shrunk to a fiver and two ones.

Brooks called him Thursday morning. He instructed Clendon to meet again in Palisades Park at one p.m. sharp. Clendon wondered if Brooks thought his office was bugged, his phoned wiretapped, his car a listening device.

Clendon drove along Ocean Avenue at the north end of the park, eyes open for a parking spot. Again he saw Brooks leaning against the railing, facing the ocean, and standing beside the tall man with big ears. Clendon turned his head to get a good look and nearly ran over an old man wearing only a bathing suit and riding a bicycle. The old man cursed him in a foreign language. Clendon yelled and cursed back and honked.

He did three laps around the block trying to park. On the third lap, Brooks and the man with the big ears were gone. Clendon swung through the neighborhood to see if one or the other was walking to his car. The blocks were long and the houses were large. Tall palm trees swayed in the ocean breeze, and the sun shone. The lenses of Clendon's sunglasses made the clear sky look deep blue. Kids played in a front yard, Latinos fixed a roof. Nobody walked on the sidewalks.

After cruising for about ten minutes, Clendon spied the baby shit green Mercedes with the IURNDIT plates. He parked a hundred feet behind it. Brooks sat at the wheel. The BMW's digital clock read 1:08, so Clendon decided to wait until Brooks got out of his Benz. Then he would sneak up and honk.

The clock showed 1:09, then 1:10. Brooks hadn't moved.

Maybe he was deep in thought about that blonde in Vegas. Clendon turned on the radio and rolled through the FM band. Nothing. What was Brooks doing? Hadn't he looked in his rear view mirror?

Clendon had to take a leak. He remembered when he was stuck in football traffic after an OU game, heading back up I-35 to the City with forty thousand other fans. A tractor-trailer rig had jackknifed, squashed a Volkswagen, and spilled frozen chickens on the highway. Several other cars had plowed into the mess. Both northbound lanes were blocked while the highway patrol tried to figure it out. Fire trucks arrived to pry open the mashed VW. Ambulances hauled away the dead and maimed. It was November, dusk fell hard, and it began to sleet.

Clendon had sat there in his old Chevy, stuck on a short bridge over a creek. Cars stretched ahead and behind. There was no place to move or to go. As the minutes became an hour and longer, the six pack that Clendon had drunk at the game began to dam up in his bladder. Every few minutes another highway patrol car or ambulance or tow truck rumbled past on the shoulder.

Clendon was tempted to do the same, except that two patrolmen holding flashlights stood in their raincoats and Smokey hats at the head of the bridge. Stepping out of the car and pissing over the side of the bridge was not possible. He didn't have the cash on him to make bail and he knew he would flunk the breathalyzer.

Then he remembered that he had a pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment in a leatherette case. He didn't have any empty beer cans in the car because an open container was a $50 fine, and he was careful about that on game days. It hurt like a stabbing to lean over and open the glove compartment and take out the glasses case. He dropped the sunglasses onto the floor, unzipped, fit the glasses case under his dick, and felt relief.

The case held maybe two ounces, so he had to rein it back. It hurt badly but that subsided while he opened the door and bailed out the first steaming case full. He left the door open a crack, repeated the procedure, always keeping his eyes on the patrolmen.

They never noticed. It took him about ten minutes to finish, a six pack equaling 72 ounces. He flipped the soggy case into the weeds.

Still Brooks sat there. Clendon gave it till 1:22, then adjusted his shades and approached the Benz. All the windows were rolled up. Brooks's head was tipped back. Clendon shielded his eyes from the glare and started to tap on the tinted window.

Brooks's mouth hung half open. A bit of tongue sat on his teeth. Stuck to his forehead was a $100 bill, where fresh blood was soaking through the portrait of Franklin. His eyes were wide, his pupils a pair of black zeros inside the blue zeros of his irises.

PART TWO

TOO FAR

A bullet hole had pierced the windshield. The hole looked pasted on. Brooks was partially hidden by the Benz's tinted windows. Clendon pulled on the door latch. It was locked. Great. Leave your prints. He took a step around to try to lean closer and get a final quick look. He kicked something lying on the pavement in front of the tire. It was a pistol.

Clendon started walking fast toward the ocean into the breeze. At Ocean Avenue he stopped and waited as traffic raced past. A poking hot pain centered in his forehead.

Across the street a woman bent over the railing and gazed at the ocean. She was dressed in red jogging shorts and a tank top, and had natural blond hair. She moved, and it stung Clendon. It was Shelley. He shouted, waved, and dashed across the street into the park and ran up to her.

Shelley's face was bleached white. She was shaking, and her silver-blue eyes were stuck open wide and glassy. She sank back against the railing and reached for him.

"Clendon, Brooks—" She pointed toward the Mercedes.

"I just saw him," Clendon said. "What did you see? Fifteen minutes ago—" She straightened and pulled hard on Clendon's arm and shoulder.

"Do you have a car?"

"Yes."

"Get it and pick me up and get us out of here. I can't walk by his car again."

"How'd you get here?"

"Just get the car and pick me up."

Clendon crossed Ocean Avenue and walked up the street to the BMW. When he passed the Mercedes he took a glance and saw the pistol was under the car. He didn't slow down. At the BMW he had trouble putting the key into the door lock. Finally, the door opened and he started the engine. As he hung a left onto Ocean Avenue, Shelley ran to the curb. He pulled up, flicked the automatic door lock, and she got in.

"I can't talk right now."

Shelley massaged her temples with both hands.

"Tell me what I can do."

"Drive."

"Where do you want me to go?"

"I don't know, I don't know. It's hard to think."

Clendon touched her shoulder. She was glazed with sweat. He cranked the AC to high.

"I want to go home."

"Where do you live?"

"The Palisades."

Shelley told him to drive out the Pacific Coast Highway. At Chautauqua, Clendon turned up the hill into the Palisades.

"Do you think we should call the police?"

"No," she said.

"Why can't we?"

"Don't snarl."

When they hit the stoplight at Sunset, Shelley gave him directions to her house. Clendon turned and the BMW curled along the hilly, landscaped streets past block after block of large houses with green lawns and flowering bougainvillea.

"Is this the house Brooks told me was being remodeled?"

"Not this house."

"Do you have another house?"

"No."

Shelley lived in a split level pink stucco house with a brick red Spanish roof. Ivy climbed the walls and bushes and trees grew around it. Other houses on the block were larger and prouder with fences and hedges. No cars were parked on the street. A mockingbird sang, loudly. Behind Shelley's house rose high hills that cradled even larger houses.

"You can see the ocean through the window upstairs," she said.

Clendon eased in the driveway. Shelley got out and pressed some buttons on the wall. The electric garage door opened and Clendon pulled the BMW in.

"I have a headache," he said. "Major."

Inside, plants grew up walls, hung from the ceiling, and trailed out over new thick carpet. It was cool and dim and quiet, and was smaller than it looked from the outside. In a pine-scented bathroom Shelley took some pill bottles out of the medicine cabinet.

"Ten milligrams of Valium and 25 milligrams of codeine," she said and handed him the tabs. "They'll soothe a raging tiger as long as you're not already an addict."

The hot poker pain in his forehead persisted. Clendon washed his face with cold water.

"Make it twenty and fifty."

Shelley poured them iced tea and sat on a velour couch. Clendon sank into a soft black recliner. There was a glass coffee table between them. The furniture and drapes were new, straight out of _Metropolitan Home_. They sipped their iced tea. She stared across the room at the ivy creeping up the wall. Clendon thought that she barely looked older than when he had last seen her. He tried not to stare at her.

Shelley squinted, then chewed on her lip, then twitched her pursed lips back and forth, twisted her mouth sideways and chewed on the inside of her cheek. Then she sniffed, wrinkled her forehead, ran her fingertips over and over her eyebrows, sighed, and finally closed her eyes and breathed slowly and deeply.

"Did you shoot Brooks?" Clendon asked.

She blushed, sighed again, looked at him and gulped her tea.

"Did you?" she asked, then placed her fingers across her mouth and patted her lips. "Do you feel the Valium yet?"

"Goddamn it, Brooks has just been murdered."

"You must've been working for him. He didn't tell me. Did he give you that BMW?"

"He rented it for me. I was supposed to meet him in the park this afternoon because I have been working for him, and while I was looking for a place to park, I saw him talking to a tall, blond-headed guy with huge ears, and then ten minutes later I pull up behind Brooks who is sitting in his parked car and first I wait and then I go up and see that he's been shot dead and then I start walking toward the ocean, and I see you and you say you already know." The first wave of Valium washed over him. "How did you know Brooks was shot?"

Shelley shrugged her shoulders and stared at the wall. "I had just jogged by. I jog in that park and down those streets some afternoons."

"I don't want to, but I'm calling the police, because if we don't, they'll think we did it, for Christ sakes."

"No. Clendon, you have too much respect for authority. We have to go to his office first."

"Why?"

"We just do. After we go to his office, and check something, then we can call the police."

"Great. By then, somebody will have found him and then the police will be coming over here and asking all sorts of questions—"

"There's no way the police could know we were there. No way. But we have to beat them to his office."

"Why? Do you know the combination of his wall safe?"

Shelley rubbed his arm. "Let the Valium in."

She went to change into a flowing skirt and tight blouse with no bra.

"I have a Volvo parked on a side street about three blocks from the Mercedes. We can pick it up later."

* * *

Two black and white police cars were parked along the Avenue of the Stars, their lights flashing. In front of the cops, two black Ford LTD's held men in business suits and aviator shades. Clendon didn't slow down for the entrance to the parking garage.

"What do you want to do now?" he asked.

Shelley cursed.

"Don't turn around," he said.

"Oh, you're paranoid. I guess the Valium didn't help. Turn right. I know where we can park."

In his rear view mirror, Clendon saw the two Fords pull away from the curb.

"Shelley, they're following us."

She turned around again.

"Don't do that!" Clendon shouted.

"Relax!" she shouted back. "How do you know they're following us?"

"Don't act stupid."

"You might talk to your wife and to your little redneck girl friends like that, but don't you talk to me like that."

"Then don't act so stupid."

"Turn at the light."

Clendon turned and headed east on Santa Monica Boulevard.

"They're still behind us."

"Take the second right. Then we'll know."

"I know now."

They entered Beverly Hills. Clendon took the second right into a mixed neighborhood of houses and apartments.

"They're turning to follow," he said.

Shelley cursed again.

"Why in the hell did you want to come down here?"

"You need to take another Valium, Clendon."

"I don't have another one or I would. Why didn't you bring the whole damn bottle?"

"It was against my professional judgment."

Clendon looked in the rear view mirror and saw both cars accelerate. He took the next hard left. The cars behind him came faster. He hung the next right. Roadblock. A third black Ford LTD blocked the street broadside. The street was narrow and had so many cars parallel parked along it that Clendon had nowhere to go, not even up onto a sidewalk or lawn. He stopped a few feet from the blocking car and placed his hands on the dash. The two chasing cars drove up behind.

"Trapped like cockroaches in Roach Hotel. Whose idea was it to go to the office?"

"Lock your door." Shelley reached over and flipped the lock switch. "I know the law. They can't do shit unless they put you under arrest."

"I'm sure they have grounds. Maybe they're not even the law."

Eight large men in dark suits and sunglasses got out of the three cars. The oldest man, sunburned and about fifty with a crew cut, stepped out of the car in front of them, adjusted his sunglasses and his suit coat, nodded, and strode over to Clendon's door. The man tapped on the window. His face had deep crinkles from too many years in the sun.

"Step out of the car please."

"No way!" Shelley shouted, and shook her head back and forth "no."

Clendon rolled down his window one inch.

"Let's see some ID," he said.

The man peered in with dark brown eyes, then pressed his mouth to the open crack of the window.

"Knot head, you have five seconds to get your ass out of that goddamn German motor works on your own volition, or we're going to yank it out of there with a pair of red hot pliers."

Clendon recognized the man's Texas accent. Shelley shot them the finger with both hands.

"If you show us some ID so I know who you are," Clendon said, "we'll cooperate."

Shelley leaned over to his window.

"I know the law, you candy asses!" she shouted.

The Texan jerked his head in command. One of his men produced a tire iron, then stepped swiftly to the back seat window on Clendon's side, and swung. Clendon pulled Shelley's head down. The iron smashed through the glass and sent a shower of chunks and splinters into the back seat and onto Shelley and Clendon. A hand reached through the broken window to unlock the door. The men swarmed as they opened the doors and dragged Clendon and Shelley out of the BMW and onto the pavement.

"Don't hurt her!"

"Shut up."

They kicked Clendon in the balls. Shelley screamed. Three of them lifted her and carried her over to one of their cars and forced her in. They grabbed between her legs and at her breasts, ripping her blouse. They dragged Clendon along the pavement, burning his leg until he could rise to his knees and stumble along. They wrenched his arms behind his back and slapped handcuffs on his wrists, then took his wallet. His bad hand began to throb. His sunglasses fell off and they stepped on them. Clendon caught a smell of rotten eggs. They threw him in another car. Two cars, Shelley in one, Clendon in the other, drove off in different directions.

Clendon sat up in the back seat, one man next to him as another drove. The Texan rode shotgun.

"Don't act funny," the Texan said.

They drove several blocks through a residential neighborhood until the driver turned east on Olympic. The car's air conditioning was cranked high but Clendon was still sweating through his shirt. They crawled down Olympic and turned north on La Cienaga.

The Texan took out a stack of a dozen 8 ½ x 11 glossy black and white photographs and held them in front of Clendon's face. He let Clendon look at each photo for about five seconds, then showed him the next one.

Clendon was in every photo. They were taken outside of Adolfo's house the afternoon of the briefcase exchange. They showed Clendon as he got out of the BMW, opened the trunk, carried the briefcase to the house, and stood at the door ringing the buzzer. One photo showed the door open and Clendon stepping in. Adolfo's daughter was unseen inside the house. Another photograph showed Clendon coming out with the other briefcase, the next showed him putting that briefcase in the trunk, and the final one had him driving away. The focus and lighting were both good. They were taken with a telephoto lens, shot through the living room window of the gabled Queen Anne house down the street

"Am I supposed to choose one for the yearbook?" Clendon asked.

The Texan put his fist next to Clendon's right eyeball and flipped his finger at Clendon's eye as if he were shooting a marble. Clendon jerked his head back as the Texan's finger grazed his brow bone. It stung like a wasp, and Clendon's eyes teared up.

"Do you know what was in those briefcases?"

"Why do you want to know? And who are you?"

The Texan took the Oklahoma driver's license from Clendon's wallet and looked at it.

"Clendon Thomas Lindsey."

"That's what it says."

"Don't worry, we'll check it."

"Who are you?"

"Mr. Lindsey, my name is Mr. Asp, and you are in some very serious sewage here. You might go to prison for many, many years—maybe life. The only possible alternative that you have is to agree to cooperate."

"Just who am I supposed to be cooperating with? I thought legitimate cops identified themselves immediately."

"We could show you badges, Mr. Lindsey, but then again, they might be phonies, like your driver's license."

Traffic was clotted, almost a standstill. One block ahead stood a large, square brown building shaped like a pill box hat. Clendon thought it looked familiar.

"Turn off this damn street first chance you get," Asp said.

"What am I supposed to be cooperating about?"

The driver swung a right. They went past boxy apartments and dying palm trees and were getting close to Mr. Winston's bungalow.

"Don't act so stupid, Mr. Lindsey."

"I ain't dealing drugs."

"Mr. Lindsey, no one accused you of dealing drugs."

"Arrest me and read me my rights, or let me go, or I'll sue."

At Fairfax the driver turned south. Asp gave Clendon another fast marble-shooting flick, this one in the middle of his forehead.

"Did you know Brooks Boyd?"

"Yes."

"Did you work for him?"

"Yes."

"Did you know he was dead?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Lindsey, you are so damn smart. How did you get to be so damn smart for such a white trash Okie?"

"I don't know."

"See. You're not that smart if you don't know that. What was in those briefcases?"

"I don't know."

"And why don't you know that?"

"I don't know because I didn't look."

"I see you're just not that smart."

"I guess not."

"If you were so damn smart you wouldn't have to guess."

"No, you're right. I'm just not too smart."

"If you were so damn smart, you wouldn't be sitting in this car right now talking to me, would you?"

"No, you're right."

"That girl you were with, who's she?"

"Brooks Boyd's wife."

Asp smiled. "His wife! Maybe you're a little smarter than I thought. What's her name?"

"Shelley. I thought you claimed you were so damn smart. You know who she is. Your other boys drove off with her. Did you forget?"

"She's a nice piece of ass, nice piece of ass. You been fucking her?"

"No. I just met her."

"You wouldn't know what to do with a piece of ass if you had it in your hands. You're not smart enough. Hang a right."

They were back to Olympic.

"You're pretty smart," Clendon said. "You took those pictures and you know who I am and who Brooks Boyd is and Shelley too and you caught us. You're so smart you probably got a piece of ass last night."

"Sure did."

The man next to Clendon cracked up a little. Asp whipped out a .38 from his shoulder holster. The man stopped laughing.

"It's not loaded," Asp said. He popped the cylinder out and showed Clendon. "See. I wouldn't lie about something as serious as a loaded gun, but then, I could load it." He pointed the .38 at Clendon. "I could load it, but then something might happen, and Mr. Lindsey might not be in a position to cooperate with us any more."

"Why don't you tell me what you want. I'm very easy to get along with."

"You're getting smarter by the second, Okie." Asp reholstered his .38. "Where did Brooks Boyd get the material in the briefcase he had you deliver?"

"I don't know."

"I thought you were becoming smarter. I thought you were easy to get along with. I thought you wanted to cooperate."

"I want to cooperate. I want to cooperate very badly, but I can't tell you the answer to a question I don't know the answer to."

"I could still load it."

"Well, load up and shoot me, because I don't know what was in that goddamn briefcase."

Asp acted as if he was going to pull his .38 back out, but he hesitated.

"What was that you said about not being able to answer a question you don't know the answer to?"

"That's what I said. I don't know what was in that briefcase. It was locked and I didn't have the key."

Asp relaxed.

"Do you ever watch game shows?"

"They suck."

"Don't ever get any ideas about going on one because you couldn't answer any of the questions, and then the whole world would know how stupid you are."

"I'll say no to drugs and game shows both."

Asp took a toothpick from his shirt pocket and stuck it in his mouth.

"We're going to be watching you, Mr. Lindsey, you and the widow Boyd. We're going to watch you for however long it takes."

They drove Clendon back to the BMW. The man in the back seat took Clendon's handcuffs off, gave him his wallet, and nudged him out the door. They peeled out and were gone.

The BMW was parallel parked along the street like any other BMW with a smashed window getting a tan in Beverly Hills. Shelley was sitting in the front passenger's seat. The rotten egg smell still thickened the air. Clendon got in. Shelley wasn't bruised or bloodied, just pale. Her ripped blouse was buttoned, and her arms were folded across her stomach. Most of her left breast was exposed. The keys were in the ignition. Clendon started it up. His right eyeball and both of his testicles ached.

"Are you okay?" Clendon asked and tried not to look at her breast.

"Only simple humiliation. Clendon, I want to go home, and I want to stay home, and maybe never leave."

"What is that stench?"

"It's natural gas escaping from underground."

"I thought in Beverly Hills they imported their air."

* * *

They arrived in the Palisades by dark. Shelley took another Valium and put on a different blouse. While she changed clothes, Clendon checked the house number and street he had memorized from Brooks's driver's license. It was Shelley's address. After she changed clothes, Clendon made her check every door and window lock in the house. As they went through the house, he looked around. He was surrounded by plants climbing the walls, soft colors, and framed prints of Baryshnikov and Impressionist artists. What was missing was a man. Only Shelley lived there.

They drank more iced tea. Shelley sat on the same velour couch and Clendon sat in the same black recliner. He needed something dark colored to drink, but it wasn't iced tea.

"I said some stupid things to those guys," he said. "Must have been the medication."

Shelley smiled. She turned a table lamp on low and drank a full glass of iced tea in silence, making the same faces as before. She put her feet up on the glass coffee table. When she began talking, her voice was soft.

"Brooks and I haven't lived together for about six months. In that time, I've only seen him maybe three times. Brooks was an out of control compulsive gambler, and after he would gamble away his money, he'd get devious and figure out ways to get his hands on my money, and then lose my money, too. This went on for three, four years. He'd bet on anything—even the weather, the temperature. That crazy dickhead. He juggled five bookies at once, went to the race track, weekends to Vegas, sometimes even Tahoe. Poker parlors in Gardena. We—I, really—tried everything. Ignored it, denied it, screamed about it, threatened, begged for him to get into treatment, tried to manipulate him, tried to be understanding, tried to be his therapist—obviously dumb and stupid, here I was trying to finish a doctorate in clinical psychology and my husband was a classic self-destructive obsessive-compulsive psychopathic deviant who was dragging me with him into the sewer, and nothing could I do, nothing. Helpless. Both of us. Here's a man that I put on a pedestal ten years ago, and he crushed me with it." She sang in a soft, twangy voice, "We got married in a fever/Hotter than a pepper sprout." She giggled self-consciously, then said, "The big prick—I mean, the little prick.

"When I finished my degree and passed my licensing exam and could get into practice, I kicked him out. Told him he had six months to straighten out, or I'd file for divorce. I'm so stupid. I should've filed then. It's so easy to see other people's problems and how to fix them. He didn't want to leave. He cried. Pathetic, isn't it? When I told him he had to leave or else, he didn't even argue, or get violent with me—he did smash this glass coffee table—he just got up and walked out. Oh, such a gentleman, such a noble, noble prince. Bawling like a baby before he hit the door. I liked the coffee table, so I had a new glass made. A few weeks later, I began to get mysterious phone calls, voices mumbling, asking for Brooks. Finally, they stopped. Maybe they did believe me when I said he didn't live here, and I didn't know how to reach him. Maybe they checked it out, maybe they found him. I don't know.

"I was always ready for the worst. Brooks's murder, the voices on the phone—it has something to do with a gambling debt. They killed him because he probably owes them hundreds of thousands, maybe into the millions, and Brooks got you mixed up in it, Clendon. How did that happen?" Her silver-blue eyes fastened on him. "Clendon, you're looking at me so intensely, I can hardly stand it."

Clendon looked away as his face tingled.

"No, it's okay."

She kept looking at him with a smile that Clendon thought stood as a sentry against her pain.

"How did you get involved with my crazy dead husband?"

Clendon told her about his fat times during the oil boom as a landman, to the time with the shotgun, to Melody's running off, from Brooks's job offer to the final aborted meeting that afternoon, to the interrogation by Asp. Clendon told her about everything except for the platinum blonde in the Hilton bar and in Las Vegas.

"What did you tell those thugs this afternoon?" he asked.

"I didn't lie. I said Brooks started his own software business several months ago, and that he was supposed to be very successful, and that I knew he was dead."

"What else?"

"Since I knew he was dead, they thought I knew other stuff, like how he really got his money and how he spent it and who shot him."

"Do you?"

"No. And I don't want to know where he got his money."

"What was at Brooks's office you wanted so damned bad?"

"I thought there'd be a lot of money there."

"He owed me $700."

"That's less than he owed his bookies." She closed her eyes. "And less than he owed me. Clendon, would you hold my hand?"

He knelt beside the couch and took her hand.

"Do you want another Valium?" she asked.

"No."

"We have to get our story straight for the police." Shelley slowly sank sideways on the couch and closed her eyes. "God, I'm exhausted."

"I'll get you a pillow and a blanket."

* * *

Clendon watched her sleep. At ten minutes past eleven, the door chime rang. The repeated chiming woke her. Clendon flipped on the porch light and answered the door. A uniformed policeman stood outside with two other beefy men in business suits. One man was white and the other one was black. The white man had a blinking tic. A patrol car and an unmarked car were parked in the street, shrouded by night fog. The cops looked surprised to see Clendon, but then he saw their minds begin to click.

"We're sorry to disturb you so late," the white man in the business suit said, "but we're from the Santa Monica Police Department. The patrol officer is LAPD. We're looking for Mrs. Shelley Boyd."

They showed Clendon their badges, which shone goldly under the porch light.

"Mrs. Boyd is sleeping."

"It's serious. We'd like to speak with Mrs. Boyd. May we come in?"

"If you'll wait a minute, I'll wake her and she'll talk to you."

"Thank you."

"Could you wait here in the entryway until she comes out?"

"Fine. You're uh—"

"Clendon Lindsey."

Clendon let them in.

"You have an accent," the black man said. "Are you from North Carolina?"

"Oklahoma. I'll get Mrs. Boyd."

Back in the living room, Shelley sat up and rubbed her eyes.

"It's the cops."

"What'd they say?"

"Nothing yet. I had to let them in. They want to talk to you."

Clendon showed them in the living room. Shelley pulled the blanket around her tighter.

"Mrs. Boyd, I'm Detective Jenkins, Santa Monica Police," the white man said. "Don't get up. This is Detective Crawford." Jenkins didn't introduce the uniformed cop.

"Please sit down," Shelley said. "What is it?"

She looked scared and wrapped herself up in the blanket. The two detectives sat in recliners, but the patrolman stood by the door. Clendon settled on the couch with Shelley.

"Mrs. Boyd, we have some very bad news for you."

"What is it?"

"Mrs. Boyd," Jenkins said, "Your husband, Brooks Boyd, was found shot to death late this afternoon near Palisades Park in Santa Monica."

"Shot?" she whispered. "He's dead? Brooks is dead?"

"Yes, we're very sorry to break this news to you."

"Brooks is dead?"

"Yes."

"Brooks was shot—you mean he was murdered-- He didn't commit suicide, did he?"

"We believe at this time it is a homicide," Jenkins said.

"Clendon!"

Shelley grabbed his shoulder. She sucked air in spasms.

"Mrs. Boyd, we know this will be painful, but we must ask you to come down to the coroner's office tonight and identify the body."

"Tonight?" Clendon said. "Why can't we wait until the morning?"

"I'm sorry, sir, we have to do it so we can get on with the investigation as soon as we can."

"How was, how—how was—he—shot?" Shelley asked.

"He was shot once through the forehead."

"Oh, God. . . "

"Mrs. Boyd, we need to ask you some questions about you and your husband. We know this is a painful time for you—"

"Sudden," she said.

"Yes, sudden, but we need to get these questions out of the way."

Jenkins couldn't stop his blinking.

"Clendon, could you pour me some more iced tea?"

"Sure. Do you gentlemen want anything to drink?"

"No, thanks."

When Clendon came back in with her tea and some kleenex, Shelley began talking. The detectives had their notebooks out.

"We were waiting up tonight, we hadn't heard from Brooks all day, we were getting worried—"

"I was waiting for Mr. Boyd," Clendon said. "He's my boss."

"Mr. Lindsey, is this your residence?"

"No."

"Then why are you waiting here? According to Mr. Boyd's DMV records, this is his home."

"I just got in from out of town a few weeks ago and went to work for Mr. Boyd.

"From where?"

"Oklahoma City."

"Go on."

"I worked for Boyd-Tek. A sales coordinator. Just started. Just learning the business."

"What kind of business?"

"Software." Clendon smiled. "But I don't know too much about software yet."

"If you don't know much about software," Jenkins asked, "Why are you working in the software business?" He kept blinking.

"Clendon is an old friend of Brooks's," Shelley said. "Clendon lost his job in the oil bust and since he's a good businessman, Brooks offered him a job."

"But I still don't understand why Mr. Lindsey is over here tonight," Jenkins said.

"Mrs. Boyd," Crawford said, "We've already developed information that you and Mr. Boyd have been separated for about six months. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Then why would you be waiting tonight here for your estranged husband?" Jenkins asked.

Crawford fixed a stare that bore in on Clendon.

"Let me show you my card."

Shelley threw her blanket off and reached for her purse. She gave one card to each cop, and also one to Clendon. It said:

Shelley Symmes-Boyd, Ph.D.

Clinical Psychologist

Her card gave an address on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica and two phone numbers.

"What kind of psychology do you do?"

"I specialize in the treatment of anorexia."

"You must make good money."

"I need good money to pay the deed of trust on this damn house, and to pay for that Volvo that Brooks bought and made two whole payments on before I threw him out and had to start paying for it myself. What does my profession have to do with Brooks's being killed?"

"We ask the questions," Crawford said. "You answer them."

"I'm sure you'll find out that Brooks was a compulsive gambler. He had agreed to come over here this afternoon so we could take him in for treatment. He asked that Clendon be over here, also, to go along with us, and Clendon agreed, because I thought a man that Brooks trusted would help things go smoother. We've been waiting all afternoon, getting worried—"

"Mrs. Boyd—" Jenkins said.

"You should call her Dr. Symmes-Boyd," Clendon said.

"Yes, uh—Dr.—Symmes-Boyd, where were you this afternoon?"

"Early, out on errands. From about two o'clock on, waiting here for Brooks."

"Don't you have appointments or something, meeting with patients?"

"I'm off on Thursdays."

"Mr. Lindsey, where were you this afternoon?"

"I left my hotel right after lunch and came here. Probably got here not long after two, but I didn't pay that much attention to the exact time."

"What hotel?"

"Airport Hilton."

"And what did you two do here all afternoon?" Jenkins asked. His blinking tic escalated.

"I resent that," Shelley said.

"Is that your business?" Clendon asked.

"Possibly."

"We sat around and talked about Brooks and all of his damn problems," Shelley said.

"What kind of problems?"

"Gambling problems."

"Any other problems?"

"No, because Clendon's a gentleman and didn't ask."

"So you sat around here all afternoon by yourselves and talked about things you don't know about," Crawford said.

"Look, you just came in here and told Shelley that her husband has been killed, so you could be a little more sensitive," Clendon said. "She split from him six months ago and has hardly seen him since, so what she does on her own time is none of your business. I know what you're thinking. Maybe you'd like to have a physician examine her right now to show you perverts you're wrong."

"We don't like to be called names, Mr. Lindsey."

"You're pissing me off."

"We know you're under emotional stress, Mr. Lindsey."

"She's under more," Clendon said.

"Clendon, it's okay," Shelley said. "They have to come up with theories."

"Do you have any children, Mrs. Boyd?" Crawford asked.

"Dr. Symmes-Boyd," Clendon said.

"No," she said.

"Do you know anyone who'd want to kill your husband?"

"No."

"It was probably a dispute over a gambling debt," Clendon said.

"Thank you for your input, Mr. Lindsey." Crawford made notes. "Dr. Boyd, when was the last time you talked to your husband?"

"Yesterday on the phone to set up this meeting to take him in for treatment."

"Did he want to go?"

"I think so. He was very distraught."

"When did you last see him in person?"

"A few days ago. We had lunch. It was ugly. . . I don't want to talk about it."

"Maybe later," Crawford said. "Was Mr. Boyd seeing any women or did he have a girl friend?"

"I don't know. I guess I didn't expect him to become a monk, but I never asked or tried to find out."

Crawford turned to Clendon.

"Mr. Lindsey, when was the last time you talked to Mr. Boyd?"

"Yesterday afternoon. I talked to him on the phone about today's meeting. He begged me to come along. Poor guy was in bad shape."

"And when did you last see him in person?"

"Several days ago."

"If you worked for him, why didn't you see him this week?"

"He went on a gambling binge in Vegas last weekend. I happened to be along. I saw it then."

"Saw what?"

"His gambling. I didn't hear from him for a few days. He was putting me up at the Airport Hilton until he could arrange an apartment for me. I guess that last binge took it out of him. He told me to take a few days off."

"Do you know if Mr. Boyd was seeing any woman or women?"

"No."

"Mr. Lindsey, when did you first meet Dr. Boyd?"

"In college. She was Brooks's girl friend then."

"No, I mean in the last few weeks."

"Today."

"Today?" Jenkins frowned.

"Yes. Brooks gave me the address to meet him, and said his wife would be here. She was, so we sat here and talked about Brooks and old times, and became more and more worried."

Jenkins sighed.

"Look, it's midnight," Clendon said. "Can we go down to the goddamn coroner's office now and get this identification over with? Shelley will talk to you all you want tomorrow after she gets some rest. Isn't that fair?"

"Dr. Boyd— "

Shelley tossed her head back and forth.

"No more, no more, no more."

Jenkins flipped his notebook shut.

"Okay, let's go downtown. You can both ride in our vehicle."

* * *

Shelley and Clendon sat in the back seat, but she scrunched up against a door and stared out the window. Clendon sat by the other door. Jenkins gave them the details of how Brooks was found. Nobody noticed him for two hours. Some kids playing frisbee on a lawn first saw him. Detectives didn't arrive till dusk. They didn't remove the body until after eight o'clock. Jenkins didn't say how they knew Brooks and Shelley were separated. He also didn't mention finding a pistol underneath the Mercedes.

The coroner's building was a concrete blockhouse downtown behind the Los Angeles County sheriff's station. Jenkins parked in an underground garage and they rode up in a service elevator. At a reception desk, a night clerk had Jenkins write on the sign-in sheet. The night supervisor, a large, middle-aged black woman with bleached red hair, asked them if they would prefer to ID the body through the remote video camera.

"No," Shelley said.

"No problem," the supervisor said.

She marched them down the corridor and led them into a small room with a curtain pulled over a small window. She opened the curtain and they peered into a bigger room with large drawers against one wall. Clendon clenched his teeth. There was a faint, faint smell of formaldehyde and ammonia and something else.

It was cold. Shelley and Clendon shivered. Crawford coughed and Jenkins kept blinking his eyes. The supervisor left the room and in a moment reappeared in the other room. She checked a drawer for the number, then opened it, and pulled out a stretcher that automatically opened its legs underneath. A white-coated assistant appeared and helped push the stretcher over to the window. The supervisor looked at Shelley. Shelley nodded. The supervisor lifted the sheet.

"Yes," Shelley said and stared at the dead face as the supervisor dropped the sheet back over it. A glance was enough. The dark red hole in Brooks's forehead was the size of a quarter. Blood had thickened over the hole, his face was as gray as fresh cement, his muscles so relaxed that his face looked distorted, his curly blond hair was a tangle, and his eyes were closed and his lips parted. Clendon wondered what they did with that $100 bill.

"Dr. Boyd," Jenkins said.

His eyes had stopped the constant blinking. He tugged at her arm and she turned to follow him out. They went back down the hall into a tiny room with a linoleum floor, plastic chairs, and a small table. They sat around the table while Jenkins and the supervisor fussed with paperwork.

"The law says there must be an autopsy. It will be performed tomorrow by the Los Angeles County coroner. At five o'clock tomorrow afternoon, the body will be released to you for whatever disposal you wish. Sign here."

Shelley signed.

"The personal effects found on your husband must be held for possible evidence in a criminal investigation that may lead to a trial. Law enforcement agencies and the district attorney's office will review the evidence, and only those effects not related to the investigation will be released to you. Sign here, please."

Shelley signed again.

"The automobile your husband was found in has been towed to the Santa Monica police garage where it will be examined for further evidence. Since it was registered in his name, it will be released to you after it is examined and storage fees are paid. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"Sign this garage record, please."

Shelley signed it.

* * *

They drove Shelley and Clendon back to her house. She put her head on Clendon's shoulder. Nobody said anything. They got back at two a.m. Two LAPD patrol cars and two unmarked cars were parked in the street. Uniformed cops were carrying cardboard boxes and plastic bags marked "evidence" out of her house.

Shelley ran toward her front door. A folded piece of paper had been thumb-tacked to the door. Under the porch light in black Gothic letters it said, "Search Warrant." She ripped it down and unfolded it. A judge had signed it.

"You guys almost through?" Jenkins asked a cop in the front yard.

"Yes."

The cop spoke to Jenkins in a low voice and Jenkins nodded. Then the cop put the evidence boxes and bags in his patrol car.

"What in the hell are you looking for?" Clendon asked Jenkins.

"This is a murder case, Mr. Lindsey. You're lucky we're going to allow Dr. Boyd to spend the night at her home. Where are you staying tonight?"

Clendon followed Shelley into her house. He hoped they hadn't found a box of ammunition with her fingerprints on it. Her house had been cycloned. Every room had been torn up. Her chest of drawers were ransacked, closets were gutted, and plants overturned. They made a fast tour while Jenkins and Crawford stood around fidgeting in the living room.

"Are you finished?"

"I believe we are, Dr. Boyd."

"Are you sure there's nothing else I could do to help you with your investigation?"

"No, nothing."

"Are you sure you're being thorough enough? Have you overlooked anything?"

"No, it's fine."

"Then get out."

"Thanks, we'll see ourselves to the door."

"Get out, get out, get out."

Jenkins stopped at the door.

"Oh, one thing," he said. "The BMW in the garage-- it's a rental car."

"Brooks rented it for me."

"The smashed window-- "

"Damned vandals," Clendon said.

"And Mrs. Boyd," Jenkins said, "we know you have a Volvo registered, but we noticed it's not here. Do you know where it is?"

"What do you mean?" Shelley asked. "It's not in the garage?"

"No."

"Then it's been stolen."

"Stolen? Would you like to make out a report?"

"No," Shelley said. "The only possibility is that one of your men stole it and I want it back."

Jenkins frowned and stared at her before he finally turned to go. Clendon went to the front door and peered out. Crawford was smoking a cigarette in the yard. The other cops had driven off. The fog thickened around Jenkins and Crawford as they got in their car. Before they hit the end of the block, they had vanished in it.

* * *

Shelley took two reds.

"At least they didn't carry off my pharmacy. I guess it was the prescription bottles that fooled them."

"What did they take?"

"Stuff. Things. At random."

Clendon also took a downer. Shelley idly rinsed drinking glasses in the kitchen sink. Steam rose from the hot water.

"Someone should call Brooks's folks," Clendon said.

"I'm not. I'll do it in the morning."

"I'm going to check the doors and windows again and then I'm going to sleep. I'll take the couch."

"No—"

Shelley touched him with her fingertips. Her silver-blue eyes glimmered, and her breathing jumped in gasps. She kept rinsing the glasses. Her hands turned red from the scalding water. Clendon reached over and turned the faucet off. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her without squeezing and rubbed his face against the side of her head and smelled her hair. After a long minute, she broke. She trembled and tears splashed on his wrist and cloggy noises rose through her chest and throat. At first she gripped the sink edge, then she placed one hand on his arm and held on. Fine sweat formed on her neck. Clendon held her for a long time.

"The bastard," she said.

* * *

After checking all the doors and windows and dousing all the lights downstairs, she led him upstairs to her bedroom. The cops had torn the covers away from the bed, trashed the closet, and spilled dresses and blouses on her neatly aligned shoes. Her dresser drawers were yanked at odd angles. An album of pictures lay spread open, its binding torn and pictures askew, showing Shelley and Brooks smiling at the beach. She remade the bed and ignored the rest.

"Would you stay in here with me tonight?"

"Whatever you want."

"I just want someone near me."

She was shaking.

"Get in bed. Get under the covers. I'll tuck you in."

Shelley slid under the sheets and comforter. Clendon sat at the edge of the bed and tucked the covers up to her chin. She smiled although her eyes were still red, wet, and puffy, and Clendon wanted to tell her that she looked so damned beautiful he could hardly stand it. She took her clothes off under the covers and dropped her skirt and blouse onto the floor.

"Do you feel the downers yet?"

"No," she said. "Turn off the light."

Clendon caressed the top of her head as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. The glow of a street lamp seeped through the window. The dimness brought relief to his grainy eyes.

"I feel so stupid crying over that bastard Brooks."

"You were married to him for years."

"What a mistake that was."

"Did you know about my brother, Louis?"

"I don't remember much. He died in Vietnam?"

"Yes. I was nine. I only knew I couldn't stand it and didn't want to feel it."

"You went numb?"

"I cried and cried the night we got the news. We'd gone fishing the day before he left to go over. On the day of the funeral, it was like I was drugged. The flag, the honor guard, the seven gun salute, the folding of the flag, 'Taps'. . . It was June, very humid, and nearly a hundred degrees. There was a hot canvas tent covering the grave site, young girls bawling, offering flowers, the minister tried to comfort through words from the Bible, my parents, their lives mashed into pulp. Front page news in the local paper, first local boy killed, he volunteered, a college graduate, Louis Lindsey, Specialist Third Class, threw himself on a land mine to save his buddies, awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, posthumously. Came home in a body bag. They all blamed those goddamn Communists, but after Louis was lowered in the ground, blame didn't matter. I felt only despair, like staring up at a cloudless sky at midnight somewhere out on the plains where there's no lights, there's only the thousands of needlepoint stars millions of light years away, and all that black universe between me and those stars, and it's all rushing towards you, engulfing you. . . " Clendon trailed off. He tried to think of something else. "Would you like a back rub? It'll fight the despair."

Shelley rolled over on her belly. He pulled the comforter away and massaged her back. Her breathing eased. He bent close to make sure she was sleeping and kissed her on her cheek. Clendon undressed and lay outside the sheet with the comforter over him, and rested his arm lightly on her hip as the downer rushed over him.

* * *

He was climbing the stairs again, but now the buckets were full of money—loose currency, $20's, $50's, and $100's. The stairwell was dim and enclosed. He stubbed his toes and nearly tripped. After hours of stair climbing, he finally had gotten close to the top. It was windy and city lights sparkled across a vast plain to the horizon.

Brooks was standing at the top, arms outstretched, wearing a baby shit green Italian suit and a wide grin. He waved Clendon up. Something was stuck to his forehead. It was the $100 bill with a red hole in the center, blotting Franklin's portrait. Brooks motioned for the buckets and Clendon held them out. Brooks's face was gray-blue. He yanked the buckets from Clendon's hands and tossed the money over the side of the building. Then Brooks shoved Clendon hard. Clendon tumbled in reverse somersaults down the stairs, but at the bottom of the first flight, Shelley caught him.

* * *

Clendon woke up shivering and shaking at gray dawn. Cool ocean air drifted through the window. He had kicked the comforter off and was lying uncovered on his back. Shelley snuggled against him, warm, most of the sheet still between them. Her hand lightly cradled his morning hard on. Clendon moved and slipped out of bed. She shifted and never woke.

* * *

When Clendon rolled over, Shelley was gone. Bright sunlight forced him awake. The bedside clock radio said it was past ten a.m. He looked out the window. Beyond the house tops and trees, the ocean gleamed silver-blue. He heard feet puttering downstairs, so he dressed in his stale clothes and went down.

Shelley was cooking breakfast in the kitchen and the aroma of percolating coffee, toast, frying eggs, potatoes, and sausages made him salivate. He mumbled good morning and Shelley smiled.

"I'm cooking this cholesterol mess up for you. I figured you'd eat it."

"You're right. I'm starving."

"I normally never eat this, but I'm hungry this morning, too."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling alive. I've been jogging and went by the supermarket. I figured you'd be hungry."

"I never turn down home cooking."

"Sit down. The coffee's ready. Orange juice, too?"

"Sure."

Clendon sat down in the breakfast nook. Shelley brought the coffee and juice over. He thought that there was something very erotic about a good-looking woman in tight pants fixing him breakfast.

"Why don't you go over to the hotel this morning, get your stuff and bring it over here," she said. "I want you to stay here."

When breakfast was ready, she brought the hot food over and joined him. Clendon ate and watched her eat. He liked the way she put the fork in her mouth and chewed her food.

"You have a small bruise over your eye this morning," Shelley said. "Does it hurt?"

"Only when I blink. How did you sleep?"

"Reds are wonderful. You?"

"I woke up once. From a dream. Do you know about dreams?"

"Some things. What about your dream?"

"I've been having it for over a year. I never told anybody before. Last night, it was the same dream, only different."

"Are you ever going to tell me about it?"

"I may have to."

* * *

After breakfast, Clendon called Brooks's parents in Oklahoma. They were retired in a small town. Their number was written on the inside cover of Shelley's phone book in Brooks's penciled scrawl. Harv and Alice Boyd. Clendon wished he had a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him, half of it drunk. Shelley sat in the breakfast nook, sipped a third cup of coffee, and tried not to look at him as he used the kitchen phone. He touch-toned the number and it rang four times.

"Hello."

"Hello, Mrs. Boyd?"

"This is Mrs. Boyd."

The connection was excellent.

"Mrs. Boyd, this is Clendon Lindsey, an old friend of Brooks's. Do you remember me?"

"Oh, yes, Clendon, of course, how are you?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Boyd, fine. Is Mr. Boyd home?"

"No, Clendon, I'm sorry, he's not home right now, he ran into town to go the post office. I expect him back in about half an hour."

"Ohh— " Clendon paused, wishing he hadn't drunk all that coffee. "Mrs. Boyd, are you sitting down? I'm afraid I have some very bad news."

Silence.

Then, "I'm sitting. What is it?"

"Mrs. Boyd, Brooks has been killed in Santa Monica."

A longer silence. Then in a cracked voice, "Brooks has been killed?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"He was shot."

"Sweet Lord Jesus!"

There was a loud clunk from the other end, as if she had dropped the phone onto the floor. She came back on the line moaning "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus."

"Could you have your husband call me as soon as he gets back?"

Clendon gave her the number and made her repeat it back.

"That's Brooks's home number," she said. "You're at his house in California?"

"Yes."

* * *

Shelley and Clendon waited in silence, staring at nothing. Mr. Boyd called back in twenty minutes.

"There's no way we're taking Brooks back to Oklahoma for burial. He's staying here," Shelley said when the phone rang.

Clendon picked up the phone.

"Hello, this is Clendon Lindsey."

"Clendon, our son's been killed?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Boyd."

"How did it happen?"

"He was shot, Mr. Boyd, but the police don't know much yet. You could call them, the Santa Monica Police Department."

"When are they sending him back to us?"

"Mr. Boyd, the plans are for services and burial here."

There was muffled talk with his wife. She said in the background, "My baby's not coming home?"

"We just wanted Brooks home. He was our only child."

"I know. One moment, Mr. Boyd."

Clendon covered the mouthpiece with his hand and told Shelley what they'd said.

"I'm not going back to Oklahoma and go through all that hell," she said. "Let's get it over with here."

"Jesus, Shelley, what'll I say?"

"You'll think of something."

Clendon spoke back into the phone.

"Mr. Boyd?"

"Yes."

"Shelley is destroyed by this too, and she's been put under sedation. Maybe this afternoon she could talk to you."

Shelley widened her eyes and she violently shook her head "no."

"We've got to have Preacher Flood," Mrs. Boyd called out in the background.

"Mr. Boyd, I only came out here a few weeks ago to work for Brooks and I'm trying to figure out something that will satisfy everyone. They have to do an autopsy this afternoon so there's nothing we can do for a while, anyway."

"We always liked you, Clendon."

"Thank you, Mr. Boyd."

"Let my wife and I talk this over and we'll call you back in a few hours. Tell Shelley we love her."

When Clendon hung up, sweat was trickling from his armpits and down his sides. His fingers shook. He wanted a shot of good liquor.

"They said they loved you."

"The liars. They never liked me."

"They want some guy named Preacher Flood."

"I need a Valium."

"Shelley, are you addicted?"

"If I'm not, I should be. I have the legal rights to the body. We weren't divorced."

"They have a simple need."

Shelley softened. "I know they're in pain-- I'll tell them I want Brooks buried out here close to me."

* * *

Clendon took a long shower in the downstairs bathroom. The pine scent was strong. A shower massage hose hung across the shower curtain so he hooked it up and blasted hot water against his face, eyes, forehead, and skull, as if that would bring him some insight. It didn't.

He studied his stubbled face in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He decided to shave at the hotel where his kit was, so he put on his stale clothes one more time.

* * *

Shelley's silver Volvo sat under the palm trees on a residential street, six blocks from where Clendon had found Brooks shot. She drove away with a grin and a wave, gunning her car around the corner. Clendon headed for the Santa Monica Freeway. The freeway was clear and he shot along at eighty. The BMW liked that speed, too, even with the busted window.

At midday the Hilton lobby was thick with businessmen. Clendon's room had been made up, and it had that crisp hotel smell. He changed into the last clean shirt and pants that he had. He knew he should've sent his laundry out two days ago. He shaved, then collected his stuff, including his snakeskin boots, into his new travel bag.

Clendon avoided the bellmen and carried his bag out to the BMW, then returned to the front desk to check out. The desk clerk, a young blonde, presented him with the bill. Brooks's American Express voucher was neatly filled out for the amount and the desk clerk waited for him to sign.

"Any problem, sir?"

"I'm not Brooks Boyd. I don't think I can sign this. I was staying in this room, but he was paying for it."

"No problem. You've returned the key. We'll just call for a signature-on-file authorization."

"Mr. Boyd couldn't make it today."

"No problem. Here's your receipt. Thank you for staying at Hilton and have a nice day."

"I'll try."

Clendon folded the receipt and put it in his pocket. Standing twenty feet away and staring at him stood the tall man with the big ears he had seen talking to Brooks in the park. The man came up to him with a grin and an extended hand.

"You are Mr. Clendon Lindsey?"

The tall man stood about six foot four. Clendon thought he sounded Russian.

"Yes."

"Mr. Lindsey, I have a great need to talk to you, and I think you have a great need to talk to me."

Clendon's getaway was blocked by a group of Japanese businessmen. They moved in slow unison, all wearing dark blue suits and carrying cameras around their necks.

"May we talk?" the tall man asked.

"A lot of people in this town know my name and I just got here. It makes me nervous."

"You don't need to be nervous around me."

"Buy me a drink then, and we'll talk."

They found a table in the bar where Clendon had drunk with Brooks. He looked around for the platinum blonde, but didn't see her. He ordered a Jack Daniels straight up and drained it. The tall man sipped a glass of chardonnay. He was about forty. He had short, sandy hair, big, floppy ears and burning hazel eyes. He wore a dark sports jacket that didn't fit him right.

"Mr. Boyd's murder is a shock and it makes things very complicated."

"Yeah. Who did it?"

"Mr. Lindsey, I don't know who did it, but I believe that you may know where the next briefcase is."

"I don't know where the last briefcase is. Why do you think I know where the next one is?"

"There's a difference between the last one and the next one."

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"Fred."

Fred pulled out a small Manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket, took one 3 x 5 black and white glossy photograph out of the envelope, and showed it to Clendon.

"Do you know this man?"

The photo looked like a publicity shot of a corporate executive. The exec was about fifty, graying a bit, cheery, confident, and almost handsome.

"Never saw him in my life. Who is he, the richest cocksucker in town?"

"This man's name is D. C. Lyman. Have you ever heard that name?"

"Never."

"If you are lying, Mr. Lindsey. . . "

"I don't like being threatened."

"I am not threatening you. I need your help. I'm just giving you a friendly message."

"I bet you know what's in the next briefcase."

Fred smiled. "Mr. Lindsey, you act cocky, but I think it is an act. If you don't want to talk to me now, that is fine. I'll be in touch."

Fred finished his wine, put a five on the table, and left. Clendon sat there, stared at his empty shot glass, and was glad he had already shaved.

* * *

When Clendon returned to the Palisades, he had no appetite. The Volvo was in the garage so he left the BMW in the driveway. Inside, Shelley was hanging up the phone after talking to her mother.

"My dad and mom are coming out," she said.

"That's good."

"No, it's not. My parents both drink like fish and there's always a lot of screaming and yelling. That's why I'm in California. I have to have the distance."

They sat in the breakfast nook. Clendon put his arm around her. After a minute, she pulled away and said, "It's okay." She went to pour them some iced tea.

"What do you know about the next briefcase?" he asked.

Shelley cut a lemon in half and squeezed some juice into her iced tea glass.

"A guy named Fred, a tall guy with large ears, walked up to me at the hotel today," Clendon said. "He's the same guy I saw talking to Brooks in the park. He wanted to know about the next briefcase. How the hell did he know I was there unless he's been following me."

"Brooks probably told him about you and he knew you were registered at that hotel and he was hanging around waiting for you."

"Maybe he stole your car," Clendon said. "But was that before or after he shot Brooks?"

"I don't like sarcasm," Shelley said.

She drank her iced tea down, then paced the kitchen, her arms folded across her belly and her body stooped. She stared at the floor as if looking for chug holes she might trip in.

"When Brooks moved out, he got two apartments. He lived in one south of Century City. The other was in Westwood. He told me that I was the only person in the world besides his landlord who knew he had an apartment in Westwood. He called it his 'safe' apartment. He said he could go there if he had to."

"Have you ever been there?"

"No."

"Do you know where it is?"

"He told me the address."

"What's this 'next briefcase' business?"

"I hope it's at the apartment in Westwood and that it's full of money."

"Do you think it's safe for us to go over there?"

"I don't know, but Brooks gave me a key. He said it was in case of an emergency."

"Where is the key?"

"Hidden in the Volvo."

"I always knew you were smart."

"Flatter me. I like that."

* * *

Shelley went through the phone book and picked out a funeral home in the Palisades named Whispering Hills that almost overlooked the Pacific. Clendon called them. The man he talked to sounded so caring that Clendon thought maybe the man was on a special drug.

"Of course he was nice," Shelley said. "He's already adding up the bill."

Whispering Hills would take care of everything. They would call the coroner's office and have Brooks's body driven over that evening.

* * *

Mr. Boyd called back.

"Shelley's life is out here now," Clendon said, "and she wants to bury Brooks close to her."

Mr. Boyd replied with a silence that stretched out until Clendon thought he would start pounding the phone into the wall.

"My wife and I want Preacher Flood," Mr. Boyd finally said.

"Bring him out."

Another long silence, then, "Well, we've never been to California. I guess Brooks loved it out there."

* * *

Shelley fixed a dinner of roast chicken, brown rice, fresh green beans, and salad. Clendon took a couple of shots from a Jack Daniels bottle he'd gotten on a pit stop. After they cleared the dishes, it was dark.

"You should sleep," Clendon said. "Without drugs."

"I'll try if you come up and hold me."

"You've been brave all day."

"I can't be brave much longer."

That afternoon Shelley had restored her bedroom and the rest of her house to order. Now she turned off the light and moved to undress. Clendon glimpsed her through shadows. She left her panties on and put on a T-shirt without a bra. He turned away and took his clothes off.

"Get under the sheet with me, Clendon."

In the dark he slid under the top sheet and waited for her.

"Clendon, please hold me tonight and nothing else."

"I'll hold you all night."

Shelley slipped into bed and lay on her side. He cuddled up next to her and put his arm around her belly. She smelled clean and faintly of magnolias. Faint light nudged through the drawn curtains. Clendon eased his hand under her shirt and rubbed her belly in small circles.

"He was using you, Clendon. He had some big fucking deal going on and he was just using you."

"You're right, but he's the one who's dead."

"I hated his guts."

"You were crying over someone you hated?"

"No, I was crying over someone I used to love."

Clendon kept rubbing the same place on her belly around her navel and she began to relax. He moved his mouth to her ear.

"Shelley, I think I'm in with love you."

He moved his hand lower. She placed her hand over his and held it still.

"Sleep," she said.

* * *

Clendon knew he was dreaming that he was carrying Brooks's coffin up those stairs. Brooks wasn't in the coffin, but Clendon's mission was to find Brooks for his family, who were following behind Clendon. Shelley climbed a few steps ahead of him, dressed in a silver-blue flowing gown. She smiled and beckoned him up. He stumbled because he had to take his eyes off the stairs to look at her and with the weight of an empty coffin on his back. . . His stumbling woke him up. He flinched.

Shelley looked at him, her silver-blue eyes electric. They lay face to face, her face an inch from his, but they weren't touching.

"Good morning, Clendon."

"Good morning."

"You were snoring."

"Was it bad?"

"No. It was soft. You're fun to look at in the morning." Shelley touched his nose with her fingertip, then bounced out of bed. "I'm going to take a shower," she called over her shoulder. "Don't come in."

"Never."

Muted light spread through the room. Clendon had a morning erection so sensitive that he stroked himself a few times even though his bladder ached. He was surprised he came so quickly. He lay there as his breathing slowed, thought about the thirty minutes it would take for the semen on the sheets to dry, and decided to pull the comforter over the wet spots.

When Shelley returned, she was wearing a towel around her head and a short bathrobe.

"I think I'll jog early this afternoon so it'll take the edge off before we have to pick up my parents at the airport."

"Fine."

Shelley dried her hair, then tossed the wet towel onto his head, covering his face.

"I want to get dressed," she said.

"Go ahead. I'll hide my eyes."

* * *

Shelley had taken only one Valium with breakfast and Clendon had gone easy on the coffee. They arrived at the Whispering Hills Funeral Home at five after nine. The Whispering Hills lawn was so green it looked spray-painted. Clendon remembered the childhood tales about funeral homes fertilizing their lawns with the blood drained from the deceased during embalming. He felt his stomach flinch.

Inside, the aroma of blooming flowers muffled other smells. They met the fellow with the concerned voice, who introduced himself as Mr. Eddington. He was very tan, dressed in a dark blue suit and red power tie, and carrying a thick zippered briefcase.

Mr. Eddington took them to a lounge with stuffed black leather chairs and a round glass table. A thick, full color catalog filled with photographs of caskets lay open on the glass table. They sat in the leather chairs around the table as Mr. Eddington unzipped his briefcase and pulled out some forms.

"Is Sunday morning, say, eleven, okay for the service?" Shelley asked.

"Sunday morning funerals are very unusual."

"But not illegal."

"No, of course not."

"Then we can have it Sunday morning."

"No problem," Mr. Eddington said.

"We'll have it in your chapel."

"Yes. A violent, unexpected death is always very hard. We have special counseling available."

"His in-laws are bringing in a preacher. They're from the was-he-saved-or-not crowd. That means we can't cremate."

"Mrs. Boyd, we specialize in handling these delicate situations, especially religious, which may cause dissensions within a family."

"Good. Just keep that goddamned preacher away from me."

Mr. Eddington nodded and made some notes.

"When— "

"The families are flying in this evening," Shelley said. "Where do we bury him?"

"We can make arrangements with any of several memorial parks."

"Don't they have plain old graveyards out here? Is there one overlooking the ocean?"

"No. Ocean front land is too expensive."

"What do you recommend?"

"Hillside Memorial Park in Fox Hills is nearby and reasonable. There's a small cemetery in Santa Monica but it's much more expensive and there's no view."

"Let's bury him at Fox Hills."

Mr. Eddington scribbled in his leather notebook.

"You should get two plots," he said.

"One for me, huh?"

Mr. Eddington scribbled on.

"Do I get a discount or something?" Shelley asked.

"About ten per cent."

"It'll look good for the Boyds," Clendon said.

"I know that. All right, make it two. Fuck the expense. Pardon my Greek."

"No problem," Mr. Eddington said. "The memorial park will charge a fee for opening and closing the grave and it also requires that the casket be placed in a burial vault inside the grave-- "

"What?"

"You can get an elaborate vault or a simple concrete one."

"Make it simple."

"Fine. Let me show you our casket catalog."

"Do you have a green one that's good, but not too expensive?"

"Yes. The twenty gauge steel caskets are modest in price but still look good and are protective."

"Then I'll choose one like that. I can't stand to sit here and flip through a picture book of fancy coffins."

"No problem. Do you have one of your husband's suits for a burial garment?"

"Buy him a new one at Bullock's. Make it dark blue like yours and real sharp. I suppose you can measure him for the right size."

"No problem," Mr. Eddington said. "Do you wish the body to be embalmed?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Do you have anyone in mind to serve as pallbearers?"

"Get six engineers from Positron, if they'll do it. Brooks knew half of the engineers there."

"No problem. Do you know if the relatives plan to prepare their own lunch after the funeral or would you like our caterer to have lunch prepared for you to eat at your house?"

"Cater it."

"Any menu preferences?"

"Clendon, what do you think they'd like to eat?"

"I don't know. . . Fried chicken."

"Great idea. We'll have fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. Make plenty of biscuits. You'll be presenting me with an itemized list of all expenses before I sign anything?"

"Of course, Mrs. Boyd," Mr. Eddington said. "Our payment policy is that all expenses must be paid before the funeral. We avoid probate. We need to know one more thing. Will the service be open casket or closed casket?"

"You mean the autopsy where they peeled the skin of his face back and sawed the top of his cranium off-- plus the bullet hole in his forehead."

"Our cosmetologist can do excellent work, however, someone in the family might—"

"No problem," Shelley said. "Shall we go look?"

* * *

Mr. Eddington led them into a small room that was carpeted and curtained and had one stained wooden coffin in the center. It was chillier in there, though not as cold as the county morgue. The lighting was low. Mr. Eddington opened the lid and a small overhead light came on. Brooks lay, face rouged, almost proportional despite the autopsy procedure, a wax plug line in the bullet hole barely visible, eyes and mouth shut, face relaxed, shaved, hair combed. A beige shroud, tucked over his Adam's apple, covered the rest of him. His ears stuck out. He looked heavy and weightless at the same time.

"He still looks dead as hell to me," Shelley said.

Mr. Eddington folded his hands in front of his crotch and lowered his eyes.

"Make it open," she said. "Let them all have a final good look at the golden boy of Boyd-Tek." She started to walk out. "The way he lived, the dumb bastard should've had a pre-paid funeral plan. Instead, he didn't leave me a nickel to pay for this blow-out."

She opened her purse and took out her checkbook.

* * *

Brooks's parents and Preacher Flood stayed at the Ramada Inn by the airport. They took the BMW to pick up Shelley's parents. They all came back to Shelley's house and sat in the living room and drank coffee until after dark. Mr. Symmes was handsome and silver-haired. Shelley had inherited his eyes.

"How did the BMW's window get smashed?" he asked.

He had sneaked some whiskey into his coffee and his breath smelled of it.

"Vandals," Shelley said.

"That would piss me off. I couldn't live in such a high crime city."

"What do you do for a living?" Clendon asked.

"I am an attorney for the second largest firm in the state," he said. "I am a bought-off liberal."

Shelley's mother was short and plump, with perpetually teary eyes who said "it's so sad," over and over.

* * *

The limousines arrived at 10:45 in the morning. The sky was cloudless, deep blue. Clendon slipped on his new pair of polarized Gaultier sunglasses. When Shelley asked him to sit next to her in the limousine, Mr. Symmes frowned at her. She carried a large black purse and held onto Clendon's hand as she shivered in her black dress, panty hose, and low heels.

"I had to take two Valium this morning."

They met Brooks's parents in the chapel. They looked pale, stooped and fidgety. Preacher Flood was with them. He was a short, bloated man of fifty with small eyeglasses and graying hair slicked back with hair tonic. He strutted around with a fat, worn Bible in his hand. Tricia from the office was there. The pallbearers, engineers who worked with Brooks at Positron, had brought their wives. The attempts at small talk made Clendon's mouth dry. D. C. Lyman, the man in the photograph that Fred had shown Clendon, was there, too. He sat alone in the back pew. He appeared smaller in person than Clendon thought he would. Clendon wondered if Fred had accosted Lyman in a hotel and shown him Clendon's photograph.

Shelley sat in the front pew between Clendon and her father. Clendon had eaten too much greasy sausage for breakfast, but Mrs. Symmes had kept shoveling it onto his plate. Now his stomach fluttered and quaked. He was overheated in his new suit, the one Shelley had bought him the day before and put on her MasterCard. He removed his sunglasses and took Shelley's hand. It felt clammy.

The green casket was closed. Flowers surrounded it and smothered it. Their scent made Clendon's stomach queasier. A hidden organist played "What A Friend We Have In Jesus," a request from Mr. and Mrs. Boyd. The words were printed on the funeral program. Shelley started singing and Clendon joined in.

What a friend we have in Jesus

All our sins and griefs to bear.

What a privilege to carry

Everything to God in prayer.

The families flung glances at them, but Shelley kept looking straight ahead. When the song was over, she whispered in Clendon's ear, "What friend? This'd make Jesus puke." The word "puke" made his stomach spasm.

Preacher Flood rose to the pulpit and gave a brief biography of Brooks. Then he looked up, eyes heating.

"We have come here today to examine the soul of Brooks Boyd," he said.

Shelley jerked.

"We believe that the Bible is the infallible word of God," the preacher said, "And the Bible says in the Gospel of John, chapter 3, starting with verse 16, 'For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. He that believeth in him is not condemned; but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.'" He had quoted the verses from memory. "Friends, 'Gospel' means 'good news.' On this dark day, I bring the good news of Jesus Christ to you who are grieving, so we may know today whether your son, husband, and friend, Brooks Boyd, heard the good news, believed Jesus Christ was his personal savior, and was saved."

Brooks's mother began bawling.

"Brooks Boyd was murdered, and we pray that the perpetrators of this awful, evil crime be brought to human justice, just as we know that they will some day stand before God on Judgment Day and tremble before His divine justice. But has the divine mercy of God's love been extended to Brooks Boyd?"

Shelley's hand squeezed Clendon's as Preacher Flood stared at her until Clendon wanted to jump up and hit him in the mouth. She held the preacher's eyes with hers till he looked away.

"I remember the day I baptized Brooks and he told me that he believed Jesus Christ was his personal savior. He was fourteen years old. I believed the sincerity of his words then. Did Brooks keep his vow? The Book of Romans tells us that the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord. Which did Brooks choose?"

Mrs. Boyd kept crying. The preacher's voice dropped.

"Now I've had people come up to me and say, 'preacher, you believe in all that hell-fire and damnation and I just don't like it'" He chuckled. "It doesn't matter whether anybody likes it or not, because it's in the Bible." Preacher Flood shouted the word "Bible." Then he opened his Bible to the very back, to a place marked with a crimson book marker. He read, "'The unbelieving shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone.' Friends, there it is. It's in the Bible, and that means we have to reckon with it."

He closed his Bible and smiled.

Mr. Symmes leaned over and whispered, "This guy pisses me off."

"The First Epistle of John, chapter 1, verse 7, reads, 'The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us all from sin.' Yes! Jesus offered up his blood so that we might live eternally. Did Brooks reject this gift from Almighty God?"

Clendon imagined a bloody, limp, and lifeless Jesus sprawled naked across Brooks's coffin, gushing blood from his side wound onto the floor. Clendon's head began to throb. His stomach contracted and hot acidy vomit shot up his throat. He got up and ran for an exit, clamping down on his stomach until he could make it outside. He dashed onto the asphalt parking lot a few yards from the parked hearse. Without his sunglasses, the brightness was like hitting a wall. The sausage and hash browns and coffee and toast exploded up and out of his mouth and splattered on the asphalt in three rockets of vomit. Pain speared through his head. He didn't care about all the fresh spots on his new suit and trousers. Finished, he bent over with his hands on his knees and heaved for breath.

Mr. Eddington appeared.

"I'll have that cleaned up immediately," he said. "Let me help you."

He led Clendon by the arm into a dim, cool room with the black leather chairs, and handed Clendon a cold, wet towel which he wrapped around his head.

"I never eat before a funeral," Mr. Eddington said.

After Clendon caught his breath and cleaned himself off, he returned to the chapel and sat down next to Shelley. Preacher Flood paused and glanced at him.

"I must finally bring the good news," the preacher said. "The Bible says that 'whosoever believeth in Him shall have everlasting life.'"

He stared at Clendon. Mrs. Boyd had stopped her crying and it was quiet. The preacher waited a few more seconds.

"Brooks was saved," he said. "Let us give thanks to Almighty God."

Clendon felt himself starting to giggle. He had suddenly remembered a story Brooks had told him in college. Clendon's body began to shake and his mouth muscles quivered as he fought hard to control himself. He felt himself starting to break into laughter and he leaned over to hide his face.

When Brooks was playing his senior year of high school football, his team had been crushed in the state playoffs 40-6 by its blood rival. During the game, Brooks's coach had turned bright red with rage. Afterwards, he had screamed at the team in the silent locker room that "we have some young men here who were trying to jew down the price." Precisely as the coach said the word "price," there was a loud thunk and a groan. Brooks had fainted and hit his head on a locker room bench.

Shelley patted Clendon on the back as Preacher Flood was stepping down from the rostrum. The preacher looked sweaty and his face was red. Clendon tried to take deep breaths to stop himself.

Mr. Eddington and an assistant opened the casket while the organist played "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder." People from the back rows came up and viewed the body. They paused, but not too long, and all filed out. D. C. Lyman looked but didn't pause. Shelley's father was also red in the face and sweaty. He glanced at Shelley as she nodded for him to go up with her mother. They looked quickly at Brooks and shuffled out. Then Mrs. Boyd crept forward and hovered over her son. Shelley sighed and put her head on Clendon's shoulder and her arm around his neck. She was sweating.

Brooks's mother wept and mumbled "Brooks" and "Jesus" over and over while Mr. Boyd held her and said, "It's all right, mama, he's in heaven." After five minutes, Mr. Boyd dragged her out.

Now left alone, Shelley and Clendon edged forward, Shelley clutching her purse.

"Didn't Brooks have a brother?" Clendon asked.

"Yeah. Earl. Told me one time he hated funerals and would never go to one."

Brooks was pink over gray with sewed lips and shut eyes and he had his new suit on. Shelley closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she reopened them, she bent over him and gave him a caress on the cheek and a peck on the lips.

"You bastard."

She removed her wedding band and placed it on Brooks's little finger, the only finger it would fit. She took out a kleenex and wiped her mouth.

"Goddamn, his lips were cold." She turned to Clendon. "I want a moment alone."

"Okay," Clendon said and walked out to wait by the limousine

* * *

The air conditioning in the limousine revived them. Shelley leaned against Clendon. Their limousine followed the hearse, while a second limousine with the Boyds in it followed them. Behind the limos, Mr. Symmes drove his wife in Shelley's Volvo. All of the vehicles in the procession had a day-glo green sticker on their back windshields that said FUNERAL in black letters.

A motorcycle cop led them down through Santa Monica Canyon and up onto San Vicente. It reminded Clendon of his going to Adolfo's in the BMW. What was Adolfo doing right now? Did he shoot Brooks, escape to Mexico, and now sit laughing in a Tijuana cantina?

It took forty minutes to reach the cemetery, which was across the road from the Fox Hills mall. The cemetery's grounds were bright green against a brown-yellow hill.

"I'm thirsty," Shelley said.

The hearse stopped near a black canvas tent roof that covered the open grave. Folding chairs sat unfolded along one side of it. Astroturf covered the ground around the grave site. Half-hidden in a stand of eucalyptus trees sat the backhoe that would fill the grave after the mourners left.

The sky was clear, a light blue that turned white toward the horizon. When Clendon stepped out of the limousine, the sun shoved hard against his head and back, and he felt thirsty and sick again. He adjusted his sunglasses. What they needed was an ice cold Coca-cola vendor, and he was not there. Clendon thought of Brooks hanging out under the eucalyptus trees in the park. The smell of money was not drifting in the air now.

They were on elevated ground, giving an excellent view of a shopping mall, freeway ramps, and a few miles away, the runways at the airport. Cars drove up close to the grave site in clusters of twos and threes. When all the pallbearers had arrived, they pulled the green casket out of the hearse and carried it over to the bier. Mr. Eddington laid a wreath lay on top of the casket. Everyone gathered around.

It was warm and breezeless under the tent cover. Shelley sat on one of the chairs closest to the head of the casket, Clendon next to her, and the rest of the family on down in a line. D. C. Lyman appeared next to the bier across from them. He was short, about five-six, and stared at Shelley with lustless eyes.

Preacher Flood stepped up to the head of the casket and opened his Bible. "I'll read the 23rd Psalm." He recited it from memory.

"Preacher, please read the 12th Psalm," Mrs. Boyd said when he had finished. She held her face in her hands and twisted a white handkerchief in her fingers.

"I shall, Mrs. Boyd." He turned a few pages and began: "'Help, Lord; for the godly man ceaseth; for the faithful fail from the children of men. They speak vanity every one with his neighbor: with flattering lips and with a double heart do they speak. The Lord shall cut off all flattering lips-- '"

Clendon's eyes wandered. There was a man was standing by the parked cars. It was Fred. He wore a better jacket than before. His face had a blank look.

When Preacher Flood finished, Shelley said, "Please read Psalm 103, verses eight through ten."

"Why, surely, Mrs. Boyd." The preacher leafed through the pages. "'The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. He will not always chide; neither will he keep his anger for ever. He hath not dealt with us after our sins; nor rewarded us according to our iniquities.'"

"Thank you, preacher," Shelley said.

Clendon's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his head felt swimmy. He craved a glass of ice water. Preacher Flood said a long, rambling prayer, full of being saved and avoiding damnation, while Clendon thought about lying naked in a cool bed with Shelley. He squeezed her shoulders. Her neck was slick with sweat. She reached up and touched his hand.

"Amen," the preacher said, and Brooks's mother echoed him.

The preacher worked his way down the line, Shelley first. He leaned over and took her hand.

"Your husband is with God today."

"We all are, preacher."

He turned up his mouth in a tight smile. "Yes, you're right, Shelley." He took her hand in both of his. "And we all have the comfort of Jesus."

"He's our friend."

The preacher stared at her a moment, a look of lust passing through his eyes. He eased her hand down and let go. Then he looked at Clendon and extended his hand.

"My sympathies," he said.

Clendon limply shook the preacher's ice cold hand. The preacher moved on down the line. Mrs. Boyd started bawling. Shelley stood and Clendon took her arm.

"I'm feeling faint," she said.

Mr. Eddington came over and helped her to the limousine.

"We could use something cold to drink now," Clendon said. "We've both had enough of this funeral shit."

"Coke or 7-Up?"

Mr. Eddington opened the trunk of the limousine and reached inside. There was an ice chest packed with cans of soda pop.

"Gets hot out here sometimes," Mr. Eddington said, and handed them two chilled cans of Coke.

Shelley and Clendon slid into the limo, cracked open their cans, and guzzled. He took off his coat and loosened his tie, but left his sunglasses on. His shirt stuck to his back. Mr. Eddington started the engine and ran the air conditioner.

Shelley's face was bleached white.

"I don't feel good," she said.

Mr. Eddington reopened the trunk and took out a handful of ice. He opened the back door next to Shelley.

"Looks like you may be getting heat exhaustion, Mrs. Boyd. Hold this ice to your forehead and lie down."

"I'm so hot I'm getting stomach cramps."

Clendon folded up his coat.

"Lie down, Shelley, and put this under your head."

She stretched out on the back seat and accepted the folded coat.

"I'm so hot," she said.

Mr. Eddington gave her the ice and she held it in her hand.

"How can you stand those hot panty hose?"

"I can't, Clendon, take them off."

"No, we'll close the door and you can have some privacy and take them off yourself."

"But how can I hold this ice to my forehead and take my panty hose off at the same time?"

"We'll get you some more ice in a minute."

"I can hardly move, Clendon, I feel light-headed."

Clendon grabbed the ice, clambered in the back seat, and closed the door. Mr. Eddington stood outside, looking away.

"I'm putting this ice on your head. It'll make you jump."

"Make me jump."

"Just take your hose off."

First she flicked her shoes off with her feet, then she lifted up her dress and reached under it and pulled down her panty hose. She dropped the hose on the floor.

"Shelley—"

"What?"

"Shelley-- Just relax."

She left her dress up, high above her knees. Clendon held the ice to her head until his hands ached with cold, then went numb. She had put on the magnolia scent that made Clendon want to nuzzle her neck. She closed her eyes and breathed quickly, then fanned herself with her dress. He wanted to start licking her bare, tanned legs.

He gazed out the tinted window. Fred still stood out there. Clendon looked farther across the cemetery and saw the red-faced Asp, dressed in a business suit as he skulked towards the backhoe and the cover of the eucalyptus trees, hands in his pants pockets.

The group under the tent broke up. D. C. Lyman climbed in a brown Jaguar parked a few cars from where Fred stood, and drove away. Clendon watched Fred watch Lyman without watching him, but he couldn't tell if Lyman knew Fred or noticed him.

Shelley moved her legs. She reached up and rubbed the water from the melting ice across her cheeks and face.

"I don't feel so faint any more."

* * *

It was cool and dim inside Shelley's house. She changed into cooler clothes, a cotton blouse and brushed denims, and her face looked pinker. Mr. Eddington gave orders to the catering staff. They had brought in a long dining table and chairs and had lunch set up. The fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, salad, and hot biscuits lay spread across the table.

The parents, Shelley, Clendon, and Preacher Flood gathered around. The preacher sat at the head of the table, Mr. Symmes on his left, Shelley next to him, Clendon next to Shelley. Shelley's father smelled like a distillery and his face was still red. Preacher Flood tried to act like he didn't smell anything as he said grace. They passed around the food. It felt good to eat.

Mr. Boyd picked at his plate, then said, "You know, preacher, I had the funniest experience on the way into the cemetery."

"What was that, Mr. Boyd?"

"Well, sir, as we were following the hearse in, I would swear I saw Brooks himself sitting on the rear bumper, waving and smiling at me, just as alive as you or I."

Preacher Flood stared at Mr. Boyd and kept chewing his chicken.

"I. . . I was afraid to say anything to anybody, but I felt I should."

"I'm glad you did, Mr. Boyd," Shelley said. "Were you frightened?"

"Oh, no, no, I felt at peace."

"God granted you a miracle today," the preacher said.

"Shelley, dear," Mrs. Boyd said, "could we have a couple of Brooks's things—you know—like the Civil War chess set we gave him for Christmas?"

"Make a list, Mrs. Boyd, and I'll send you whatever you want when I go through his things."

"Could we see them before we leave, dear?"

Shelley reached under the table and struck Clendon's thigh with her fist.

"Preacher, where did you study for the ministry?" Mr. Symmes asked.

"I went to Southwestern Bible College."

"Do they teach the pre-trib or post-trib rapture there? Are you free will or strict predestination?"

"Perhaps after lunch we could discuss theology if you are so interested. What is your denomination, sir? Have you let Jesus into your heart?"

"I am a motherfucking atheist."

"Dad!"

"I am a screaming motherfucking atheist."

Everybody stopped eating.

"Dad!"

"There's still time to let Jesus into your heart, Mr. Symmes."

"You fucking Baptists piss me off."

"Dad, I think you should get up from the table and leave the room."

"I would never join your church. There isn't any love in it. It's all cruelty and damnation."

"Mr. Symmes, we've all had a hard day," Preacher Flood said. "If you're not feeling well—"

"I feel well enough to piss on you and your religion."

"Dad, come on."

Shelley grabbed her father around the neck and began pulling. The smell of alcohol on him was very strong.

"Why couldn't you say something nice about Brooks, for Christ sakes? My daughter's husband is dead. There's not a damn thing you can do about it, no matter how much you quote the Bible and foam at the mouth."

"Dad! Would you shut up?"

"I want him to say something nice about Brooks."

"As I said at the service, Brooks was saved. He was a fine man and a good husband, Mr. Symmes."

"Aw, hell, you didn't mean it, preacher."

"Dad, let's go-- "

Shelley stood up.

"You know that part in the Old Testament where the Hebrews piss on the heathens from the wall of the Temple?"

"That's not exactly what happened—"

"It's about time somebody pissed on you."

"You should beg God for forgiveness, Mr. Symmes."

Mr. Eddington came over.

"Come on, Mr. Symmes, let's take a walk outside and get some fresh air."

Shelley's father stood up, unsteady, facing the preacher. Shelley tried to pull him back down.

"Let go, Shelley."

She looked at Clendon, her face twisted, her eyes shiny. Her father reached for his crotch and pulled his zipper down. Shelley tried to choke him from behind. Clendon started to get up. Mr. Eddington froze when the splattering sound started against the table and Preacher Flood's jacket. Mrs. Boyd screamed.

The preacher shoved back and yelled. Mr. Symmes started laughing. Clendon could smell the urine and glimpsed the arc of it. Mr. Symmes tried to follow the preacher's retreat.

"Stop it!"

Shelley hit the side of her father's head as hard as she could with her right fist. He stumbled as she lashed out again. He slipped to the floor landed on his back, and cracked his head against the Spanish tile floor. He dribbled on his pants.

Clendon jumped on him and held his arms pinned across his chest. Mr. Eddington and Shelley grabbed his legs and held them. He thrashed for a few moments, then he calmed, dead drunk. It became quiet except for his heavy breathing and the muffled sobbing from Shelley's mother. It smelled like the men's room at a gas station.

"I want you out of my house!"

"All right, Shelley."

"I'll pay you extra if you clean this asshole up and take him to the airport and put him on the next plane to hell," Shelley said to Mr. Eddington.

"No problem."

"We should carry him out and dump him in the garbage," Shelley said.

Preacher Flood removed his jacket, held it at arm's length, and peered over them.

"Mr. Symmes, I'll pray for your soul tonight. You're welcome to come by the church any time."

* * *

By sundown they were gone. Shelley sat on the velour couch in the dark. Clendon sat in a recliner. They didn't move or say anything for over an hour.

"Did you notice no one said anything," Clendon said.

"About what?"

"You and me."

"Now you know why I'm fucked up."

"You've got guts, Shelley."

"I'm very fucked up. You just don't know it yet."

"Let's get out of L.A."

"Could you come over here and hold me, Clendon?"

Shelley's breath was a warm breeze across his neck. Her hair smelled like strawberries.

"We can't," she said.

"Why not?"

"Do you have any money?"

"No."

"I don't either."

"You said you were going to make a hundred grand this year."

"I have no money now. That check I wrote to the funeral home was all I had."

"Don't you bill your clients? Don't you have some receivables?"

"Clients pay when services are performed. No credit, no billing."

"You have credit cards."

"They're all at the limit. Your new suit did me in. I couldn't put a bus ticket to Anaheim on my credit cards now."

"Didn't Brooks have life insurance?"

"Clendon, do you? The only way we're going to get out of this smog pit is to be the first people to find that damned briefcase."

"Is that why you lied to the police?"

"People are like electricity, Clendon. They follow the path of least resistance."

* * *

Near one a.m., Shelley made coffee and Clendon drank three cups while he studied his map. Then he went outside and walked up and down the block. The night fog was thick. He looked inside the two parked cars on the street. They were both were empty. He checked all the cars in driveways and looked over all the houses in case they were across the street taking pictures.

Shelley took off in her Volvo to drive around the Palisades and draw out any possible tails. She'd return home in half an hour. Ten minutes later, Clendon left in the BMW, with the key to Brooks's apartment in his pocket. He hit Sunset and headed east. The cold night air rifled through the broken window. He jacked up the heater. Near UCLA he drove around for another half an hour. It was almost three a.m. when he came out on Veteran Avenue and turned south. Traffic was nil.

Brooks's apartment building along Veteran was among a long row of apartments built in the sixties. Across the street stood a high cyclone fence with scraggly vines. Eucalyptus trees ran along the fence. Their scent crackled in the still night air. The large veteran's cemetery lay on the other side of the fence, where the white headstones faded into the fog like dead gray charcoal embers. While cruising for parking, he glimpsed the billboard of the woman and her shopping center hat.

Brooks's building was well lit and landscaped. Redwood planks were nailed over the stucco. His apartment was on the second floor. Clendon slipped on some thin gloves he got from Shelley's house. A door slammed somewhere. Once in the apartment, Clendon groped for a light switch and flipped it. It was full of furniture and smelled like new carpet. He went straight to the bathroom. It was clean and the floor and bathtub were dry. Some new toiletries were on the counter, including tampons and diaphragm jelly. He turned off the bathroom light and crept towards the bedroom.

The bed was unmade, and had four posters, but nobody was sleeping in it. He turned on the bedroom light and poked through the closet. There were a couple of men's denims and shirts, a summer dress, a short skirt, and a blouse. There were men's loafers and women's flats. In the dresser was men's and women's underwear, a Polaroid camera but no photographs, a black garter belt and black hose, bottles of massage oil, two old _Penthouse_ magazines, and another porn magazine of faggy looking guys doing women with shaved pussies. There was also a smooth vibrating dildo, a huge lifelike black rubber cock, and a small roll of $100 bills. Clendon counted six bills, then stuffed them all in his wallet. Was the seventh bill the one plugged to Brooks's forehead? Under the bed lay a sheer red lacy bra, red lacy crotchless panties, and several lengths of thin red climbing rope. One piece of rope was tied to a foot poster. There were yellow come stains on the patterned designer sheets.

In the kitchen cabinets there was a lot of canned food, instant coffee hardening in the jar, some moldy bread, old flour, and a few dishes. He checked the refrigerator. It had a case of Heineken in it and nothing else. The counters were antiseptic. There was no garbage anywhere. The kitchen floor was shiny and waxy. He thought about moving in and hiding for six months.

In one of the kitchen drawers Clendon found a scrap of paper. Brooks's hand had written "OO lines" in blue ink on the scrap. It was torn along the left edge by the "OO." Clendon put it in his wallet.

He tried out the new baby shit green sofa in the living room. There was a 27-inch Sony television and a VCR, but no stereo, and no phone. The living room looked unlived in except for a month-old _Los Angeles Times_ sports page on the coffee table. The paper was opened to the gambling odds on football games and the horse racing results from Fairplex.

While Clendon paced the living room, he spotted the briefcase between the sofa and an end table. He slid it out. It was a dark gray Samsonite like the one he had exchanged at Adolfo's. It was locked. He lifted it. It wasn't too heavy. He shook it and it clumped. Money? Clendon carried the briefcase into the bathroom, took a piss, flushed the toilet, waited for it to stop running, then turned off all the lights in the apartment and headed out the front door, locking it behind him. The briefcase felt heavier with each step down the stairs.

Back at the BMW, Clendon took off the gloves and checked his wristwatch under the street lights. Three-thirty. He hoped to be snuggling next to Shelley in half an hour. He put the car key in the trunk lock when a loud footstep scraped the concrete.

His heart slam danced against his ribs. He ran three strides before he jammed his knee into a fire hydrant, nicked his balls, and fell. The briefcase sounded like a shot when it hit the concrete sidewalk. He grabbed for it. Pain clamped down on his knee as he rolled onto wet grass.

"Clendon, I'll buy you some breakfast. Are you hungry?"

Fred stood beside the BMW, wearing a trench coat in the swirling fog.

"I just ruined my knee for life," Clendon said, gasping.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"Sure. Dracula never meant to scare any virgins."

"I just want to talk. I see you have a briefcase with you."

Clendon's clothes felt damp from the dew. His sore hand squeezed the car key. He sat up.

"If you want the briefcase, you should pull out your silencer and shoot me and take it away."

"Why would I shoot you? I don't even carry a gun."

"You're right. You don't need to. You just scare people to death."

"You ought to get your window fixed. Someone could break in and steal your car."

"It's not my car."

Clendon stood. The pain in his knee was finally easing, so he limped over to the BMW, unlocked the trunk, put the briefcase in it, and closed the trunk lid. Fred stood beside the car and watched.

"I just want to talk," he said.

"Why didn't you call me for an appointment?"

"I know an all night diner on Santa Monica Boulevard. I'll buy if you'll drive us there."

* * *

The place was crowded. They sat in an orange vinyl booth. A cockroach was crawling on the wall beside them when the waitress brought their plates of ham and eggs. Fred made small talk while he ate. Clendon ate fast, Fred ate slowly.

When Fred finished eating, he said, "My name is Frederic Deedacheck."

"Spell it."

"D-I-E-D-E-C-E-K."

"So, Mr. Diedecek, what were you doing at the funeral?"

"Paying my respects."

"And watching D. C. Lyman. Anybody else?"

"And what were you doing carrying a briefcase on a side street in Westwood by a cemetery in the middle of the night?"

"Scalping World Series tickets."

"Mr. Lindsey, I happen to know you are desperate for money."

"Yeah, who isn't it? That's why I'm scalping tickets."

"I like that expression— 'scalping tickets.' Do you use a tomahawk like the Indians? I love the American expressions. Mind if I smoke?"

He lit a European cigarette. It stunk.

"If you like scalping tickets so much, I have a proposal for you about scalping a briefcase."

"Why? Are you buying up briefcases?"

"I'm not, but D. C. Lyman is."

"Does he pay good money?"

"The best in L.A."

"You must get a percentage."

"In a very around way, yes."

"Why didn't you tell me your name before?"

"Brooks was my colleague, and he was in very deep trouble as you see the result. Now I am trying to help you because that would help me, too."

"Finally. Self-interest. Now let me give this back to you so we understand each other. If I sell this briefcase to D. C. Lyman for what you imply could be a large sum of money that I would get to keep, your ass would be saved."

"Yes."

"Why don't you sell it to him?"

"Because he would think if I sold it to him, it would be altered, but if you sold it to him, he would be convinced that it was in perfect shape."

"How do I know Lyman won't shoot me in the head like he did Brooks?"

"He didn't kill Brooks."

"Who did?"

"I don't know."

"What's in the briefcase?"

"I can't tell you."

"I could pry it open and find out."

"Then Mr. Lyman wouldn't touch it."

"Why does Lyman need this briefcase so bad?"

"If he doesn't get it back, there'll be a scandal at Positron, Positron will lose its government contracts, and Lyman will be on the street as a peddler of neckties."

"How do I know you're not a liar?"

"Call Lyman at Positron and talk to him. Make a deal that you like. He needs that briefcase. When you have the money and you're out of the country send me a postcard, general delivery, Santa Monica, and tell me the good news."

"I'll sleep on it."

"Sleep on it, but not more than one night, because sleeping on that briefcase is dangerous."

"What if I don't even want it?"

Diedecek shrugged.

"Take a cruise and throw it in the ocean, but invite me to come along so I know where it went. I want to watch you throw away $100,000 in cash."

"In cash?"

"Yes, and no tax."

"Where could Lyman get that kind of money?"

"He keeps it in his safe."

"You can look for a postcard in about a week."

Clendon limped out fast and got in the BMW and drove off before Diedecek could get the bill paid.

* * *

The sky was becoming lighter when Clendon hit the Palisades, but below, the ocean was still dark. "00 lines." A code? Clendon was codeless. Lines—gambling lines. "What's today's line?" "Take the Texans and give the points— " Cocaine lines. Phone lines. "Install 1,000 lines of new phones." Disconnected. Clendon felt like he had been carrying drilling pipe across an oil field all night. Straight lines, crooked lines, broken lines. One line. A line of lines. Zero lines. Double zero lines. No lines.

The morning doves were cooing when Clendon pulled in Shelley's driveway. What morning was it? Monday. The newspaper lay at the front door. Before Clendon opened the trunk, he looked around, but the street was vacant. His knee was stiff and his hand hurt. He took out the briefcase, picked up the paper, and opened the front door with the key Shelley had given him. Her house was cool and so quiet Clendon could hear his ears ringing. He went upstairs. Shelley was asleep in her bed, sprawled open-armed on her back, covers to her chin, her face relaxed.

A wave of tired ache went through him. He shoved the briefcase under the bed, then undressed as he watched Shelley sleep. Naked, he crawled into the warm bed. She was sleeping naked, too, and he held her breast. She never moved and he fell asleep.

* * *

Clendon was carrying heavy briefcases up the stairs, his arms springy and extended. When he reached the top, D. C. Lyman was sitting there in his brown Jaguar and puffing on a huge cigar made out of $100 bills. Lyman told him to open the briefcases. Inside the first one was a huge black rubber dildo that Lyman grabbed away from him. Inside the other briefcase was a magazine with pictures of Brooks tied up naked on a bed with a fat Mexican woman in a red dress. Clendon flipped through another magazine that had pictures of Shelley and him. He stared at a picture of his kissing and sucking her breast. The picture came alive. They started moving and Clendon moaned. He woke up as his hips moved his hard cock against Shelley's thigh. His mouth covered her hardened nipple, sucking on it.

"Clendon!"

He pulled away.

"Clendon, you've been dreaming."

His eyes opened.

"Clendon, as a professional I'm ordering you to relate your dream to me."

"I found a briefcase."

* * *

It was past eleven in the morning, but Clendon was cranked after only four hours sleep. Shelley prepared breakfast while he called his parents. They sent their condolences, and told him they would forward a copy of some divorce papers Melody had filed in Houston. He told them to wait a few days. After he hung up, he began to pace.

"Jenkins called this morning," Shelley said.

"About your car?"

"Yes. He wanted to know when I was going to report it stolen. I said I didn't need to because I got it back."

"And he said?"

"He wanted to know how I got it back and I said you and I went for a drive the next morning and we happened to see it parked on a street in Santa Monica."

"You're the master of the half-truth."

"Eat some breakfast," Shelley said.

"I can't. Is it too early for whiskey?"

"You can stop stalling, Clendon. Why put off the inevitable?"

"What's the inevitable?"

"Telling me about your dream."

* * *

Clendon lay on the velour couch, but once he started on those upward steps, it began to feel good to tell her about it: the climbing, the buckets, the top, the fall, the landing, the restart.

"Clendon, have you had anything happen in real life like that?"

"When I was in college one summer I worked in construction, building a high rise hospital, and most of my job was to carry five gallon buckets of water by hand up long flights of stairs to the top where they were pouring concrete. I got ten cents an hour over minimum wage."

"They didn't have some kind of pump or pipe for the water?"

"No."

"They didn't have an elevator?"

"We couldn't ride it."

"What did you think about all day?"

"You."

"Don't lie."

"I'm not. What's my dream about?"

"Sex."

"You get paid to tell people that?"

"All dreams are about sex. Specifically, you're alienated from your body."

"Why am I alienated from my body?"

"Everyone is. Jogging, anorexia, cocaine, work, sex dreams. It's all the same."

"Why is my dream about sex?"

"Dreaming about climbing stairs indicates a desire for sexual intercourse."

"Why isn't it about a desire to get to the top of some stairs?"

"Climbing the stairs is like the rhythmic movements of love making. Freud said that."

"Maybe he just had a thing for stairs. Like me."

"Your endless, repetitive stair-climbing indicates an unlimited sexual desire."

"Maybe it just means my alienated body would like to have sex on some stairs."

"You're not supposed to speculate with a therapist about questions like that."

"Is it okay if I want to try out a certain therapist's stairs?"

* * *

From a gas station in the Palisades village, Clendon called D. C. Lyman at Positron and talked to his personal secretary. She wouldn't put him through.

"Are you from Texas?"

"I am not from Texas. I want you to take down a message and give it to Mr. Lyman. Ready?" Clendon gave her a phone number. "Mr. Lyman should call that number in exactly one hour regarding Brooks Boyd's Samsonite briefcase. Bye."

* * *

Lyman called on time. Clendon was waiting at another pay phone a block from the gas station.

"I understand you can help me out," Lyman said. "With whom am I speaking?"

"Call me Jesus."

"Why should I call you Jesus?"

"Because I'm your personal savior."

"You have the product."

"Yes. It's for sale."

"Is it damaged?"

"It's in perfect condition."

"Is $10,000 a fair price?"

"That would be fine for my agent, but I don't have an agent. The price is $100,000 cash."

"Your price is very high."

"I know you have the money and I also know some people who would pay me even more for it, but I'm told they're the bad guys."

"You talk like Brooks Boyd used to talk," D. C. Lyman said.

"You talk like a man who could save himself for only $100,000."

Lyman paused. The phone connection hissed in Clendon's ear.

"All right."

"How about if I come to your office?"

"Forget it."

"Then put $100,000 in an overnight bag and place it in a baggage locker by the American Airlines baggage claim at the airport."

"LAX?"

"Right. Tape the key from the baggage locker under the lunch counter that faces the window in the coffee shop by the United Airlines boarding gates. Tape the key as far to the right as you can. That key better be there at 3:30 today. If I see anybody watching or following me, the deal's off. I have an assistant. If my assistant doesn't hear from me by four p.m. and hear that I have the cash, and I'm safe, my assistant will sell the briefcase elsewhere."

"What about my briefcase?"

"When I'm secure with my cash, I'll tell you where to find your briefcase. I'll call you at Positron."

"How can I-- "

Clendon hung up. The sky was bright blue and a stiff breeze blew up the canyons from the ocean. He tried not to think about having his money all spent before he had it in his hands.

* * *

Clendon walked into the coffee shop at 3:35. He assumed that half the people in there were working for Lyman, or maybe Asp, but the place was nearly empty and nobody seemed to look at him. He bought a cup of coffee and strolled over to the bay window, where he could see the jetliners taking on baggage and taxiing toward the runways. An old woman also sat at the window counter, several seats way, munching pie.

Clendon took the end stool on the right. He kept his left hand around his coffee cup and groped under the counter with his right. His hand rubbed dried gum wads and grease, but then he felt the tape and the thick head of a baggage locker key.

Businessmen trying to get their bags from late afternoon flights packed the American baggage claim area. At 3:45 Clendon found the locker number and opened it. A leather bag sat in there. Clendon glanced around, held his breath, then took the bag and walked out. He looked back after ten seconds, but nobody was following him.

Shelley was to wait until 4:15 before giving up on him. When he hit the San Diego freeway north bound, traffic was a crawl. He shot off at Venice Boulevard and at 4:12 he phoned her from a gas station.

They met half an hour later in a parking garage in downtown Santa Monica. Inside her Volvo, Clendon opened the bag. It was crammed with cash, all fifties and hundreds, and looked non-sequential. They locked the bag in the Volvo's trunk, then drove both cars to Westwood and waited until dark to drop the briefcase and call.

* * *

"D. C. Lyman."

"Your briefcase will be in the Veteran's Cemetery at midnight, at a headstone ten rows south of Constitution Avenue and ten rows west of Veteran. Got that?"

"Yes."

* * *

"Let's go bury this," Shelley said.

She held up the key to Brooks's apartment. They buried it at the base of a headstone labeled "Boyd," several rows from where they dropped the briefcase.

* * *

Clendon stretched out on the velour couch and Shelley sat in the recliner. The bag of money rested on the floor.

"Where shall we go?" he asked.

"Anywhere."

"Do you have a passport?"

"No."

"Do you think it went too easy?"

"Far too easy."

"We should start driving."

"They'll never look for us here."

"I should be tied down so my head won't bump the ceiling," Clendon said.

"Do you want me to tie you down?"

"If you think it will help."

Shelley adjusted the lamps and the dimmer light made her face golden. She came over to the couch and touched his arm. She unlaced his shoes and pulled them off, then slipped his socks off.

"Shelley, how did you get rid of your accent? You talk like you're from L.A."

"It took years of practice into a tape recorder. They'd never given me a Ph.D. here if I still talked like you. Try talking faster."

She sat on the couch and placed his feet in her lap. Her hands caressed his toes. It tickled and Clendon tried not to twitch.

"Careful. I have a sore knee."

She began squeezing his feet. Her thumbs and fingertips pressed into his soles. With each rhythmic squeeze he began to relax and soon he felt like melting into the velour. He then noticed she was wearing a pair of brushed gray denims.

"Should we sneak across the Mexican border or just move to New Orleans?"

"Is that far enough?" Shelley asked.

"How far do you want to go?"

Shelley's hands went smoothly up and down on both his feet. Clendon closed his eyes. He felt a swelling inside the crotch of his pants.

"You have beautiful feet, Clendon. Have you ever had your toes sucked?"

"Is this ethical? Sucking the toes of your patient?"

"I'm not your therapist and you're not my patient."

"What about your analysis of my dream?"

"I should tell you something."

"What?" Clendon asked.

"Clinical psychologists aren't trained in dream analysis."

Shelley bent over and placed her lips over the big toe of Clendon's right foot. She ran her hands inside his pant legs and rubbed his lower calves. Her hair hung over her face. She took three of his toes into her mouth and sucked lightly and ran her tongue between them.

"You just lie there and take it," she said.

"I'm thinking."

"About what?"

She gave him a tongue flick across his toes.

"I'm thinking about what I can do about my alienation from my own body," Clendon said.

"Where would you like to start?"

"Maybe I should start with your body."

"How?"

"I could to start with your feet, then slowly work my way up."

"Yeah? How far?"

"Far, but not too far, because I would stop and massage your head, starting on the crown, and rub your scalp, then work my way down to your forehead, and your face, and your neck."

"How far down would you go?"

"Far, but not too far."

"How far is too far?" she asked.

"I wouldn't go any farther than you wanted me to go."

Clendon slid to the floor and took off her shoes, a pair of brown Bass walkers. She was wearing yellow and blue striped cotton socks, and he pulled those off, too. He knelt before her feet, held her right foot in his hand, and began massaging it. He flicked his tongue across the tips of her toes. She shivered. Her toes smelled like warm honey.

"How far can you go?" Shelley asked.

"As far as you like."

"Can we go to China?"

"If you like," Clendon said.

"Tahiti?"

"Fine."

"Bora Bora?"

"Yes."

"Bangkok too?"

"All in one night?"

Clendon's head felt light, like a hot air balloon. He began unfastening her brushed denim pants. She took his hand and moved it to the place where she wanted his fingertips to be.

"Tell me if I go too far."

"You can't go too far," she said.

PART THREE

ZERO

They woke, shivering. Shelley stretched and groaned.

"Do you want to go up to bed?"

"No," she said.

Clendon searched for a blanket. The house creaked. When he came back, he clicked off the table lamp. Shelley lay curled up. He lay back down and covered them both with the blanket. She stretched out. They began warming, intertwining legs and pressing chest to chest. Shelley slept in his arms, her breath on his neck as he faded away.

* * *

There were no stairs now, no building, no height, only space, the open country, miles and miles of plains receding away. Shelley and Clendon walked in fields under bright sunlight on a cool autumn day. She wore a flowing dress to mid-calf. They followed a freshly plowed furrow until Clendon stepped in an opened leather travel bag. They fell to the ground and landed in a patch of sand burrs that stuck him painfully in the back. They rolled on the ground and struggled to get up, but the burrs kept sticking. Their hands became stuck together by the burrs. There was a loud bang. A steel animal trap inside the leather bag had clenched on Clendon's ankle. His eyes snapped open and he jumped.

Shelley was awake.

"What was that noise?" she whispered.

"You heard it? I thought it was in my dream."

Another loud bang was followed by crashing glass from the kitchen.

"I locked all the doors and windows."

They heard scraping noises.

"Call 911."

Shelley, wrapped in the blanket, crawled across the floor and picked up the phone.

"It's dead."

The lights came on, blinding them, and Asp's voice said, "Well. Adam and Eve."

Clendon blinked and sat up, one hand shielding his eyes, the other covering his balls. Shelley shrank under the blanket. Asp and two other men dressed in business suits stood in the doorway to the living room and held pistols on them.

"What are you, the snake?"

"Since when did you ever study the Bible?" Asp asked.

His sunburned face turned redder.

"Is that loaded?" Clendon asked.

"Cocked, too, asshole."

Asp seated himself in the recliner while the other two men stood at each doorway. They had identical suits and hair cuts, except that one was skinny and the other one pudgy.

"So I was right," Asp said.

"About what?"

"You were fucking her."

Clendon glanced at the wall clock. It was almost four a.m. His eyes burned.

"What do you want?"

"Mrs. Boyd, you should remove that blanket real slow so we can see what's under there."

She didn't move.

"Come on, take off the blanket."

Shelley still didn't move.

"I said take it off!"

Asp jumped up and jerked at the blanket as she fought to stay wrapped in it. Clendon started to get up.

"Don't move," the skinnier man said.

He aimed his .38 at Clendon's head. The pudgy man helped Asp wrench the blanket away from Shelley.

"Just tell us what you want and we'll give it to you," Clendon said.

"You are dumber than a Dallas banker," Asp said.

"Let her go put some clothes on. You'd rather stare at me anyway."

Asp sat down and they all put their revolvers away.

Shelley unfolded herself and stood up naked. She put her arm out as if to shove the pudgy man aside, but he grabbed her hair, yanked her across the room, and shoved her onto the couch next to Clendon. She raised her arm to swing at him, but he yanked her hair once more. She screamed and went limp. Then she huddled herself again and chewed her lip.

"You left the wrong briefcase in the cemetery, and you are so fucking dumb that you didn't even know it."

"Okay, so I'm dumb."

"But not so goddamn dumb that you know you can't take payment on phony goods."

Asp nodded. The skinny man picked up the leather bag and handed it to Asp, who rummaged through the cash.

"It's all here," Asp said and returned the money bag to the skinny man. "Secure this."

The skinny man left the room with the money bag. The front door opened and closed.

"You are a dumb fuck, Mr. Lindsey. You should've hopped the first goddamn flight to Amsterdam or some perverted place like that. Then you'd been free, white, and rich, but like I said, you're too damn dumb. You had to come back to the widow's house and wet your dipstick first. Couldn't even wait till you got to Amsterdam."

"At least now I know you work for Lyman," Clendon said.

"You don't know anything," Asp said. "You were given a gift and you blew it. You were going to walk free with one hundred grand in cash and nobody was going to stop you."

"It looks like you're taking the hundred grand for yourself now."

"Mr. Lindsey, you could've been taken any time after you called Lyman's secretary. How many people in L. A. with Okie accents are going to be calling up D. C. Lyman about Brooks Boyd's briefcase? No, they decided to let you walk with the cash so they could get the briefcase back. They were going to play your game-- "

"Who's they?"

"Don't interrupt, Okie."

"What's in the briefcase?" Clendon asked.

Asp bolted from the recliner and shoved Shelley's legs apart as she tried to squirm away. They struggled as she clamped her legs together, crossing one over the other. Asp reached with his hand and yanked on her pubic hair. She screamed and grabbed herself as he held up a tuft of dark blond pubic hair between his fingers. He pushed the pubic hair into Clendon's face and rubbed it against Clendon's lips.

"If you don't shut up, next time I'll yank out her little joy button with some tweezers and shove it down your fucking throat! Do you know what happens to persons with microscopic brains who think they can outsmart certain people?"

Shelley rubbed herself where her hair had been pulled out.

"They wouldn't be here unless they were desperate," she said. "He can't do anything to us because he thinks we still have the briefcase they want."

Asp made a disgusted face.

"Haven't you noticed those local cops haven't been around anymore?"

"So you called them off," Shelley said. "It doesn't mean anything. It's a stand off."

Asp adjusted himself in the recliner again until he was comfortable.

"Look, Clendon, we have evidence that you've been dealing with the Russians."

"Why don't you tell the FBI?" Clendon asked.

Asp smiled.

"Maybe we will, if we need to."

"He's so full of bullshit, Clendon," Shelley said. "He has nothing."

"Spying for the Russians," Asp said. "That usually carries forty years to life, the last few trials they've had. Unless you killed somebody while you were doing it, then it's execution."

The skinny man returned, bagless, but he was now carrying a large ball peen hammer.

"Now that's secure, we have to do a couple of things," Asp said. "We have to look, and we have to wait."

"Could we get dressed now?"

"I'm a decent person," Asp said. "I'm not comfortable doing business with people who aren't dressed. One at a time. Ladies first. I'll take her upstairs myself."

"You touch her, I'll kill you."

"Cut out the macho crap."

"My clothes are right there on the floor," Shelley said.

"They're dirty," Asp said. "We'll go upstairs and you can put on some fresh clothes."

"I'm not going upstairs with you," Shelley said. "You can go up yourself and bring some clothes down for me."

"I wouldn't want to pick out the wrong thing."

Asp stepped over to Shelley and swiftly threw her over his shoulder. He clomped up the stairs, Shelley cussing at him.

"Hey, guys," Clendon said. "My clothes are right here on the floor, can I just slide them on real fast?"

"Wait'll they get back."

Clendon waited, listening for thumping, crashing, and yelling, but it stayed quiet for slow minutes. Then footsteps dashed down the stairs and Shelley appeared in the room, dressed in another pair of brushed denims, a light cotton shirt, and no bra. She put her shoes on as Asp came back, grinning and looking more relaxed.

"Get dressed, Okie," he said. "You look stupid naked."

Clendon pulled his clothes on and sat on the couch next to Shelley.

"Now we have to look around," Asp said.

"Don't waste your time," Shelley said. "There's no briefcase or anything else here."

Asp settled into the recliner again. The other men brought in two chairs from the dining room and placed Shelley and Clendon back to back. The men pulled Shelley and Clendon's arms behind them and handcuffed them together with two pairs of cuffs. One pair connected his right wrist with her left wrist, and vice versa.

When they started with the ball peen hammer, the men didn't overturn any plants or drape panty hose over furniture like the cops. First, they smashed the base of a lamp on an end table. The base shattered and collapsed. The light bulb stayed on under the twisted lamp shade. Then they smashed the end table and cracked it in half.

"Where is it?" Asp asked.

They smashed the other lamp and the other end table.

"Where is it?"

They smashed a framed Van Gogh sunflowers print. The glass splintered and a big shard fell on the floor.

"Where is it?"

"You can break everything," Shelley said. "We don't have it."

The two men went into the bathroom and banged around and broke the mirror. They went upstairs and the smashing and breaking went on.

"Where is it?"

They came back in and smashed the glass coffee table. It cracked into five jagged pieces and fell to the carpet. They took Shelley's Volvo keys and the keys to the BMW and went outside. They searched the cars until they didn't find anything. Clendon was beginning to get hungry. It was after seven a. m.

"Look in the backyard," Asp said.

When they returned, they said nothing looked freshly dug up.

"Where is it?"

"We don't know," Shelley said. "You said yourself when you walked in that you thought we were dumb for thinking we ever had the right briefcase. So why are you acting like we're not so dumb? Can't make up your mind?"

"Honey, plan A was first we had to look. If we didn't find it, then we go to Plan B, which is wait."

"Wait? Wait for what?"

"Just wait," Asp said.

"Could we wait on a full stomach? I'm hungry," Clendon said.

"If you'll let me loose, I'll go in and cook everybody a real big breakfast," Shelley said. "You guys must be tired after all that destruction."

"Do you have some eggs?" Asp asked. "I love fried eggs."

"I have some eggs."

"Do you know how to fry an egg?" Asp asked the pudgy man.

"Sure."

"Good. Ed, go fry me and you and Carl up some eggs. Do you have some bread?"

"Yes," Shelley said.

"Make lots of toast, too."

"How about a cup of coffee?" Clendon asked.

"Make some coffee for the three of us," Asp said.

They ate and drank their coffee in front of Clendon and Shelley. After they finished, Ed and Carl went into the kitchen and broke some cups and plates.

In an hour or so, Clendon's hunger pains passed. He still felt light-headed for another hour, but that passed, too. Asp talked football until his men got bored. It was pushing noon before Clendon's hands went numb. His butt had gone numb about nine.

At quarter after twelve, Clendon said, "Jesus Christ, Asp, let us go take a leak."

They were uncuffed and allowed relief one at a time as the two men escorted them to and from, then recuffed them together as before.

"How long are we going to wait?"

"Until the sheriff comes to repossess the house."

"Are you going to let us eat? It's easier to cooperate and think clearly on a full stomach."

"What makes you think I care how clear you think?"

Ed went out and came back with hamburgers. Asp started talking about pro rassling. His two men started a pinochle game on the floor. It was getting dark outside. Shelley fell asleep.

Clendon decided that whomever they were waiting for wasn't expecting them, and he couldn't think of any company Shelley had mentioned that she was expecting. He was almost beginning to feel safe as long as the doorbell never rang.

Finally, Asp stopped talking, leaned back in the recliner, and dozed. In five minutes he was snoring. It woke Shelley up. Ed and Carl got tired of sitting on the floor among the debris and moved to the kitchen's breakfast nook with their pinochle game.

"Shelley."

"Yes."

"I have a plan."

"About time, Clendon."

Another hour creaked past before Carl came back in the room. He looked at Asp still sleeping and shook his head.

"I have to go to the bathroom again," Shelley said softly. "It's been six hours."

Carl went in the kitchen and returned with his partner. He uncuffed them as Ed watched. They left Clendon's cuffs on but freed his hands as an empty cuff dangled from each wrist. Ed followed Shelley out of the room. Clendon flexed his hands and arms to rebuild the damaged circulation. Carl sat on the couch. Asp kept snoring.

"Don't do anything, wise-ass," Carl said.

"My arms are killing me and you know it."

Clendon started doing the Stan Laurel hand trick he had learned as a kid, a trick Stan had used to distract Ollie. Clendon placed his hands on his thighs, then at the same time brought his right hand to his left ear and his left hand to his nose, put both hands back on his knees, then switched-- bringing his left hand to his right ear and his right hand to his nose. The cuffs bobbed and jangled along.

"Can you do this?"

Clendon did it in rhythm, like jumping jacks, slapping his thighs, over and over, one-two, one-two. Carl watched a few beats.

"Okay, enough fooling around."

"Come on, man, I'm just trying to have a little fun. I'm getting bored, you know. I need to get my circulation going."

Clendon kept doing it, one-two, one-two, a bit faster, slapping his knees now, the cuffs bouncing wildly. He had suckered many drunken bets with this trick and was yet to meet anyone who could do it on his first try. When others first tried it, they looked bewildered. Their hands went every which way except in coordination to their nose and proper ear, and their mind sputtered. Even thinking about it seemed to paralyze a person's brain.

"Cut it out-- cut it out or I'll cuff you to the chair."

Clendon kept the rhythm going while Carl kept watching. His .38 was holstered under his coat. The couch was three feet from the chair as Clendon faced him.

"Hey, Carl, why don't you try it?"

"Naww."

"Come on. I bet you can't do it," Clendon said. "I can even talk and do it at the same time."

"Naww."

Clendon kept doing the trick, and Carl kept watching, more and more annoyed.

"You're just afraid you can't."

"Stop it, godammit."

"Wanna play cards instead?"

"Stop."

Carl's face started to get red.

Clendon smiled. "Make me." Clendon kept doing it in rhythm and laughed at him. He watched Carl, waiting, thinking to himself, "be fast, be fast." Carl screwed up his face and put his clenched hands down as if to push himself up from the couch and jump Clendon.

Clendon instantly half-stood, joined his hands together and swung, hitting Carl full in the face with the dangling cuffs. Carl partly blocked the blow with his forearm, but Clendon sprang behind him, locked his hands through the loose cuffs and around the man's neck, and pulled back as hard as he could, straining with the cuffs against the front of Carl's neck. Carl made one gagging sound, and then none. He thrashed and rolled off the couch and onto the floor. Clendon hung on behind him, squeezing and pulling, feeling the man's chest heave and yet having no air coming in. Carl became silent. One long minute passed. Clendon's forearms and sore hand began to ache.

Carl's head jerked back and forth. He and Clendon rolled close to the jagged glass. Carl's kicking feet bumped the recliner as he passed out. It had taken about two minutes, but to Clendon it seemed like ten. Clendon groped for Carl's .38 but couldn't get the holster snap to open.

Asp suddenly woke up, looking sleepy. Clendon leaped over to him, locked his hands together, and gave Asp a swinging double-fist and cuff blow across his nose that stunned him and opened a deep cut. An electric shock tore through Clendon's hand and on up his arm. The recliner tipped over backward and thumped against the wall. For an instant, Clendon thought about stabbing them both with a glass shard.

The bathroom door crashed open. There was the sound of water sprayed under high pressure, a man's scream, and more banging. Clendon rustled through Carl's pockets and found the Volvo keys, then grabbed Shelley's purse and rushed to the bathroom.

She was blasting Ed with scalding water from the shower massage hose. He grunted and yelled and writhed on the floor. She held the hose a foot from his face and kept blasting directly into his eyes. When the man stopped struggling, Clendon took his .38 from off the floor, then they ran to the garage. Ed stumbled after them.

When Clendon hit the garage door opener, the light came on and the garage door began to ease up. Shelley grabbed the car keys from Clendon's hand. The garage door seemed to move in slow motion, but it was up by the time they were sitting inside the Volvo and Shelley had started the car.

Ed, now scalded, came crashing into the garage. His face was bright red, his eyes swollen. He lunged for Clendon's car door, but it was locked. Clendon pointed the pistol at him and started to roll down the window. Shelley started backing out as Ed tugged at the door handle, shouting. She floored it as he held on. The tires squealed. When the Volvo passed through the garage door, Ed collided with the garage door frame and it knocked him off. As he sprawled, he sounded like a big watermelon dropped onto concrete.

Shelley flicked the control to close the garage door, which pinned Ed tightly to the ground. She backed into the dark, empty street and peeled out. Clendon waved goodbye to the BMW and its busted window. Shelley cursed and pointed to the place in her Volvo's windshield where Asp's men had cracked it with the ball peen hammer. When she made the end of the street and turned, nobody was following. She drove fast through the twisting streets. At Sunset she headed east. Clendon slid his new pistol under the car seat.

"I have a couple of friends," Shelley said.

"Who?"

She turned off Sunset onto a side street, went down a block, turned onto another street, and parked. She got out, opened the trunk, took out a long-shafted screwdriver, got back in, and handed it to Clendon.

"Pry out your passenger's A/C vent fixture."

Clendon pried as directed and the fixture popped out.

"Look inside of it," she said.

Clendon looked into the vent shaft and saw a rolled up number ten envelope.

"See it?"

"Yeah."

He just could grip the edges of the envelope with his fingertips. He pulled it out. The envelope flattened out. Inside it were some fifty and one hundred dollar bills. Clendon started counting.

"Should be about $1200 in there," Shelley said.

"I love your body and your brain!" He hugged her and stuck his tongue in her right ear. "I'm going to get on my hands and knees and start licking your legs from the ankles up."

"Don't! I can't drive. . . I pawned my engagement ring after Brooks left."

"Goddamn, Shelley."

"I always thought it was ugly."

"Who's your other friend?"

She started the Volvo, made a U turn, and headed back toward Sunset, not saying anything for a while.

"Clendon, we've fucked up bad," she finally said.

"We just have to unfuck it," he said. "And you can start by driving us straight to the airport so we can catch the first flight to anywhere that's not here or Amsterdam."

"We can't leave town."

Clendon's face started to burn. The blood roared through head. He almost screamed at her, but caught himself.

"I'd like one rational reason to stay," he said as slowly and calmly as he could.

"I might be able to get some help and money from another friend and in the end we'll be more secure."

It sounded real rational, Clendon thought, as rational as her story about Brooks and his gambling. Should he jump out of the Volvo at a stop light, the envelope of cash in his hand, and hop in the first taxi to the airport by himself?

"I have a girl friend I can trust," Shelley said. "I can get some clothes there, but I don't want to stay there and tangle her up in this. Let's get a hotel tonight."

"I need some food and I need to get these cuffs off. And they'll be looking for a Volvo with a cracked windshield."

As she drove, Sunset Boulevard east bound coiled and uncoiled, curve after curve lined with sprawling, landscaped houses glowing under lamps through the fog.

"Clendon, don't you think it's peculiar that Asp only had two men with him? And that they seemed kind of like. . . amateurs?"

"I can't think about it. I'm too hungry."

"Then think about it after you eat."

Shelley took the San Diego Freeway north, over the mountains, the traffic curdled with diesel rigs and panel trucks.

"Where are we going?"

"The Valley."

When they crested the pass, the San Fernando Valley spread out in spangles and grids of light to the horizon. The freeway plunged into it.

"They'll never look for us in the Valley," Shelley said. "Wait'll you see it in daylight. Looks like Oklahoma City with palm trees."

"Find a hardware store," Clendon said. "We need some metal cutters and a power saw."

Shelley exited at Ventura Boulevard. They found a warehouse-sized home improvement store that was open till nine. Clendon waited in the car. Shelley came back out with a small hand-held power saw

* * *

An hour later they were in the bathroom of room 136 at a Holiday Inn somewhere in the Valley. To create a noise shield they turned on the television loud and ran the shower with the bathroom vent fan. Clendon pulled a damp hand towel through the cuff on his left arm. He'd rather she sawed through a Holiday Inn towel than through his wrist. Since he was right handed, he figured that if she made a slip on the first cuff, better his left arm be sliced than his right. He sat on the cold floor with his cuffed left wrist resting on the closed lid of the toilet seat with another damp towel between his wrist and the lid.

"You've used a power saw before?" he asked as she plugged in. "Be gentle."

She revved it on.

"I've had advanced anatomy," she said. "I've carved up cadavers. Hold still or I'll have to give you a shot of whiskey. Look away. There might be sparks."

She slid on a pair of sunglasses and turned on the saw. The clashing metals screamed and Clendon's skin became hot very fast. A few sparks shot off, then the blade sliced through and touched the protective towel. Shelley pulled the blade up and turned the power off. There was a smell of burnt metal.

"Those cuffs are made out of soft metal," she said, then smiled and held them up. She inspected the blade of the power saw. "Won't be much good for finishing work after the next cuff."

Clendon repeated his ritual of preparation, Shelley repeated her skilled sawing, and the other cuff fell off. When she shut the saw down, his ears still rang.

"Let's go visit Madeline," Shelley said.

* * *

Shelley told him that she and Madeline had met in graduate school. Madeline still had a year to go on her own Ph.D. and lived in the Valley. It was dark and Clendon was tired and didn't bother to consult the map. Shelley made turn after turn through the grid of wide Valley boulevards.

"Do you know where you're going?"

"You don't have to know where you're going in L. A., you just have to act like you do."

Madeline had an apartment on the second floor of a building that looked like every other apartment building in the Valley. Shelley rang the doorbell and a woman in her late twenties answered. She was tall and solid, especially in the legs, with short black hair and dark brown eyes. Her black tights looked painted on. Under her braless T-shirt she jiggled when she moved.

"I saw you at the funeral," Madeline said. "I sat in the back."

Clendon tried to remember her, but didn't.

"Don't mess with Mad," Shelley said. "She lifts weights."

Madeline's apartment had a beige couch and stuffed chair, a hardwood floor, books and magazines piled in clusters, layers of dust, plants, and a poster of an old woman on the wall. Madeline waved them to the couch.

"Do you want a beer or some carrot juice?"

"Who's the woman?" Clendon asked and pointed.

"Simone de Beauvoir."

He nodded and sat on the couch.

Madeline looked him up and down, then said to Shelley, "He has a nice bod."

"Mad is very direct," Shelley said.

"I like it when men have a stubble, too," Madeline said.

"Mad, let's go into the kitchen and talk before something physical breaks out."

"Okay, okay," Madeline said. "It's just that I haven't had a man in two months."

She let go a deep, chesty laugh as she followed Shelley out of the room. Clendon rested his eyes.

"Clendon, quit snoring and wake up," Shelley said.

He sat up and forced his eyes open.

"Mad's going to let me borrow a couple of changes of clothes," Shelley said. "She's going to drive over to my house tomorrow and have a look around."

Clendon yawned.

"Wish you could stay and smoke a joint," Madeline said

"Clendon and I are having dinner out. I'll call you tomorrow evening."

* * *

After dinner they returned to the Holiday Inn near midnight. Shelley wanted a 7-Up and Clendon wanted a bottle of Jack Daniels and to look at a map of the Valley, so he went out to fetch them. When he came back, Shelley was in the bathroom with the shower going. She was retching over the noise of the running water.

"Shel?"

There was no answer, but more retching.

"Shelley?" Clendon knocked on the bathroom door. "Are you sick?"

He opened the door. Shelley sat on the floor, her head hanging over the toilet bowl, her face white and sweaty, her eyes glassy. She reached up to flush. Vomit smell went up Clendon's nose.

"Shelley, you're sick?"

"No, I'm okay. I just ate too much for dinner. It didn't sit right. I had to pork it up."

She grabbed her purse from the floor and pulled herself up. She opened the purse, took out a small spray can, and gave two quick spritzes of pine scent into the air.

"That's why I asked for a 7-Up. I thought it would settle my stomach. I'm fine now."

She rinsed her mouth and face, then sipped some 7-Up. Clendon turned off the shower, then followed her to the bed.

"I promised you a massage," she said.

"Do you always carry a can of pine scent in your purse?"

"Do you always carry a bottle of Jack Daniels in your pocket?"

"I don't keep it in my pocket."

"What do you keep in your pocket?" She began to unbutton his shirt. "Everyone is allowed one idiosyncrasy."

"Tell me yours."

She put her hand in his pocket and moved her hand around, massaging him.

"In my earthier moments there's nothing I'd rather hold than a nice, healthy, hard erection."

"Is this one of your earthier moments?"

"Yes, and in my other earthier moments there's nothing I'd rather look at than a nice, smooth, silky, hard erection." She unzipped him. "Is it user friendly?"

* * *

In the morning they made calls from a pay phone. Clendon started with the Drug Enforcement Agency and asked for Mr. Asp. The operator first said one moment and then that Mr. Asp didn't work there. His second call was to the FBI. Clendon again asked for Mr. Asp.

"One moment."

The operator rang him through. On the third ring, it was answered.

"Agent Asp."

* * *

Shelley drove them to the downtown public library. Clendon knew that a landman was good at two things. One was talking with prospective lessors and the other was research. In the library they went through the last few years' indexes to the Los Angeles _Times_. They started under the heading of Positron. There were several articles on Posi through the years about large defense contracts and rising executives. They checked out the microfilm of the back newspapers and started reeling. One article featured a computer wizard named D. C. Lyman who had been promoted to vice-president in charge of computer research and development. His head shot, the same photograph Diedecek had shown Clendon, was next to the article. A year later was another article. Lyman had been made president and CEO of Positron. His compensation package was reported to include millions in Positron stock. There was nothing under Boyd-Tek but plenty under FBI. They read the microfilm for two hours about defense industry espionage trials. Special Agent Kenneth Asp had testified for the prosecution. The papers said his FBI sobriquet was the Texas Longhorn, because he always gored his man. He'd helped put away a Russian couple, a Polish immigrant, and an American woman involved with the Pole. All were sentenced to twenty years-to-life for stealing parts and information from Positron. Asp had his picture in the paper. Clendon stared at the picture.

"He looks like J. Edgar Hoover's illegitimate half-nephew."

"I remember something Brooks said one of the last times I saw him," Shelley said. "It was about Positron being awarded a big contract to do some preliminary computer programming work for the Star Wars defense system and that he knew some people and he was going to get a piece of that action and how it would launch Boyd-Tek into the major leagues."

* * *

Shelley drove the Hollywood freeway back to the Valley.

"We ought to expose Asp," she said.

The sun was glaring too bright through Clendon's sunglasses and the windshield crack was prisming the light.

"We need to fix the windshield first."

"I bet Brooks had some link to Lyman and found out something he wasn't supposed to."

"Maybe he did something he wasn't supposed to," Clendon said. "Maybe he tried to crossfork somebody."

"Somebody like Asp," she said.

"Why do you think he tried to burn Asp?"

"Because what do you think is in those briefcases you've been toting around that Lyman and Asp want so damned bad?"

"Some computer stuff."

"Computer disks, Clendon. Disks with programs on them. And what programs? Top secret programs."

The car bobbled. There were screeching brakes and car horns. Shelley regained control inches from the back end of an eighteen wheel truck rig in the next lane.

"Half this town snorts too much cocaine," she said.

She blasted her own horn, then eased back into her lane.

"Asp is not acting right. Think. He had eight guys in Century City but only two semi-incompetents at my house. Plus he never arrested us or even took us in for questioning. A real thug would've tortured us bad. That bothers me."

"So he's the Texas Longhorn," Clendon said.

Shelley took an off ramp.

"What do you want," Clendon asked. "The briefcase or Asp?"

"I want both."

They reached a red light at the end of the ramp.

"I don't want to be hamburger for that shark, Shelley."

"I have one more friend."

"Who?"

"He's a foreigner. He knew Brooks. He has money and some other stuff."

The light changed to green and Shelley gunned it onto a boulevard.

"Who is it?"

"He's funny. You'll like him. He has huge ears."

* * *

Shelley drove them back towards Burbank to check into a different motel, a Ramada Inn. She was in the bathroom with the shower running for a long time while Clendon lay on the bed and tried to think about the possibilities. The only thing she hadn't told him was that she had indeed shot Brooks and was the mastermind of the whole wildcat operation. The only reason he had left to trust her was the fact that he was still alive and not in jail. What was he? Her pet dog on a leash? He went through her purse, but saw no extra money other than the cash envelope he'd pulled from the air vent. There were some half-taken birth control pills and a fat bottle of Valium, about sixty pills, with Madeline's name on the prescription. He stuck the Valium bottle in his pants' front pocket. He took the business card Shelley had given him out of his wallet and stared at it. He called the office number on the card and got a no longer in service recording. He stuck the card back in his wallet, took his pants off, stretched out on the bed again, and tried to remember what day it was. Shelley came out of the bathroom, toweling her wet hair.

"What were doing in there, shaving your legs?"

Shelley only smiled. She called Madeline, who told her that the BMW was gone. Another car was sitting in Shelley's driveway, Madeline said, a big fat American car she didn't know.

* * *

They woke up in the middle of the night.

"What's this?" Shelley asked. "Is that your arm?"

"No. What's that?"

"What shall we do with them?"

"Let's do it until my thing falls off."

"We can't do it until your thing falls off, because then we couldn't do it anymore."

"Then let's do it until my thing almost falls off."

"Tell me when it's about to fall off and then I'll stop for you."

"You tell me if you get too sore and I'll stop."

"Your thing will fall off before I get too sore."

* * *

Later in the night, Clendon woke and reached for her, but she wasn't there. Through the closed bathroom door came the retching sound. She'd eaten a large pizza they'd had delivered, and later, a bag of corn chips. As he drifted back into sleep, he smelled pine scent.

* * *

The woman with the shopping center hat had come alive off her billboard and was dancing on a stage under a spotlight. She was wearing a chocolate-colored boxy dress that matched her hat. Clendon sat close as the spotlight followed each move. She gyrated and swerved, dancing above him, trying to take her dress off, but when she reached to pull it off, her hat threw her off balance. Clendon wanted to rush up and help her rebalance. He dashed for the steps that led up to the stage, but they became endless, and the woman unattainable, wrestling with her pill box hat, swaying under the spotlight.

* * *

They met Diedecek for lunch on the top floor of the Beverly Center. "He loves it," Shelley said. He was waiting at a back table of an Italian restaurant that had white table cloths, plants, and full-length wall mirrors. Diedecek was smoking his cigarette, but put it out when they arrived. The restaurant was almost empty.

Diedecek wore a red plaid sports jacket and needed a shave. Clendon ordered spaghetti and meatballs because he wasn't sure what the rest of the menu said. Bourbon whiskey wasn't on it. Shelley ordered antipasto and capellini primavera.

"I love American shopping centers," Diedecek said. "They're so bright and clean."

"Shelley says you can help us. If you can't, I'm leaving."

"Clendon, would like a beer?"

"No. I want some truth serum so I can spike your food with it."

"Be polite and take off your sunglasses," Shelley said.

"How did you two meet?" Clendon asked. "At a flea market for computer disks?"

"Clendon, you need to take a Valium," Shelley said.

"All right, I think I will."

As he watched her face, he took her Valium bottle from his pants pocket. He swallowed one pill and shoved the bottle back in his pocket.

"I'll feel fine in about thirty minutes," he said.

"Beer is quicker."

Clendon turned and stared at Diedecek.

"We've been reading the newspapers," he said. "Yesterday's papers. About Positron and Lyman and top secret computer programs and criminal trials and Agent Kenneth Asp."

Diedecek sipped some water.

"I saw you twice talking to Brooks in Palisades Park, once right before he was shot. If I wanted to be shark bait, I'd go jump in the ocean. I used to think you were the smartest guy in ten counties when you surprised me at the hotel and then again that night outside Brooks's apartment, but it was only because Shelley had called you, right?"

"Clendon-- "

"What else could it be? And where was Diedecek when Asp and his boys came to see us?"

"I came by," Diedecek said. "I knew you had the company that morning."

"Asp was waiting for you," Clendon almost shouted. "Why didn't you come in and get caught like you were supposed to?"

"The newspaper," Shelley said.

"What about it?"

"It was a signal," Shelley said. "If the morning newspaper was ever left outside after nine in the morning, then it wasn't safe for him to stop by."

"I drove by about ten," he said. "I saw the paper and the big dark American car parked down the street and I knew Asp was probably in there."

"If you want to help us so much," Clendon said, "why didn't you help us then?"

"I can't do everything, Clendon."

"Am I asking too much to simply want to know what is going on?"

The waiter brought their food. Clendon was starving and gobbled his spaghetti and meatballs down while he listened to Diedecek.

"I am here to tell you. I am Czechoslovakian. I worked in computer programming. It is a very boring job. Other jobs were more interesting. Your agents and prosecutor people nailed me several years ago for trying to, as they said, improperly appropriate a certain program, but they turned me instead of prosecuting me. They wanted to break the foreign networks in southern California that circle around the defense industry. And now Star Wars must be protected. And you know what I know now?" Diedecek leaned over his plate of linguini and said very quietly, "the Russians are incompetent and have given up. I predict Soviet Union collapses in five years. Now, the worst and biggest is being practiced by the American corporations against each other. They're always trying to steal each other's secrets and technologies, especially computer programs. And FBI and CIA don't know what to do about it. As long as I gave them a Communist every year or so, they stayed happy, but now. . . "

Clendon stared at his plate. One meatball was left, sitting on top of his spaghetti. It made him think of a ball and chain.

"And Brooks-- he said he was in the software business-- "

"Yes."

"Brooks was a software thief."

"Yes," Diedecek said and looked at Shelley. "He's a bright guy."

"Why didn't you tell me all this that first night?"

"Fear." He pointed at Clendon with his fork. "In the business, compartmentalization is an important technique. No one knows any more than one has to know. Sometimes compartments leak and then the technique of containment must be used. Sometimes containment fails and the leak continues or becomes worse even. Then we have to mop it up."

"Brooks stole a secret computer program from Positron," Clendon said.

"Yes, sort of," Shelley said. "Kidnapped it, really. For ransom."

"Didn't he have more than one copy?"

"He had only one," Shelley said. "Brooks had someone inside Posi who made sure Lyman's two back up copies got ruined. Lyman would do anything to get it back before anyone else at Posi found out."

Clendon looked at Shelley. It was empty and useless to ask her why she didn't tell him all this the day Brooks was shot and why she had told him all the other things instead. It was hard to look at himself and Shelley in the wall mirrors.

"I used to be in the oil business," he said. "I know about leaks, and I don't like it when crude oil leaks all over my new shoes."

"The oil leak has become a spill and already ruined your shoes and is about to drown you, Clendon. We are way beyond mop up. We are at sea and I'm your only life boat."

"Why should I believe that?"

Diedecek shrugged.

"Call up your friend Asp and see what happens. Do you know who is the best criminal lawyer in America?"

"No."

"You should because you maybe are going to need him."

Clendon reached for his wallet and took out the scrap of paper he had found in Brooks's apartment.

"If you can tell me what this means and where I got it, I'll believe anything you want to lay on me."

He handed it to Diedecek, who jerked when he read it. He took a larger scrap of paper from his own wallet. When he pieced the two together, they fit. Joined, Brooks's handwriting read:

10,000,000 lines

When Clendon first focused on it, he thought it said ten million lies.

"What kind of ten million lines?"

"Binary code lines," Diedecek said. "Ten million is the number needed to run the Star Wars computer program."

"So?"

"The most complex computer program yet designed, the one to run the American space shuttle, is only one million lines," Diedecek said. "You can see, a major breakthrough was needed in computer speed and programming technology."

"Why would Brooks write 'ten million lines' on a scrap of paper that would get torn in half?"

"My kind of work has its unknowns," Diedecek said.

"D. C. Lyman's the computer nerd who's made this breakthrough," Clendon said.

"Lyman thinks he has made a program that leaps similar to Einstein's Theory of Relativity," Diedecek said. "Only few people know about it, and that breakthrough is on disks in the missing briefcase. Those disks contain a program that can run Star Wars using computers that exist now. It is the only copy. It would take Lyman another year to rewrite it from his notes and his head. They don't want to have to wait and hope for a faster, ultra-super computer, either. Do you want to know how much such a computer program is worth that runs one hundred billion dollars worth of super-secret technology?"

"What if he's been lying?"

"The rumor is that he's already proved it works to the satisfaction of the Chiefs of the Joint Staff."

"You mean the Joint Chiefs of Staff."

"Yes, I mean that."

"Why did you want us to sell the briefcase back to Lyman?"

"You are an experienced negotiator? It is called win-win."

"It's called ransom," Shelley said.

"Brooks was going to sell it to the highest bidder," Clendon said.

"Yes. If he needed to. Other American defense corporations have much more money to bid than Russians. But he knew Lyman would pay almost anything."

"How did Brooks get the briefcase in the first place?" Clendon asked.

"Probably from a man named Adolfo," Diedecek said.

Clendon was glad he could feel the first seepage of Valium ease through him.

"Lyman and Adolfo have something going."

"That's a way of saying it."

Diedecek had finished eating and lit another cigarette.

"Why doesn't the FBI crossfork Lyman and Adolfo now?"

"I am sure that Asp wants to, but Asp is still not sure what you know," Diedecek said. "I am convinced the L. A. FBI office doesn't want to do anything, because you can't accuse Einstein of treason after he develops the bomb for you unless you have the Russians holding a smoking bomb itself."

"If another corporation gets it," Shelley said, "then it's merely a civil case."

"Where do these people get their training?"

"The Mormon mafia runs the L. A. office," Diedecek said. "And Lyman himself is what they call a jack Mormon. Asp is from Texas-- "

"Asp thinks Mormons are heretics," Clendon said.

"Yes, yes. They hate him because he's made some big cases while they're over praying at their temple on Santa Monica Boulevard. They screw up and cover for each other. Do you know what FBI really stands for? Full Blown Incompetents. The Mormons jerk Asp around, never giving him enough men or enough cars. Asp wants to be the next J. Edgar Hoover."

"How do you know-- "

"I know."

"How did Asp know that we gave Lyman the wrong briefcase?"

Diedecek shrugged.

"He must have a mole at Positron," he said.

"Asp said that they were going to let us walk clean if they'd gotten the right briefcase," Clendon said.

"It's true. No muss, no fuss. I love American expressions. No muss, no fuss."

Diedecek giggled.

"What do you think was in the briefcase we did deliver to Lyman?"

"Who knows. Blank computer disks. A stack of newspapers. Pornographic video tapes. Bricks. Anything. It appears that Brooks had a diversion planned. My sources tell me they already blew up Brooks's office safe and found nothing."

"Who came up with that stupid name Eskimo Shoes?"

"Brooks did," Shelley said. "He got it from the name of his favorite horse at Hollywood Park."

"Keeping their little big secrets is more important than some cash in a briefcase and you two people," Diedecek said. "How embarrassing to the American government-- paying ransom for what it owned, the most important computer program in the world, and having a trial and reported on TV. But you failed, so now you're still in the chasing for the Eskimo shoes."

"Shelley said you'd help us run if we wanted."

"I can give you a key to a safety deposit box in a Mexico City bank. In the box you'll find about $50,000 in American money and Mexican pesos. There's also passports, and California driver's licenses in other names, all legitimate and secure. All you need are your own photos, but before you have the photos taken, you should call the phone number that's on a slip of paper in the box."

"Whose number is it?"

"The best plastic surgeon in Mexico City. Tell him Mr. D sent you. He'll bill the right people."

"You mean we have to have our faces changed?"

"To be the very safest, yes. Also the color of your eyes and hair. And rub away your fingerprints. Afterwards, your parents won't know you."

"I don't want to have my face changed," Clendon said. "I like it."

"It is the only way. You will have many full blown incompetents after you. Sometimes they have luck."

Clendon looked into a wall mirror again to see Shelley's face, trying to imagine it as it might be altered by a Mexican plastic surgeon. She avoided his stare.

"Why are you helping us instead of giving us up to Asp?"

"Because I hate the guts of Mr. Asp. He never paid me the money he said he would for helping him. Instead, he says I owe him. So you see, I am an entrepreneur. I want a cut. And-- and I want Shelley to have a life far away from this because she never asked for any of it."

Clendon had hoped that the Valium would help clarify his thinking. He imagined Diedecek's mouth buried between Shelley's legs.

"Since you threw Brooks out," Clendon said, "Mr. D's been giving you a lot of money because you don't make enough as a therapist to pay for that house and car."

Shelley picked at her salad and looked away from Clendon and the wall mirror.

"I know your office phone's been disconnected. He gave you all that money-- "

"How much money have I given you, Mr. Landman?"

"It was nothing," Diedecek said, but the smoke from his cigarette began wavering.

"Why don't you take her to Mexico City yourself and to hell with me," Clendon said.

"They are watching everywhere for me."

That sounded weak to Clendon, but he let it pass.

"Then how do we get to Mexico City? Won't people be watching for us, too?"

"I said before I can't help you with everything."

"I thought once you got involved in this," Clendon said, "you can never get out. Just look at yourself."

Diedecek's cigarette had burned out, but he kept holding it between his fingers.

"You're involved now."

"Where's the safety deposit box key?" Clendon asked.

"I have it."

"What guarantee do we have?"

"What alternative do you have?"

"Give me the key and I'll go take a leak and think about working in the oil business in Venezuela."

Diedecek took out the key and placed it on the table. Clendon picked it up, left the restaurant, and went across the mall to a card shop and bought an envelope and stamp. He addressed the envelope to himself, General Delivery, Santa Monica, put the key in the envelope, sealed it and stamped it, then found a mailbox and mailed it.

* * *

Clendon was gone about ten minutes. To get back to the Italian restaurant, he squeezed through the crowd of shoppers that coagulated around the food court. Through the restaurant's open front, he saw Asp inside with his other two men. Carl had a bandage wrapped around his neck. They had Diedecek sprawled across a table, hands cuffed behind his back. Shelley stood, arms folded and trapped from any escape, leaning against the mirrors. When she glimpsed Clendon standing outside at a railing, she turned her head away.

He dashed for the escalator as pudgy Ed turned to look at him. Shouting echoed from the restaurant and flying chairs crashed into tables. Clendon knocked an old Asian woman down. When he reached the escalator, he leaped onto the hand rail, straddling it, and tried to slide down it. It mashed his balls. Off balance, he shifted position and kicked escalator riders. A large black man called him an asshole and shoved him. He teetered, lost his grip, and went over the side as his sunglasses flew out of his shirt pocket. He held on by hanging over the side of the escalator, and slowly descended. About five feet above the floor, Clendon let go and fell. The landing jolted his ankles, but he rolled over and jumped up. People began shouting. He hoped there weren't any security guards around as he ran to a glass-encased elevator.

"Let me in! I'm crazy!" he shouted.

The elevator doors opened.

"Out! Out!"

In the elevator, he spit on the floor.

"Leave me alone!"

A bleached blonde in spandex and pumps backed out of the elevator, lost her balance, broke a spiked heel, and sprawled out. The elevator door closed as Carl reached the foot of the escalator.

When the elevator stopped at level four of the parking garage, Clendon pressed all the buttons and got out. After he stepped out and the door closed, he knew he should have ridden it to the ground floor. The garage seemed turned around backwards and tilted sideways. After he waited for the whirligig feeling to pass, he ran through the garage toward more escalators. Two teenage girls dressed like French whores gave him a wolf whistle.

In the escalator well Clendon tried to act calm, but he was puffing for breath. For a moment, he thought about trying to circle back around to the Volvo, figure out a way to break in, and at least get the cash envelope out of the air vent. Then Ed appeared at the top of the escalator well, shouted, and started running down the moving escalator, shoving people aside. He caught Clendon at the bottom of the next staircase and grabbed his shirt. Clendon pushed him sideways. Ed's momentum made him fly past Clendon, stumble, and roll onto the escalator below, knocking down two blue-haired ladies. He gashed his head on the sharp edge of a moving stair and lay bleeding. Clendon went past him and on down at a full sprint.

The escalator took Clendon to the street level where he hit the sidewalk. It was bright and a whiff of smog shot up his nose. There was a bus stop at the corner with a waiting bus. He boarded it as the driver, a black man who looked like a retired weight lifter, flicked the door shut behind him. Clendon didn't see any sign that posted the fare.

"How much is it?"

The driver moved the bus into traffic and looked in his mirrors. Clendon swayed and grabbed the fare box. The bus had a stench of body odor, urine, and cheap perfume. He was getting a headache between his eyes and his mouth was dry.

"I'm sorry? How much?"

"Eighty-five cents."

Clendon had a quarter, two dimes, a nickel, and three pennies. A few bills were stuffed into the glass-encased fare box. He took out his wallet and looked in it. All he had was the six $100 bills from Brooks's apartment he had folded up and hidden behind a special flap.

"This is all I got," he said and showed the driver the folded bills. "Can I get change?"

"Don't fuck around with me. Pay your fare or you're off at the next stop."

The bus was nearly full and there weren't any other white persons on it. Two black men sitting near the front looked over Clendon and his $100 bills.

"Hey, bro, you need change?"

They laughed. Black and brown women in maid and nursing uniforms stared at Clendon with stabbing eyes.

He saw a 7/Eleven across the street.

"Sorry," he smiled and said. "Just let me off. Sorry."

When the bus stopped, the two men got off after Clendon and followed him. They wore gold chains around their necks and bright blue jogging suits and shoes. They stood at the corner next to Clendon and waited for the light to change.

"Hey, bro, you need some change?"

"Thanks, I'm okay."

The light flashed WALK.

"We can give you some change, brother."

They crossed the street with Clendon.

"Thanks again. I'm in a hurry."

They followed him into the 7/Eleven. It was crowded but cool. Clendon craved a large cold drink. A sign on the cash register stated, "We do not accept bills larger than $20." He darted toward the Icee machine, deciding to spend all of his fifty-three cents on a small Icee. In the parking lot Clendon sucked on his Icee and looked up and down the street. There was a Wells Fargo bank one block away. The two men kept following him toward the bank, but now hung back. They talked loudly and jived on about a hundred dollars and change. An LAPD black and white cruised by with one male and one female cop. Clendon threw his empty Icee cup at a trash barrel and missed. His forehead was a film of sweat.

The line in Wells Fargo was very long. Clendon waited fifteen minutes. He finally stepped up to a teller, a pretty Latina.

"We can't change a $100 bill unless you have an account here or have proper identification," the teller said.

"This is a bank," Clendon said.

"Do you have an account here?"

"No."

"Do you have some ID?"

When Clendon showed her his Oklahoma driver's license, his hands were shaking.

"You have to have a California driver's license or a major credit card."

"To get some change? What do you think I am, a counterfeiter?"

"I don't think anything," she said.

Clendon left. He thought about buying another pair of sunglasses so he could get change.

"Sir, you need change, don't you."

The two men had waited, where they leaned against the bank's wall in the shade, next to people standing in line at an automatic teller machine.

"You can change this hundred?"

"We can change that C note. For a fee."

"What's your fee?"

"A twenty dollar service charge."

"Make it ten and I'll do it."

"Twenty dollars is the standard fee."

"Ten," Clendon said.

His mouth was still so dry it was hard to swallow.

"I thought you were in hurry."

"Yes, I am."

"We don't change our fees for nobody."

"All right, all right. Let's see it."

One of them pulled out four $20 bills.

"Here you are, sir. Twenty dollar bills. The key to easy living."

Clendon held out $100 bill in one hand and reached for the four twenties.

"Thank you for your business, sir."

They laughed and turned away, high and low fiving.

* * *

Clendon had always wanted to see Hollywood, and from his hotel window on Sunset Boulevard that night he had a clear view. Women in hot pants and blond wigs hung out across the street under a light. Young Latinos cruised in low rider cars that almost scraped the pavement. White guys with waist-length bleached blond hair and spandex tights hugged their ghetto blasters and strode the sidewalks.

Clendon had a room in a motel chain that had green print bedspreads and poorly designed shower stalls. He had ridden the city buses for two hours until he wound up on Sunset as dusk was coming on, so he decided to get a room and spend the night doing some hard solitary thinking.

Since he was paying cash, the desk clerk had wanted to see his driver's license.

"How much is the room again?"

"Fifty-four plus tax."

"Okay, I'll give you $20 dollars if I don't have to show you my driver's license."

"Sir, I said the room was fifty-four plus tax."

"And I said I'd give you $25 if I just sign in and forget the license."

It dawned on the desk clerk.

"I'm in the middle of a messy divorce," Clendon said. "My wife's hiring private detectives to find me."

"Are you from Kentucky?"

"No, I'm from Tex-ass."

"You said $30 right?"

"I guess I did say thirty."

Clendon gave him the money.

"Sign the registration card."

Clendon signed it Wylie Cobb and pulled out one of the hundreds to pay for the room.

* * *

He was walking down the sidewalk along an L. A. boulevard. Cars drove past and the sun was cranked to broil. He didn't have any sunglasses. He walked past small shops-- a bookstore, a cleaners, a map store. People began pouring out of the shops and walking towards him and then past him. They were Mexicans, Chinese, blacks, Filipinos, Arabs. Funny smells lingered in the air. There were no white people anywhere. At last the crowds thinned and Clendon walked past a costume shop with a poster in the window of women dressed like English maids, witches, burlesque strippers, Little Red Riding Hood, Wonder Woman. He stopped to stare at a woman in a tigress costume of orange with black stripes, her face also painted with black stripes. He loved the costume and decided he had to buy one for Shelley.

When he went in he couldn't find any clerks. The store was packed with costumes hanging from the ceiling-- cowboys, cops, pirates, soldiers, doctors, nurses. There was a growling in the back. Then Shelley, wearing the tigress costume, leaped out of a curtained dressing room. Her face was painted with black stripes. She growled again and showed her fangs. Her hands reached out to him. Her fingernails were sharpened claws. She crept towards him, the tigress suit sheer and tight on her body, the sight of her curves and her swaying hips making him hard. Her breasts popped out and the slit of her mons showed through her tights. Clendon reached for her. She lunged at him with her clawed hand, struck his chest and dug into it. He flinched in pain, tried to scream, but couldn't. She yowled as she pulled her hand out of his chest and showed him his own beating heart.

* * *

At eleven a.m. Clendon was wearing his new polarized Luxotica sunglasses when he went to a pay phone on the corner across Sunset from the Comedy Store and called.

"Agent Asp."

"This is Clendon Lindsey."

"Thanks for calling, Clendon."

"I know you already have the briefcase and I called D. C. Lyman and told him, and he was pissed."

Asp laughed. "Clendon, that's a lie bigger than Dallas."

"Lyman knows some guys who are after your ass."

"Thanks for the tip. When I woke up at Shelley's house the other day, I had a bad gash across my nose. The blood ruined my shirt. Took five stitches. I'd hate to have to ruin all your clothes, Clendon."

"Wear a bib when you shave."

"Clendon, I have someone here who wants to talk to you."

"Who?"

"Dr. Shelley Symmes-Boyd. She's agreed to cooperate with us."

Clendon started to say "bullshit," but it died in his throat.

"Dr. Boyd has told us where the briefcase is."

Muffled talk came over the line.

"Clendon."

It was Shelley, her voice flat, drained.

"Shelley."

"Clendon, I'm going to be talking to the U. S. Attorney this afternoon. I'm telling them everything. I'll testify at any trial."

Her voice stayed flat.

"Shelley-- "

"I have to, Clendon. They've made me a deal."

"Shelley-- "

"Turn yourself in, Clendon. They've promised to make you a deal, too."

"Where's Diedecek?"

"I don't know."

"Where's the goddamn briefcase?"

"I can't tell you."

"Use your goddamn head. You have the right to remain silent. Get a fucking lawyer. Don't tell them anything."

"You're hysterical, Clendon."

"Shelley, don't-- "

"I have to, Clendon."

"Think, Shelley! There's alternatives-- "

"There are none, Clendon."

"Why, Shelley? Why? I-- "

"Clendon, you have to stop dreaming and get over this silly infatuation you have with me."
PART FOUR

LAND OF DREAMS

Clendon walked for six hours. Shelley, Asp, the briefcase, Shelley, Diedecek, the tigress, D. C. Lyman, Shelley, computer disks, Shelley, the velour couch, the hole in Brooks's forehead, Shelley, this silly infatuation, the Volvo, Shelley, the nipples on her breasts, her silver-blue eyes, Shelley, the Westwood apartment, the power saw, Shelley, the money bag, Valium, Shelley, this silly infatuation, Shelley, the claws, Shelley Shelley Shelley

Clendon bought a Los Angeles map guide in Book Soup on Sunset. Back outside, the new Luxoticas didn't cut the glare enough. He took another Valium and headed south walking down the hill on La Cienaga. At Trashy Lingerie's display window he stopped and looked at the red and black garter belts, negligees, and crotchless panties on the matchstick mannequins. A sign read: "By Appointment Only."

He ordered a giant chili-n-cheese dog at Tail-O-The-Pup. The hat shopping center loomed across the street. While Clendon ate, a young black man carrying a four year-old girl in his arms walked up to the Tail-O-The-Pup's counter. His clothes were rags and he smelled like an old laundry hamper.

"Can I work for some food?" the man asked the Latino counterman.

"No."

"Look, my little girl hasn't eaten all day, man. She's hungry. I can cook hot dogs, man. I'll clean up. Just let me work for some food for a couple of hours."

"No, can't," the counterman said. "The manager's not here. You talk to him."

"All I want is to work for a couple of hot dogs."

"You must have T.B. test."

The little girl's eyes were glazed. The man rocked her in his arms and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

"You buy hot dog, I give you," the counterman said.

"How about a Coke?"

"You pay."

The man glanced at Clendon, then turned away.

"My wife left me two days ago," he said to the street. "I'm sleeping in my car."

Clendon finished his hot dog. The onions and chili began fencing in his belly. He tapped the man on the shoulder and gave him a $10 bill.

"Here," he said. "Get something to eat. Just don't eat here."

* * *

After three buses, two hours, and one shot of Jack Daniels in a small bar on Ventura Boulevard followed by a one mile hike, Clendon was walking in a neighborhood of small stucco houses three blocks from Madeline's apartment. It was turning from dusk to dark. His feet ached and his eyes burned. He didn't feel like searching for a motel on foot. He had decided that if she wasn't there, he would wait, no matter how long and no matter who might come home with her.

Behind him, he heard a car slow down, and then a spotlight shone on him from the street. Red flashing lights started up. Clendon glanced over. A commanding "Hello there!" came from an LAPD squad car. He slowed and turned to look. Two strong spotlights nailed him, brightly blinding him. He brought his hand up to shade his eyes and stopped walking.

"Keep your hands in sight!"

The patrol car stopped and two officers got out. Clendon stood still and let his arms hang motionless at his side, the spotlights still hard in his eyes. One of the officers stayed next to the car, staring at him. The other one slowly approached.

"What are you doing out this evening?"

"Taking a walk," Clendon said.

"Could I see some identification?"

"Sure."

He pulled out his wallet, found his Oklahoma driver's license, and handed it to the officer. The spotlight haloed around the cop's head. The cop was tall and well-built and looked Nordic, about 25 years old.

"What is it?" Clendon asked.

The cop studied Clendon's license.

"Oklahoma, huh? Long way from home."

Clendon said nothing.

"It's a long walk from Oklahoma," the cop said.

"Yeah."

"Mr. Lindsey, why are you walking by yourself this evening through a neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley?"

"I'm here visiting a friend. I just went out for a walk."

The cop stared at Clendon for a moment. He was sure the cop smelled the liquor on his breath.

"Mr. Lindsey, we've stopped to talk to you because you match the description of a man who robbed a Taco Bell a mile from here about twenty minutes ago."

"Okay. What'd he look like?"

"The witnesses said a six foot medium-built male Cauc about thirty."

"Well, that does look like me. Did he have an Okie accent?"

The cop stared at Clendon again.

"Mr. Lindsey, would you please sit down right over here on the curb, keep your hands in sight at all times, and don't move. I'm going to run your driver's license."

The cop pointed to a spot on the curb about ten feet in front of the squad car. Clendon obeyed, went over and sat. He wondered how the LAPD ran an out of state license. The second cop, a muscular black man, rested his right forearm across the handle of his holstered revolver and stared at him. Clendon shivered. It was chilly with the sun down.

The license run took long minutes, then the Nordic cop came back over and handed Clendon his license back.

"Thank you, Mr. Lindsey. No wants or warrants."

Clendon stood up.

"Oklahoma City, huh?" the cop said.

"Oklahoma City. Northwest side."

"My sister's husband's from Guthrie."

"Really? Small world."

"Been there a couple of times."

"It's a nice little town. Did you ever eat at the Hilltop?"

The cop smiled. "Why, yes, yes, I believe I did once."

"It's a Guthrie landmark."

"Have a nice evening, Mr. Lindsey. The man we're looking for has a Brooklyn accent."

Clendon watched the two cops get back in their patrol car and speed away.

* * *

He knocked on Madeline's door. Madeline's lights weren't on and she didn't answer. Her apartment door was in a small nook at the end of a long balcony, so no one could see him from the balcony or parking lot. It was getting chillier as he curled up on the doorstep.

* * *

"Clendon-- What are you doing here? Aren't you cold?"

He had been half-asleep. He opened his eyes and shivered. Madeline bent over him and wiped her hand across her face.

"Shelley's in trouble," he said. "Madeline, what's wrong? Have you been crying?"

She had her keys in her hand and fumbled with the lock.

"Yes."

"Are you trouble?"

"Not anymore," she said as the door opened.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly midnight."

She was wearing a very short tight black dress, sheer red hose, and low heels.

"Get a beer if you want," she said.

Clendon got a Corona from the refrigerator. Madeline's apartment felt warm and her couch was soft. The poster of Simone de Beauvoir stared at him.

"Want to smoke a joint, Clendon?"

"Why not, Madeline?"

"Call me Mad."

She sat on the couch next to him and with supple fingers rolled a joint from a small canister of pot she kept under the couch. Clendon stared at her legs and wondered how her fingers would feel gripping him.

"Did a man fuck you around tonight?"

"He didn't fuck me at all, know what I'm saying?"

"Is he the love of your life?"

"He's not even the love of my week, Clendon. I'll forget his name by noon tomorrow. What's happened to Shelley?"

Mad lit the joint, took a hit, and handed it to Clendon.

"This is Colombian. That means it was grown in somebody's backyard in the Valley." She laughed.

"Shelley's been arrested by the FBI. They almost got me."

Clendon took a long hit. It burned his throat but he held it in and then blew it out hard.

"Then she told me to fuck off."

"Oh, shit," Mad said after she blew out smoke.

She pushed her shoes off and tucked one foot under her leg. Clendon gave her the joint back and tugged on the Corona.

"What's she arrested for?"

"She didn't tell you anything about what's going on?"

"All I know is that Brooks was a gambler and needed money all the time. He was coked out, too. Taking coke is like having an itch on your foot. I know." She laughed again. "And Brooks could never scratch it enough."

Mad took another hit. Her hand brushed Clendon's as she gave him the joint.

"Shelley spent most of her time ducking," she said.

Mad moved closer to him. Her thigh touched his. He took another hit, but couldn't hold it. His lungs were on fire and he coughed.

"Are you a lightweight?"

"No, just out of practice."

Clendon took another drink, then caught a good faint smell of Madeline's perfume. He thought about putting his hand on the inside of her thigh. He was starting to get hard.

She took the joint and put to her lips.

"Watch."

She inhaled deeply, sucking air noisily.

"Give me the joint," Clendon said.

"Let me help you."

She held it to his lips. He inhaled and kept the smoke this time, feeling the first pop in his ears.

"I was asking about Shelley," he said, then drank half the beer down.

"She's been arrested. By the FBI."

Mad took another hit.

"Arrested," he said.

"That's what I just said."

Mad held the joint for him again and this time he caught a good hit.

"Does the FBI know about me?" Mad asked.

Clendon blew the smoke out.

"I don't think so. Unless Shelley says something or they've gotten real ambitious and started interviewing people at your grad school. . . But you're not involved in this shit, are you?"

Clendon looked at her. She slowly shook her head no.

"You know, I think half of the high comes from hyperventilation," he said.

"Can we talk about this in the morning? Your eyes are red. You look kind of tired."

"I am."

Clendon felt very tired, but the electric edge of a pot high was creeping into his head.

"You look tired, too," he said.

"I am," she said. "But let's finish the joint."

Clendon gave it back to her and put his hand on her thigh. She put her hand over his. He glanced at De Beauvoir's face. It danced.

"My clothes stink. These are all I have. I've worn them for two days."

"They just smell like a man."

She squeezed his hand. They finished the joint. His mouth was dry and his ears buzzed and his fingertips smelled of pot resin. Mad stubbed the roach and put it in her canister. He finished off the Corona. She turned back to him and he put one arm around her and his mouth on hers and his other hand up her dress. He felt her smooth muscular leg and thrust his hips against her. She moaned and thrust back. He moved his hand up between her legs. She was hot there. She started fumbling with his zipper and pressing her hand on him.

"Let's go to my boudoir," she said.

* * *

Clendon woke up with his head on Madeline's breasts and his hand between her legs. She moved her hips as if she wanted him to play with her, but when he became fully awake, he pulled away and sat up. His head throbbed and his eyes hurt from the morning light.

"What's wrong?" Mad asked.

The beige plaster walls of her bedroom stared back at him.

"You're in love with Shelley."

Clendon turned back to her.

"How'd you guess?"

Madeline smiled. "You're still in town, aren't you? I saw the way you looked at her."

"Do you know Diedecek?" he asked.

"I've heard Shelley talking about him."

"Did she ever. . . "

"Clendon, you're jealous."

"Are you hungry? I'll take you out for breakfast."

* * *

Madeline showered and dressed in her spray-on tights and tank top. The late Saturday morning loafers at Denny's sat around sipping coffee, reading the paper and smoking cigarettes. After Clendon drank a cup of coffee, he felt more like talking. When the food came Madeline dug in to her pancakes, eggs, and sausage.

"I work out a lot," she said. "I can afford to eat this way."

She poured on the maple syrup.

"How long have you known Shelley?"

"Three years."

"Shelley said you met in graduate school."

"Look, Clendon, I'll save you the interrogation. You know I say what I think. I know a lot of things about Shelley. Let me finish eating first."

He watched Madeline eat for ten minutes until she pushed her clean plate away, satisfied. After she got more coffee, she started.

"Clendon, most men are assholes. This is true from sad experience. I also know most of them can't help it, so I pity them-- a little. Anyway, after I broke up with my last so-called boyfriend, I found myself starting to look at women-- in supermarkets, at the beach, at the gym, on the street. I started hanging out in topless bars playing pool. I started to look at women and I would get hard. Do you know what I mean? I met Shelley and ooh, I wanted her. She was the first. And I still love her, even if she won't let me touch her now."

"What was that little seduction last night for?"

"Shelley decided she wasn't bi, so if I couldn't have her, I could have the man who had her. I guess you know I have a teeny crush on you, Clendon. And I hardly know you!" She laughed. "Hell, I'm just horny and I do what I want."

"You're AC/DC."

"I'm fighting it."

"Then you must not think I'm an asshole."

"Shelley wouldn't fall for another asshole."

"I'm not so sure she's fallen."

Clendon took the Valium bottle out of his pocket and placed it on the table.

"You sell this to her?"

"What do you know about Valium addiction?" Madeline asked.

"That it's stupid."

"Shelley goes into seizures, convulsions. It's rare, but she does it. She tried to quit cold about six months ago after she kicked Brooks out and then she had a seizure in front of me. I give her the Valium so she won't have another one. I'm worried if she's in custody they won't give her any and she might have a seizure. The next seizure might vege her out for good or even kill her."

Clendon ran his hands through his hair. His fingers still smelled like pot.

"That's it," Madeline said. "It's so obvious. They're withholding her Valium."

"What she said to me-- "

"Whatever she said, she wasn't responsible, even if it was fuck off and drop dead."

"She makes herself vomit."

"Off and on for eight, ten years."

"She told me the night of Brooks's funeral that she was fucked up and I didn't want to believe her."

"Clendon, we're all fucked up. I like to look at a woman's tits and do things to her body. Tell me how you're fucked up."

* * *

"Let me call her," Madeline said. "Maybe she's been released and she's home."

"If she is, her phone's probably tapped. Maybe they have someone there. In the least they'd be watching her."

"Just let me call. See if she's there."

Madeline push buttoned her phone. Clendon put his ear to the receiver to listen to the ring. She let it ring twenty times before she hung up.

"Did she ever give you Diedecek's phone number?"

"No," Madeline said. "Maybe he's listed."

She called information, but it didn't have it.

"If Shelley starts to crack, she might mention you," Clendon said. "That means I can't stay here."

"Where are you going? Are you leaving town?"

"I can't do that until I see Shelley."

* * *

At 1:30 in the morning, Clendon was digging at the Boyd headstone with his bare hands down through the grass and dirt. At first he didn't feel it. Then he touched something small and cold and hard. He wiped it off, held it up under the moonlight, and gave it a kiss.

The apartment looked untouched since he'd been there six nights before. The toiletries were still in the bathroom, the bed was still unmade, the clothes and drawers were the same, and the kitchen was spotless. He locked the dead bolt, shut off the lights, got undressed and slipped into the unmade bed, dirty sheets and all. He could wash them tomorrow, in the daylight.

* * *

Shelley was wearing the shopping center hat and waving to him from the billboard. Clendon started climbing the stairs towards her from the ground floor of a glassy office building. He passed a telephone and it rang. Shelley was calling and told him to take the elevator. He got in an elevator and pushed a button marked "Top." A woman's hands reached from behind him and began caressing his chest. The elevator began to accelerate so fast it pulled on his stomach. The woman's hands reached down and unzipped him. It was Madeline, wearing her spray on tights. The elevator slowed and stopped and the door opened. He wrestled himself away from her, but he pointed out through his opened zipper. He ran up another set of stairs. Shelley's voice called his name. He reached the top and stepped onto the roof. Shelley waved from the billboard and laughed at his exposed erection and called out his name again. When she opened her mouth, $100 bills burst out of it and floated away.

* * *

The Santa Ana winds started blowing in from the desert, strong and steady. Clendon felt like his eyes were being held over a hot toaster. The sky cleared to a deep blue and mountains that were miles away looked close enough to throw a baseball over.

Many nights in the apartment Clendon lay awaiting sleep, his nose and mouth dry. One night after midnight he crossed Veteran and went into the cemetery. The billboard of the shopping hat woman was lit up. The lights of the Federal Building glowed to the south. It looked like a giant air conditioner. He figured Asp was probably there in his office every night, trying to find him.

Away from traffic noise the quiet was eerie. Clendon lay on the cut grass surrounded by white tombstones and stared at the twinkling stars. It made his eyes hurt. Sunglasses didn't help. Neither did a pint of Jack Daniels or mixing in a tab of Valium.

* * *

Clendon called Shelley's house twice a day and let it ring and ring. He read the papers for any news. He found a receipt in a kitchen drawer for six months rent paid in full through the first of the year. He made a duplicate key to the apartment and buried it in the cemetery again. He checked the apartment's mailbox which only received junk mail addressed to Occupant. He called the Santa Monica post office. The clerk said general delivery mail was held for thirty days. He bought some new clothes, began to grow a beard, bleached his hair blond, and took bus trips to the beach during the hot weather and started to tan. After a week, he called Madeline, but she hadn't heard from anyone.

"I'll send you a postcard soon."

"I might join you."

After two weeks, Clendon remembered the shoe salesman he'd met on the plane into L. A. He decided to take a job selling shoes at a ladies' shop in Westwood. He figured it was best to hide out in plain sight and keep busy. Growing the beard helped. UCLA coeds and bored Bel Air housewives browsed and fussed in the store for hours. He learned that the main thing selling shoes to women was to let them try on everything, flatter them, and be patient. Agreeing with every word they said helped too, except for their self put-downs, which he didn't allow. They loved that. A woman with a pair of legs that could squeeze a lemon dry bought $500 worth of shoes one afternoon. She wore a miniskirt and no underwear. She kept opening her legs and leering while Clendon slipped shoes on and off her feet. He declined her invitation to dinner.

One day during his lunch hour, while he was strolling down Westwood Boulevard, Asp and a woman with her black hair pulled back into a ponytail came out of the Old World Restaurant arm in arm. They were tipsy, talking and giggling. They walked ahead and away from Clendon. He followed them, and got close enough to have one good, long look at the woman's face. She looked familiar, but at first he could not place her. They went into a women's boutique and Clendon kept on walking. On his way back to the shoe store, he realized he had seen the dark-eyed woman without her platinum blonde wig.

* * *

After sighting Asp with the Eskimo shoes woman, Clendon decided it would be good to find out some things about Asp and Shelley and Adolfo. He called information but got no listing for Kenneth Asp or anyone named Asp within one hundred miles of Los Angeles. Of course such an FBI agent would keep an unlisted telephone number. Clendon figured that either Asp didn't think he would bother to look or that Asp didn't know that he knew how to find out where the agent lived.

Clendon got a weekday off and took a bus downtown to check the county's real property records. The bleached blonde clerk at the county tax collector's office checked her computer and told him that Kenneth Asp paid taxes on one address in Los Angeles County, a house in Manhattan Beach. He memorized the address. The clerk also gave him the legal description. With that he checked the grantor indexes for the history of the property and found that Kenneth and Shari Lou Asp received a warranty deed to the property eight years ago and in return gave a deed of trust for it to the United Mortgage Association of Delaware. Three years ago, Shari Lou signed a quit claim deed.

Clendon smelled a divorce and wrote down the date. The original deed of trust had not been rolled over and a second one had not been issued. He checked the miscellaneous books to study copies of all the deeds and saw Asp's signature, a large, pompous scrawl. He went over to the civil court clerk's office and checked to see if the Asps had filed for divorce. They had. The file was retrieved from storage, and Clendon saw that it was a do-it-yourself case. They had no minor children. The decree had been issued a few weeks after Shari Lou had signed the deed on the house. There was nothing in the decree stating the amount that Asp had paid Shari Lou for her half of the house. Either Shari Lou was dumb, or desperate, or Asp was hiding a large pay off he'd made to her.

Next he went to the marriage license bureau to see if Asp or Shari Lou had remarried in the county. They hadn't.

He returned to the tax collector's office and asked for the legal description of the addresses at Shelley's house and Adolfo's house, then checked the grantor indexes and miscellaneous books again. Brooks and Shelley had indeed bought that house three years ago, but only Brooks's name was on the deed of trust. This was peculiar, although not impossible. Clendon smiled to himself. Shelley was protecting herself then, also.

Adolfo's last name was Velazquez. He and his wife Fiona were given a warranty deed one year ago. Clendon could find no deed of trust. The Velazquezes had bought their miniature Gothic cathedral high up in Beverly Glen free and clear.

* * *

Tricia was sitting on the baby shit green couch, smoking a cigarette, and watching _The Love Connection_ when Clendon returned from the shoe store late on a Friday evening. Her dark roots were showing half an inch and her hands shook. Her miniskirt was hip-tight. She had on too much eyeliner.

"How'd you get in?"

She held up a key.

"I stay here sometimes."

"Want a Heineken?"

She dropped her cigarette into one of the three empty Heineken bottles lined up on the coffee table.

"I'll have another."

Clendon got two cold Heinekens and gave her one.

"I need money," she said. "I know Brooks had a lot of money and I know he hid it here."

"Why didn't you get the money already and leave?"

She slowly took out another cigarette, lit it, inhaled, and blew smoke. It made her stop shaking, a little. Clendon turned off the TV.

"Did you know I was here?"

"It looked lived in when I got here."

"Did you get a last paycheck?"

"Get real."

"You hung out over here with Brooks."

"Brooks was into a scene. We were addicted to renting porno movies. We used to sit on this couch and snort some coke and watch them all day long. Then he liked me to handcuff him. It excited him."

"Where was his wife?"

"His wife is a lying bitch."

"About what?"

"About everything."

"What do you want, coke money?" Clendon asked.

"I need money money. Money to pay rent. Money to live. Like everybody."

"Brooks didn't leave any money here. I looked. If I'd found a sack of money in this apartment do you think I'd be staying here?"

"I don't know you well enough to say."

When she lifted the Heineken bottle to her lips, Clendon grabbed her purse.

"Hey-- "

She started and spilled some beer. Clendon dumped the contents of her purse out on the floor. There was a lot of woman's stuff, but no gun or drugs or hidden mic or money.

"Sorry, I'm a paranoid," Clendon said. "I'll pick it up."

"That's mine, asshole. Get away."

She got on the floor and put her things back in her purse.

"I have a key, goddamn it," she yelled. "I worked for goddamn Boyd-Tek."

"There's no money here. You can look."

"I did. Look, you must have some money-- I'll do something for you-- a run or something. . . A blow job. . . I'll tie you up, or you can tie me up, if you want."

"Did you talk to anybody?"

"Like who."

"Like the cops or the Feds."

"They haven't found me," she said. "I don't want them too, either."

"I don't want them to find you, either." Clendon tried to calm down. "Let's sit down."

They sat on the couch.

"Where are you from, Tricia?"

"Indiana."

"Do you have any relatives?"

"I'm not going there."

"Friends?"

"They're all stupid. Why can't I stay here?"

"You said you'd do something."

"Yes. . . "

"I know somebody. He can give you a job for a few months."

"Maybe. . . "

"I'll write you a letter of recommendation to give to him. He'll hire you."

"Well. . . "

"I'll give you $200 travelling money. You have a car?"

"Everybody in L. A. has a car. Where am I going?"

"To Oklahoma and work for a man named Wylie Cobb."

"Oklahoma?" She made a sour face. "Will you just give me $300 instead? I really want to go to Vegas."

"Sure. Okay. If you promise to leave southern California."

"Can I stay here tonight?"

"Just tonight. And head for Vegas in the morning."

Clendon slept on the couch and made sure Tricia was on the road before noon.

* * *

A month raced by like a parked car. On day thirty, Clendon packed his change of clothes, his maps, and the money he had made selling shoes. The $600 roll had gone for food and expenses and what he'd given Tricia. He now had enough money for a flight to Mexico City and a few days in a hotel there. He left the apartment at nine in the morning, got on a blue Santa Monica bus, and headed for the Santa Monica post office.

After he got off in downtown Santa Monica, he called Shelley's phone number one last time from a pay phone. He let it ring thirty times. He told himself it meant something that her phone was not disconnected yet. Then he went to the post office and stood in line for ten minutes and picked up his self-addressed letter. In a new envelope Clendon mailed the key to himself, general delivery, Mexico City. He decided to take a final walk through Palisades Park and smell the eucalyptus, then head for the airport, give Wylie Cobb's name at the ticket counter, pay the cash, and wing off.

When Clendon reached the park, he turned north and crossed Wilshire. He noticed that a tall man with a long raincoat, golfer's hat, and pop bottle glasses had been following him from the post office. Clendon stopped at the railing and gazed down. The cliffs of the palisades fell away a hundred feet to the traffic below on the Pacific Coast Highway. He took in the white beach, blue ocean, and the waves breaking. The tall guy walked past him, then stopped and turned back toward him. Clendon took a long look at him when the man removed his glasses.

"Diedecek!"

"Yes."

"You crazy fucker-- "

"Not so loud."

"How'd you find me?"

"I talked to Madeline last week."

"Let's walk," Clendon said. "I'm nervous."

A cheap dark wig stuck out from under Diedecek's hat. They started walking north again, toward the place where Brooks had liked to meet. They walked past picnicking families and strolling lovers. A few joggers huffed past them all.

"Madeline doesn't know where I've been staying."

"To figure that is not that hard," Diedecek said. "It was either an empty apartment that you had the key, or a freeway underpass. An easy choice. I watched for you there for two days and I followed you this morning."

"You know anything about Shelley?"

"No."

"Did you find the briefcase?"

"No."

"You'll help me get out of L. A."

"I already tried that."

"Then what do you want?"

"Clendon, I don't think there's any thing such as a missing briefcase."

"Don't tell me that now."

"The Eskimo shoes are probably not in a briefcase and therefore must be somewhere else."

"So you know where they are?"

"I have a hunch."

Clendon stopped walking, leaned his back against the railing, and waited for Diedecek to tell him. Diedecek didn't.

"All right, I am leaving town. And fuck you, too. I wish I had never heard of any damn Eskimo shoes."

"Wait, Clendon."

Diedecek gripped Clendon's arm.

"Let go or I'll get violent."

Diedecek's hand dropped away.

"Tell me something worthwhile in the next ten seconds," Clendon said. "The only person this landman has been conning has been himself, and it's damned time to stop."

"Clendon, you've been playing possum. I love the American expressions. You've been playing possum and now you're ready for movement."

"A move to Mexico City, you're right."

"I think if I tell you how I know where the computer disks are, you'll help me get them."

"Maybe."

They started walking north again, along the railing.

"You've said 'maybe' before," Diedecek said, almost to himself, "and you went forward and did it."

"Cut the high pressure sales tactics bullshit."

"Asp interrogated me after we were picked up at the restaurant. They took Shelley and I haven't seen or heard from her since. I told Asp straightly: if I had the disks, I wouldn't be still around. He acted like he didn't believe me."

"There's lots of things you can't convince Asp of, and the truth is one of them."

"Ah, Clendon, my friend, you are prejudiced, but I offered to prove it to him. I gave him a number to call in Washington, D. C. But when Asp dialed, the number had been disconnected."

"Some proof."

"Then Asp showed to me a briefcase that he said you had been given at a house in Beverly Glen."

"What color was it?"

"A dark gray Samsonite."

"That could've been the one," Clendon said.

"Asp showed to me the briefcase, then tells me he has enough evidence on me to put me away at Marion penitentiary for life." Diedecek paused. "No one has ever escaped from Marion."

"So why aren't you on the way to Marion right now?"

"Because Mr. Asp has no evidence beyond his own bullshit. He couldn't connect with me this particular briefcase. Just then he got a phone call, talked for several minutes, his voice hushed, then he hung up and left the room. When he came back, he had another briefcase. This one was also dark gray, looked like the other one, and it was empty, too."

"That could've been the one I sold to D. C. Lyman. Asp could have only gotten it from Lyman."

"If Lyman ever actually got it from your drop. Asp may have picked it up. Asp may have showed me a fake decoy briefcase himself."

"Jesus Christ, Diedecek. My head is spinning."

"You feel dizzy?"

"Do you think Asp personally kept the money that was in the bag I picked up at the airport?"

"I do not know. I have been trying to obtain access to the evidence logs through my contacts, but I have not so far."

"So what did Asp say next?"

"He didn't say anything. He just showed a briefcase to me and I saw that it was empty. Then he said I was free to go."

"Free to go?" Clendon stopped and stared at Diedecek. "You look really stupid in the hat and wig. Take them off so I can have a straight conversation with you."

"Sorry, can't."

When they reached Brooks's favorite spot at the eucalyptus grove and picnic tables, they stopped and gazed at the ocean. Sailboats dotted the ocean, catching a good wind. In the last month the dry winds had come and gone and come again and now they were leaving again as a fresh, humid breeze kicked in off the ocean. It blew Diedecek's wig to a funny angle. The eucalyptus trees didn't smell like money anymore.

"So for the third time, Diedecek, where do you think the disks are?"

"They could be only in the one place that Asp and D. C. Lyman don't know about. What place is that, Clendon?"

"Brooks's apartment."

"So what did you do with them, Clendon?"

"You think I found them?"

"What did you do-- "

"Do you think I'd be trying to get to Mexico City if I had those goddamn computer disks?"

"I don't know, Clendon."

"Why haven't you just gone over there and broken in?"

"It's not my style."

"Oh, hell, Diedecek, oh, hell." Clendon started pacing. "Goddamn it, I talked to Shelley the day after Asp picked you both up. She said she told Asp where the briefcase was."

"If she did, I'm sure Asp doesn't have it. Therefore, she lied to you on that point."

"I never even thought of looking any more in that apartment, but we'll go back over to that goddamn place right now and tear it to pieces if we can find those disks and fix those bastards-- Asp, D. C. Lyman, whoever the hell you say. Let's go."

Clendon tugged at Diedecek's arm.

"I never dreamed Shelley would say those things," Diedecek said and looked out toward the ocean.

For an instant Clendon thought Diedecek might cry. A strong gust whipped up, blew his hat away, and shoved his wig sideways.

"She didn't mean it," Clendon said. "She was forced to."

"I don't know, Clendon. Maybe she was not."

"No, wait," Clendon said. "I just remembered-- she didn't tell me about the briefcase-- it was Asp who told me she had told him about the briefcase-- "

"Aaah," Diedecek said. "I have someone who told me some information from the police. But maybe I should not tell you."

"Tell me."

"Do you know what they found stuck to the handle of the pistol used to shoot Brooks Boyd?"

"No."

"A single strand of blond hair."

Clendon could think of nothing. Diedecek kept looking at the ocean.

"How is it Americans say it? I am a sucker."

His ears stuck out extra wide under the crooked wig. Out past where the waves began to break, a hundred yards off shore, Clendon watched a big powerboat bounce and lurch over the high waves, shooting past the small sailboats. Then, over Diedecek's shoulder, he noticed two large white men dressed in jogging suits coming up the path through the palm trees. The two joggers suddenly sprinted up and pointed pistols at them.

"Diedecek-- " Clendon shouted.

There was a muffled, zipping sound. Diedecek let out a "Huh-- " and threw his arms out and stumbled toward Clendon. The same muffled sound came again and then Diedecek fell on him. Clendon lost his balance, looked at Diedecek's whitening face, and rammed his back against the railing.

"Diedecek-- "

The two men shoved Diedecek down. They grabbed Clendon, lifted him and turned him away from the ocean and Diedecek. Clendon felt warm blood on his hands. They stuffed a rag in his mouth. His sunglasses got knocked off. They threw a blanket over him and carried him on a dead run to the curb where they tossed him in a car. They jumped in, the door slammed, and the car peeled away.

* * *

They kept a blanket over his head and held him down with their shoes on his back. There were four of them jabbering in "viches" and "vachovs." The car smelled like a new Mercedes spiced with body odor and garlic and fried onions. After two hours of driving around, the car stopped. They dragged him out inside a warehouse that echoed from footsteps and slamming car doors. They hustled him across a dirty concrete floor and into a small room where they tossed him on a foam pad covered with a dirty sheet. They left him and shut the door. Clendon wiped his hands on the blanket and threw it off. The room was dark and smelled of mold.

In an hour the four of them came back. When they opened the door, there was enough light to see a toilet in the corner. They all looked the same and Clendon thought they were jabbering in Russian. They closed the door and turned on a black light. One turned to him and spoke in an accent so thick Clendon could hardly get it.

"Where briefcase?"

"The FBI has it," Clendon said.

"How F-B-I have it?"

"I don't know."

The man translated for the others and they argued for five minutes in Russian.

"How you know F-B-I has it?"

"Diedecek told me that today."

The man translated again and they argued for five more minutes.

"You have seen briefcase at F-B-I?"

"Hell, no, I don't go near the place. I hate that cocksucker Asp."

"What is cocksuck-off?"

"Asp."

They talked for two minutes.

"Diedecek tell you he has hide where briefcase."

Clendon asked him to say it again so he repeated it with the same thick accent and grammar.

"No, Diedecek didn't have it. It's at the FBI."

"F-B-I not have! You bullshit!"

"I'm telling you Commies that the FBI has all the goddamn briefcases!"

They went off in a corner for ten minutes and yelled at each other and waved their arms. Two of them smoked nasty smelling cigarettes and the smoke hung in the closed room. Then two of them left.

When the two came back, the platinum blonde was with them. She was smoking a long cigarette and held it in an affected European manner. She bent close to Clendon's face. A few strands of black hair stuck out from under the wig.

"Eskimo shoes," she said. She had an East Coast American accent.

"Talk sense," Clendon said.

"Where are the Eskimo shoes?"

"I don't know-- on the Eskimos, I guess."

She held up his driver's license.

"Mr. Clendon Lindsey."

"Where did you get your accent?"

"Mr. Lindsey, if you do not tell us where the Eskimo shoes are, we will give you something that will make you tell us. The side effects are not pleasant."

"I'm sure whatever you want, the FBI has it already."

She leaned forward and French-kissed Clendon for a long minute.

"You're so handsome."

She patted his face and left. One of the men pulled out a black shaving bag and opened it. He took out a small cellophane package, ripped it open, and slid out a hypodermic syringe and needle. He took two hypo bottles from the kit, stuck the needle into each of them one at a time, and sucked the bottles dry into the syringe.

The other three men held Clendon down while the hypodermic man stuck him in a vein inside his elbow. There was a sting, then an icy shiver shot up his arm. As it hit his brain, Clendon fought it. When he stopped fighting, a roller coaster somersault passed through him and then all was puffy and silky. The voices of the men were distant foghorns, slowed down, echoing, split in half. A briefcase opened and out rushed oil fields, elephants, roses, bears, a Mercedes, tigers, a handgun, computer disks, and stairs, stairs, stairs, lit by a dark blue light. He felt willing.

"Where briefcase?"

Red and green sparkles floated around his head.

"Asp has them all."

"How you know?"

"Diedecek."

"You go to house in Beverly Glen?"

"Yes!"

"Who live at house?"

"Adolfo!"

"Who Adolfo?"

"He's a Mexican transvestite."

"What in that briefcase?"

"I don't know. I never saw inside it."

"What in briefcase he give you?"

"I don't know. I never saw inside it."

A green inky swirl spun around him.

"Who killed Brooks?"

"I don't know."

"What Asp tell you?"

"Asp said I should turn myself in, I should give up, give in, quit."

His tongue felt thicker and thicker. They started over with the same questions, but he was dreaming on the stairs with the buckets and the wind, up and up. The biggest bucket slapped him hard like the wind. The stairs were coming faster. If Clendon ran fast enough, he could take off and fly. They all talked at once in Russian, their voices carrying farther and farther away, far below, an echo, a murmur, a quiver.

* * *

Shelley and Clendon were walking through a vast mausoleum built of polished marble. It had many foyers and corridors. Sealed vaults that contained the dead rose to the ceiling. On every vault was a name carved in bronze. They went into a central library that had the life story of every deceased person in the mausoleum. Clendon was hoping to find a map there. Shelley searched and thumbed through books and manuscripts, each one with a dead person's name on the cover.

"Who are you looking for?" Clendon asked.

"Mine."

Shelley pulled out a typed manuscript, bound with a leather cover and cotter pins. On the cover was the name Shelley Symmes, embossed with gold medieval lettering. She looked at the cover and smiled before opening it.

* * *

It was black and quiet. His bladder was heavy and he was thirsty. His mouth was full of rust. He had no clothes on. He crawled toward the toilet and groped for it, shaking as goose bumps ran up and down his legs.

Clendon found the toilet and sat on it. The inside of his head felt stuffed with broken glass. After the relief, he felt around for his clothes, but couldn't find them. The foam pad and sheet were gone, too, even the blanket. He got to his feet and walked back and forth in the black room, cold hard concrete under his feet. He jogged to warm up as a shivering fit seized him and his teeth clattered. The jogging brought back warmth and circulation and his legs felt stronger, although lights flashed in his head with each step.

When he warmed up enough to stop shivering, he sought the door. It was unlocked from the inside and he opened it. The faintest light leaked through the roof onto the floor of an empty warehouse. It was cold. He left the door open to use the light to look for his clothes, but they weren't in the room. His wallet lay unopened on the floor in the middle of the room.

They left everything in his wallet-- his driver's license, his money, pictures of his parents and Louis. He folded one arm across his chest and gripped his wallet in one hand and his balls in the other. If he could get used to walking naked across an empty warehouse, he could get used to walking naked down the street. He crossed the wide concrete floor to a translucent glass door, opened it a crack, and peeked out.

It was night. A long, dark alley that smelled of decaying garbage ran between two big brick buildings. The alley connected to a side street where cars were going by underneath a street lamp. Another smell of an older, stronger decay lingered, a smell of something dead.

Clendon needed a quarter and a phone booth. He stepped outside, keeping in the shadows along the wall as he watched for broken glass or nails under his bare feet. His head pounded like it was being squeezed by a metal compactor. A man lay in the alley, covered with newspapers, sleeping, smelling of alcohol. He peered into a dumpster, hoping to find some newspapers or rags to cover himself. It stunk like dead fish. The next dumpster was empty.

Huddled at the end of the alley where it opened onto the street were several ragged men passing around a wine bottle.

"Can one of you guys spare me a quarter?"

"Hey, bud, you forget your clothes this morning?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. Come on, you guys must have one quarter so I can make a phone call."

"Who you going to call? The cleaners?"

"One fucking quarter. Please."

"We don't have a quarter, man. We wisely spent it on this bottle. Sit down and have a drink, bro. Things will look up in the morning."

Clendon kept walking and passed by a row of darkened and battered apartment buildings. The street was narrow and jammed with parked cars. He caught a trace of ocean in the air. He read the street sign. Brooks Avenue.

He decided to assault someone if he had to. He covered up with one hand. A couple of cars honked but didn't stop. More homeless men staggered by. One man was having a shouting match with a phantom, another shadow boxed against a chain link fence, another sat and stared into the beyond. None of them had a quarter.

A car slowed and stopped. It was full of teenage girls drinking beer. They shouted and whistled.

"Good evening, girls. Can you help me out? I need a quarter."

"Can I touch it for a quarter?"

"Sure."

They laughed and threw a can of beer out of the car window. It splattered on the sidewalk and some beer splashed on him. They rolled up the windows and drove away.

The smallest bill in his wallet was a five. He decided to trade it for a quarter.

An old man stumbled past, whistling. He had a pair of small cement blocks taped to his ears like headphones. Three teenaged boys were following him, rolling down the sidewalk toward Clendon on their skateboards. They had crew-cuts and wore long baggy shorts. When they saw Clendon they jumped off their boards and started laughing.

"Hey, dude, what are you on, man?"

"Can you guys help me out?"

"You look like bummed out, dude."

"I just need a quarter so I can make a phone call."

"A phone call. Can you talk okay?" They laughed again. "Where are you from, Mississippi?"

"I can talk fine. I just need a quarter."

"I don't know, dudes, do we have a quarter?"

"I don't know, let's check it out."

"You must be like cold, man. What happened? Your old lady throw you out?"

"Something like that."

"A bus back to Mississippi is going to cost more than a quarter, man."

"Here's a quarter, dude. Take care of yourself, man."

"Thanks. I'll do you a favor sometime."

"Stay radical, dude."

They mounted their skateboards and rolled away past the man with the cement headphones.

* * *

The quarter went down and the pay phone dinged. Clendon figured he had two chances. If neither one were home, he would have to steal some clothes. The dead smell floated past again. It made his head muscles clench. The phone rang eight times.

"Hello."

"Shelley?"

"Clendon! Clendon! Where are you?"

"Shelley-- "

"Clendon! Are you there?"

". . . Yes. . . Where have you been?"

"Clendon, I've been kept prisoner in a so-called detox and rehab clinic and my phone is tapped."

"Shelley-- I'm naked."

"Where are you?"

"I'm naked. They gave me drugs and stole my clothes. Can you pick me up?"

"Just tell me where you are, but don't tell them. Do you hear me?"

"My head's about to come off."

"Tell me where you are, Clendon, I'll be there."

"All the buildings look rundown. . . I know-- the cross street is the first name of my college roommate, do you remember him?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where that street is? I don't where the fuck I am, Shelley."

Snot clogged his throat.

"Yes, I know where that street is, but it's a couple of miles long."

A man in a torn, dirty T-shirt and an opened black leather jacket stopped to listen and watch. He leaned close against the phone booth.

"I passed a school yard a half-block back," Clendon said. "It looked like there was a small park on a hill across the street."

"Okay, Clendon, I got it. I know exactly where you are. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"I'm so thirsty."

"Asp has been watching the house. He'll probably try to follow me."

"Fuck him. What time is it?"

"Five till midnight."

"You've got to bring me some clothes. I'm naked."

"I will. Hang on. I'm coming. Twenty minutes. Bye."

Clendon hung up and turned away from the man in the black jacket, who clapped his hand on Clendon's shoulder.

"Give me your money, mo- ther- fuck- er."

Clendon knocked the man's hand away. The smell of liquor was strong. The man laughed and feinted a karate chop.

"Give me your money, mother- fucker-- "

"I don't have any money, motherfucker!" Clendon screamed. "Are you blind, asshole?"

The man took a fighting stance and wound up to throw a slow, drunken karate chop. Clendon gave him a head feint, then clasped his wallet securely between his locked hands, and windmilled the man the same way he had windmilled Asp. In his liquor stupor the man had no reaction time and Clendon hit him hard on the ear. The man took a step back and then his legs gave out and he fell. He lay on the ground. Clendon walked away, holding his aching hand.

* * *

Shelley's Volvo braked to the curb and the passenger's door flew open. Clendon hopped in and she took off before he got the door closed. The windshield was still cracked.

"You're really naked!"

"Just for you."

"Asp is about two blocks behind me. I didn't want them to know from the phone tap where you were in case they could beat me over here. I also didn't know if there might be a second tail. Have you seen anybody?"

"No."

Clendon threw his arms around her.

"You're shaking, Clendon. There's a sweat shirt and sweat pants in the back seat. That's all I had that might fit you. I also brought your boots."

"Where are we?"

"We're in Venice. The ocean is three blocks away-- hey, I like your beard. . . but the blond hair's gotta go."

"What's that dead smell?"

"The canals. Everybody loves them."

Shelley was wearing a white blouse and tight brushed denims. Clendon kissed her neck.

"Thanks for my boots."

"I can't drive with your cute dick hanging out. Put those clothes on, you'll warm up."

"You have a beautiful neck," Clendon said.

He crawled in the back seat and put the sweat suit and his snakeskin boots on. The sweat suit was a few sizes too small, but he soon began to get warmer.

"Shelley, I'm thirsty."

"If Asp is by himself tonight, I don't know what he might do."

"I'll deal with him if I have to."

"He probably thinks we're going to go get the briefcase."

"Good. Let him think that."

Shelley stopped at a 7/Eleven and ran in and bought a two-liter bottle of cola. Clendon drank half of it straight down.

"How do you feel?" Shelley asked.

"Like hammered dog shit. What day is it?"

"Saturday night-- now it's early Sunday morning."

"I lost a whole day."

Asp drove a dark Ford LTD into the parking lot, alone, as Shelley was backing out. He glimpsed Clendon, who shot him the bone and saw Asp curse to himself as he tried to get his big car into the correct gear. Shelley pulled her Volvo onto Culver Boulevard and floored it.

"Where are we going?" Clendon asked.

"I haven't decided."

"Where have you been for a month?"

"They put me through thirty day detox and let me out this morning. For some reason they think I'm a drug addict. It's part of the deal I made with the U. S. Attorney. To let me go home-- under surveillance, of course-- I told them I would testify at a grand jury or trial-- "

"I don't want you to testify at any goddamned trial or grand jury."

"But Clendon, the whole deal I made is bullshit, because I don't know anything. Asp is so stupid it's baffling. He even gave me his home phone number."

"Asp knows you know about Brooks and Diedecek and Lyman and the briefcase," Clendon said.

"When you called the FBI that morning, I had to say what I did in front of Asp-- "

"I know and I know they were listening. And Madeline told me about your seizures."

"You've seen her?" Shelley said.

"I had to draw on my limited resources."

"Did you stay with her?"

"I had to one night."

"You fucked her, didn't you, Clendon?"

"You fucked her, too."

"It's over," Shelley said. "I'm straight."

"You're right. It's over. I could've called her tonight first, but I called you."

"If you chase every skirt that makes eyes at you-- "

"If we've both had the same person, I guess that should make us even."

Shelley glared at him and chewed on her lip.

"It's not the same," she said.

"And what were doing up there in your bedroom so long with Asp that day? When he came back down, he looked very relaxed."

"What does it matter?"

"I was just curious," Clendon said.

"All right, I gave him a quick hand job."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I wanted to calm him down. It worked, didn't it? The dipshit fell asleep, didn't he?"

"Jesus Christ, Shelley. Diedecek, Madeline, Asp. . . "

"He held his gun on me the whole time."

Clendon stopped.

"Do you want me to kill him?"

"No. If he was dead, he'd be out of his misery. This way, I know he's still miserable."

Shelley ran a red light and the boulevard turned into a freeway. It was one a.m., but the traffic on the freeway was the same as one in the afternoon.

"Asp is stuck back there at the light behind some other cars," she said.

"Did they impound your Volvo?"

"Yes. I got it out this morning. The inside of my house is also a wreck, remember?"

"I wonder if they searched your car."

Clendon felt under the seat and took out the .38 revolver he had taken from one of Asp's men. It was loaded.

"What kind of lazy thieves do they hire in law enforcement these days?"

He looked out the back window. Were any of those headlights Asp's car? They were starting to go up into mountains and Clendon recognized the freeway to the Valley.

"Do you know some place we can go that's remote?" Clendon asked.

"I might," Shelley said. "What kind of place?"

"It's very peculiar that Asp was by himself tonight. I'm thinking I want him to catch up."

Clendon put his arms around her and kissed her cheek and ear.

"I can't drive if you do that."

She gently pushed him away.

"Do you have any money?" he asked.

"They gave me my envelope back with the cash in it this morning when I walked out of the detox clinic. Most of the money was still there. One of the U. S. attorneys said he'd see that the mortgage was paid this month if I promise to start my practice back up and be a productive citizen and all that until I'm needed to testify. Here's the exit. I hope this is what you wanted."

She got off at Mulholland Drive and headed east.

"I think Asp is behind us," she said after driving a mile.

The curving road was dark, bumpy and narrow as it ran along the crest of the mountains. Houses hugged the land between the road and the sheer drop. Sprawling lights of the Valley twinkled below.

"Diedecek told me he had a hunch about this briefcase business."

"Have you seen Diedecek?"

"Yeah. The Russians shot him."

The Volvo jumped and Shelley gasped. She had pressed on the gas, then let up.

"Russians? That can't be."

"Just drive for a while. I'll tell you about Diedecek later."

Shelley drove for ten minutes, frowning and making faces. Clendon watched her as her mind worked. The road became smoother. He looked out the back window again. The big Ford LTD was close behind. He held Shelley's hand tightly. The .38 was in his other hand.

"There's the Hollywood Bowl overlook." Shelley said

"Pull in there."

"What are you going to do?"

"Keep the car running with the headlights on and watch me."

There was a deserted asphalt parking lot for about ten cars. A sign said the overlook was closed after dark. Some stairs led up the hillside into the gloom. Clendon stuck the .38 inside his right boot, pulled his sweat pant leg over it, and got out of the Volvo. His boots crunched on pebbles. He leaned against the Volvo's warm hood as Asp drove in, parked next to them, and rolled his window down.

"Want to talk, Clendon?"

"I want to talk about how it feels to be naked with a gun stuck in your face."

Clendon quickly bent down, pulled the .38 out from his boot and held it inches from the new scar across Asp's nose

"Get out of the car."

Asp smiled and shrugged.

"Clendon-- "

"Get out of the car!"

Clendon pointed the .38 away from Asp and pulled the trigger. Asp jumped as the shot echoed through the hills. It made a hole in the LTD's windshield.

"Out of the car."

Asp eased out. When he got out with his arms upraised, Clendon pressed the .38 to Asp's temple and reached inside Asp's suit jacket. Clendon pulled Asp's .38 revolver out and held it in his left hand. He backed away.

"Open your car's hood."

Asp fumbled with it in the dark, but opened it and raised it.

"Jerk out the electronic ignition wires."

"Clendon-- "

"Do it."

Asp stuck his head under the hood and grunted.

"It's dark."

"Do it."

When Asp straightened up, he showed Clendon the wires he held in his hands.

"Good. Unhook the battery."

"Clendon-- "

"Pull it all out, if you have to."

Asp strained and grunted more, but yanked the whole battery out. The cable snapped and he tossed the battery onto the asphalt.

"Go stand over there, in the headlights."

"Clendon, come on. There's a homing device in my car sending out signals to my back up."

"You and your bullshit."

Clendon flicked the pistol once and Asp marched into the headlights.

"Take off your clothes."

"Jesus, Clendon-- "

"Are you watching, Shelley?"

Clendon cocked the .38 and Asp started undressing, piling his clothes on the grass. His handcuffs dangled from a loop on his pants.

"Boots and socks, too."

Asp had to sit to take off his boots. He had hulking shoulders, but a medium pot belly and gray hair on his chest.

"Go sit on the stairs."

Asp did. Clendon took the handcuffs.

"Let's walk up."

Asp started up the stairs. Clendon followed five steps behind. It was several flights to the top and Asp began puffing for breath. When they reached the top, they could see the tall buildings down in Hollywood and more tall buildings in downtown L. A. farther in the distance. Off to the left, the Hollywood Bowl glowed under night lighting.

"I'm getting chilly."

"No problem." Clendon paused. "Hey, Asp. I thought surveillance work was done in teams."

Clendon held the .38 on Asp and snapped one of the cuffs to the railing.

"Put your hand on the railing."

Asp shrugged, then gripped the railing. Clendon quickly slapped the other cuff on Asp's wrist. He yanked Asp off balance and Asp sprawled onto the asphalt and grunted. Asp's arm hung from the railing by the cuffs. He lay on his side and wheezed.

"I'll get your ass, Clendon."

Clendon's head throbbed all the way down the stairs. He picked up Asp's clothes and fished the keys out. He ran over and flung Asp's clothes into the air and they floated down into the dark ravine like parachutes. He watched them sail down and then threw Asp's boots after them.

* * *

Shelley took Laurel Canyon down to the Valley to catch the freeway.

"Pull over," Clendon said before they reached the bottom of the dark, twisting road.

"Why?"

"I want to make you come."

"What?"

"I said I want to make you come."

"Clendon, I'm driving."

"That's why I said pull over."

Shelley parked on a dark and deserted stretch. She doused the lights, and turned the engine off. She looked at him funny.

"I want to kiss you."

"Kiss me."

Clendon kissed her for a long time.

"I want to play with your nipples."

"Play with them."

She unbuttoned her blouse. Clendon ran his hands under her bra. She moaned.

"Clendon, we shouldn't-- "

"Tell me when you can't stand it anymore."

* * *

As Shelley drove down through Laurel Canyon, Clendon told her about Diedecek and the Russians and the platinum blonde who had been walking with Asp in Westwood without her wig.

"Why did they take all your clothes but leave your wallet with all your money?"

"Everyone knows the Russians don't know economics."

At a stoplight Shelley fiddled with her hair.

"I'm not so sure it's any Russians," she said. "I think this might have been one of Asp's routines."

"They shot Diedecek and spoke Russian."

"Diedecek would've known who they really were," Shelley said. "Do you think he's dead?"

"They didn't let me stick around to see. Why'd they shoot him?"

"They knew he was talking to people in Washington about Asp's little renegade operation."

"They who?" Clendon asked.

"Asp and his gang."

"His gang?"

"Yes. Asp is really a gangster, isn't he, Clendon? He just has an office in the Westwood federal building."

"I suppose that's how I should think about it."

"Then start," Shelley said. "You said you thought the platinum blonde was wearing a wig and was an American?"

"Yes. Definitely an East Coast accent. With a wig."

"You sure it was the same woman you saw with Asp in Westwood."

"Very sure."

Clendon watched Shelley chew on her lip again.

"You know who it is," he said.

"Yeah, I do. That's Adolfo's wife."

"Adolfo's wife? What's she doing in Vegas pretending she's a hooker? What's she doing in Westwood with Asp? What's she doing shooting me up with drugs?"

"I think she's having an affair with Asp. She's probably trying to help him find all the disks."

"How do you know all this?"

Shelley shrugged.

"Brooks told me."

"Did Brooks know her?"

"I think she was trying to find out where he was hiding the Eskimo shoes."

"Does Adolfo know?"

"Who knows what Adolfo knows."

"Jesus Christ, Shelley, Jesus Christ. You could've-- "

"Have you looked in your wallet?"

"Sure."

"Carefully? See if there's something in it that wasn't always there."

Clendon went through it again, and there, stuck behind his expired Visa card, was an inch-square thin, flat piece of metal with tiny ridges on it.

"What do you think it is?" he asked.

"A tracking device."

Shelley turned at Ventura Boulevard and went down an alley. Clendon got out and threw the piece of metal onto the roof of a computer store.

"I think I know where Asp lives," Clendon said when he got back in the Volvo. "I want to go over there."

"What for?"

"There's a certain wildcatting aspect to what he's been doing that I find inspirational." Clendon counted off on his fingers. "We'll need a box of baking soda, latex gloves, a clear plastic ziplock bag and a Polaroid camera and film."

* * *

Shelley took the Ventura Freeway to the San Diego. During the drive back, Clendon told her how he had discovered where Asp's house was. At the Westwood apartment Clendon went in and took the Polaroid camera out of the dresser. Then they drove over to the all night Ralph's at Wilshire and Bundy and bought the items Clendon wanted. Shelley got back on the freeway and drove south. Clendon made his preparations with the things they'd bought. A few miles past the airport, she pointed off to the west.

"There's Positron."

The Positron logo beamed in giant red, white, and blue neon from the top of a glowing white ten-story building which looked like it was floating in the thin fog. At Manhattan Beach Boulevard she exited the freeway and headed towards the ocean.

"There's two problems with my plan," Clendon said. "Asp may have a live-in girl friend or someone else who's staying there tonight, including a watch dog, and he may have an alarm system to be deactivated even after we use the house key."

"So?" Shelley said. "Fucker invaded my house. We'll invade his."

Clendon gave her the address. She knew where the street was. At Ardmore she turned south until they reached Buenaventura Drive, where she turned east. They went up a small hill as they strained to see the numbers on the houses. It was nearly three a.m. and the street was quiet.

"There it is."

Asp's house sat at the top of a small hill, almost hidden by sculptured shrubs and small trees. The front porch light was on, but no other lights, and the driveway was empty.

"Looks good," Clendon said.

Shelley pulled into the driveway and under a car port. It was dark and quiet and they couldn't be seen from the street. They got out and softly closed their car doors. Clendon, wearing the latex gloves, carried Asp's set of keys and one plastic bag containing eight ounces of the baking soda ziplocked tight. He stuffed the .38 in his waist in case somebody was home sleeping and woke up. Shelley carried the Polaroid camera loaded with fresh film and a small flashlight she kept in the Volvo.

Clendon opened the front door of the house with the fourth key he tried. The door swung open and he and Shelley eased in. He closed it quietly behind them as Shelley switched on the flashlight. In the semi-darkness, he looked and listened for some kind of alarm system that had to be switched off when coming through the front door using the house key. He neither heard nor saw anything.

They were standing in a large living room with a high, angled ceiling and exposed timber beams. The room was a little messy, but lived in and comfortable. There was a big screen TV, a plush couch and two recliners. Sitting on top of the TV was a small trophy, topped by the figurine of a man shooting a pistol. Clendon looked closely at the trophy. The engraving at the base read "1980 Second Place FBI Western Region." Clendon picked it up.

"Look at these," Shelley said.

She shined her flashlight on a group of large framed photographs on the wall of a younger Asp in several poses with two teen-aged boys and a woman who had frosted hair. Clendon studied the pictures of Asp's sons and Shari Lou. He stood next to a studio portrait of Asp's family and held up the bag with the baking soda in one hand and the pistol shooting trophy in the other hand. Shelley readied to take a Polaroid as he made a goofy grin.

"Make sure you get those family pictures in there," Clendon said. "And the trophy."

"Yes, Clendon."

Shelley squeezed the shutter, the flash went off, and the Polaroid film ejected from the camera. Clendon went momentarily blind.

"Jesus-- "

"We'll make sure it's a good picture," Shelley said.

Clendon's sight slowly came back through the starbursts of light in his eyes. Shelley held the flashlight on the film and watched it develop. After a minute she handed it to Clendon.

"Perfect," he said.

* * *

They opened the Westwood apartment after four a.m. They started working with a screwdriver and an adjustable wrench. They ripped up carpets, tore out closet shelves, unhooked pipes. Clendon's hand began to ache and he couldn't grip the tools very well. He removed the back of the refrigerator and the 27-inch Sony TV. They checked underneath every kitchen, bathroom, and dresser drawer. They looked in the wall heater. Clendon drank a lot of water but his head still felt unscrewed half a turn. After a few hours Shelley peeped outside.

"It's dawning," she said.

"We could take a break."

"It could be inside the wall. Maybe we need the power saw instead."

"I don't think we need a new tool," Clendon said. "We need to look somewhere in here we haven't looked."

"Want to look over here?" Shelley asked.

She ran her hand over the her belly and thighs, then began unbuttoning her blouse. Clendon pushed her down on the couch. They had begun kissing when Shelley broke away and sat up.

"Clendon-- the couch-- the cushions."

She yanked one of the cushions off the couch and unzipped the cover.

"Look in the other ones."

Shelley stuck her hand inside the cushion cover and felt around. Then she screamed. Clendon unzipped another cover as she pulled out a small black hard plastic case. The couch's three cushions each had two cases hidden inside them, stuck in a hollowed-out part of the foam. They turned the couch upside down and ripped the fabric away from the frame, but found nothing else. Clendon stacked the six plastic computer disk cases on the coffee table.

"Open one," Shelley said.

Clendon did. It looked like a large computer disk, and it was labeled "Eskimo Shoes."

"They'd fit inside one briefcase."

"Seven is too many for one briefcase," Shelley said.

"Seven? I count six."

"No. I know there's seven."

"How do you know?"

"I know where the seventh disk is."

* * *

Clendon dozed. A feathery grazing on his bare chest woke him up. It was Shelley's finger. When Clendon opened his eyes, she smiled and kept stroking his chest over and over.

"While I was in detox I kept having this dream about you," Shelley said. "You were lying in a morgue, only you weren't covered with a sheet, but you looked like you were dead."

"Was I naked?"

"I had this artichoke that I kept peeling and I walked over to you and I knew that if I could peel enough of this artichoke and get to the heart, then rub it on your chest, you'd be all right and you'd be alive."

"Did it work?"

"I could never finish peeling back the artichoke before I woke up-- until last night, when I finally got to the heart and rubbed it on your chest."

* * *

It was one in the morning. All the gates to the cemetery were locked. Shelley drove to a side street three blocks away and parked the Volvo. They took two shovels, a sledgehammer, and one small flashlight out the trunk. She also carried a plastic water bottle. Clendon had the .38 stuck in his back waistband.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he said.

"You can climb the fence, no problem."

It was getting foggy. The street lights made the fog into a silvery glowing whirl.

"What if we can't get it open?" Clendon asked.

"It can't be that hard to open in case they ever have to exhume a body."

"Well, I'm not touching it."

"I'm not asking you to touch it," Shelley said.

In a far back corner of the cemetery, they found a dark area along the fence, which was eight feet high, made of wrought iron, had metal bars six inches apart, and was painted black. There were spikes at the top.

"It's for show," Clendon said. "It's not to keep people out."

"Wish we could squeeze through instead, but we can't, so let's climb."

Shelley, wearing tight blue denims and a work shirt, started climbing up the bars.

"Watch yourself crossing over those spikes."

Clendon gave her a boost up and over. Hanging from the top, she stretched out and dropped a couple of feet to the ground, safely inside. He climbed up, over, and in without too much difficulty, carefully placing his hands and feet around the dull points of the spikes. When he was over, they pulled the shovels through the bars.

It was very dark inside the cemetery. The fog was getting thicker. The dewy grass needed mowing. Clendon held the flashlight, turning it on a few seconds at a time. They wound through the looming, dark shapes of headstones and statuary, shrubbery and trees. They could hear the faint roar of the freeway and the jets landing and taking off from LAX.

"This is going to take a long time," Clendon said.

"The ground won't be fully settled yet," Shelley said. "That'll make the digging easier. Besides, you've had four cups of coffee."

In ten minutes they found the grave site. The mound of the grave was about two feet high, made of dry, sandy soil. There was no headstone yet, just a small metal plate stuck in the ground. On the metal plate was a laminated sign that had the name Brooks Boyd printed on it. They set to work with the shovels, not using the flashlight. In two minutes, they were both breathing hard.

"Are you sure it had a double Dutch-type door so that we don't have to dig out this whole thing?"

"I'm absolutely sure," Shelley said. "I had to be."

It was chilly in the fog but Clendon began sweating anyway. The sweat made his hair wet and cold and clung to his forehead and the back of his neck. After about fifteen minutes, they had made minor progress when he had to stop and relieve himself because of all the coffee. In an hour they made a hole two feet beneath ground level and four feet square. Clendon was surprised at how good a digger Shelley was. She moved almost as much dirt as he did. The farther down they went, the harder the soil became.

"Did you ever own or carry a pistol?" Clendon asked, still digging.

"No. I hate guns. Why'd you ask that?"

"Because of a strand of blond hair."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Sorry," Clendon said. "I was just mumbling to myself."

After an hour of digging, Shelley stopped.

"Five minute break."

She put her shovel down, took the flashlight, and disappeared into the foggy dark. Clendon kept shoveling dirt out. Soon a tiny light appeared in the fog from the opposite direction Shelley had gone. The light came closer, growing stronger and larger. Then the form of a man in a dark uniform became distinct.

"What you doing there, bud?"

Clendon stopped shoveling and said "fuck" to himself.

"Who are you?" Shelley's voice rang out from the darkness.

"Night watchman."

The radio fastened to his belt crackled gibberish. The man shined his flashlight on Clendon.

"Who are you?"

"Turn off your radio and we'll talk," Shelley said, stepping out of the fog.

She knelt next to Clendon and shined her flashlight up and down on the night watchman. He wasn't carrying a gun or a billy club, just a two-way radio, and was dressed in a security guard's uniform with a big silver badge on his jacket. He was short and stocky, and looked about forty and very tired.

"What are you folks doing out here?" the man asked.

"Do you make minimum wage?" Shelley asked.

"What are you folks doing out here?" the man asked again.

Shelley repeated her question.

"None of your business."

"How would you like to make a hundred dollars an hour for two hours of work?" she asked.

The radio crackled again, but the night watchman just stood there, not moving.

"It's chilly out here in the middle of the night, isn't it?" Shelley said.

She reached into her front pants pocket and pulled out two $100 bills. Shining the flashlight on them, she held them up for the night watchman to see them.

"Fuckin' ay'," the watchman said. "Nothing to do all night but walk around dead people." He shut off his flashlight. "For only two hundred bucks, I can leave you alone."

Shelley took another $100 bill from her pocket and showed him.

"Two hundred now," she said, "and another bill when we're finished digging, if you help."

"Deal," he said.

"And you'll take off when we get to the casket."

"Consider me gone."

Shelley patted Clendon on the back, then gently removed the .38 from his waistband.

"I'll hold this," she whispered.

"All clear," the night watchman said into his radio.

He took off his guard hat and jacket, carefully placed them on the wet grass, and placed his radio on top of them. He paused and looked at Shelley. She handed two of the bills to him. He stuffed them in his pants pocket.

"Give me a shovel."

He joined Clendon digging. Shelley sat on the growing mound of fresh dirt and held the flashlight on them, keeping the .38 in her other hand, in the dark, where the night watchman couldn't see it. They worked hard for another hour.

"Used to work over there," the night watchman said when a jet taking off sounded especially loud.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Jet mechanic."

"Beat grave digging?" Clendon asked.

"And night watching. Don't know if I'm trying to keep people in or out. Used to live well."

"What happened?"

"Damned airline went under. Couldn't get on anywhere else. Fuckin' corporations."

"How long ago?"

"Been two years. This is my second job. Gotta do it, though. Got a mortgage. Can't lose the house."

"What's your other job?"

"Limousine driver."

At 3:30, they struck concrete. The night watchman scraped a few more shovelfuls of dirt up and out of the hole. Shelley handed the sledgehammer to Clendon.

"Stand back."

He raised the sledgehammer and brought it down on the concrete as hard as he could. It made a loud thunking sound. He jarred his arms a bit when it landed, but it bounced back as a small crack appeared. He kept pounding until he became winded. When he stopped to catch his breath, the night watchman took the sledgehammer from him and began pounding on the concrete. After several blows, the whole slab cracked up into pieces and caved in, revealing the lid of the casket.

"That's it for me," the night watchman said.

With some effort, he climbed out. Shelley shined the flashlight on his face. It was red and he was sweating and breathing heavily. She gave him the other $100 bill and held up his radio.

"I'm going to have to keep this for awhile."

The night watchman put his jacket and cap back on, stuffing the bill in his pocket with the other two.

"Fine," he said. "Just be done and out of here before it starts to get light. And please leave my radio here."

"We will," Shelley said.

He picked up his flashlight, adjusted his jacket, walked off into the fog, and was gone. Shelley shined her flashlight down on Clendon. He was bent over, moving chunks of concrete off the casket lid.

"I'll have to toss some of these chunks of concrete up and out of here," he said. "Back up and be careful."

"Just dig a place out where I can get to the latches," she said.

It took several minutes for Clendon to throw enough pieces of concrete out so the lid could be opened.

"That should be enough," Shelley said.

She helped him climbed out.

"I don't want to look," he said.

"Take a breather," she said.

Clendon staggered a few yards away from the open hole, lay down on the wet grass, and stared up through fog. His arms and legs were quivering from exhaustion. He heard Shelley climb down into the grave, clomp on the metal of the casket, kick and shove the concrete around, then unfasten the latches, and pull the casket lid open. She grunted and groaned for a few seconds, then the lid went back down, and the latches clicked.

"Give me a hand out," she called.

Clendon stood up and went over to help her. Shelley was holding out the seventh disk.

"Let's get this grave refilled fast," she said.

* * *

"Homicide. Detective Jenkins."

"This is Agent Clifford Cobb calling from the FBI in Washington. I'm with Internal Affairs."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Cobb."

"We're investigating an agent stationed in Los Angeles who we believe may be involved in industrial espionage and who may be a suspect in a related murder case."

"Go on," Jenkins said.

"We understand that you are leading the investigation of the murder of one Brooks Boyd, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"We understand no arrests have been made."

"That's correct."

"We understand that an FBI agent is under investigation for that homicide."

"Possibly," Jenkins said.

"We have some information and evidence that we'd like to share with you if you'd share some of your leads with us."

"We normally try to cooperate with the Feds," Jenkins said. "What do you have?"

"We have an informant in Los Angeles who places our agent at the scene and time of the murder and who also claims to have seen this same agent in several clandestine meetings with known Russian agents."

"It sounds interesting," Jenkins said. "Who's your informant?"

"Detective Jenkins, you know that we don't give out the names of FBI informants to anyone."

"Let's scratch each other's backs, Mr. Cobb."

"That's a Virginia expression."

"You're from Virginia?" Jenkins asked.

"Grew up there."

"I can hear your drawl."

"Now Detective, I have already scratched your back. You've haven't scratched mine."

"Why should I?" Jenkins asked.

"Internal Affairs can give you lots of assistance and let you take all the glory. Maybe there's a job with the Bureau for you, if you'd like."

"The pay's better. Why haven't I heard from the L. A. Bureau office?"

"Sad to say, Detective, there's a lot of bad apples out there. This is being handled from Washington. Tell me, what can you confirm or add?"

"I could send some lab results to you," Jenkins said. "No problem."

"Great. That's great. What do they show?"

"You may examine it when you get it."

"Detective Jenkins, this same informant told us that our agent contacted the local authorities, including you, I believe, and gave some song and dance telling the locals to back away from the Boyd murder case for national security reasons."

"You have a good informant," Jenkins said.

"So-- what do your lab results show?"

"We lifted a print from the hood of Mr. Boyd's Mercedes. It belongs to your boy. I won't give a name over the phone."

"You don't have to. I'll request permission from his superiors to put you in touch with our informant. Has a murder weapon been recovered?"

"I'll confirm that."

"Is our agent linked to that in any lab tests?"

"Well, no. . . not directly."

"We have another report from our informant, who says that a blond hair was found stuck in the handle of the murder weapon. Can you confirm that?"

"I can confirm it."

"Has it been analyzed by your lab? Is it the hair of a female Cauc?"

"There was a peculiar thing. I don't know, I probably shouldn't. . . "

"Whatever you have could be sent to the FBI lab in Washington for further tests. What's so peculiar."

"There was . . . There was a strand of hair found stuck on the murder weapon. A long blond hair, a woman's-- "

"Yes?"

"But our lab guys say it probably came from a human hair wig."

"A wig? That's very interesting. I'll contact our lab guys right away and they'll be calling."

"Sounds good."

"Bye."

Clendon hung up the phone in their motel room at the Hermosa Beach Travelodge and imagined Detective Jenkins blinking like crazy. He listened to the shower running in the bathroom and waited until Shelley came out, drying off naked.

"Asp's prints were on Brooks's Mercedes," Clendon said.

Shelley frowned. "Doesn't mean Asp shot him. Just means that sometime he put his hands on Brooks's car."

"And didn't wipe for prints?" Clendon said. "That's careless for a G-man."

Shelley chewed on her lip.

"Nobody's perfect," she said.

"Jenkins said a peculiar thing on the phone."

"What?"

"There was a long blond woman's hair found stuck to the pistol used to shoot Brooks."

Shelley frowned again. "It's not mine," she snapped.

"He didn't say it was."

"Brooks lied to me and he stole my money for gambling and whores and coke, but I didn't shoot him."

Shelley finished drying off, tossed her towels aside, and sat down in the bed. Clendon ran his hand on her thigh.

"After Brooks got the Eskimo shoes, I took one and didn't tell him," Shelley said. "He got pissed and thought Adolfo put his wife up to stealing one, so he hid the other six, but I didn't know where. He had become a raving paranoid towards me and was convinced that I was going to rat him out to somebody, but I didn't shoot him." She pushed Clendon's hand away. "Sometimes I'm sorry it wasn't me."

Clendon smiled. "Don't worry. Jenkins said that this blond hair on the murder weapon probably came from a wig."

* * *

D. C. Lyman was listed in information at an address in Palos Verdes. It was Sunday evening and Clendon figured Lyman would not be going out. At sundown he called the number and Lyman answered. There was some laughter and racket in the background. Clendon hung up without speaking.

It was half an hour to Palos Verdes as they fought through the end-of-the-weekend beach traffic over to Hawthorne Boulevard then followed Hawthorne on south past shopping centers and gas stations and hotels and more shopping centers and gas stations. Clendon suggested they stop at a liquor store. Shelley didn't.

After a few miles, they began to climb a steep incline. The night air chilled and dampened and fog rolled past. Shelley turned down a residential street with tall eucalyptus running on either side into the darkness. Clendon rolled down the window and caught their scent. She pulled over.

"Map check."

Shelley found it on a sloping, curving street overhung with bushes and eucalyptus trees. The large, rambling stucco house glowed lavender under the night lights. It looked like three gardeners worked on the landscaping full time. New cars-- a Mercedes, a BMW, and two Porsches-- sat parked in the street. The semi-circle driveway was also filled. Parked close to the front door was the white Lincoln limousine from the house in West Hollywood.

The night fog had crept up off the ocean and into the hills. It was chilly. Clendon tucked Asp's .38 in the front pocket of the blue suede jacket he had bought that afternoon at a used clothing store. Shelley had the other .38 in her purse. They rang the doorbell.

The fat woman opened the door. She was dressed in the same muumuu and house slippers.

"We're here to see Mr. Winston."

"Come in. I'll tell him you're here."

She went down a short entrance hall. They stood and waited. When she opened another door, they glimpsed a large room with thick sky blue carpet and a sunken Jacuzzi. The room was filled with a half dozen half-naked young men dancing to drum machine racket playing through a stereo. Clendon glanced around for hidden video cameras.

The fat woman came back in two minutes. D. C. Lyman, dressed in an ankle-length monogrammed lavender bathrobe, followed her, along with her husband Hachiro, who was wearing only a white loin cloth. Hachiro closed the door to the party room and it was quiet.

"Mr. Winston," Clendon said.

"Yes," D. C. Lyman said.

Strong alcohol sat on Lyman's breath.

"We have the Eskimo shoes."

"Where did you find them?"

"Do you have a comfortable room with a comfortable chair?" Clendon asked.

Lyman opened a door on the side of the hallway and they followed him. Then they entered another, longer curving hallway and went down that to the last door on the right. Lyman motioned for Hachiro and the fat woman to wait in the hall. He gestured for Shelley and Clendon to go in.

It was Lyman's study. It had shelves and shelves of books, model airplanes and missiles, a thick lavender carpet, and a personal computer. Lyman sat down in an executive's leather chair behind a large mahogany desk. They sat and faced him in two black leather easy chairs. He pushed a button on his desk.

"Would you like a drink?"

"I don't drink when I do business, but you go ahead. And keep both hands in sight."

"I can get you a hundred thousand in twenty-four hours and arrange a similar trade as before. This time everything will be smooth and we'll all be happy. Otherwise. . . "

Lyman raised one eyebrow, then lit a European cigarette and puffed on it.

"I've talked with the Russians," Clendon said.

"The Russians?" Lyman laughed. "There are no Russians. You need more practice in the art of lying." He looked straight at Clendon. "The idea of the Russians, of course, is very necessary. It's been very good to me." Lyman sighed and looked at Shelley. "Is Agent Asp still trying to do his Russian impersonation?"

Adolfo entered the study. He was wearing the same red outfit as before and he still needed a shave. In one hand he was carrying a bottle of wine. Lyman stood.

"Mr. Lindsey, I believe you've met Adolfo."

Adolfo extended his other hand like a woman.

"Don't get up, Clendon. I do love your beard," Adolfo said. "And you must be Shelley."

They didn't shake his hand. Adolfo frowned and wiggled his hips and went over behind Lyman's chair. Lyman sat back down. Adolfo leaned over, placed the bottle of wine on the desk, and put his arms around Lyman.

"Are they being mean to you, D. C.?"

Adolfo smiled and fussed with his black-haired wig. Clendon tried to figure out where Adolfo might be hiding a pistol.

"Asp knew everything about the last deal we set up at the airport." Clendon said.

"A very disappointing ending," Lyman said.

"Since then, a friend of ours was shot."

"I heard," Lyman said. "I'm sorry he's dead."

"Asp must have your phones tapped," Shelley said. "That's why we came unannounced."

"I know that." Lyman giggled. "I've also had the house checked for bugs."

"Asp has your money," Shelley said. "Why hasn't he arrested you?"

"He wants the disks, too."

Lyman emphasized the word "too" and drew it out into three syllables.

"One million dollars," Shelley said slowly and forcefully.

Clendon blinked and tried to keep a poker face.

"Is patriotism really out of style?" Lyman said.

"Some people confuse money with patriotism," Shelley said. "I don't."

"Why does Dr. Symmes-Boyd think that?" Adolfo asked.

"But I don't have that much cash," Lyman said. "You have to give me a few days to raise it."

"I know you have it," Shelley said. "I read about your half million shares of Positron stock in the paper. You can leverage something. Three days. That's all. We're tired of worrying about constantly hiding."

Lyman looked away and took a long drag on his cigarette.

"I'll meet your price on one condition," he said. He sounded drunk and weary. "That as soon as I get the disks and you get the money, you both leave the country."

"I love to travel," Shelley said.

"Permanently," Lyman said.

"You'll have to help us with travel arrangements, of course," Shelley said.

"Travel arrangements? No problem."

Lyman puffed rapidly on his cigarette while Adolfo massaged his shoulders. One of Adolfo's hands slipped out of sight behind Lyman's chair. Clendon watched, putting his hand around the .38 in his jacket pocket and his finger on the trigger.

"If you mess with our agreement," Shelley said, "you'll never get your Eskimo shoes."

Lyman sighed.

"Adolfo, she's right. Shelley, I have a mobile phone. I'll give you the number.""

"I'll call you Wednesday afternoon, at exactly 3 p.m."

"Then we have a deal," Lyman said. "Adolfo, let's open the wine and celebrate."

Adolfo opened a desk drawer and took out a corkscrew. He removed the foil capsule from the neck of the wine bottle and quickly twisted the corkscrew into the cork and popped it out. Lyman opened another drawer and took out four wine glasses. Adolfo offered the cork to Lyman, who sniffed it delicately.

"Ahh," Lyman said, "the bouquet has an aroma of berries and currants. Vintage of 1978, the best year ever in California. Will you have a glass of wine with us?"

"No, I don't drink wine," Shelley said. "It gives me a headache."

"I'm sorry," Lyman said. "Mr. Lindsey?"

Clendon shook his head no. Adolfo poured a few ounces of red wine into Lyman's glass. Lyman sniffed again, more deeply.

"Berries," he murmured. He took a small sip and rolled the wine around his mouth before swallowing. "You're missing a truly fantastic Meritage," he said. "A hint of toasty oak. Smooth and silken. Just the right amount of tannin. Vinted by the wine master at the Chateau du Coq winery. The Rothschilds would be envious."

Adolfo filled Lyman's glass over halfway and then poured the same amount for himself.

"To successful and peaceful business transactions," Lyman said. He and Adolfo clinked glasses and drank. "This particular wine is from grapes grown in the Napa Valley," Lyman continued, "a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc."

"Stop trying to show off," Shelley said.

"You're making all that shit up," Clendon said.

Lyman giggled. "It's printed on the label." He pushed the bottle across the desk towards Clendon. "And I own the winery."

* * *

Thirty minutes before midnight on Wednesday, Shelley and Clendon went to the veteran's cemetery in Westwood. Clendon took the new pint bottle of Jack Daniels he had bought, broke the seal, opened it, and took a drink. They sat on the cool grass near the fence with a clear view of the street and apartment. There was a crane next to the billboard of the hat woman, who was partly dismantled.

"We should send Madeline a postcard."

"We should send her some money," Shelley said.

"You really think Lyman's going to do this?"

"Sure he is. He answered the phone this afternoon like he said he would, didn't he? Face it. He's a poof. That's the difference. He just wants to get the millions from the patents and copyrights from his stupid fucking computer program. He doesn't want any more trouble, he doesn't want to kill or hurt anybody. It's Asp who's crazy and dangerous."

"I feel much better. Want a drink?"

"No."

"I'll have another."

"Clendon, you're an alcoholic."

"No, I am not."

"You drink every day."

"I just like to drink Jack Daniels. I like the taste."

"Why do you have to drink tonight?"

"I'm just a little anxious. I have to calm down."

"One drink would calm you down. You've already had two."

"Maybe I need two."

Clendon had another.

"That's three," he said. "It helps my self-confidence."

"That's just long for self-con."

"Since we went over to see Lyman," he said, "there's one thing that's been bothering me."

"What?"

"Why did Adolfo call you Dr. Symmes-Boyd?"

Shelley hesitated one second.

"That's my name."

"How'd he know your name was also Symmes?"

"I suppose Brooks told him. Maybe he'd seen my card."

Clendon stared at her. He could see her struggling to maintain his eye contact.

"Nobody's perfect," he said. "Are they?"

She looked down and away.

"No," she said. "They're not."

"It took me three slugs of Jack to tell you that maybe right now you better tell me everything you haven't told me."

"I told you everything I know-- "

"Bullshit!" Clendon screamed. He took a deep breath and tried to control himself. "You're a helluva negotiator," he said. "Got us a million dollar promise. Of course, there was that little problem of the seventh computer disk I didn't know about."

"Turned out that seventh disk was worth nine hundred grand," she said quietly.

"I have the key to the safety deposit box in Mexico City."

"I know."

"Unless you have another plan I don't know about-- "

"I don't."

"Well, I'll never know, will I?"

Clendon rested the Jack Daniels bottle in his lap. When he started to raise it for another sip, Shelley reached over and jerked it from his hand. Some liquid flew out and spattered on his pants. Shelley jumped up and backed away, holding the bottle. She reared back to throw the bottle as Clendon lunged for it. He grabbed her and the bottle. They wrestled and fell.

"Careful!" Clendon shouted. "The .38's in my jacket pocket."

As they rolled on the ground, the bottle stuck between them and whiskey poured over their clothes. His blue suede jacket was soaked. When the bottle was almost drained empty, Shelley wrenched it away and stood up. Clendon lay on the grass and panted. A wave of sickness passed through his belly and his head spun.

"Shelley-- Shelley, that's expensive whiskey."

"The stench is awful."

She flung the bottle into the gloom. It twirled in the air like a helicopter blade, the remaining whiskey spewing out. Clendon couldn't hear it land.

"You'll be rich soon. You can afford all you want. You can drink yourself to death in a hotel in Costa Rica-- by yourself."

"While you're across the hall barfing yourself to death."

Shelley bent down, put her arms on Clendon's shoulders, and looked at him. Her hair hung across her eyes. She brushed it away. Her face had broken out in a light sweat.

"Clendon, you either care or you don't care. If you care, then you hurt. If you don't care, you'll never hurt, but you'll also never live. What's hardest is to care and to hurt, and to know that there's no way that you will never care or it will never hurt. And you still walk away."

She stood up and turned away. Clendon sat up, shaking, and breathing hard. He leaned against a tombstone. He was damp from dew, spilled whiskey and sweat. He listened to the cars hissing on the freeway and felt in his front jacket pocket to make the sure the Polaroid picture was in there.

"I used to be a romantic, Clendon, but it's been knocked out of me."

"I didn't knock it out of you."

Whiskey regurgitated into his throat, but he held it down. Shelley went over to him and kissed him for a long time.

* * *

"It looks like Lyman's car," Shelley said.

They crept to the fence. Lyman had found a parking spot for his Jaguar in front of the apartment building. He got out, alone, looked around, lit a cigarette, and then paced beside his car. He was carrying a briefcase, and the way he carried it made it look heavy. Other cars passed, but none slowed or stopped or signaled to him. He didn't act like he could see Shelley or Clendon.

It was getting foggy and there were no street lights, only a few lights from the apartment buildings. Clendon took the .38 from his jacket. They let five very slow minutes elapse as Lyman finished his cigarette, lit another, and kept pacing.

"Lyman," Clendon called out.

Lyman froze for a second, then peered toward the cemetery.

"Walk around to the front of your car and put your hands on the hood."

"Where's the Eskimo shoes?"

"I have a .38 on you."

"I don't believe you."

"Listen."

Clendon cocked the hammer. It made a distinct, loud click. Lyman walked around to the front of his car and put his hands on the Jaguar's hood.

"Don't move. We're coming over."

First Shelley, then Clendon climbed the fence. They crossed the street and approached Lyman from behind.

"Good evening, D. C."

"You said we would conduct business like ladies and gentlemen, not street hoodlums."

"Gentlemen prefer caution," Clendon said. "Ask Shelley what ladies prefer."

He made a show of uncocking the .38 and putting it away in his jacket pocket.

"Where's our money?"

"May I?"

"Yes."

Lyman walked around, opened the Jaguar's trunk and hefted out the heavy briefcase. Clendon took it from him.

"Have you been drinking?" Lyman asked.

"Make the call," Shelley said.

Lyman got into the Jaguar and made the call to his pilot from his mobile phone. The pilot must have acted irritated at being awakened.

"There's a big bonus for you and extra days off," Lyman said into the phone. He rattled off a couple of sentences in Spanish with some numbers in it and hung up.

* * *

Shelley locked the dead bolt.

"Are you wearing a wire?"

"Mr. Lindsey, you're more paranoid than Brooks Boyd," Lyman said.

"Maybe he wasn't paranoid enough. Put the briefcase on the coffee table and take your clothes off," Clendon said.

"Humiliation is not necessary."

"Do you need some incentive?"

Clendon took the .38 out and waved it around.

Lyman was wearing a brown leather jacket, open white shirt, tight designer jeans and new Italian-style cowboy boots. He took his clothes off slowly and folded them neatly on the couch.

"Underwear, too."

Lyman slipped his jockey briefs off. Shelley went through his clothes and found nothing but wallet, keys, and change.

"Where's the disks?"

"Inside the couch cushions."

"May I?" Lyman asked.

"Yes," Shelley said.

Lyman unzipped the cushions, and started pulling out the disks. He stacked all seven of them on the coffee table next to the briefcase and sat down, naked.

"In case Asp comes to the airport," Clendon said, "I have a Polaroid."

* * *

Clendon drove the Jaguar. Shelley followed in her Volvo. The money rested in the Volvo's trunk, inside a large parachute luggage bag. A million dollars takes up space and it weighs: one hundred packs of $100 bills, one hundred bills to the pack. They had moved the cash from Lyman's briefcase to the parachute bag. Lyman, still naked, was left tied up, loosely, on the bed with the ropes. The empty briefcase was left on the couch with his clothes folded neatly on top and the computer disks stacked nearby. Clendon figured it would take Lyman a couple of hours to wriggle free.

They drove west on Wilshire towards Santa Monica. Clendon pulled into a Jack-in-the-Box parking lot. Before he could park, he had to drive around a man and a woman who were sleeping in the middle of the lot. They were covered by a ragged quilt and stretched out on large pieces of flattened cardboard. After he parked, Clendon put on his newest sunglasses, made by Dior, and felt once more for the Polaroid in his jacket pocket. He threw Lyman's keys in a dumpster, put the mobile phone in his jacket pocket, and got in Shelley's Volvo. After a stop at a 7/Eleven to buy a lighter, she took Bundy to the Santa Monica airport. It was after three a.m.

The airport sat on a low bluff a mile inland from the ocean. It had one long, wide runway. There were a few lights on at scattered hangars. Shelley parked beside one of the hangars and they waited. In a few minutes a dark van raced across the tarmac and pulled up beside the Volvo. A large man dressed in a dark jumpsuit hopped out. It was Adolfo, his short black hair slicked back. There was a woman with him. When they came over to the Volvo, Shelley rolled down the window.

"Is that it?"

Shelley pointed to an airplane parked by the hangar. The plane had jet engines under its wings and looked like it had about six seats.

"That's the jet," Adolfo said. "A Lear." His lisp and wiggle was gone. "And this is my wife."

It was the platinum blonde. Without the wig, her hair was black and pulled straight back the way she had looked when Clendon saw her in Westwood with Asp. She glanced about, her dark eyes nervous. She smoked a cigarette and said nothing.

"You're Lyman's jet pilot?" Clendon said.

"I love to fly," Adolfo said, "especially for money. You have the money?"

"Yes," Shelley said.

"How long will it take to gas that sucker up?" Clendon asked.

"It'll take some prep work for the plane," Adolfo said. "Twenty minutes. Half an hour at most."

It was blowing cold fog out of the west, in off the ocean. Adolfo's wife got back in the van. Shelley and Clendon waited in the Volvo, the engine running and the heater on full blast. Clendon felt the .38 in his jacket pocket.

"Did you know that today is Thanksgiving?" Shelley said.

She opened her purse, took out a pill bottle, and shook three little yellow pills into her palm.

"I'm afraid to fly."

She gulped them down.

"You never got the windshield fixed."

"How can you tell with those sunglasses on?"

Clendon took them off.

"Adolfo's wife-- " he began.

"I know. Don't say anything."

"What if she's flying with us?"

"Then that means they're planning to kill us and throw us out of the plane and into the ocean."

After about twenty minutes, Adolfo came over and gestured.

"It's ready," he said.

"We're not."

Shelley and Clendon got out.

"Pat him down," Clendon said.

He took out the .38. Adolfo leaned against the hood as Shelley patted him down.

Adolfo giggled. "Nice boots," he said and pointed at Clendon's feet.

"Thanks."

"No weapons," she said.

Shelley went over to a pay phone beside the hangar. She called Lyman's home number and left a message on his answering machine about Eskimo shoes. When she came back, Clendon went over to the pay phone and called the home phone number that Asp had given Shelley. It rang twenty times with no answer. Clendon slammed the phone down and sprinted for the Volvo as the wind from the ocean cut through him.

"Asp is not at home," he half-shouted. "He's probably on the way over here right now."

"How would he know about this?" Adolfo snapped. "This flight is supposed to be clean." He cursed in Spanish.

"Maybe Lyman told him," Clendon said.

"On my honor," Adolfo said, "I know absolutely that Mr. Lyman did not." He kept cursing in Spanish.

"Are we ready for take off?" Shelley asked.

"Ready," Adolfo said.

Shelley opened the Volvo's trunk. Clendon lifted out the parachute bag. It was very heavy.

"I'll take my ten thousand now, or I won't fly," Adolfo said. "Shelley and I have an agreement."

"I thought Mr. Velazquez worked for Lyman," Clendon said to Shelley. "Does he really work for you?"

"I am a good American," Adolfo said. "I work for myself." He stopped and cocked his head at Clendon and then looked at Shelley. "Did you tell him my last name?"

Shelley's face was a blank.

"We'll pay you when we get in the plane," Clendon said.

"This is like the airlines," Adolfo said. "You have to pay for your flight before you can board."

Clendon looked at Shelley. She nodded and he unzipped the parachute bag. He took out one stack of currency and handed it to Adolfo, who smiled and stuffed the bills into his jumpsuit. He waved at his wife. She started the van without turning on the headlights and drove away, disappearing into the darkness and fog.

Adolfo went over to the plane and pulled down on the cabin door. It opened onto the ground as three short stairs popped up. Adolfo went up them and into the plane.

They heard a roaring and screeching coming towards them out of the darkness. First headlights, then a black car appeared out of the fog and raced toward the plane. It stopped a few yards from the wings and another twenty yards from the Volvo. A bright spotlight from the side of the car came on and shone on the plane. Asp sprang out of the car with a .38 in his hand.

"Stop!" he shouted. "FBI!"

Adolfo appeared in the cabin doorway. He was holding a Uzi and looking across the runway at Asp, who had dropped into a crouch behind his opened car door.

"Freeze!" Asp shouted. "I'll shoot if you move again. Massive back up is on the way."

Adolfo answered with a short burst of Uzi fire that clanged into Asp's car. Shelley and Clendon ran for cover behind her Volvo, Clendon lugging the parachute bag. His sunglasses flew out of his shirt pocket as they ducked behind her car.

"Don't shoot!" Shelley screamed. "Don't shoot."

"Throw your gun down," Asp commanded.

Adolfo cursed in Spanish and pulled back inside the cabin.

"Lyman has the disks," Shelley shouted. "The real ones."

"So? Throw down your weapons and put your hands where I can see them," Asp called. "I know you have the money."

"How did he know we were here now?" Adolfo screamed and fired another quick burst. "You throw your weapon down!" he shouted back to Asp.

"Don't shoot, Adolfo!" Shelley called again. "Please don't shoot!"

With his sore hand Clendon felt first the .38 in his jacket pocket and then the mobile phone. He reached into his front jacket pocket and he took out the Polaroid picture and the lighter he'd just bought.

"Asp!" Clendon shouted. "Asp! Asp, I need to make a phone call."

"What?"

"I have this mobile phone in my hand, see?"

Clendon thrust the phone up above the hood of the Volvo so Asp could see it.

"So what?"

"I'm calling 9-1-1."

"So?"

"Listen what I say. . . "

Clendon pushed 9-1-1 on the mobile's buttons.

"Hello?" he said loudly. "Yes. I'd like to report a crime in progress. It involves the sale of a large quantity of cocaine. It's going to be moved sometime in the next hour so you need to get over there right away. It's at 410 San Buenaventura Drive in Manhattan Beach,-- "

"What are you doing?" Asp screamed.

" -- involving an FBI agent who lives there, Kenneth Asp-- "

"How did you know where I live?" Asp screamed.

"This is not a prank."

Clendon hung up and put the mobile phone away in a jacket pocket.

"Asp! I have something I need to show you."

"How did you know where I live?" Asp screamed.

"Don't shoot, Asp. I have something here that will save you."

"How did you know-- "

"Shut up, asshole!" Adolfo shouted. "Where's your massive back up?"

Adolfo fired another short burst that shot up sparks as it zinged off the tarmac.

"Don't shoot at him, Adolfo. Cover me. I need to show Asp something."

"You're covered, Clendon," Adolfo called.

"I'm coming over to see you, Asp, and show you this. This will save your ass."

Clendon began crawling around the Volvo toward Asp's car. He turned back to Shelley.

"If he shoots me," he whispered. "Kill him for me."

He glanced over to the open cabin door of the plane and saw the barrel of the Uzi pointed towards Asp's car.

"Please don't anybody shoot!" Shelley screamed.

Clendon crawled closer to Asp's car and held out the Polaroid, the lighter hidden in the palm of his closed hand.

"Asp! You've got to see this picture!"

"What is it?" Asp snapped.

"Asp! I'm going to stand up and come over to you. I'm not holding a gun. You won't shoot me."

"No. . . Not yet."

"Okay. Okay."

Clendon took a deep breath and stood, holding up the Polaroid. He slowly walked toward Asp's car, skirting the direct beam of the spotlight. He made eye contact with Asp, held it, and walked closer. Asp slowly stood from his crouch.

"What is it?"

"Asp-- Asp. Look at this."

Clendon stepped within three feet of Asp and held the Polaroid in front of him.

"Look at this."

Asp stared through the gloom at the three inch by three inch Polaroid image.

"I can't make much out," he said, and started to reach for it.

"Oh, no," Clendon said and pulled it back. "Look, but don't touch."

"What kind of trick is this?" Asp said. "I can't see the damned thing."

"Don't move, please. Adolfo might shoot. Just look."

Clendon held it out and stepped closer. His hand was not shaking nearly as much as he thought it would.

"Can you see it now? Can you see me in the picture?"

"I see you in the picture. So what?"

"Closer."

Clendon stepped closer and stared at Asp, whose forehead was wringing with sweat.

"Don't shoot, Adolfo," Clendon called.

"Steady," Adolfo called back.

"Look closely."

Asp stared at the Polaroid, now eighteen inches from his face.

"I need my glasses," he said.

"Fine. Go ahead."

Asp opened his suit coat and with the same hand that still held his .38, reached in and took an eyeglasses case out of an inside pocket. He opened the case, took out his reading glasses, and put them on. He dropped his hand that held the .38 to his side and looked intently at the Polaroid.

"You bastard, that's inside my house."

"That's right."

"You're holding my pistol shooting trophy-- "

"And that's some family photos on your wall. I'm sorry about your divorce. But you see what else I'm holding?"

"Some kind of bag-- "

"A bag of cocaine I left stashed in your house."

Asp scrutinized the Polaroid until he could make out the clear plastic bag half full of the white substance. His face began to turn red and purple. Every vein in his neck bulged out and he yanked off his reading glasses as the glasses case fell to the ground.

"What are you trying to pull?"

"I suggest you get home right away and try to beat the cops over there. If you used your flashing lights, you could get home in fifteen minutes. You have a chance. Santa Monica 911 has to contact the Manhattan Beach police--

As Clendon talked, he watched Asp's mind work.

"How do I know that stuff in that bag is really cocaine? You don't have the money-- "

"D. C. Lyman does," Clendon whispered.

"Lyman-- " Asp screamed. "How do I know that stuff isn't just powdered sugar, or, or-- "

"Or baking soda? Are you going to take that chance?"

Clendon stared at Asp as hard as he could.

"Give me that."

"Watch it. Adolfo will shoot you."

Clendon flicked the lighter in his palm and lit the Polaroid. He held it up in his hand as it burned quickly to a black shrivel, then he tossed it away into the wind, which carried it across the tarmac into the blackness.

"They'll never believe it-- "

"After years in jail, I figure a million dollar lawyer could prove you were framed, but then there's that $100,000 stake you have from Lyman to get started-- "

Asp let out a shriek, threw down his reading glasses, and jumped into his still idling car.

"But massive back up is on the way," Clendon called.

Asp slammed it into reverse, spun his tires till they burned white smoke, backed up, slammed his car into drive, and floored it, roaring off into the night. Clendon turned around and started walking toward the plane. Shelley ran over and hugged him. Adolfo began clapping from the plane's doorway.

"Congratulations," he said. "You muy loco madre fucker."

He came down the cabin door steps towards them, holding his Uzi on them.

"Take your gun out of your jacket and put it on the ground," Adolfo said, his face a stone.

Clendon reached in slowly, got the .38, and set it on the ground.

"Now Shelley," Adolfo said. "Shelley, Shelley, Shelley, I know you so well." He sighed. "I know you probably have a gun in your purse, too, so please take it out and set it on the ground next to the other one."

Shelley took the other .38 out of her purse and placed it on the ground.

"I'll need the keys to the Volvo so I can have it sent down for you. And I will get the windshield fixed first."

She took the car keys from her purse and placed them on the ground next to the .38's.

"I'll take that bag of currency now," Adolfo said.

"Adolfo-- " Clendon started.

Adolfo went over and picked up the car keys and the bag.

"It's heavy," he smiled. "Good heavy. Let us get in the plane now. Let us leave those guns on the ground here, next to your Volvo."

"So you're going to give it back to Lyman after all," Clendon said.

"No, no, no, no, no," Adolfo said. "I am American. I am working for myself."

"Why don't you just shoot us?" Clendon said.

Adolfo shook his head. "I am a man of honor and we have an agreement. I am to fly you out of the country."

"Then you're going to shoot us and dump us in some remote village in Mexico."

"Would you call Puerto Vallarta a remote village?" Adolfo smiled. "Under the circumstances, I believe I can refund the $10,000 air fare. You will need it, of course, for the mordita at customs."

In the distance, sirens sounded and slowly came closer and closer. Adolfo motioned with the Uzi.

"Time to depart."

Clendon and Shelley walked up the steps and into the plane. Adolfo followed them inside.

"Buckle up for safety, buckle up," he sang.

Clendon and Shelley settled into seats next to each other and fastened their seat belts. Adolfo got into the pilot's seat and started the jet engines, which revved up and began to whistle loudly. He placed the parachute bag across his lap and cradled the Uzi under one arm. The plane rocked slightly from a hard gust of wind that kicked up, then eased forward very slowly and began to turn onto the runway. It kept creeping and turning until it pointed straight toward the ocean.

Clendon looked out the window and saw flashing red lights throbbing through the fog, rapidly coming closer. Adolfo cranked up the engines a notch and they sounded more shrill. He eased the plane forward. Two black and white police cars, red lights flashing, shot out onto the runway and headed toward the plane. Adolfo hit the throttle full blast. The plane sprinted down the runway, left the police cars behind, and lifted from the ground. He pulled the plane's nose up as their stomachs stayed behind. Outside it turned black. Ten seconds out Adolfo began banking the plane to the left and they looked back toward the runway lights from a thousand feet in the air as the airport slid away. Adolfo came out of the hard left turn and headed the plane south, still slowly climbing.

"What do you mean, you know Shelley well?" Clendon asked.

"Adolfo's daughter was a client of mine," Shelley said.

"She had a terrible terrible thing," Adolfo said. "Anore-- Anoricketts-- she had what they call an eating disorder."

"She looked good to me," Clendon said.

"She's much better," Shelley said.

"Shelley is an excellent psychologist," Adolfo said. "But I have just one question. How did Asp know we were at the airport?"

"I think Mrs. Velazquez told him," Clendon said.

Adolfo turned all the way around and glared at Clendon.

"Do not insult the pilot while he is flying you to safety, sir," Adolfo said.

"You didn't know?" Shelley asked.

"Know what?" Adolfo said.

"That your wife was having an affair with Asp and helping him try to find the Eskimo shoes."

"How is it you know this?"

"It starts with a strand of hair from a blond wig," Clendon said. "Found on the pistol used to shoot Brooks."

Adolfo turned half way around again. His eyes bulged and he flexed his jaw muscles.

"You must prove what you say."

"I saw them together in Westwood."

"Adolfo, who else could've called Asp," Shelley said, "except you or Lyman."

Adolfo began cursing in Spanish.

"I will fly straight back here and shoot them both," he said.

The silvery blackness of the ocean came under them while lights sparkled to the east, jewels laid on a black shroud. They looked back to see the land receding away, where all across the country, the people slept.

* * *

Clendon was running up the stairs in the steel-girded skyscraper again. The wind howled and the stairs never ended. There was gunfire in the distance. His face hurt and he ached for breath. He was carrying heavy buckets full of hundred dollar bills, but his buckets were leaking fast. The money was draining out like liquid through holes in the bottom of the buckets. Shelley ran beside him, wearing a billowing red robe. The stairs went on endlessly.

Shelley didn't look right. Her face had changed. Her eyes were darker, not silver blue. Her lips were thicker, her cheeks puffier, and her nose had a new, tiny curve. Clendon was wearing a heavy, robed shroud and his head was covered with a hood. Shelley reached for him and pulled the hood back. Clendon looked into the bucket and saw a mirror made of shiny, black crude oil which brightly reflected a strange new face back to him.

# # #

Connect with Eugene Lester at his blog:

www.relicsofcivilization.typepad.com

