Low Life (20 page)

He walked into the bathroom and crawled back out through the open window. With Francine tucked into his armpit, snuggled under his right arm like an infant, he made his way precariously down the
ladder. Once at the bottom he looked around the alley for a weapon. The cinder block was too large and awkward. Nothing else seemed remotely intimidating. He was about to give up when, turning in a
circle to see what the alley contained, his foot kicked something metal. A rusty rung knocked from the fire escape lay on the ground amongst a thatch of weeds growing up through a crack in the
asphalt. He vaguely remembered it falling there. He picked it up and felt it for weight.

Nodding to himself – it was good and heavy, and rust had decayed one end to a sharp point – he walked out of the alley.

He walked all the way around the block so that he could come up behind the Cadillac and the jockey would remain unaware of his presence unless he happened to glance in his
rear-view mirror. But he would be looking for Simon to come out the front of the building or around the corner, so Simon remained hopeful. About a half block behind the car was the bench that sat
in front of Captain Bligh’s. Simon set Francine down beneath it, pushing the jar against the wall so no one would kick it over.

‘Wait here.’

Then he continued toward the black Cadillac and the man inside. The metal gripped in his fist felt grimy and was turning his palm a reddish orange. His hands were moist with sweat. His mouth was
dry. He walked carefully and smoothly forward. The sounds of the cars and trucks driving by on Wilshire faded away. The world seemed very clear and clean and crisp, like it did after rain. He
walked out into the street, continuing onward. He raised the pipe in his right hand up over his shoulder.

As he walked past the left rear fender the jockey glanced him in his side-view mirror, slammed a hand down on the door lock, and tried to roll up the window. But he was too late. Simon reached
through and grabbed him by the collar of his thin black sport coat and fought him bodily through the window. Once more of him was outside the car than inside, Simon let him go, and gravity threw
him to the street.

A car in the right lane had to swerve to miss him, and its driver laid on the horn.

The man scrambled out of the street, crawling backwards in a crabwalk toward the curb, between the front of his Cadillac and the bumper-sticker-covered red Toyota parked in front of it.

Simon walked toward him with the rusty pipe in his hand, heart pounding in his chest.

‘Wait,’ the jockey said. ‘You don’t wanna do that. You do
not
wanna do that. Just wait. Wait wait – wait.’

‘Who are you and why are you following me?’

‘I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—’

Simon swung the pipe down and slammed it against the jockey’s left knee.

He let out a scream.

‘Why are you following me?’

‘I don’t—’ turned into another scream as Simon hit him again.

‘Who are you?’

‘I—’

‘Take off your glasses.’

‘What?’

‘Take them off. I wanna see your eyes.’

‘I don’t know—’

Simon smashed the pipe against the jockey’s neck. It left an orange rust stain on his flesh. He screamed in pain, grabbing at the point of contact with pale fingers. There was dirt under
his fingernails and they were surrounded by the pink gashes of torn-away hangnails.

‘I’m not gonna let you lie to me. Let me see your eyes. I want to know you’re telling me the truth.’

‘I can’t take them off.’

Simon raised the pipe again.

The guy held up his hands. The palms were dirty and small pebbles were embedded in the meat of them from his crawl away from Simon.

‘Okay. Okay, okay – okay.’

Simon waited.

The jockey let out a sigh. He rubbed at his neck. It was welting and turning red beneath the rusted orange. He swallowed. His throat made a dry clicking sound when he did.

Simon noticed for the first time that they weren’t standard sunglasses he was wearing. They were flying goggles, a leather strap wrapping them around the jockey’s head.

‘Take them off.’

‘I am.’

‘I won’t say it again.’

‘I’m taking them off.’

Finally he reached to the glasses with both hands and pulled the lenses up onto his forehead.

His eyes became slits as he squinted in the sunlight. A gasp escaped his mouth. Pink tears – part blood and part water – streamed down his cheeks. His eyes were nothing but tiny
black pupils floating in a sea of white, like a single dot on an otherwise blank page. With no color in their centers the whites of the eyes seem unbelievably white, like snow-covered mountainsides
through which no black rocks or treetops were jutting.

Suddenly Simon remembered what Chris had told him about UFOs and the travelers who came here within them. They got crazy eyes. He hadn’t gotten to say what their eyes looked like before
Robert cut him off but—

It couldn’t be true – could it? It had to be bullshit. And yet—

At this point he was ready to believe anything.

‘Are you – are you one of them?’

‘What? One of who?’

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Where do I – Culver City. Well, just east of Culver City. Near Washington and La Brea.’

‘No – where are you from originally?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Stop stalling!’

‘Ohio. All right? I don’t know what you want from me.’

‘You were born in Ohio?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What city?’

‘Westerville.’

‘Westerville a big town?’

‘No.’

‘What’s the population?’

‘I – uh – it was about thirty thousand when I left.’

‘When was that?’

‘Ninety-seven.’

‘Nineteen ninety-seven?’

‘No, eighteen ninety-seven.’

Simon raised the pipe in his hand.

‘Yes! Yes – nineteen ninety-seven.’

‘You’re not one of them?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talk—’

‘Fine. Why are you following me?’

‘I’m a private investigator.’

‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’

‘Lack of pigment. I was born that way.’

‘Your hair’s black.’

‘Localized to the eyes.’

‘What’s that called?’

‘What’s what called?’

‘When you have albino eyes.’

‘I don’t know.’ He wiped at the bloody pink water running down his face. ‘It’s a long name. I can never remember.’

‘And you’re not one of them?’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘Who hired you?’

‘Can I put the glasses—’

‘No. Who hired you?’

‘I can’t tell you that. Client privilege. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘Who fucking hired you?’

‘Listen—’

Simon slammed the pipe down onto the man’s shoulder and it let out a sick ring so low in tone it was barely a ring at all. The man let out a yelp and rubbed at the orange stain on his
black coat.

‘I already gave you three chances. I’m gonna give you one more. That’s more than you’d get in baseball.’

‘Your wife.’

Simon nodded. He wasn’t surprised. He didn’t think anything the man said would surprise him. If the guy had admitted to being one of them, Simon thought he would have believed that
– believed it and gone on from there.

‘Why did she hire you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘I’m not. She didn’t say. She just said she wanted me to follow you, keep track of where you were going, tell her what I saw. I assumed she suspected another woman, but she
didn’t say so, so I don’t know.’

‘You’re fired.’

Simon tossed the rusty pipe away.

‘Is there a transponder on my car?’

The jockey hesitated.

‘Where is it?’

‘Right front wheel well.’

‘You put it in the same place twice?’

The guy shrugged.

‘I figured you’d look everywhere but the same spot.’

‘Keep whatever retainer my wife gave you, but don’t let me see you again.’

‘Okay.’

The man pulled the goggles back down over his eyes.

When Simon went back to get Francine she was gone.

He was halfway down the rusted fire-escape ladder when he realized his arm was empty.

He stopped, holding onto a rung, and considered climbing back up to get her, but he knew what would happen – the same thing that’d been happening all day.

It was a distraction. He had to let her go. Chasing after his goddamn goldfish was not getting him any closer to finding out what was happening. Besides, he was no longer certain she was
real.

‘Sorry, Francine.’

He continued down the fire escape.

He yanked the wheel to the right and the Saab rolled up the curb and onto a strip of lawn growing between the curb and the sidewalk before screeching to a stop, grass tearing
beneath a tire, revealing moist black soil and the insects and worms that lived within. He pushed open the driver’s side door and stepped out into the day. He felt tense. Samantha had hired a
private detective to follow him. She had given him pills and – if he was remembering correctly – he had hallucinated shortly thereafter. Or had he hallucinated before? He couldn’t
remember now. He had certainly been hallucinating since. Helmut Müller was dead. That stray dog was dead. The thing with the goldfish was just weird.

He pushed his way through the front door.

‘Samantha?’

Silence.

‘Samantha?’

Faint, from the bathroom: ‘Jeremy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hold on.’

The sound of the toilet flushing, water running, the door opening.

Samantha emerged from the hallway with damp hands. She wiped them back then front on her shirt.

‘Where have you been? The police came by looking for you. Did you
stab
Dr Zurasky?’

‘What are you doing to me?’

‘What?’

‘You had someone following me.’

‘Calm down.’

‘You had someone
following
me.’

‘Jeremy, I – I didn’t.’

‘I’m not asking. I’m telling you I know you did.’

‘But – listen.’

‘Okay.’ He crossed his arms. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Okay.’

She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She looked jumpy and alarmed. Her eyes searched his face, he knew not what for. She licked her lips nervously, swallowed.

‘I—’

‘Yes?’

‘I – I did it for your own good, Jeremy. I didn’t want you to disappear again.’

‘My own good?’

‘Fine. If that’s not acceptable, how about
my
own good – my sanity? I did it so I would know where you were, so I would know you were safe, so I would
know—’

‘What is it to you where I am?’

‘I’m your wife.’

‘Are you?’

Simon took a step forward; Samantha took a step back.

‘What are you doing?’

‘That’s my question for you. What are you doing? Have you been drugging me?’

‘What?’

‘Have you?’

‘No. Of course I—’

‘Not that you would admit it even if you were.’

He took another step forward, she took another step back.

‘Don’t do this, Jeremy. You’re scaring me.’

‘Then tell me what’s happening to me.’

‘I don’t know,’ Samantha said. ‘If I did, don’t you think I’d stop it?’

Simon tongued the inside of his cheek and simply looked at her.

Finally he said, ‘How would I know what you’d do? I don’t even know you.’

‘What do you mean?’

He turned back toward the door.

That’s when he saw it.

There was a framed photograph sitting on an end table. Simon recognized it. It was the photograph he’d stolen from the house on that day he’d first sneaked in. It felt like that had
happened years ago rather than just over two weeks ago. There were Samantha and Jeremy standing side by side. Samantha’s arm was through Jeremy’s. Jeremy was wearing a suit Simon had
worn himself. And he recognized the background – he knew where the picture’d been taken. Two weeks ago he hadn’t, but he did now.

He picked it up and looked at it for a long moment.

‘Where – where did this come from?’

Samantha was holding herself and looking at him with sadness.

‘That woman Marlene Biskind brought it by about twenty minutes ago. It was one of the pictures she took at my show last night and she thought I might want to have it.’

Simon looked from her to the picture in his hand. He could feel it shaking.

‘This is,’ he licked his lips, ‘this is a picture of me?’

‘Who else would it be a picture of?’

He pulled the Saab’s driver’s side door open.

‘I really need that hammer, Jeremy.’

Simon spun around.

He wasn’t jogging now. He was wearing slacks and a tucked-in T-shirt.

Simon pulled out his – Jeremy’s – wallet and looked inside. He grabbed a hundred-dollar bill and thrust it forward.

‘Here. Just buy a hammer.’

‘I don’t want to buy a hammer. I loaned you a hammer and I want it back.’

‘It’s a hundred dollars.’

‘I just want my hammer.’

‘Fine. I’ll get your fucking hammer.’

He slammed the car door shut and stormed toward the house, flung the door open, and started digging around, looking for a hammer in various drawers. He didn’t find one, but he found a
Stanley screwdriver, thought he could use it to switch his license plates, keep the cops off him for a while longer, and stuffed it into his overcoat pocket. Then he continued searching.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for a hammer.’

Samantha disappeared and a moment later emerged from the garage with one.

‘This hammer?’

He took it from her without a word and walked back outside, holding it up.

‘Is this the hammer you want?’ He felt suddenly furious. Rage flushed his cheeks. His chest felt tight. His brain was boiling with anger and thoughtless. ‘Is this the fucking
hammer you want?’

‘What other hammer would I—’

Simon swung it down against the side of the son of a bitch’s head.

‘There’s your fucking hammer.’

The guy collapsed to the ground screaming and holding his face. Simon let go of the hammer and it dropped to the driveway and then bounced onto the lawn. After a moment blood began to pour from
between the man’s fingers and into the grass. The guy flailed about on his side, staining his jeans and his T-shirt with grass. Neighbors walked from their front doors, asking if everything
was okay, wondering if—