Laugher Page 11

  “I’m worried I’ll make the same mistakes.”

  The room was silent, but my head certainly wasn’t. It was buzzing with yells from young men in camouflage, a woman screaming herself hoarse, a baby crying.

  “I hope I’m not stepping over my boundaries by saying this...” She stood up and came closer to me, leaned against the wall, “...but if our situation was different, and we were able to meet under...normal circumstances...I must say—well, you’ve...I think you’re a very admirable man. And I think any woman should be grateful to have you. And Charlotte...she should be grateful too.”

  Now I was looking at her. Her green eyes, her brown hair, her perfect lips.

  “It’s getting late,” I said. She nodded.

  She put her shoes back on. I showed her to the door.

  “Good night, Marshall.”

  “Good night, Nora.”

  She started walking out, but then wrapped an arm around my neck and kissed me on the mouth. Her lips were warm and the flesh of her cheeks was soft and smooth. Her tongue gently grazed against mine. I stayed there enjoying it for who knows how many seconds, maybe minutes, maybe years, then pulled away like I was waking from a bad dream. We looked at each other in a trance, and without a word, she stepped into the hall and across to her room, leaving me feeling guilty. But the burning was gone.

  ----------------------------------

  Midnight. Charlotte’s number was on the screen of my phone, but I couldn’t bring myself to call. Instead I sent her a text message: “Did I ever make you laugh?”

  I undressed and got in the bed. Just as I was about to flick the lamp off, my phone beeped.

  “You used to,” Charlotte wrote. “But not lately.”

  For the life of me, I tried to remember when. When it was I made her laugh. I tried to imagine it, but there was nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, then turned out the light and fell asleep to the sound of darkness.

  Chapter 10

  By the time it was over, I had a bloody nose and the clock on the nightstand had been smashed and broken.

  I don’t know what time it was when the knocking started. I was certain it was Nora, but when I dragged myself to the thin light outlining the door and looked through the peephole, I saw a man wearing a Yankee cap. He was looking at the floor, the bill covered his face. And he was swaying.

  “Who is it?” I said.

  “Marshall Sandone? It’s Denny Granger. I gah your message.”

  Denny! I was actually surprised. I wasn’t seriously expecting him to show up. His voice was slurred a little. Was he drunk?

  “Just a second.” Fumbling in the dark, I grabbed my pants off the chair. It’s rude to greet people in your underwear, even when they’ve caused you a shitload of trouble.

  I pulled out the chain and twisted the dead bolt. As soon as I turned the handle, the door flew into my nose and knocked me back to the bed.

  The light from the hallway put him in silhouette. I tasted warm metallic blood streaking from my nose to my lips. He shut the door and the room went near-black again. The only light came from the red numbers on the clock-radio and thin streaks of moonlight that snuck through the cracks of the drapes.

  Somehow he found me in the dark without a problem and wrapped his hands around my throat and held me down on the bed. His thumbs dug into the flesh until they pinched my wind pipe. My hands flew to my neck in an effort to rip them away. The pain in my nose felt trivial now compared to the inability to breathe. My legs were kicking to no avail until one of them struck the nightstand by the bed and I remembered my gun in the top drawer. I reached for it, but he must of heard me move because his knee promptly planted itself on my arm, stopping it dead in its tracks. This was bad. Why is he doing this? I thought.

  Blood ran from my nose, my tongue swelled and my grunts were becoming gurgles. There was just enough moonlight sneaking in for me to see that his legs were wide open, because one of them was on the bed clamping my arm. My knee came up at just the right angle to nail him square in the crotch. He moaned and rolled off me. I coughed up a storm as I felt my way to the nightstand drawer and reached for the gun, but he slammed into me from behind and smashed the drawer on my hand. I yelled. Thankfully, it wasn’t my trigger hand. If it had been, I probably wouldn’t be around to talk about it.

  I grabbed the clock-radio with my trigger hand and cracked him in the face with it. He ripped the radio from me and threw it to the ground and came at me again, just as I was taking aim, which he didn’t see. His arms wrapped around me in an extremely un-affectionate bear hug. His hand came over mine and felt their way to the gun. He said, “No no, detective. Bad boy,” and took my hands in his, trying to wrestle the gun away from me. My arms were pointed straight out. For all I knew, the gun could have been aimed straight at him. But it wasn’t, because it fired and he didn’t start screaming.

  The flash from the barrel gave me just enough of a glimpse to see his position. He was about two feet from me, with our hands linked at the gun. I swung my body to face him and used the leverage of our linked arms to yank him toward me and head-butt him like a soccer ball. He let out a yelp and fell backwards. Suddenly my hands were free and I still had the gun.

  I aimed at the floor hoping I’d catch another bit of luck with the moonlight, but I didn’t. I couldn’t even see the gun in front of my face.

  “Why are you doing this?” I said.

  I heard him breathing.

  Another knock hit the door. Loud. Urgent. “Sir? Are you all right?” It was a man’s voice, crackly, old. There were multiple muffled voices coming from outside. “Sir?” Another knock.

  “Everything’s under control,” I said.

  “Are you sure? I heard something. Sounded like a gunshot.”

  “It’s all right.”

  The muffled voices continued for a moment, then scattered away. I assumed everyone went back to their rooms.

  Still dark. Still aiming.

  “I’m here to help you, Denny.”

  There was shuffling. He was moving. I followed it.

  “Nora’s across the hall. She wants to take you home.”

  More shuffling. He was moving around me.

  “Goddamnit, Denny, I am not a threat to you.” As soon as I said it, the lamp on the nightstand flicked to life. Light! It was so sudden that I was blinded for a split second, and that was all the time he needed. I whipped my head behind me toward the light and all I saw was a flash of gold as something hard and metal knocked me square across the jaw.

  My hands went limp, my legs turned into wet sponges and gravity got the best of me. The back of my head hit the thin-carpeted floor and as my world faded around me, I saw a blurry figure in a Yankee cap approaching, with a gun in his hand...

  ------------------------------------

  I woke up in the lobby. The manager was standing over me, along with a few other disturbed visitors.

  “You sure are lucky, son.” an elderly gentleman said. It was the same crackly voice from earlier. “He almost killed you. Who was that man?”

  I was breathing harder than usual. “How long was I out?”

  The manager handed me an ice pack. My jaw was swollen, the blood from my nose was dry on my lips, and my throat felt like someone was stepping on it.

  “About thirty minutes,” said the manager. “He really did a number on you. You’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for him.” He nodded toward the elderly gentleman. “He told me he heard a gunshot from your room. So I went in with my pistol and he had you on point while you were knocked cold.”

  “Some tough guy. About to shoot an unconscious man,” said the sarcastic elderly gentleman.

  “Where is he?” I grumbled.

  “Oh, as soon as I went in, he high-tailed it out of there. Afraid of witnesses, I guess.”

  I looked around the small crowd. No sign of Nora.

  “Was anybody with him?”

  “What?”

  “Did he leave with somebo
dy? The dark-haired woman in the room across from me?”

  “Yes. I saw him with her.” This came from a short, middle-aged woman standing next to her husband.

  I sat up quick and my head didn’t like it.

  “Easy. Easy,” said the manager. He put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Did she say anything?” I asked.

  “Not to me,” said the woman. “I saw her through the window, getting into his car with him.”

  “His car?”

  She nodded.

  “Could you see the make or model?” I asked.

  “It was black. That’s all I could tell.”

  “You need to go to the hospital,” said the manager.

  “No. I’m fine. Just a little dizzy. Where’s my gun?”

  “Gun?” asked the elderly gentleman.

  “It’s okay. I’m a detective.”

  The manager stood up. “All right, you can all go back to your rooms. I’m sorry for this disturbance and as an apology, I will knock twenty bucks off each of your bills,” a sigh of excitement waved through them, “but right now I need to speak with Mr. Santone alone.”

  They shuffled back to their rooms, talking among themselves about how awful the scene was and what they should do with the discount money they just saved.

  I thanked the elderly gentleman and gave him my number, offered he and his family a free legal consul whenever they needed it. He smiled and went back to his room, leaving the manager and I alone.

  “My gun?” I asked.

  “He took it. I saw it in his hand. I would’ve tried to hold him, but I couldn’t take the chance with that gun being loaded. Look, I have to report this to the police.”

  “No. No, I don’t want any of this on record.”

  “You were almost killed.”

  “It was just a misunderstanding. I’m here on a case. I was looking for that man. The woman he left with is his fiancé. He probably thought there was something going on that wasn’t going on, and it got out of hand. Really out of hand. Besides, I don’t want to bring you any bad publicity. I’ll give you my address to send me a bill for any damages.”

  “If you say so. You’re the detective.”

  “I’m going to pack up and check out. I’ve caused you enough trouble tonight.” He helped me to my feet. “Thank you for all your help.” I gave him the ice pack and headed back to my room.

  “Don’t you want his plate number?”

  I stopped. “You got the plate number?”

  The manager nodded.

  KZ6L284. I wrote it in my notepad.

  Back in my room, I cleaned myself up and gathered my things and left as soon as the commotion was over. My jaw still hurt, but at least my nose was clean.

  My wallet was on the dresser next to the TV. As I picked it up, something fell out, a piece of paper. I picked it up and unfolded a check – one thousand dollars, made out to me, signed by Nora Massey. Must have slipped it in there last night. In the memo she wrote “Thank you, Marshall” and drew a smiley face.

  It was still the early morning as I headed back home.

  ------------------------------

  I had plenty of time to think about everything on the way. Nora and Denny were back together and I had been paid for my services. As far as the paperwork was concerned, this case was closed, but as far as my conviction of the truth...

  I wondered if Denny really did kill Slavas. He had certainly shown he was capable of killing me.

  Chapter 11

  It was shortly after dawn when I pulled into LA. I was running on about three hours sleep, but I wasn’t tired. Near-death experiences tend to get adrenaline running thicker than cold butter. But I was certainly hungry.

  Sunnyside was just opening. I was their first customer of the day. The hostess recognized me and said I must be addicted to this place. I said it had better eye candy than my apartment. She smiled and sat me at a booth that faced away from the sun. I ordered the meat lover’s breakfast special. Steak, bacon, ham, sausage, and an angioplasty. I didn’t care. I deserved it.

  After the meal, the waitress came to pick up the check and I gave her an Am Ex. As I put my wallet back, Roscoe’s business card caught my eye.

  I called his direct line on my Blackberry, but son of a bitch, it was Sunday. I forgot. I wouldn’t be able to talk to him, or anyone at the bank except an automated machine, until the next day.

  The waitress came back with my receipt. “Do you have a phone book I could use?” I asked.

  The phone book was glued into a binder which was chained to the corner of the counter by the kitchen. I flipped over to the residential section.

  Roberts, Robertson, Rodd, Roll, Rolland, Ronald, Roper, Rosario, Rosa...Roscoe.

  “There you are,” I said. There were three Roscoes listed -- Jonathan and Carol, Marcus and Nicole, and Nathan and Valerie. Nathan and Valerie lived at 204 S. Mariposa in Burbank.

  Took me close to an hour to get into the Valley. The 405 was at a standstill because of an accident and I was forced to inch my way along to the 101 into Burbank.

  Verdugo was a long, quiet suburban street, similar to Charlotte’s neighborhood, but with a lot more trees. 204 Mariposa was just off Verdugo near Victory – a pink, two-story Spanish house with a rod-iron fence. I parked on the curb a couple houses down. The police report was still in my back seat. I figured I’d bring it in case Roscoe needed a memory jog. Before I stepped out of the car, I yawned. Maybe I should have gone home first and let the night catch up with me. At least should have showered and shaved.

  The neighborhood permeated with Sunday morning peace. It was shortly past eleven and I wondered if I would be waking the Roscoes. Hopefully they were morning people.

  The front door was actually two doors, oak, with a knocker. I used it and waited. Nothing. I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass of the bay window. Definitely should have showered and shaved. I knocked twice again and heard footsteps from inside approaching.

  A woman opened the door. A young housekeeper.

  “Ci?”

  “Abla Ingles?” I asked.

  “Ci—um, yes. Excuse me. I forget sometimes.” She smiled.

  “That’s all right.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m looking for Nathan Roscoe. The phone book has him listed at this address.”

  “Mr. Roscoe. Yes.”

  “Is he here--?“ Just as I said it, a boisterous laugh came from the back of the house. A man’s laugh. It could’ve been Nathan Roscoe, or it could have been Santa Claus.

  “Sounds like he’s here,” I said. “May I see him?”

  “I’m sorry. He’s not seeing anyone today.”

  “Could you let him know who I am?” I removed my wallet and flashed her my license. She shrunk back a bit.

  “Police?”

  “Kind of. May I see him?”

  “One moment please.” She closed the door. I stepped off the porch and looked up at the house. It looked bigger from this angle. A bit of grime had started forming at the rim where the roof met the wall and it stood out against the pink stucco.

  A second story window was covered by a lace drape. While I was looking up, I saw the drape move, like it was being closed by someone. I must have woken them.

  The door opened again. “Please come in,” said the housekeeper.

  I stepped into the foyer. She closed the door behind me and led me through the house. It was lavishly decorated with paintings and small sculptures. The man wasn’t a millionaire, but he certainly had enough to hold him over in hard times.

  We came to a screen door which led onto a porch and into the backyard where the pool was. Roscoe was out there on a lounge chair, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and swim trunks, having his own little Caribbean vacation. He was a large Falstaff of a man with thick gray hair. Sitting next to him was a woman about his age and in much better shape, wearing large white sunglasses. Mrs. Roscoe, I presumed. They were both sipping daiquiris.

  “You may see hi
m,” said the housekeeper.

  “Thank you.” She went on her way and I stepped out to the porch. I couldn’t hear what Roscoe was saying to his wife, but another jolly laugh escaped his mouth. She smiled at him half-heartedly and took another drink. Looked like she had already gone through a couple of them.

  “Nathan Roscoe?” I said. He looked up at me.

  “The one and only,” he said as he put his drink down and stood up to shake my hand.

  “You’re a cop?”