Part Five.

Hushabye

Chapter Fifty-Five

Take-out cartons, newspaper stacks—Pete’s hole-up a month in.

A tract house outside San Diego. Safe—his ex-wife was touring Europe for six weeks. Rent pirate Pete: two grand a week.

Newspapers—the story dispersed:

My confession quashed by legal injunction.

Dudley half-dead.

The Fed probe blitzed.

Narco destroyed—Exley triumphant.

Time to think.

Phone time—outside conduit Pete reporting in:

Warrants out on me—State and Fed—nine indictments total. “They’ve got you on Miciak, tax charges, two State and three Federal conspiracy statutes. There’s national APBs out on you, plus Fed bulletins up the wazoo. You can keep the house until January 27th, but that’s it.”

Pete—January 13:

“Glenda’s still in Fresno. The Feds have got her under surveillance, but I think I can sneak her down for a visit before you take off.”

January 14:

“I called Jack Woods. He said Meg’s okay, and I checked with a Fed guy I know. He said Noonan’s not going to file tax charges on her—he’s too busy cooking up some new probe gig to give a shit.”

January 15.

January 16.

January 17.

Tired, sludgy—chink take-out five weeks straight.

January 18:

“Dave, I can’t get you a passport. I’ve got no legit contacts, and I heard the mob fronts aren’t selling them, ‘cause they figure you’re buying.”

January 19—blind run fever.

Nightmares—EVERYTHING swirling.

January 20:

“Glenda thinks they lifted the surveillance on her. She’s going to bring your money down in a couple of days.”

January 21—Pete, fucking scared:

“Mr. Hughes found out I’ve been hiding you. He’s pissed that Glenda skated on Miciak and…shit, you know, you and her. He wants some personal payback, and he said he won’t turn you in if you cooperate. Dave, I’ll try to go easy.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

On my knees—woozy. Shock waves up my spine—one punch in.

The backyard—Howard Hughes watching.

I stood up groggy—loose teeth, split lips. Left-right/left-right/leftright—my nose somewhere down my throat. Propped up—eyebrow flaps shredded loose, shading my eyes.

Howard Hughes in a business suit and wing tips.

Kicked prone—”No, use your fists.”

Jerked upright—left hook/left hook—spitting gums, no nose, hard to breathe. Left hook/left hook—bones cracking.

No legs, no face—signet ring rips jaw to hairline.

“A few more.”

“He can’t take any more.”

“Don’t contradict me.”

No legs, no face. Eyes to the sun—burning red—please don’t blind me. Left-right/left-right—”Leave him for the doctor.”

Fading somewhere—don’t take my eyes.

Spinning, falling

Music.

Darkness/light/pain-arm jabs, crazy bliss. Light = sight—don’t take my eyes.

Spinning, falling—EVERYTHING synced to bop. Champ Dineen riffs—Lucille and Richie waved down from heaven.

Sweating—cold swipes at my face. Somebody’s face—an old man.

Needle jabs eating up pain.

Arm pops = craaaazy bliss.

EVERYTHING—spinning, falling

Cheek rubs half blissed—thick beard stubble.

Time—light into dark, light into dark, light into dark.

A man wearing glasses—maybe a dream. Voices—dreamy, half real.

Music.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Four days sedated.

The doctor, walking out: “I left you some morphine Syrettes. You’re healing up nicely, but you’ll need to get some bones set within a month or so. Oh, and a friend of yours left you a package.”

Numb throbs chin to forehead. Fresh newspapers-check the dates—January 22 to 25.

Mirror check:

My nose—smashed flat.

My jaw—bent sideways.

No eyebrows—scar tissue instead.

A raised hairline—scalp cuts ripped me balding.

Two new ears.

One eye squinty, one eye normal.

Dark brown hair gone pure gray inside a week.

Call it:

A new face.

Healing—bruises fading, sutures out.

I checked the package:

One blank passport.

One .38 revolver, silencer fitted.

A note, unsigned:

Chapter Fifty-Eight

“We used to be a great-looking pair.”

“That part’s all on you now”—Ioose teeth, painful.

“You’re different, David.”

“Sure, look at me.”

“No, it’s that we’ve been together for five minutes and you haven’t asked me to tell you things.”

Glenda: carhop suntan, close to gaunt. “I just want to look at you.”

“I’ve looked better.”

“No, you haven’t.”

She touched my face. “Was I worth it?”

“Whatever it cost, whatever it took.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

“You should have grabbed that movie contract way back when.”

Money bags by the door—time closing in.

Glenda said, “Tell me things.”

Back to then, up to always—I told her EVERYTHING.

I faltered sometimes—pure horror jolted me silent. That silence, implicit: you—tell me.

Light kisses said no.

I told her all of it. Glenda listened, short of spellbound—like she knew.

The story hung between us. Kissing her hurt—her hands said let me.

She undressed me.

She slid out of her clothes just past my reach.

I roused slow—just let me look. Persistent Glenda, soft hands—inside her half-crazy just from looking.

She moved above me—propped up off my bruises. Just watching her felt wrong—I pulled her down.

Her weight on me hurt—I kissed her hard to rip through the pain. She started peaking—my hurt ebbed—I came blending into her spasms.

I opened my eyes. Glenda framed my face with her hands—just looking.

Sleep—day into night. Up startled—a clock by the bed—1:14.

January 26.

A camera on the dresser—Pete’s ex-wife’s. I checked the film—six exposures remaining.

Glenda stirred.

I walked into the bathroom. Morphine Syrettes in a dish—I popped one and mixed it with water.

I got dressed.

I stuffed two hundred grand in Glenda’s purse.

The bedroom—

Glenda yawning, hands out, thirsty—I gave her the glass.

She gulped the water down. Stretches, little tucks—back to sleep.

Look:

A half-smile brushing her pillow. One shoulder outside the covers, old scars going tan.

I snapped pictures:

Her face—eyes closed-dreams she’d never tell me. Lamp light, flashbulb light: blond hair on white linen.

I sealed the film.

I picked up the money bags—heavy, obscene.

I walked out the door bracing back sobs.