Body Copy - Michael Craven [30]
She said, “So.”
Sometimes the simplest logic was the best.
Tremaine said, “You make a good point.”
She smiled and said, “I can see myself in the reflection of your glasses. I look funny,” she added.
Tremaine thought, I can think of another word for how you look.
“Well, bye, Donald. It was nice to meet you.”
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“It was nice to meet you, too,” Tremaine said.
And it was nice. Yes, very nice.
She walked away. Toward the entrance of Think Big. Her blonde hair falling to the top of her tight, but not too tight, black pants. Tremaine, sitting in his Cutlass, idling, said out loud to no one, almost involuntarily “She’s special.”
Then he cranked up the Cutlass and pulled out of the parking lot.
Tremaine got home, straightened up the trailer, walked Lyle, thought things over. Later, he grabbed his longboard and drove down to the surf break nearest his house, just down the hill, a great little Malibu break. It was the evening glass-off. Waves weren’t big, but the ocean was smooth, calm. The sun was a big orange ball slipping behind the horizon and the air was warm but not hot. Tremaine was alone out there. He’d see cars go by on the PCH and a person or two on the beach, but he was alone, just him and the waves, just him and his thoughts.
And he loved it.
He picked up a wave, rode it right, toward the shore. He glided up and down, up and down, not pulling any serious moves, just doing a little soul surfing, and searching.
Tyler Wilkes, he thought. A poseur, an asshole, probably a liar. Probably aware that his investments are shady.
But a murderer? Who knows? You don’t have to be cun-ning and convincing and impressive to kill someone. Quite the opposite, most of the time. A power–hungry, jealous 93
Michael Craven
drug addict could kill someone, might kill someone. But why, exactly? Was it just to get more business, to take out the other big shot in town? Did he have any other kind of relationship with Roger Gale, business or otherwise? According to phone records they never even spoke. Not once.
Tremaine thought, I got him a little confused, though. He’s not sure what I’m after. I’ll use that to get what I need.
Eventually . . .
And what about Roger Gale’s late nights? The cops looked into his running around. Sawyer mentioned it.
Tyler, too. Was there anything there other than a hard worker and an eccentric? That might be for Evelyn Gale to answer tomorrow, if he could get her to talk.
Tremaine, back at the trailer, having a beer, giving Lyle a pet. Roger Gale, Tremaine thought—who is this guy?
What was he doing that nobody seems to know about or want to talk about? What got him killed?
Tremaine fell asleep right there on his couch in the main room, tired from lots of nights out. The one with his old friend Lopez, the one in a Honda Accord with his new friend Laurie Donnelly. Tired. Like dog, like owner.
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Tremaine pulled the Cutlass up to Evelyn Gale’s palatial house in Bel Air. He thought, again, about getting into advertising. Then he remembered that Evelyn Gale had money, too, had money before her Roger Gale days, so advertising didn’t necessarily buy the house.
He got out and looked at the fortress before him. Huge and beautiful. But, like a lot of the houses in Bel Air, it was isolated. Hidden by walls of greenery and shrubbery, a perfect lot, big and beautiful and manicured, but no sense of community. And no ocean nearby. At least at my place, Tremaine thought, you could see the ocean. Yes, you could also see some fast food joints and a Dumpster or two, but, whatever, you could indeed see the ocean.
He rang the doorbell. He heard some dogs barking—
Michael Craven
not open-the-door-and-I’ll-kill-you barks, just augment-ing-the-doorbell barks. The door swung open and there was Evelyn Gale, flanked by two brown curly-haired dogs looking at Tremaine skeptically. Tremaine looked at Evelyn. Elegant, beautiful.