Body Copy - Michael Craven [58]
Did Evelyn get paranoid just because of a trip or two downtown for a little live smut? Or was Gale doing something else, something even Tyler didn’t know about?
Tremaine thought, that’s the question. What was Roger Gale’s motive for paying Wendy Leahy to help facilitate that illusion? Tremaine understood the psychology of it.
Admit it, really admit it, and his wife would be off his back so he could do what he wanted. Go downtown at his lei-sure, whatever. But again, why go to those lengths? Why was it so important that his wife not know what he was up to?
Or maybe, maybe, it was just as it seemed. Roger Gale wanted freedom from his wife’s suspicions, for whatever insignificant thing he was up to, so he got her off his back.
In his own crazy style. The guy was a professional manipulator. That’s what he did for a living. Better than anyone in the world. So he figured out a way to manipulate his wife’s thinking, and he executed it. In an extremely high-concept 182
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way. And the five grand he gave to Wendy? That was nothing to Roger Gale. Yeah, Tremaine thought, maybe it was just another campaign for him. Another dramatic form of manipulation. And, in his stellar style, it worked.
Downtown L.A., some skyscrapers and a thriving business community during the week, but a world apart from Beverly Hills and Hollywood and Malibu and Santa Monica. No glitz, no flash, but a nobility that’s palpable.
Old buildings mixed in with the skyscrapers, locals crawling the streets who lived there, who worked there, who weren’t a part of the stereotypical L.A. Tremaine liked it down here, resented that this part of the city played stepchild to the famous and fancy sections.
Tremaine weaved his way through the streets, looking at the shops and the buildings, soaking in this forgotten and unappreciated part of town. He got to Seventh Street and went left, west for a few blocks, back toward the beach.
The buildings began to shrink around him, he was nearing the outskirts of downtown proper. And there was the little strip mall, right on the corner of Seventh and Coronado, right where Tyler said it was.
The strip mall took up the whole corner of the block. It was comprised of five or six random little establishments and the karate studio with its façade that said Karate Studio, right there in the middle. There was a sushi joint in the corner space of the strip mall, and next to it sat a sad little store that sold nothing but lightbulbs. It was called Just Lightbulbs. There was also a barber shop, an old one, run-down, sad-looking. Flanking the karate studio, there was an aquarium and reptile place on the left, Underwater World, and a wig store on the right, Expert Wigs.
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Tremaine thought, maybe I’ll pick up an iguana for Lyle to pal around with. The bulldog and the lizard. He could ride around on Lyle’s back. No, Lyle wouldn’t like that . . .
Tremaine parked the Cutlass in the strip mall’s little lot and sat in it thinking about what to do. He pulled out a Marlboro, lit it, smoked it. He looked at the karate studio.
Bright lights, mirrors on the walls, but no action going on inside.
Tremaine got out of the Cutlass and walked in.
He stood inside, alone, looking around. It was pretty small, just one big room with wooden floors, mirrors everywhere, and bright, bright lights. There was a door in the back of the room that presumably led to a back section of the studio. Tremaine was staring at the door as it opened.
A black man in a karate uniform walked out of the back.
“Can I help you?” he said.
It was the same thing he had said to Tyler, and to Roger Gale, probably, too. The man in front of Tremaine looked dangerous. Had a look in his eye, a glimmer, that Tremaine suspected he could use to be charming or mean as shit.
Tremaine smiled and said, “Man, is there a bathroom I could use here?”
“Only for students.”
The two of them stood there looking at each other. Out of the corners of his eyes, Tremaine could see a million versions of himself and the black