Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [106]
She unbuttons her sleeve and pulls it back to reveal a big pink rectangular bandage. When she peels away its corner there’s a fresh red welt, round and dark.
“Cocksucker burned me with a cigarette, and when I objected he pulled a gun on me, swear to God.”
For the first time it occurs to me how fast she’s talking, and I remember her offering me a hit of meth when I first got here. “How fucked up were you guys when this happened?” I ask.
“He had some crank, we were messing around a little bit.”
Something else strikes me. “How come you’re in your uniform? You didn’t work today.”
“Sometimes I wear it on my off days.” This, I know, is a lie, and under the pressure of my stare she cops to it. “Gary likes to fuck me while I’m wearing it, okay? Just like you do, so don’t smirk. Sometimes he likes to tie me to a chair and do stuff. That’s what he wanted to do tonight, but with him being so cranked up and things already getting out of hand”—she holds up the burned wrist as evidence—“I decided that was a bad idea. So he got the gun and started trying to force me into the chair, and I took it and shot him. Simple.”
“That’s a pretty good story, why don’t you just flush the crank down the toilet and tell it to the cops?”
“I don’t function well with cops. They give me the willies.”
“They give everybody the willies, but we have to call 911 and get an ambulance.”
“Like fuck we have to. Look, Tate, I want to be famous again someday, but not for being in this year’s trial of the century, got it? That’s why I called you.”
“What did you think I was going to do? Finish him off?”
She shrugs. “He’s not long for this world anyway. Just help me get rid of him, someplace where nobody’ll find him for a long time. What do you think of the Angeles National Forest?”
“Never been.”
“Doesn’t it seem like they’re always finding corpses out there? Angeles National Cemetery, more like.” She laughs, a staccato, high-pitched giggle I’ve never heard from her before, and the batshit crazy sound of it scares me a little bit more than I already am.
“Won’t people be looking for him?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time he’s taken off without telling anyone. He’s a world-famous nutjob anyway, and by the time anybody figures out he’s really gone, the evidence’ll be cold.”
“Where’s the gun?” I ask, the brilliant idea being that I’ll take it from her and call 911 like a sane person. When she produces it I lunge for her, and to my utter and complete astonishment she fires at the floor next to my feet, drilling a jagged hole into one of the tiles and scattering dusty shards in all directions. I drop the cell and she kicks it out of reach.
“Fucking hell, Cherie. Way to wake up the neighbors.”
“I knew you were going to try and take the gun. Soon as you asked for it. Now, you listen.” She raises the gun so it’s pointing at my face rather than my belly. “You fucked me while he lay here dying, and that makes you my accomplice.”
Rather than pointing out the flaws in her logic, I concentrate on placating her. In between our words I discover that I can actually hear the thin whistle of Gary’s breath, and it occurs to me that I’d better get help to him sooner rather than later.
“All right, then, take his feet,” I tell her.
“I’m not putting down this gun.”
“I can’t carry 350 pounds of Gary up those steps all by myself.”
“We’re going downstairs, to the garage. Gary’s got a Hummer.”
“Hummer’s no good, it’s too conspicuous.”
“Fuck conspicuous, you do what I tell you. Take him by the feet and drag him.”
I start pulling him toward the staircase. It’s harder than I thought it would be, hauling a sixth of a ton of deadweight across the tile, harder still when I reach the carpet of the living room. Then Cherie starts down the steps ahead of me to turn the light on downstairs, and I step over Gary and kick her right in the ass. She stumbles—did I mention those heels?—and when she hits the landing with a squeal of pain and outrage, she twists around and fires at me. I’m already headed up that other set of stairs to the front door, though, and as soon as I cross the