Dream a Little Death, page 3
It was everything Miles had asked for.
That’s the thing about us groupies.
We are good at fulfilling other people’s fantasies.
“You’re done!” Cat taped a bandage over the half-naked guy’s six-pack. “Leave it there for at least two hours, then consult the aftercare sheet. Remember, no Neosporin. It pulls the color.” She took my hand. “Come with me.”
I followed her into the bathroom. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Cat lathered her hands. “I just wanted to make sure Rory hadn’t offended you. Tigertail is pregnant, but he’s the one who’s impossible.”
Tigertail and Rory were old friends from Coney Island. They’d held Cat’s hand on the historic day she got her first tattoo, a cat-o’-nine-tails.
“Me? Offended?” I smiled. “I was serious about getting back to work. Satisfaction guaranteed, remember?”
Cat dried her hands, then looked into the mirror and fluffed her nimbus of blond hair. “Hey, can I see her picture?”
I reached into my purse and handed it over.
Cat studied it for a moment, then turned on her heel.
“What?” I followed her out of the bathroom.
Cat marched straight over to Tigertail. “You know I never forget a face. This girl. Don’t we know her?”
“You know Maya Duran?” I asked, incredulous.
Tigertail looked at the picture, then said she didn’t think so. She handed the picture to Rory, who didn’t think so either. Then he returned the picture to Cat, who suddenly blurted out, “The lotus flower!”
“Let me see that again.” Rory peered at the picture. “The goddamn lotus flower!” He slapped his thigh. “I knew I should have gone with her to the ATM.”
Apparently, Maya Duran had come in three or four years ago wanting an entire sleeve consecrated to her spiritual path: a mandala, a Bodhi tree, the eternal knot, the circle of Zen, a couple of mantras. All she got was one large pink lotus on her arm. And without paying so much as a dime.
“I’m getting that girl back in here.” Cat started thumbing through the receipt book. “If she’s marrying Miles McCoy, who’s richer than God, then she can pay me for the lotus flower, and we can finish the rest of the Buddhist cosmology while we’re at it. We have Sprite’s college fund to think about!”
“I don’t know,” I said nervously.
“Come on,” said Cat. “While she’s here, I’ll even let you hide in the corner and spy on her.”
“Miles says she’s obsessive about her privacy. You can’t find her on the internet.” Believe me, I’d tried.
“Yeah, well, I’m obsessive about not getting stiffed. Aha!” Cat pulled out the receipt. “Here it is.” She frowned.
“What now?” I asked.
“This makes no sense. The name on the receipt isn’t Maya Duran.” Cat picked up her cell phone and started dialing. “It’s Carmen Luz.”
Carmen Luz? I grabbed the piece of paper and studied it. Carmen Luz didn’t live with Miles downtown in the Eastern Columbia Building. She lived somewhere in Glendale. Whoever Carmen Luz might be.
“The number’s disconnected.” Cat tossed the phone across the desk. “Just my luck.”
The one whose luck I worried about wasn’t Cat.
It was Miles McCoy.
Chapter 4
That night I slept badly.
What kept me up wasn’t the wind blowing through the fallen palm fronds in my front yard, the gangbangers partying after hours at the Oakwood rec center, or the feral cats prowling the alleyways off the boardwalk.
It was the girl in the picture.
Cat, Rory, and Tigertail all agreed her name was Carmen Luz. Were she and Maya Duran the same person? If so, why did Carmen Luz change her name to Maya Duran? Was the green-eyed goddess Miles was in thrall to more hard-boiled and loaded with sin than he knew? Was I duty-bound to tell him? I mean, I was on the payroll, not to mention I actually liked the man. There was something else. If Carmen wasn’t Maya, why did Miles—a man purportedly in love—carry her picture in his wallet?
I had lots of questions.
Too bad they weren’t the right ones.
After a short run and a long shower, I got dressed, shoveled some cereal into my mouth, and was out the door. Then I doubled back and set the alarm. A girl on her own can never be too careful.
Teddy and Engelbart were taking the morning air. I took mental inventory of my outfit: red kitten-heel mules, white knit mini-dress. Then I started fussing with my bangs. They never blended into my hair as perfectly as Jane Birkin’s.
“Leave it!” Teddy said.
He was talking to the dog, who was sniffing something that looked like a broken glass pipe. In Venice, you never know. About the people. Or the dogs.
Teddy turned to me. “Where are you off to at this ungodly hour?”
It was 11 a.m. “Work.”
“Cool.” He gave me a wolfish grin. “Say hi to your mom.”
“I’m not going to the café,” I said. “I’m off on a research expedition.”
“Oh.”
Teddy didn’t say much. His abs did most of the talking.
“Okay, then.” I got into my car. “Have a good one.” I realized I had no idea what he did all day. Something with computers, possibly.
“Dreama. Wait.” Was he blushing? “We should hang out later.”
“Are you asking me out? On a date? I think we’re kind of past that.”
Teddy leaned into the window. He smelled good, like pine needles and campfire smoke and other manly things. “Is that a no?”
Luke Cutt never stopped talking. Even in his sleep.
I smiled at Teddy. “It’s a maybe.”
Things were in good shape for the noir tour. I’d planned on eleven sites, concluding with a late supper at the Varnish, which was hidden speakeasy-style behind an unmarked door in the back of Cole’s, the legendary downtown restaurant. All that remained was to scout one last location. Which just happened to be in Glendale. Which just happened to be where Carmen Luz lived. Not that I had any plans where Carmen was concerned. Absolutely not. I was going to be far too busy checking out the neighborhood where Mildred Pierce lives in the classic hard-boiled novel to engage in those kinds of shenanigans.
Poor, long-suffering Mildred Pierce.
After her husband leaves, she hits it big with a chain of fried chicken and pie restaurants, but no matter how much she sacrifices—and how well she rocks a fur coat with padded shoulders—she can’t win the approval of her narcissistic daughter, Veda, who’s repulsed by the smell of grease Mildred wears like perfume. Glendale plays a big part in the story. The author, James M. Cain, portrays it as a symbol of working-class aspiration, a suburban hell with endless rows of cookie-cutter Spanish bungalows. Wouldn’t he have been shocked to learn that according to Zillow, 1143 North Jackson Street—the house where they filmed the Joan Crawford movie—was currently worth a cool million?
The first thing I noticed when I got there was that the Canary palm on the front lawn had shot up maybe fifty feet since 1945. The second was that there was a pocket park nearby. Perfect. That was where I was going to take our little tour group for a boxed lunch of fried chicken and pie.
After taking a few notes, I pulled out the receipt that I may have inadvertently dropped into my purse when I was at Cat’s, and typed Carmen Luz’s address into my phone. Turned out she lived in the foothills, a mere ten minutes away.
It was weird.
The car just sort of drove itself.
I pulled up in front of a standard post-war bungalow, one story, pinkish stucco, gray slate roof, shielded from the street by some overgrown bushes. I cut the motor, then grabbed my clipboard. If Carmen opened the door, I could pretend I was taking a survey.
Nobody answered.
I peered through the windows on either side of the front door. The place looked deserted. Maybe I could just tiptoe around the back and see if there was an open door.
No such luck.
I did, however, find a key under a potted succulent.
Yes, reader, it’s a slippery slope. You start by stealing from people’s wallets, and before you know it you’re breaking and entering. Actually, trespassing. Which is barely a misdemeanor in the state of California. Like giving out plastic bags at supermarkets.
The lock was a little rusty, but I jiggled it a couple of times, then pushed so hard I nearly lost my footing as the door gave way.
From the looks of it, Carmen had cleared out in a hurry. In the living room there were hangers scattered on the floor. In the kitchen, dirty cups in the sink. The bedroom was equally atmospheric, with cabbage rose wallpaper, stained couch cushions, and an overturned peacock chair, like Morticia’s in The Addams Family. Before leaving, I took a couple of pictures and posted them to Instagram, the beast that must be fed. Then I tweeted about it. #hauntedhouse, #ghostsofglendale, #DreamaDoesLA. After that, most people would have called it a day. But I’m not most people. Regrettably.
The house next door to Carmen’s looked like it’d been built by tweaking elves. I’m talking trippy stained glass, sharply pitched gables, a fish-scale roof. A small sign read, “Psychic Readings by Madame Anna.” I knocked.
The woman who opened the door was thirtyish, wearing a tight pink velour tracksuit and a diamond stud in her nose. She was holding a small dog, who gave me the evil eye.
“Hello,” she said in a thick accent. Russian? Romanian? Someplace with castle ruins and a diet heavy on cabbage.
“Sorry to disturb you.” I reached into my purse for the picture.
“Nothing disturb me. Come in. Do not be shy. I do not bite. The dog, maybe.” She set him down and shooed him away.
The inside matched the outside—wood beams stenciled with flowers, iron sconces straight out of a medieval banquet hall. On the mantel, above a vintage tiled fireplace, was a bonsai tree and a Beanie Baby. Patti the Platypus.
“You are prepared to hear good and bad?” the woman demanded.
Before I could answer, she said, “I start with bad. You are open wound attracting negative energy.”
She’d obviously been talking to my mother. “I’m not here for a reading.”
“That is what they all say,” she sniffed.
I showed her the picture. “Do you recognize this girl? She lived in the house next door. Her name is Carmen.”
“Sixty dollar for reading. After, I make chit-chat.”
I was doing this for the benefit of my client, wasn’t I? And business expenses are tax-deductible. I handed the woman three twenties. She tucked them into a crystal bowl filled with potpourri and batteries. Then she closed her eyes.
“Wait!” Her eyes flew open. “You hear that?”
Jerry Springer was chiding somebody’s mud-slinging mistress. The vacuum cleaner was on. The dog was barking.
“Is terrible! I cannot think!” The woman tossed her tarot cards onto the table, then bellowed down the hall, “Quiet!”
“I get it,” I said. “It’s hard running a business from home. By the way, can I get a receipt?”
She looked at me uncomprehendingly, then studied the card that had flipped over. A hand holding a sword. “Bah!” She turned the card facedown.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said ominously. “We try something else. Think of two wishes, and tell me one.”
The first wish was the same one I always made. I never said it out loud. The second wish would get me out of here. I wanted the dirt on Carmen.
“Carmen this, Carmen that.” The woman made a face. “Why you are so obsessed with this girl? You are snoop. You live precariously.”
“Do you mean vicariously?”
She nodded. “Self-awareness is encouraging sign.”
“Can you just look at the picture?”
She glanced at it, handed it back. “Sorry. I do not know her.”
Sixty bucks down the drain. “You never saw her next door?”
The woman said, “I am here only two months. I house-sit while owner is, how you say, detained. Do not mess with IRS.”
“So you’re not Madame Anna?”
She turned frosty. “This is America. I can be anyone I want.”
Apparently. “I’ve got to run.”
“Is better for pert bosoms to walk.” She grabbed my phone and typed in her number. “I make house calls. In meantime, be careful. The card that turned over? Ace of Swords. This is card of persons who have desire for truth and justice. But Ace of Swords is double-edged. Your quest can bring misery and pain to others.”
Cheering words from a post-Soviet imposter.
As I walked down the path, I saw a thin woman dragging the trash cans in from the curb. The housekeeper.
“Excuse me?”
She looked up, wiped her hands on her faded jeans. “Yes?”
I introduced myself. She said her name was Lizeth. I asked her if she’d worked here long.
“I’ve worked for Madame Anna for four years,” she said.
Now I was getting somewhere. “I was wondering if you knew the girl who used to live next door. It would’ve been a couple of years ago.”
As she looked at the picture, something passed across her face. “This is Carmen.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Carmen Luz.”
Lizeth peered at me. “You’re her friend?”
This wasn’t the time to get bogged down in technicalities.
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh, Carmen,” Lizeth sighed. “I miss her. She was so happy with her life, her house. For a girl like her, she said, it was a dream come true. Until—”
“Until what?”
She paused. “She showed up one day with a black eye.”
Jesus.
“After that—” Lizeth shook her head. “Que pesadilla. Nadie merece ese trato.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” I said. “What happened after that?”
Lizeth looked puzzled, then said she thought I was Carmen’s friend. When I didn’t answer, she said she couldn’t talk to me anymore. She was busy. She had work to do.
Driving home I remembered something James M. Cain said about Mildred Pierce.
Cain said that a dream come true is the worst possible thing that can happen.
Chapter 5
About five minutes after I got home, the doorbell rang.
It was my uncle Ray.
It may not surprise you that my mother was sleeping with more than one person when she found out she was pregnant with me. Many more, in fact, not one of whom ever bothered to step up. And then there was my grandmother’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, Ray, who was the closest thing to a father I’d ever had. It was Ray who bought me my first Pokémon card. Ray who took me to the eighth-grade father-daughter dance. Ray who taught me to drive. And even though we hadn’t seen each other much lately, Ray was family. I knew that if I ever needed anything, he’d be there in a heartbeat.
“Hey, princess.” He wrapped me up in a hug. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” I put my hands on his shoulders, gave him the once-over. “You look good.” The man was Denzel Washington’s doppelgänger. “For an old man.”
Ray tugged on a strand of my hair, then handed me a box. Inside was my favorite, a cherry pie from Du-par’s in the old Farmer’s Market. I put on a pot of coffee and when it was done we took our cups and slices of pie into the living room.
“So.” I sat down on the couch. “What’s wrong?”
He sat down next to me. “What makes you think something’s wrong? Can’t I drop by because I haven’t seen you in a while?”
I shot him a look.
“I like the new rug,” he said. “It really complements the décor. What do you call that color? Mauve?”
I rolled my eyes. “Uncle Ray.”
“Fine. There is something I wanted to tell you. It’s going to be all over the news tomorrow, and I thought you should hear about it from me first.”
Ray had been suspended from the force. Internal Affairs was investigating. They had an informant who said he’d shaken somebody down for $40,000, then laundered the money. Or hidden it offshore. They hadn’t found it yet, but they would. And then he was going away for a long time.
“That is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said.
“Crazy is right.” He started pacing. “I’m not going to pretend that after twenty-three years on the job I haven’t made enemies. But this I never expected.”
“You think it’s some guy you put into prison? Maybe the informant is doing the guy’s dirty work for him. No, no! I’ll bet it’s someone on the force whose toes you’ve stepped on. A classic frame job.”
This time Ray shot me a look.
“Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”
“The worst part is the timing. I’m up for a huge promotion. Deputy Chief. I’ve worked my ass off to get it, but the announcement is going to be made next Thursday, and if this garbage doesn’t get cleaned up by then, I’m out of the running.”
I took his hand. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yeah, there is. Did your grandmother mention that she and I were talking again?”
“‘Talking’?” I smiled. “Is that what the kids call it these days?”
“Listen,” he said, “the last thing I ever wanted to do was to come back into her life and cause more problems. She’s already worked herself into a frenzy. Can you calm her down? Tell her not to worry? I could really use your help, Dreama.”
I told him I would do that. And that he shouldn’t worry either.
“What, me worry?” Uncle Ray stood up. “I’ve got to go. They’re coming over this afternoon with a warrant to search the house.”
