The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum
SUNDAY cont...
I am driving south on the 405 freeway, bound for Inglewood and Diamond Joe.
I keep precisely to the speed limit; no faster or slower. I am in a hurry but not a rush. There is a difference. An important difference. A hurry will get you there. A rush will get you noticed. Get you arrested. Best not rush then.
I have time. Even if Paige changes her mind and persuades Spencer to accompany her today I have a healthy headstart. I don't think this will be the case. Paige had an exciting time yesterday, almost getting arrested, visiting a police station, quizzing a detective, being molested by a drunk. Enough excitement for anyone. Almost anyone. For me it's a fulltime job.
I reach Inglewood mid-afternoon. Diamond Joe's address isn't a mystery; it was pinned to the corkboard in Paige's bedroom. Little in the way of detective work required. Sometimes you get the breaks and you roll with them. Not lietrally, of course. No. Totally mess up my hair!
The apartment block is fairly typical for southern California: a three storey horseshoe-shaped building surrounding a central pool. Stairwells lead up to walkways to access the individual apartments.
I wear a rudimentary disguise: sunglasses and a baseball cap with my hair pinned under it. Another Marilyn Monroe mask might be pushing it.
The cap has NEW YORK GIANTS on the brim. Most likely this refers to the numerous skyscrapers in New York which are indeed giants in every sense of the word. How nice to see a clothing manufacturer prepared to laud architectural achievements and not some stupid sports team.
I enter the complex and walk up the west stairwell. Two youths in hoodies pass me descending. One gets in my face and says, "Yo, bitch, the Giants suck!" The other laughs and says, "Yeah, they suck bad!"
Obviously not fans of highrise architecture.
I leave the stairwell and move slowly along the uppermost walkway. As I pass the doors the animals in the apartments begin to howl, sensing the bad mojo I give off to the entire animal kingdom bar Snowy. A man yells, "Dammit, Caesar, will ya pipe down. I can't hear Jeopardy." But Caesar won't pipe down. Caesar is barking a frantic warning that something unspeakable is outside and they must flee, flee for their very lives.
By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes.
I am that something wicked.
It's enough to give a girl a complex.
Joseph Lisicki lives on the top floor at the base of the horseshoe. Three doors short of his apartment two old men are talking.
"I'm telling you, Marty. I don't know nothing about air conditioners. You'll have to take it up with the super."
"Ain't worked for days. I'm being boiled alive in here."
"Take it up with the super. I got troubles of my own."
I stand outside the Lisicki apartment. The men are too close for me to simply break down the door. I will have to use subterfuge.
I knock on the door. Footsteps. A voice, curious but not afraid. Yet. "Who is it?"
"It's Marty, Joe," I say in a perfect imitation of his elderly neighbour. "Open the door. I gotta talk to ya."
Locks being undone. No thought of a threat. The door opens. "Dammit, Marty! Quit bothering-"
I step inside, grasp a supprised Diamond Joe by the shoulders and steer him into the living room. He's too stunned to even cry out. I have this effect on people.
The living room has two sofas facing each other across a wooden coffee table. A flatscreen TV in the corner is showing a black and white rerun of the I Love Lucy show from the 1950s. Why do people still watch this? Don't they realise the actors are all deceased and it is disrespectful to laugh at the dead?
I push Joe down onto one sofa and sit opposite. I take off the sunglasses and cap and shake my hair loose.
"Alison? I -uh - never expected to see you again."
"It's a small world. You're looking well."
Actually this is a lie. He looks terrible. He's wearing grey jogging pants and a dark shirt that hangs on his slim frame like a tent. His face is haggard and there are dark blotches under his eyes. I judge him to be in his late 50s or early 60s, although it is difficult to be accurate with older people. Too bad I can't saw him in half like a tree trunk and count the rings.
On the table are a number of objects. A subroutine automatically begins to record them. What can I say? I'm very anal. And not in the fun way.
TABLE CONTENTS
- tv remote control
- Camels cigarette pack (opened)
- Pack of Tums (opened)
- Coors beer can (opened)
- copy of TV Guide
- ceramic coffee mug (empty)
- pack of chewing gum (spearmint)
- gilt picture frame
- aluminum foil TV dinner (consumed)
- china ash tray
- zippo cigarette lighter
I pick up the picture frame. It has a photograph of a young Joe with a woman and two small children. All are smiling at the camera. A happy moment frozen forever in time.
"Is this your wife?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"Where is she?"
"She passed five years ago. Cancer."
Passed. A common euphemism for death.
"And the children?"
"Joe junior's in Des Moines. Works on the railroad. Susie lives in New Mexico. We speak on the phone but they haven't visited in three years."
"So we won't be disturbed?"
A sad shake of the head.
I use the remote to mute the TV sound. The dead actors now appear to be miming.
"Listen, I'm sorry I gave you up," Joe blurts out. "I had no choice."
"Start at the beginning. What happened after I left?"
"Uh - I hid the table and chairs away so no one would know we'd been there. Then I turned the light off and let myself out."
"Into the alley?"
"Yeah. I almost tripped over... Christ! I nearly didn't recognise Big Al. His head was missing."
"Not missing. Merely in smaller pieces."
"Did you do that?"
"They intended to steal my winnings and cut my pretty face."
"Jesusmaryandjoseph! Did you use a baseball bat?"
"That seems to be the popular assumption."
"There was so much blood!"
"Then you called the police, didn't you?"
"No! Swear to God. I'm no snitch."
"So what happened?"
"The cops came here the next day to arrest me. Said they'd found my dabs at a murder scene and I was the chief suspect. I was staring at fifty to life!"
"What are dabs?"
"Fingerprints. From the light switch, I guess. I was a DUI years ago. Must still be on file."
"So you told them all about me?"
"Well, yeah. I thought youse was in the wind. And there wasn't much to tell, was there?"
"And then?" I prompt.
"I'm in the county lockup waiting to see my lawyer when some guys in suits arrive and spring me. I'm put in the back of a van and driven who the hell knows where."
"How long was the journey?"
"Don't know. They took my watch away."
"Make a guess."
"Maybe two hours. Three tops. I needed a whizz real bad at the end."
"A whizz?"
"Yeah, you know, take a piss."
Whizz. A tinkle. Making pee-pee. Humans and their bladders!
"When you got out of the van what did you see?"
"A building. A house. It was dark. I couldn't see much."
"Were you near the ocean?"
"Don't think so. Air seemed kinda dry."
Inland. Still California though probably not Los Angeles. Not too many clues there.
"They put me in an interrogation room." Joe continues unbidden. It's his story and he wants to tell it. "Just a table and two chairs. This guy, the head honcho I think, comes in and says, 'You're in deep shit unless you tell us all you know.' I said I wanted a lawyer and he just laughed and told me it wasn't that kinda dealio, asswipe. I hate that guy."
"Was his name Rubin Creed?"
"You know him?"
"We've had dealings."
"He showed me a bunch of photos. You were in them. And a young boy and an older woman. He wanted to know where he could find you. He was pretty mad when I told him I didn't have a clue."
"Did he hit you?"
"Nope. Looked like he wanted too though." Joe points at the beer can. "You mind?"
"Go ahead."
"Thanks. You want anything? Got beer. Coffee. I could probably rustle up some tea."
"I'm good."
Joe drains the beer. "Ah! That hits the spot. After the photos, he wanted to know how much money you stole."
"Won," I correct yet again. "Flush beats a set."
"I told him you cleaned us out. Can I have another beer?"
"No. Carry on."
"They stuck me in a cell. Gave me food. Left me alone for the most part. I guess it was a coupla days later they drag me back in the room. They were all excited, rushing around like something had happened they weren't expecting and it freaked them out."
The robbery...
"Creed comes in and shows me more photos. Looked like Dick Nixon and Marilyn Monroe and some old broad."
"Margaret Thatcher. She was British Prime Minister in the 80s."
"They wanted to know about a bank robbery in Long Beach. Had you said anything to me about it. I said I knew nothing about any robbery. They must've believed me because the next day they bring me back here. Told me I was free to go. No charges. But if I talked to anyone they'd stick me in jail and throw away the key. I believe them." He points at the cigarette packet. "Can I smoke?"
"No. Those things are bad for you."
"And you're not?"
He has a point. A police siren sounds outside. I walk over to the window. Two police cruisers speed along the freeway, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Quite a show. And I am afforded a front row seat. I watch until they vanish from view.
"Gangs," Joe explains wearily. "Blacks against the latinos. White Nazis against everyone. Happens most nights. Probably to do with drugs. Or territory. This ain't such a nice area to live."
"Then why live here?"
"All I can afford these days. Had a nice place once. Pool and a big yard for the kids to play in."
"What happened to it?"
"Gambled it away. Always liked a flutter. Horses. Blackjack. Poker. After my wife passed and the kids left it kinda got out of control. Wasn't all bad. I have my good days. Four months ago I won sixty grand in Reno. Felt like a king. Hadn't felt that way for a long time. Lost it again though."
"A fool and his money are easily parted."
"Yeah. And I'm an old fool living on memories, TV dinners and a pension."
He grows silent, pensive. Outside the sky is darkening, day slowly becoming night. The freeway is like a bracelet of light, forever pulsing, encircling this city, this state, this land. Humans in motion, still believing the world is theirs to mold, to shape to their own design, when it is already slipping from their grasp like so many errant grains of sand.
Joe stares at the TV. Dead Lucy has burnt some cakes. Wa-aa-ah!
"I love this show. Watched it as a kid. Hate the stuff they screen nowadays. All the crime shows with forensics. Who gives a shit about forensics? And these shows with swords. Sadistic crap. I like Modern Family. That's a funny show. The actress with the big cha-chas."
By cha-chas I presume he means boobs. Why do men like big boobs? What's wrong with small and perfectly formed?
I return to the sofa. A piece of card is sticking up between the cushions. I extract it and read the contents. "GA. What does GA mean?"
"Short for Gambler's Anonymous. I place I go sometimes, when it gets bad. The gambling, I mean. There are others like me. Same stories to tell."
"So it's like a club?"
"More a last resort. I don't attend as often as I should. No willpower, that's me. You got any addictions, Alison?"
"Addictions?"
"Things you can't help doing even though you know they're hurting the people you love. Fouling your life up good and proper yet you can't seem to stop yourself however hard you try."
Killing...
"Yes. I suffer from an...addiction. If I can't control it then it can harm the people I care about."
"You should go to a meeting. It helps, the sharing. The lack of judgement. And there's usually coffee and cookies provided."
"I don't think coffee and cookies will cure my addiction."
"No?"
"No. A girl came to see you yesterday. Blonde. Pushy. Big cha-chas."
"Yeah. Said her name was Paige something and she worked for a newspaper. I shut the door in her face. She keeps knocking until Marty yells he'll kick her ass if she doesn't vamos." He chuckles. "Feisty girl. Said she had Mace and wasn't afraid to use it. Marty might be old and losing his marbles, but he was a marine once. Served in Vietnam. Got a bronze star for bravery under fire so I don't think a twink with Mace is gonna scare him much."
"If she calls again you are not to tell her about me. Not even if she is persistent."
"I won't. My honor."
"In fact, it might be better if you disappear."
Joe whimpers as I reach into my jacket pocket. He thinks I'm reaching for a gun to shoot him dead. Instead I withdraw a wad of cash and drop it on the table between the cigarette pack and the Tums.
"Ten thousand dollars. Use it to buy a vacation. Somewhere far away. Don't come back for at least a month."
Joe picks up the money, ripples the bills with his bony fingers. "This kosher?"
"It's American currency not Israeli shekels."
"I meant, is it legit?"
"It's from the bank robbery."
"So that was you?"
"What's the matter, Joey baby, don't you recognise me with my mask off?" I ask in Marilyn Monroe's distinctive little girl voice.
A tentative smile. "You're something else, you know that?"
Something else? Yes, I suppose I am.
"You really kill those guys in the alley like they said?"
"Self defense."
"Yeah? You must be tougher than you look."
"I'm no Gina Carano, but I get by."
"A vacation, huh. Sounds good to me. Maybe I'll go to Florida. Always liked the climate."
"It's not called the sunshine state for nothing."
"My folks were originally from Florida. Tallahassee. Back in the day. How about you, Alison - where you from?"
I give it some thought. "Africa. Originally. Deepest Africa."
Deep underground. The ores.
"You don't look african."
"But I feel it. In my...bones."
"Guess everyone's from somewhere."
"You won't tell anyone I was here." A statement not a question.
"I swear." He pockets the cash. "How do you know I won't just gamble this away?"
"I don't care what you do with it. Just make sure you are away for a month. If you return sooner then I will return. You won't like that. Just ask your neighbor's dog."
-0-
I judge my trip a success. It confirms the bank robbery drew the emphasis away from the double murder just as John predicted. And Paige is likely to get short shrift if she turns up again to try and interview Joe. Maybe Marty really will stir himself and kick her ass. They don't award bronze stars to cowards.
Should I have terminated Joe to be sure he wouldn't blab?
No. His death would have reignited Creed's suspicions as to our whereabouts and motives. Joe will not talk. I looked into his eyes and analysed his responses to my questions. He was telling the truth.
Joe seemed an honourable man, albeit in thrall to an addiction that is steadily destroying his life. Perhaps Joe will enjoy himself in Florida? Lie on the beach. Kick back. Take a load off. Work on a tan. He certainly needs it; he looked like death warmed over.
And then there is Rubin Creed.
Powerful. Dangerous. Elusive.
A bully who threatens the weak and innocent with life imprisonment for crimes they didn't commit.
A patriot who nonetheless rides roughshod over the proud democratic ideals this country was founded upon.
A man who is a law unto himself.
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
Who watches the watchers?
If the future pans out as it did before then this man will one day be my captive. And I wring the life out of him with my bare hands.
Can't hardly wait.
-0-
There. Wasn't the bloodfest everyone expected. Are we learning yet?
Next: New characters. New danger.