A/N: Another AU story that's been on my mind. Set in Los Angeles, a neo-noir fic that'll take place over the course of two decades. Also, /Signed Dialogue/ and 'Written Dialogue'.
Pairings: Gil/Sara (2002), Gil/Catherine (1982)
Rating: Mature for subject matter.
Warnings: Murder, violence, profanity, adult situations and relations, child abduction, and mention of child assault and sexual abuse (no worse than what's been mentioned/shown on the show), as well as mild drug use.
Summary: In 1982, Gil Grissom's accused of a brutal murder and child abduction. Twenty years later, an LAPD detective uncovers a chilling series of child murders and abductions similar to the unsolved case. When another girl goes missing, the detective turns to the once prime suspect, Grissom, to help solve the case.
Part 1: The Fall
Chapter 1
Saturday, March 6th, 1982
Journal Entry:
Today is our day. I want it to stay that way for as long as it can. Saturdays are the best days because of my friend. The only peace and quiet I'll get all week is when I'm with him at the library.
My dream last night was new. It's silly to say but I thought I heard his voice. He can't speak and when I heard him try once, it was funny. His voice was like a worn-down cassette tape or the sound of a doll with string but when you pull on it, the voice is slow and garbled gibberish because it's broken. That's his voice, I guess, it's broken. It wasn't broken in the dream. He could speak. We talked about all kinds of things, none that I can remember now, but I didn't feel afraid. We also laughed. His laugh was odd though, funny like the way it is now. It sounds almost like a laugh, like he knows what it's supposed to sound like, but it got lost along the way.
He reminds me of Jean Valjean, from the book Les Misérables. I just finished it. Valjean was just trying to live a normal life, but a normal life wasn't for him. When I think of Gil, I think of Valjean and what had been written on his gravestone: Quoique le sort fût pour lui bien étrange, Il vivait.
Although his fate was very strange, he lived.
I set the shutter speed, focused the lens, and adjusted the depth. Pressing the shutter button, I held it as the cars passed by. A blue 1978 Pontiac Firebird sped through the green light while a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda pulled up alongside a brand new 1979 Chevrolet Corvette that's as bright and yellow as the sun. Driving through the intersection, following the Pontiac, was a red 1969 Chevelle SS. Then a white 1977 Ford Mustang followed by a green 1970 Oldsmobile 442. With every car, I snapped a picture.
I've been researching cars, trying to figure out which one I might want to buy now that I've finally obtained my driver's license. A Ford? A Chevy? A Buick? There are so many options. As the lines of cars moved up and down the boulevard, I watched the sway of the palm trees and felt the hot breeze of the wind against my face. I loved the city. The warm breeze, the sights, and the people.
On the corner, several women smoked cigarettes. Their short skirts were barely thigh-high and the tube-tops were even shorter than their skirts. An orange 80's Volkswagen came to a stop. Behind the wheel of the car was a man with a thick mustache under a thicker pair of glasses. He wore a plaid shirt. One of the women leaned into the passenger window before flicking the cigarette away as she opened the door. I felt a little dirty watching the exchange but took the pictures anyway. It was interesting. They were all interesting.
A man appeared at the top of the stairs. He was scrawny and wiry, with shaggy hair and sideburns, wearing a black suit and a very bright colorful tie. As he walked down the steps from the second level of the motel, I took his picture. Mr. Bright Tie turned his head my way as he pulled out a pair of sunglasses. His lips moved but I couldn't read his lips fast enough. He wasn't enunciating his words.
/Enunciate/ I signed the words he didn't understand. /I might just care to know what you're saying./
Mr. Bright Tie smiled as he turned away and pulled out his keys. He got into a Nissan Skyline. Next to the Skyline was a brand new '82 Chevy Impala. It was brown. A man was sitting in the front seat of the Impala. Beside him, a little girl about seven or eight. Flower dress and pigtails. The man wore thick glasses, curly brown hair, and a red button-up shirt. As Mr. Red Shirt got out, he nearly hit Mr. Bright Tie's car with his door. Both men exchanged some words as Mr. Bright Tie got into the driver's seat of the Skyline.
I chuckled as I snapped pictures of both men before the Skyline pulled out of the parking spot and drove off. Mr. Red Shirt took off his glasses, shoved past me to the stairs, and started up to the second floor. What a bunch of assholes.
The air had a hint of salt water, gasoline, smog, and trash. The dumpster beside the La Vista Motel was overflowing. There were melted tires and scorch markings under the graffiti of slang and cuss words, along with a mural of a Jamaican man singing out the words "One Love". I adjusted the focus, changed the shutter speed, and took a picture.
There was a tug on my sleeve. Sara. Her clothes looked worn, too big on her child frame like they belonged to her mother. The neck hole of the shirt was sliding down her left shoulder as she jumped off the bottom step and ran over to the wall with the graffiti.
Her lips moved. I made out the shapes of each syllable, the placement of tongue, as she said, "Take my picture," before putting on her heart-shaped sunglasses and struck a pose as she threw up a peace sign. To me, it looked like the letter 'V'. V for victory. Victory for peace time. Peace time became the peace sign.
I refocused the lens, adjusted the depth, and snapped a picture.
The camera hit my chest as we started down the sidewalk. Saturday was our day to hit the library together. At the corner I noticed her tentative glances at the women on the corners, the men staring at the women from the idling cars, and the ones who weren't. The ones who didn't had their eyes glued to the traffic lights or to the bumper of the car in front of them. Anywhere but at the prostitutes and homeless and the men picking up the prostitutes.
A man in a pale green 1965 Chevy pickup truck stared with his eyes on Sara. Our eyes met and Green Pickup Man blinked and quickly looked away as his lips moved. I didn't care to know what he'd said, only that he kept his eyes on the road and away from the girl.
The light turned from green to yellow and then red. We headed across the street. Sara was skipping. It always amazed me how carefree she acted on our walks. I'd seen where she lived, saw the bruises on her arms, and the ones on her mother's face. I had seen the pain and anger in her eyes, it broke my heart. I knew that pain.
Once inside the library, Sara sprinted to the counter to return the book, Les Misérables, so she could get more. As she ventured around the aisles in search of something new and fantastical to read, I navigated around the rows to the non-fiction section. I had a list. I checked off number 127 and went in search of number 128. The Book of Photography: How to See and Take Better Pictures by John Hedgecoe.
Finding it, I took it to a table near the windows and started reading. Sometime later, a note slid under the bottom edge of the book. I read the question: Did you go to college?
I took my pen out of my jacket pocket and wrote: 'I never finished school.'
She wrote: 'Why not?'
I wrote: 'My mother died.'
'What do you do for a living?'
Thinking about what to tell a ten-year-old child, I wrote: 'I work at my father's warehouse. But what I do for a living is learn. Right now, I'm learning photography.' I clicked the pen closed and slid the piece of paper back across the table.
As Sara read it, her eyes lit up. "You want to be a photographer? Like that Ansel Adams guy?"
She knew who that was? I was impressed. Raising my right hand, I signed, /Yes./
"Makes sense. All you need for that job is your sight."
I laughed. Her eyes widened in surprise. I kept laughing until a sharp painful kick hit my leg under the table. /What the hell?/
Her eyes darted around the library. Everyone was looking our way. Her foot kicked me again, getting my attention. Reading her lips, she said, "It was loud." My laughing was loud? "Like terribly loud." She wrote on the paper. 'It was obnoxious, but it would have been funny if we weren't in a library.'
I rubbed the sore spot and felt the throbbing. She'd kicked me pretty hard. I also had no idea that I'd actually laughed out loud. I couldn't hear it.
We went back to quietly reading for the next couple of hours. It was only supposed to be for an hour, but we lost track of time, per usual. After I checked out our books, we headed back to the motel. There was a taco food truck on the way, sitting on the same corner it always sat on. We grabbed a couple of tacos, ate, and then proceeded on down the avenue to the La Vista Motel.
I once again waited at the bottom of the stairs as Sara started up to the second floor. She would then race down the long walkway to the fifth red door. Room 2E. Instead of running up the steps as usual, she stopped halfway and waved. "See you next Saturday," she said before running up the steps and disappearing down the walkway.
The woman who'd been picked up earlier hadn't returned to the corner. Two more women were walking up and down the sidewalk, cigarettes and long legs sticking out at every car going by. I headed the opposite way, going towards the Port of Los Angeles.
It wasn't a long walk, less than thirty minutes, and I never minded it. I've been walking the streets for most of my life. Once I got a car, I was certain I'd still want to walk most places. I liked the smell of the ocean water, watching the people, the cars, and the palm trees swaying in the breeze.
Walking gave me time to enjoy the view, stop for a drink or bite to eat, and take pictures. It also gave me time to think. I was always in my head. It was where I held most of my conversations and thought up ideas and plans. Who else did I have but myself?
As the sun was starting to set, I entered the house on the corner of Palos Verdes and 13th Street and saw only the light from the small table lamp on. There was no trench coat on the coat rack or shoes by the door. There was no smell of food cooking on the stove or the smell of whiskey from an open bottle on the counter. In place of the usual bottle was a note that caught my attention.
It read: 'I'll be at Parker's Bench. We have a 2 a.m. meeting with Charlie. Bring the gun.'
I deposited the book and camera on the desk in my bedroom. From a metal safe on the top shelf of my closet I removed a Taurus 1911 .38 Super and holster that I attached to my belt. Feeling the weight of the gun on my hip stirred an unsettling tension in my gut. I never liked feeling that weight. I left the house, locking the door behind me and as I stood on the porch I marveled for a brief moment at the skyline. On the horizon, just beyond the neighborhood, the cranes and lights of the Port of Los Angeles stood against the orange sky of the setting sun.
I loved the port. I loved my city.
~"Out on the tar plains, the glides are moving
All looking for a new place to drive…"~
Stepping down off the porch, I left the yard as I pushed the gate open and then turned right to head south. The neighborhood in which I lived in San Pedro was only a short five-minute walk to the harbor yacht yard where Parker's Bench was located. It reminded me of Marina Del Rey where I'd once lived with my mother, Elizabeth. Everyone called her Betty, but I remember my father always signing her full name. She had been an artist with a gallery on Venice Beach. That felt like a lifetime ago, but I realized it had only been ten years since her death. Fifteen since the divorce.
Those five years between their divorce and her death, I never saw my father. I was nine when he left. I was fourteen when I was driven to his house there in San Pedro with only a suitcase in hand. I'd been so nervous seeing my father again after all those years of him only being a picture in a frame. His sign language was rusty; there was a lot of anger at first. Misunderstandings that led to harsh feelings and physical reprimands. No one ever hit me before, my mother certainly never did. That's when I learned why they'd divorce and the absence of his presence. He was not only an alcoholic, but a violent man. Those two things mixed together to make a very dangerous combination.
The boardwalk of the pier stretched out towards the sea. I followed it to the building with neon blue and white lights. A silver Jaguar was parked right in front, my father's car. Parker's Bench was the name of the bar, and after all my years of living there, I still had no idea why. I've never seen anyone named Parker working there. There was a bench out front, but there was no plaque commemorating it as Parker's. It was a mystery that I wasn't trying to discover the truth about anytime soon. I was okay with most of life's mysteries, which for me included the hearing world, relationships, and women.
~"You sit beside me, so newly charming
Sweating dew drops glisten fresh in your side…"~
My father stopped being a mystery once I met his temper. Once I understood it, then I understood my role. I learned how to hide, to be a ghost, and then one day I learned how being hidden was the best place to be.
Ralph Ellison wrote in 'The Invisible Man': "I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me, they see only my surroundings, themselves or figments of their imagination, indeed, everything and anything except me."
I'd much rather people see the distorted glass, the falsehoods of their lives, than to view the reality of who I was. I prefer the lie over the truth. It kept me safe. No one wanted the truth anyway. That was one of the reasons people flocked to Los Angeles. They wanted the fairy tale that the silver screen sold them. The paradise the palm trees promised. Under all that, nothing but harsh realities and even harder truths. This wasn't paradise. This wasn't the City of Angels. This city was built on lies. Nothing here was real.
~"And the sun drips down bedding heavy behind…"~
Smoke like the smog filled the inside of Parker's Bench. Sitting at the counter, a highball in front of him, was my father. Arthur Grissom's trademark trench coat was wrapped around the back of the barstool. He was a few years shy of seventy, but appeared much older as his slumped shoulders held a lot of regrets. The harbor, the ports, were his haunts. And, oh, how they haunted my old man.
Arthur used to work in the importing/exporting oil business until the Oil Embargo of 1973 that lasted until 1974. The embargo ruined him, but it just so happened that the 70's also marked the end of the Vietnam war and the start of the war on drugs. Opportunity presented itself to an aging businessman who knew shipping. That'd been ten years ago. In all my years of living with the man, I couldn't remember a time when my father wasn't working, except for the times when he was drinking.
~"...The front of your dress all shadowy lined…"~
I sat on the stool next to him as the bartender, Joel, placed a bottle of beer in front of me along with a receipt. On the back was a handwritten note that informed me that Arthur had been there all day running up a tab. I wasn't surprised. It was Saturday. I took a sip of beer as I grabbed the pack of cigarettes. They were Arthur's, but he never not shared. I sucked in a breath of the Marlboro as I watched the game that played on the television. Up north in San Francisco, at Candlestick Park, the Giants hosted the Los Angeles Dodgers.
After another gulp, I stuck the cigarette in my mouth as I paid the amount owed. Then I started my own tab. Due to my father's vices, I'd become a regular at the bar long before I was of legal age to drink. There had been many bartenders over the years, and most left us alone to drink in peace.
~"...And the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…"~
As more people entered, I finished my first beer and held up a 'U' sign to Joel. Joel didn't recognize it as the ASL sign for the letter 'U', it was just two fingers to indicate that I wanted another beer. People made me nervous. That nervousness grew along with the crowd. Within minutes I could tell that the energy in the room changed from mediocre to happy excitement with how people acted. It was a far better feeling than the tight tension that'd settle between me and my father.
~"Way down the lane away, living for another day
The aphids swarm up in the drifting haze…"~
Big gestures and bigger smiles. That was what happiness looks like. There was dancing—I could feel the music in my chest and ears—between games of pool, darts, and cards. Several couples were hanging off each other in booths. The music changed from slow to fast as erratic movements replaced the slow swaying. It was all so fascinating.
I tried to keep my eyes on the game, drink beer, smoke the Marlboro's, while ignoring anyone trying to make small talk. I said I tried because currently there was a guy with a cigar who smelled of gin who had his arm around my shoulders. As he talked, his hot breath tickled my ear. I tried to move away from the irritation, but the guy was relentless. His hand got tighter as I resisted the urge to shove him away. I couldn't draw attention. I had to stay hidden, safe, even with drunks hanging on my shoulder while talking into a deaf ear.
~"Swim seagull in the sky, towards that hollow western Isle
My envied lady holds you fast in her gaze…"~
As the air that enclosed around me grew thicker, making it harder to breathe, the front door opened, and I sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. A man entered, followed by a woman. She had long blond hair, light blue eyes under a sea of black eyeshadow, and wore a red blouse and black skirt with red pumps. Miss Blue Eyes was stunning. For the five seconds it took for our eyes to meet, I forgot how to breathe.
The rest of the room disappeared as her eyes sparkled in the neon as she smiled. I missed Jerry Reuss, the pitcher for the Dodgers, as he threw a no-hitter. I caught the celebration and wondered what happened. How did I miss it?
Gin breath finally got up and stumbled to the restroom, leaving the stool on my right open. Beside that stool was another empty one. Miss Blue Eyes and her boyfriend headed for the empty stools. I finished the beer and searched out Joel to signal for another when a hand landed on my shoulder. It belonged to Miss Blue Eyes' boyfriend.
~"And the sun drips down bedding heavy behind…"~
The boyfriend wore a brown leather jacket, white t-shirt and ripped blue jeans. His hair was cut short and stuck up in sharp edges. He looked like a drummer in one of the punk bands that I've seen live at The Masque, which was a small underground club in the basement of an X-rated theater. Charming little place, actually, if you liked the smell of spray paint mixed with urine and stale beer. I didn't go there for the housekeeping. I went for the music and the people.
I remembered vaguely how I ended up there the first time. A drunken haze of being grabbed and thrown into a cab by some girl I barely knew. She thought we could be 'an item'. The next thing I knew I was in a smelly, sweaty basement with a thumping vibration inside my body that felt like an earthquake. Even though I couldn't hear music, I sure as hell could feel it, see it, and in those movements of sweat and tears, all the anger and passion in the world suddenly made sense. Human beings were insane. I loved every second of it.
~"...The front of your dress all shadowy lined…"~
The man's lips moved, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. Shrugging the hand off my shoulder, I went to turn away but was grabbed. His hand pinched my shoulder.
I read the man's lips as he said, "Did you hear me? I said—"
/I'm deaf/ I told him. /Leave me alone./
~"And the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…"~
The man saw the hand gestures and shoved my shoulder, hard. The woman said something, called him a name. One syllable. Ah? No, that's not right. I'll just call him an asshole. Miss Blue Eyes was pleading with the asshole to leave me alone. I really didn't know what his problem was. But whatever it was, it pissed him off as he drew his arm back like he was gearing up to throw a punch. Before a fist was thrown into my face, a strong hand shot up out of a suit sleeve and stopped it.
~"And the sun drips down bedding heavy behind…"~
Arthur appeared in front of me, speaking words under his graying mustache that angered the asshole and embarrassed Miss Blue Eyes. He'd said, "So what if he thought she was pretty, he can't do anything 'bout it. Deaf and dumb. Utterly useless."
~"…The front of your dress all shadowy lined…"~
That's when I saw it. Miss Blue Eyes had the same look I've seen in most people once they knew. Pity. I couldn't stand that look. It wasn't warranted. It made me feel embarrassed and full of guilt for no damn reason. I grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the counter and made a quick left. I needed air. It was also too loud. My head started hurting from all the noise it was making from every vibration it felt.
~"...And the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…"~
The lights of the harbor, the city of Los Angeles, and the silhouette of the mountains against a darkening purple sky greeted me as I stepped outside the backdoor. It was a beautiful sight. The sunset was almost enough to distract from the shame and anger.
Why'd she have to be so beautiful? I wasn't blaming her looks, only my eyes for taking notice.
~"Sing Blue Silver…"~
There were a couple of empty picnic tables. I climbed up on top of one and sat on the edge. My hand trembled slightly as I tapped a cigarette out of the pack. I used a match to light it. Smoking helped to ease the unease. A mindless task to do in silence as I lost myself once again in my head. Escaping inside was what I've learned to do. It was where I could truly live and be myself.
~"And watching lovers part, I feel you smiling
What glass splinters lie so deep in your mind…"~
I sat there, staring at the ground, until I saw movement across the pavement. Shadows in the light. A red blouse, black skirt, and a pair of red high heels. Miss Blue Eyes and the asshole were arguing with screwed up faces and wide mouths. She spotted me and her eyes softened. She was sad. Black streaks of mascara ran down her face. The asshole shot a hot angry glare over his shoulder. I've seen cartoons on TV that depicted the red-hot face of a man with steam coming out of his ears. If he was a cartoon, he'd have steam coming out of his ears. He went back to yelling at her. When she tried to walk away, he caught her by the arm and shoved her against the wall. That's when the asshole slapped her.
~"To tear out from your eyes, with a thought to stiffen brooding lies…"~
I was on my feet. There were three things I hated the most in this world, and the first one was men who abused their wives, or in this case, girlfriends.
He slapped her two more times across the face before I closed the distance between them. Pulling my gun, I shoved the asshole against the wall before whipping the butt of it across his face. Pushing the barrel against his head, his eyes filled with fear as blood dripped from the gash in his right cheek. Asshole held up his hands in front of his face as I shoved him away from the wall. Using the gun, I gestured for the asshole to step away, to leave, as I stalked towards him which forced him to walk backwards away from us, from her, until he disappeared around the corner of the bar.
~"And I'll only watch you leave me further behind…"~
As I holstered the gun, the woman was gapping at me in shock, but she didn't run away. She also hadn't tried to stop me.
I even surprised myself. /Are you okay?/
She wasn't going to understand, or at least I thought. She nodded as her eyes went wide, almost dream-like, as she grabbed my jacked and pushed her body up against mine. She kissed me. Her tongue pushed past my lips and into my mouth.
~"And the sun drips down bedding heavy behind…"~
I froze; my body tensed. I had no idea what was going on, but I was interested in knowing what would happen next. Against better judgment, because sometimes I got tired, I kissed her back. There was a stirring tension in my gut, like butterflies, and I didn't know if it was from anxiousness or fear. Or something else entirely.
This was wrong.
~"...The front of your dress all shadowy lined…"~
This was so wrong that it felt so good.
She ended the kiss but kept her eyes on me as she backed up into the low brick wall that separated the patio from the parking lot. Behind her was the purple sky, palm trees, and mountains. Her tongue peeked out between her lips to lick her ruby red lips as her blue eyes glistened in the lights. She smiled, raised a finger, and gestured for me to 'come hither'. Okay. Like a dog on a leash, I obeyed.
~"…And the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…"~
She lifted herself up to sit on top of the brick wall as I approached. Stopping in front of her, she pushed her chest out and grabbed a hold of the lapel of my black leather jacket. Her other hand landed on my chest. Red mouth wide, blue eyes amused as she played her purple fingernails over my shirt. She draped her other arm over my shoulder as I tried to work out what it was that made her so amused. Whatever it was, it looked good on her.
~"And the sun drips down bedding heavy behind…"~
Stars from the night sky lit up her eyes as my eager mouth met hers. She slipped her tongue inside and I moaned as my eyes closed. A tightness grew in my pants that startled me enough to jar my mind awake. Then a thousand thoughts of doubt raced through my head, never stopping on a single one. Her hand grabbed the back of my neck as she brought me back down for another kiss. A painful shot of desire burned inside as a thought finally broke through the confused doubt. I wanted her. I wanted to move inside her so badly it hurt. The need swelled and grew along with the friction between our bodies. Her legs were wrapped around my waist as the heat spread all over my skin until there was a furnace burning between us. I was burning up as a flash of heat spread up from my belly to my chest.
~"...The front of your dress all shadowy lined…"~
We kissed some more before she pushed me away with a smile. "What'd you want?" she asked.
My head was spinning as my lungs burned. What did I want? She was so beautiful. From her eyes down to her thighs that held my waist to hers. Right then, I wanted her. I wanted to strip our clothes off and take her so hard. Pointing to her, I signed, /You./ My hand illustrated my point as I ran it along her thigh under the hem of the dress.
I wasn't a lustful person, but I had needs, desires, and right then, she was driving me crazy. It'd been years since I had my first sexual experience, and unfortunately last, and it'd been with the girl who'd taken me to my first punk concert. The police had broken the party up, so we ran. Ran until we collapsed on the ninth hole of a golf course. Los Angeles was full of them. Then she sat on my lap as I filled her. It'd been unexpected and we were both a sweaty hot mess as we shivered out our release. I never saw her again.
She was just a girl I met once that I barely remember. She'd taken a cab, left me on the side of the road. Maybe she didn't want a boyfriend, or she already had one and I was just some guy she grabbed and threw into a cab one drunken night. I was only a whim. A delightful memory, hopefully.
Miss Blue Eyes kissed me one last time before dropping her legs as she stood. She was leaving me to wither away and die as she headed back towards the bar. Wicked woman. A temptress. She was around the corner and out of sight before I knew what had happened. I suddenly felt lost as I sat on the brick wall and stuffed my hands in my pockets. What'd I do wrong this time?
I felt a napkin and pulled it out of the jacket pocket. Nothing. I did nothing wrong. Red ink scrawled across it read: Catherine. 1203 Wilcox Avenue. 2A.
Normally, pickpockets would take things, not leave behind notes. She was not only beautiful, but also an expert at sleight of hand.
~"…And the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart
Sing Blue Silver…"~
Deciding not to go back inside the bar, I headed around to the front and sat on the bench. Stretched out before me was the dark openness of the ocean. The silver moonlight reflected on the surface like a rippled painting. I smelt the salt in the air and shut my eyes to 'listen'. I always imagined what life sounded like. The waves crashing onto the beach and lapping at the sides of ship hulls. In my mind, it sounded the way the ocean water splashed onto my body. It was a gentle sound when the water was slack and steady. But thundering, like my father, when angry. The force of it crashing down could shatter glass.
~"Sing, Sing, Blue Silver."~
It was almost two in the morning when my father stumbled outside. In his hand was a cigarette. Arthur took one look at me and huffed out a breath of smoke. /Not so useless after all. Did you at least get a kiss?/
I almost gasped. Had he…? Did he see us? Arthur laughed and stuck the cigarette in his mouth before gesturing for me to 'come on'. As before, I obeyed like a good boy. I got up off the bench and followed behind him to the Jaguar.
Arthur tossed me the keys. "Drive," he said.
Hours later, a cab pulled alongside a wall covered with ivy with a pale blue gate. Beyond the gate was a terra cotta colored duplex with grated window shutters. On either side was an overhang growing ivy with balconies. I paid the fare and got out while slipping on my sunglasses. The duplex was a block from Sunset Boulevard where bars were just now closing, and diners were opening serving up breakfast. I was hungry as well, but right then it wasn't food I was craving.
Opening the gate, I entered into a Spanish courtyard with a stone patio and planted trees. Under the overhang was a table and chairs. Framing the windows and hanging from balconies were various colored flowers. I passed the table and the trees, bypassed the flowers, and walked under the ivy to ring the bell beside the gated screen door of apartment 1203.
I was removing the sunglasses when the front door opened to reveal the blond woman from the bar. Catherine. Not sure if she still wanted me or not, I waited to see what she would do. Her eyes sparkled like they had the night before. Smiling, she opened the gated door to let me in.
Like the morning sun kissing the sky to greet the day, I kissed her.
TBC…
Disclaimer song used: "The Chauffeur" by Duran Duran.
PS: I know it doesn't matter to no one but me, but the actor in my head as Grissom's father is Paul Newman. Why? Because it's Paul Newman.