Ah, Treachery!

Chapter 5

The man with the clipboard and the manila envelope didn’t look like a messenger to Edd Partain. But because of California’s stubborn recession, Partain wasn’t at all sure how Los Angeles messengers should look.

The few he occasionally had dealt with in Sheridan had all been old guys, World War Two vets mostly, with ancient pickups, raging thirsts and a desperate need to supplement their Social Security checks.

But the one who stood in the apartment doorway at 7:19 that morning seemed to regard himself as more emissary than messenger. He appeared to be 36 or so, topped Partain’s six-two by a couple of inches and outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. Everything about him — his weathered good looks and size, his superior attitude and expensive clothes — irritated Partain and made him, at 41, feel old and jaundiced and secondhand shabby.

Partain was barefoot and wearing worn jeans and a ripped white T-shirt when he had opened the door to silence the chime-ringing. The smiling messenger stood there, resplendent in a navy-blue cashmere blazer with gold buttons, pale cream shirt, tan cavalry twill pants and, on sockless feet, cordovan loafers. But now the smile had vanished and the messenger wore an earnest, if puzzled, frown and beneath that an assortment of other lines and creases that Partain attributed to idleness, dissipation and too much time at the beach.

“I guess I haven’t made myself clear,” the messenger said in a friendly bass.

“Sure you have,” Partain said. “You said she has to sign for the envelope. I said I won’t wake her up but’ll be glad to sign for it. You say that’s against the rules. I’m about to say: Come back later.”

“Who the fuck’re you?”

“I’m the family’s new best friend.”

“Well, look, friend, I’m just trying to do my job and—”

“Like hell,” Jessica Carver said as she entered the foyer. Partain turned to find her wearing only a very long white T-shirt she obviously had slept in.

“Claims he’s a messenger,” Partain said.

“He’s Dave,” she said. “Does Dave look like a messenger?”

“Goddamnit, Jessie. We have to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” she said and turned to Partain. “Get rid of him.”

“Could be messy,” he said.

“So?” she said and vanished into the living room.

Partain was still watching her leave when he said, “Sorry, Dave,” and turned around just as the false messenger cocked a big right fist and sent it toward Partain’s heart. But because of the fist-cocking business, Partain easily slipped the blow, went in close and slammed the heel of his left palm against Dave’s right eye.

Dave howled, dropped the clipboard, clapped his right hand over the eye, then covered that hand with his left one, leaving himself open to more damage. Partain instead placed a gentle hand on Dave’s shoulder, steered him into the living room and eased him into a comfortable armchair.

“You won’t lose the eye,” Partain said.

“Fuck off,” said Dave and bent over to hang his head between his knees, either to ease the pain or to keep from fainting. Only his right palm now covered the wounded eye and he was still in the bent-over position when Jessica Carver came into the living room, glanced at Dave and said, “What’s his problem now?”

“A disagreement,” Partain said.

“I see he won.”

“I think not.”

“He’s inside, isn’t he?” she said.

Because Jessica Carver had locked herself in her bedroom, refusing to have anything to do with Dave, it was Partain who taped a gauze pad over the bruised eye where the surrounding skin was beginning to hint of the bilious colors to come. Partain then fed the big man a Percodan and a beer after making sure he had arrived by taxi and would leave the same way.

They now sat at the living room bar, Partain sipping a breakfast beer and listening to the alcohol-and-Percodan-inspired monologue from the false messenger who confessed he was really David Laney, a 36-year-old UCLA graduate, class of ’79, with a degree in political science even though he had never given a shit about politics but back then had figured it ought to be a good way to meet women and was, in fact, the way he’d met Jessie in ’88 during the Dukakis campaign. And where the hell was Jessie, anyhow?

“Taking a nap,” Partain said.

“Yeah, well, are you and she — you know?”

“I work for her mother.”

“Doing what?”

“Security consultant.”

“Rent-a-cop, huh?”

“If you like.”

“Old Millie’s something, isn’t she? She’ll hit on anyone. She even tried me one time.”

“Jessica’s mother?”

“Sure. Who else? There was this guy who wanted to be governor — Van de something. So Millie ran through her spiel and asked me to contribute a thousand to the guy’s campaign. Well, Christ, the only income I’ve got is from this almost nothing trust fund, so I told her I’d do what I could and sent her a check for twenty-five bucks. That pissed her off so much she wouldn’t speak to me for months.”

“A trust fund sometimes must be more burden than comfort,” Partain said.

“You know you’re right?” Laney said. “Everybody thinks you’re rolling in it, but two million’s nowhere near what it used to be. Mine’s handled out of a bank in Boston by some belt-and-suspender guys who still think six percent oughta draw money from the moon.”

Partain decided it was time to send Laney on his way. “Want me to call a taxi?”

“Yeah, thanks, but let me ask you this.” He touched his right eye. “How bad’s the mouse going to be?”

“Bad enough.”

“I still don’t see why you had to pick my eye.”

“To get your attention. If I’d wanted to do real damage, the eye’d’ve popped out and rolled around on the floor. But you’re lucky in a way. If I’d been having one of my real black mood swings, Imight’ve shoved your nosebone up into your brain and we wouldn’t be sitting here over a couple of beers.”

“What mood swings?”

“They started in Vietnam,” Partain said, wondering where his embellishment would lead. “When I’m crossed, I’m sometimes subject to violent episodes. For example, if you try to bother Jessica again, I might go berserk and bite off your nose.”

Laney’s right hand went to his nose as he said, “You’re shitting me, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

Laney studied Partain carefully with his one good eye for several moments, then nodded, as if reaching a decision. “I’ve met guys like you before. Lots of times. Guys who claim they eat lizards and fried red ants for breakfast and shit like that. I met a lot of ’em in Mexico.”

“In Guadalajara?”

“There and La Paz and a bunch of other places. Guys who don’t work and never have, but always have new cars and money and women. Fact is, I met one like that just before I flew up here. He came looking for Jessie, but she’d already gone. The guy wanted Jessie to tell her mother something.”

“He have a name?” Partain said.

“Guys like him have as many names as they do women. Take your pick. But the one yesterday was calling himself Sid Solo.”

“Is Ms. Altford supposed to know Mr. Solo?”

Laney started to shake his head no, thought better of it and said, “Nah. He was just the runner. Someone handed him maybe a hundred or two and told him to go find Jessie and tell her something.”

“Tell her what?”

Laney frowned. “Will you tell her — Millie, I mean?”

“Sure.”

“Okay,” Laney said. “Sid Solo said for Jessie to tell her mother to call off the hunt. That’s it and don’t ask me what it means.”

Partain smiled. “I misjudged you, Dave, and I apologize.”

“For what?”

“You turned out to be a real messenger after all.”