Killing Moon

4 Saturday

Rabbit hole

Harry Hole woke up. The bungalow lay in semi-darkness, but a white strip of sunlight, coming from under the bamboo blind, stretched across the coarse wooden floor, via the stone slab serving as a coffee table, and over to the kitchen worktop.

A cat was sitting there. One of Lucille’s cats; she had so many of them up in the main house that Harry couldn’t tell one from the other. The cat looked like it was smiling. Its tail was waving slowly as it calmly observed a mouse scuttling along the wall, stopping now and then to stick its snout in the air to sniff, before continuing. Towards the cat. Was the mouse blind? Did it lack a sense of smell? Had it eaten some of Harry’s marijuana? Or did it believe, like so many others seeking happiness in this city, that it was different, special? Or that this cat was different, that it meant well and wouldn’t just eat him?

Harry reached for the joint on the nightstand while keeping his eyes on the mouse, who was headed straight towards the cat. The cat struck, sinking its teeth into the mouse and lifting it up. It writhed a few moments in the predator’s jaws before going limp. The cat laid its prey on the floor, then viewed it with its head cocked slightly to one side, as though undecided on whether to eat the mouse or not.

Harry lit up the joint. He had come to the conclusion that joints didn’t count with regard to the new drinking regimen he had embarked upon. Inhaled. Watched the smoke curl upward to the ceiling. He had dreamt about the man behind the wheel of the Camaro again. And the number plate that read Baja California Mexico. The dream was the same, he was chasing them. So not exactly hard to interpret. Three weeks had passed since Harry had stood in the parking lot outside Creatures with a Glock 17 aimed at him, fairly certain his imminent demise was a second or two away. Which had been just fine by him. So it was strange that the only thing that had been in his head after those two seconds had elapsed, and every day since, was not to die. It had begun with the hesitation on the part of the man in the polo shirt; perhaps he was considering the possibility that Harry was a mental case, a manageable obstacle to be overcome, who didn’t need shooting. He would hardly have had more time to think before Harry’s chisel punch struck him in the throat and put him down for the count. Harry had physically felt the man’s larynx give way. He had lain squirming on the gravel like a worm, his hands to his throat and eyes bulging while he gasped desperately for air. Harry had picked the Glock up off the ground and stared at the man in the car. Due to the tinted windows he hadn’t seen much, only the outline of a face, and that the man looked to be wearing a white shirt buttoned right up to the neck. And that he was smoking a cigarette or a cigarillo. The man made no move, just looked calmly out at Harry, as though evaluating him, committing him to memory. Harry heard someone shout ‘Get in!’ and noticed Lucille had started her own car and pushed open the door on the passenger side.

Then he had jumped in. Down the rabbit hole.

The first thing he asked as she turned down towards lower ground and Sunset Boulevard, was who she owed money to and how much.

The first answer — ‘The Esposito family’ — didn’t mean much to him, but the next — ‘Nine hundred and sixty thousand dollars’ — confirmed what the Glock had already told him. That she wasn’t in a little trouble but a lot. And that from now on that trouble included him.

He explained that under no circumstances could she go back home, and asked if there was anyone whose place she could lay low at. She said, yes, she had a lot of friends in Los Angeles. But after thinking about it for a minute, she said none of them would be willing to run the risk for her. They stopped at a petrol station, and Lucille called her first husband, whom she knew had a house he hadn’t used in several years.

And that was how they had ended up on this property, with its dilapidated house, overgrown garden and guest bungalow. Harry had installed himself in the bungalow with his newly acquired Glock 17 because from there he had a view of both gates, and because it was fitted with an alarm that went off should anyone break into the main house. Any prospective intruders wouldn’t hear that alarm, meaning hopefully he could take them from the rear, given that he would be coming from the outside. Up until now, he and Lucille had hardly left the property, just short trips for the absolute essentials: alcohol, food, clothes and cosmetics — in that order. Lucille had taken up residence on the first floor of the main house, which after just a week was full of cats.

‘Aw, in this town they’re all homeless,’ Lucille told him. ‘You put some food out on the stoop a few days in a row, leave the front door open, some more food in the kitchen, and before you know it you’ve got enough pet friends for an entire lifetime.’

Yet not quite enough it seemed, because three days previously Lucille decided she couldn’t endure the isolation any longer. She had taken Harry to a former Savile Row tailor she knew, to an elderly hairdresser in Rosewood Avenue and then — most important of all — to John Lobb’s shoe store in Beverly Hills. Yesterday, Harry had picked up the suit while Lucille got ready, and a few hours later they had gone to eat at Dan Tana’s, the legendary Italian restaurant where the chairs were as worn out as the clientele, but where Lucille seemed to know everybody and had beamed all evening.

It was seven o’clock. Harry inhaled and stared at the ceiling. Listened for sounds that shouldn’t be there. But all he heard was the first cars on Doheny Drive, which was not the widest street, but popular because it had fewer traffic lights than the roads running parallel. It reminded him of lying in bed in his apartment in Oslo, listening to the sounds of the city waking outside the open window. He missed it, even the ill-tempered ringing and the shrill screech of a braking tram. Particularly the shrill screech.

But Oslo was behind him now. Following Rakel’s death he had sat at the airport, looked at the departure board, and rolled a dice that determined his destination would be Los Angeles. He had figured it was as good as anywhere. He had lived in Chicago for a year while attending the FBI’s course for serial homicides, and thought he was familiar with American culture and their way of life. But not long after arrival, he realised that Chicago and LA were two different planets. One of Lucille’s movie friends, a German director, had described Los Angeles with bluster in a broad accent at Dan Tana’s the night before.

‘You land at LAX, the sun is shining and you’re picked up by a limousine which drives you to a place where you lie down by a swimming pool, get a cocktail, fall asleep and wake up to discover that twenty years of your life have gone by.’

That was the director’s LA.

Harry’s introduction to LA had been four nights at a dirty, cockroach-infested motel room without air con in La Cienega, prior to his renting an even cheaper room in Laurel Canyon, also without air con, but with larger cockroaches. But he had settled in somewhat after discovering Creatures, the neighbourhood bar, where the liquor was cheap enough for him to deem it possible to drink himself to death.

But after staring down the barrel of a Glock 17 this desire to die had ceased. As had the drinking. That type of drinking at any rate. If he was to be capable of keeping watch and looking out for Lucille, he would have to be somewhat sober. He had, therefore, decided to test out the drinking regimen his childhood friend and drinking partner Øystein Eikeland had recommended, although frankly it sounded like bullshit. The method was called Moderation Management, and was supposed to turn you into a substance user, meaning a substance abuser who exercises moderation. The first time he had told Harry about it, the two of them had been sitting in Øystein’s taxi at a rank in Oslo. His enthusiasm had been such that he had hammered on the steering wheel while proclaiming its virtues.

‘People have always derided the alcoholic who swears that from now on he’s only going to have a drink in social settings, right? Because they don’t think that’s possible, they’re sure it isn’t, almost as if you’d be defying the law of gravity for, like, alcoholism, yeah? But you know what? It is possible to drink to just the right level of drunkenness even for a full-blown alkie like you. And me. It’s possible to programme yourself to drink to a certain point and stop. All you have to do is decide beforehand where to draw the line, how many units. But, it goes without saying, you have to work at it.’

‘You have to drink a lot before you get the hang of it, you mean?’

‘Yeah. You’re smirking, Harry, but I’m serious. It’s about that sense of achievement, of knowing that you can. And then it’s possible. I’m not kidding, I can offer the world’s best substance abuser as living proof.’

‘Hm. I presume we’re talking about that overrated guitarist you like so much.’

‘Hey, have some respect for Keith Richards! Read his biography. He gives you the formula right there. Survival is about two things. Only the purest, best dope, it’s the stuff mixed in with it that kills you. And moderation, in both drugs and alcohol. You know exactly how much you need to get sufficiently drunk, which in your case means pain-free. More liquor after doesn’t help soothe the pain more, now does it?’

‘Suppose not.’

‘Exactly. Being drunk isn’t the same as being an idiot or weak-willed. After all, you manage not to drink when you’re sober, so why shouldn’t you manage to stop when you’re at just the right level. It’s all in your head, brother!’

The rules — in addition to setting a limit — were to count the number of units and decide on set days where you abstained completely. As well as take a naltrexone an hour before your first drink. Putting off drinking for an hour when the thirst suddenly hit actually helped. He had kept to the regimen for three weeks now and had yet to crack. That was something in itself.

Harry swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He didn’t need to open the fridge, he knew it was empty of beer. The Moderation Management rules specified a maximum of three units per day. That meant a six-pack from the 7-Eleven down the street. He looked in the mirror. He had actually put a little more meat on his lean bones in the three weeks since the escape from Creatures. As well as a grey, almost white, beard. It hid his most conspicuous feature, the liver-coloured scar. Whether that would be enough for the man in the Camaro not to recognise him again was doubtful, however. Harry peered out of the window towards the garden and the main house while he pulled on a ragged pair of jeans and a T-shirt starting to tear at the neckline reading ‘Let Me Do One More illuminati hotties’ on it. Put the old, non-wireless earphones in his ears, his feet in a pair of flip-flops and noted that nail fungus had created a grotesque artwork of sorts on the big toe of his right foot. He walked out into a tangle of grass, bushes and jacaranda trees. Stopped by the gate and looked up and down Doheny Drive. Everything seemed fine. He turned on the music, ‘Pool Hopping’ by illuminati hotties, a song that had lifted his spirits ever since he had heard it for the first time live at Zebulon Café. But after walking a few metres down the pavement, he caught sight of a car pulling away from the kerb in the wing mirror of one of the parked cars. Harry continued on, turning his head ever so slightly to check. The car was moving slowly behind at the same speed about ten metres back. While living in Laurel Canyon, he had been stopped twice by police cars simply because he was on foot and therefore deemed a suspicious individual. But this wasn’t a police cruiser. It was an old Lincoln, and as far as Harry could make out only one person was in the car. A broad bulldog face, double chin, small moustache. Fuck, he should have taken the Glock! But Harry couldn’t envision the attack happening in the middle of the street in broad daylight, so he continued walking. Turned off the music discreetly. Crossed the street just before Santa Monica Boulevard and entered the 7-Eleven. Stood and waited while scanning the street. But he didn’t see the Lincoln anywhere. Maybe it had been a prospective house buyer cruising slowly along while checking out the properties on Doheny.

He made his way between the aisles towards the refrigerators with beer at the back of the premises. Heard the door open. Remained standing with one hand on the handle of the glass door, but without opening, so he could see the reflection. And there he was. In a cheap, check suit and a body to match his bulldog face: small, compact and fat. But fat in the way that might mask speed, strength and — Harry felt his heart beat faster — danger. Harry could see the man behind him hadn’t drawn any weapon, not yet. He kept the earphones in, figuring he might have a chance if the man believed he had the element of surprise on his side.

‘Mister...’

Harry pretended not to hear and watched the man approach and stop directly behind him. He was almost two heads shorter than Harry, and was now reaching out, maybe to tap Harry on the shoulder, maybe for something else entirely. Harry wasn’t planning on waiting to find out what it was. He turned halfway towards the man, quickly threw an arm around his neck at the same time as he opened the glass door with his other hand. He twisted back while simultaneously kicking the man’s feet from under him, causing him to fall into the shelves of beer. Harry released his hold on the man’s neck and drove his own bodyweight against the glass door, squeezing the man’s head against the shelves. The bottles toppled over, and the man’s arms were pinned between the door and the jamb. The eyes in his bulldog face widened and he called out something from behind the door, his breath misting the cold glass on the inside. Harry eased up slightly so the man’s head slipped down to the shelves below, then he pushed again. The edge of the refrigerator door pressed right against the man’s throat and his eyes bulged. The man had stopped shouting. His eyes had stopped bulging. And the glass was no longer misting in front of his mouth.

Harry gradually eased off the pressure on the door. The man slid lifelessly onto the floor. He clearly wasn’t breathing. Harry had to quickly assess priorities. The man’s health weighed against his own. He chose his own and put his hand into the inside pocket of the fat man’s check suit. Fished out a wallet. Opened it and saw a photo of the man on an ID card: a Polish-sounding name and — of more interest and in large letters at the top of the card — Private Investigator Licensed by the California Bureau of Security and Investigative Services.

Harry looked down at the lifeless man. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t how debt collectors operated. They might use a private detective to find him, but not to make contact or rough him up.

Harry flinched and ducked his head when he noticed a man standing between the shelves in the aisle. He was wearing a 7-Eleven T-shirt, and his arms were raised and pointing towards Harry. His hands gripped a revolver. He could see the man’s knees were trembling and the muscles in his face twitching uncontrollably. And he also saw what the 7-Eleven man saw. A bearded guy, dressed like a homeless person, holding the wallet of a guy in a suit who he’s obviously just assaulted.

‘Don’t...’ Harry said, putting the wallet down, lifting both hands in the air and getting to his knees. ‘I’m a regular here. This man—’

‘I saw what you did!’ the man said in a shrill voice. ‘I shoot! The police is coming!’

‘OK,’ Harry said, and nodded down at the fat man. ‘But let me help this guy, OK?’

‘Move and I shoot!’

‘But...’ Harry began, but held back when he saw the revolver being cocked.

In the silence that followed only the humming of the fridge and the sirens in the distance could be heard. Police. Police and the unavoidable consequences that brought, of interrogations and charges, were not good. Not good at all. Harry had outstayed his welcome long ago and had no papers to prevent them throwing him out of the country. After they had thrown him into prison, of course.

Harry took a deep breath. Looked at the man. In the vast majority of countries he would have made a defensive retreat, in other words, got to his feet with his hands above his head and calmly walked out of there, secure in the knowledge that the individual wouldn’t put a bullet in him, even though he appeared to be a violent thief. But this was not one of those countries.

‘I shoot!’ the man repeated, as though in response to Harry’s deliberations, and moved his legs further apart. His knees had stopped trembling. The sirens were getting closer.

‘Please, I must help...’ Harry began, but his voice was drowned out by a sudden fit of coughing.

They stared down at the man on the floor.

The detective’s eyes were bulging again, and his whole body shook from a continued bout of coughing.

The 7-Eleven man’s pistol swung this way and that, unsure if the hitherto presumed dead man now also represented a danger.

‘Sorry...’ the detective whispered as he gasped for breath, ‘...for sneaking up on you like that. But you are Harry Hole, right?’

‘Well.’ Harry hesitated while considering which of the evils was lesser. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘I have a client who needs to get in touch with you.’ The man, groaning, rolled onto his side, took a phone from his trouser pocket, tapped a key and held the phone out to Harry. ‘They are eagerly awaiting our call.’

Harry took the already ringing phone. Placed it against his ear.

‘Hello?’ a voice said. Strangely, it sounded familiar.

‘Hello,’ Harry answered, glancing at the 7-Eleven man, who had lowered the revolver. Was Harry mistaken or did he look slightly more disappointed than relieved? Maybe he was born and raised here after all.

‘Harry!’ the voice on the phone exclaimed. ‘How are you? This is Johan Krohn.’

Harry blinked. How long had it been since he had heard Norwegian?