FREAK
by
Ron Sanders
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright 2010 by Ron Sanders
cover art by the author
ronsandersatwork.com
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com
Chapter One
Purly
The vanity mirror’s dozen rose bulbs flickered every time a neighbor switched on a major appliance. This flickering, barely perceptible under hard white light, was a dramatic event in Marilyn Purly’s perfectly dark bedroom.
Her ceiling and walls were papered black, her furniture ebony-stained. Carpet, bedspread, pillowcase and sheets: all were dyed Midnight, the deepest black available. Floor-length black velvet curtains hung in her windows and doorway.
But for Purly, the little black room could never be dark enough. That reflection belonged to a golden touch-me-not goddess; on the inside sick and dying, on the surface uniquely and breathtakingly attractive. Purly’s uniqueness, in heavily cosmeticized Southern California, came partly from being damaged goods, and partly from being an unadorned natural beauty surrounded by gaggles of underdressed posers. Through no fault of her own, this wounded nymph quality came off as a direct challenge to men, and as a slap in the face to women.
In one of nature’s crueler little ironies, Marilyn Jayne Purly had been cursed with a pathological aversion to attention. She’d tried hoods and bonnets, scarves and veils, bangs and dark glasses; nothing could conceal her sexual charisma. Even the suffocating wraps she wore outdoors seemed only to cling and entice. Though countless young women would have killed for her looks, Purly’s deepening depression inevitably drove her to the opposite idea. It took eleven suicide attempts and half a dozen complete nervous breakdowns, but in the end the most aggressive men withered and ran. Her fiercely protective landlady took care of the rest.
The hospitals and courts agreed: whether institutionalized or subsidized in the real world, Purly would not survive outside her bubble. Only a steady stream of S.S.I. checks kept her safely sealed in this crypt.
All her life she’d dreamt plain; Marilyn’s make-believe self was a wisp of a woman, daintily dancing for gentlemen in denim. One, the nicest one, would sweep her off her feet to a land of coffee mugs and white picket fences. The mirror was her window into this secret world. Purly began reliving her tortured adolescence in that little window; initially as a distraction, then in direct competition with the fantasy. In time the delicate dream dissolved completely, leaving her addicted to a masochistic morning ritual.
Looking into that swirling glass pool was like watching a movie on a flat oval screen. She could see the halls, could hear the whistles and shouts, could almost smell the hormones as the boys of high school came stampeding; hurling themselves against her, squeezing frantically, blocking her progress as she struggled to make class. Right behind were the average girls, egging the bug-eyed boys on, slapping her too-pretty face until she ran the gauntlet screaming like a banshee. Alone in the dark, Purly still felt the boys’ horny paws, still felt the normal girls beating her into hysterics.
Closing her eyes, she reached into her makeup box, picked out an unused razor blade, and guided it to her face. The jerking blade never touched flesh, but she felt every imaginary slice before lowering it to poise, for the thousandth time, above an upturned wrist.
Purly opened her eyes, neatly returned the blade, and for the thousandth time watched the ghosts of adolescence drift to the mirror’s periphery.
Fresher, sharper images rose in their place. First up was her landlady’s toad-like face, her fat eyes burning through the shadow of a straw hat’s brim. Next appeared the probing face of a serious man, a kind of senior policeman. Lastly came the crouching form of a muscular man facing away, the back of his jumpsuit lettered, enigmatically, Harbor TV & VCR. These images also drifted and passed. The mirror clouded.
Out of the fog rose an angular face with gray, very penetrating eyes. The eyes had a way of locking onto your movements without shifting, as on one of those imposing portraits with eyes that appear to pursue you regardless of where you stand. Immediately behind the face came a dully resonating sound, like a buoy’s bell in choppy waters. The sound produced a conditioned response: Purly placed a hand in her makeup box and extracted a tiny vial of perfume. She twisted off the cap. The ringing grew insistent. She let a few drops fall into her cleavage before loosening the big satin bow on her sweet little babydoll.
Now the doorbell was clanging urgently in her skull. In a dream, she pushed herself to her feet, pulled aside the curtain, and staggered around the jamb. The bell had her by the pulse. She almost fainted when she reached the door.
Daylight was a vertical splash of acid. Purly clung to the knob while the man outside cursed her up and down; first with gentle urgency, then with real invective. Once she’d freed the chain he forced the door with a foot and forearm, steadily bumping her back until he could squeeze inside. Juggling a sloppily stuffed black plastic bag, he slammed the door, shoved the chain back in its catch, and firmly turned the knob’s heavy new, deadbolt-style lock. Vilenov dropped the bag on a coffee table and peeked between the curtain and window frame. Yes, there she was, right on cue. That fat nosy witch with the humongous straw hat, sneaking out of her apartment to pace the drive. He let the curtain fall.
An edgy, lean little man, Vilenov moved in fluid spurts. In another unbroken sweep, he switched on the ceiling light with his left hand, scooped Purly by the waist in his right arm, and eased her onto the couch under the high wide mirror in the chipped plaster frame. He plopped down beside her excitedly, ripping open the knotted bag with his teeth. Inside were a fifth of Jack Daniels, a few hundred dollars in tens and twenties, and a number of hardcore pornographic magazines. He spun off the cap and swallowed greedily before tearing away a handful of cellophane. “Gifts,” he mumbled, his eyes gleaming. “I come bearing gifts.” For a while there was nothing to be heard but the rustle of thumbed pages and an occasional swallow. At last he sighed and fell against her, a forearm balanced on her shoulder. The hand dangled only a moment. As it began its slow descent he dropped back his head.
“Oh, Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn; oh sweet, sweet sweet Mary Jayne. How I’ve missed you, sugar pie. And you never even knew I was gone, did you?” He eased down the babydoll. “But I told you I’d be back. Just like always.”
Purly stared ahead without expression. Hugging her in his left arm, Vilenov bent forward to peel off his shoes and socks. “Mary Jayne!” he hissed, pulling her back with him. “It’s on fire in here, don’t you think?” It was like talking to a rubber doll. “But that’s August for you. Even the ocean air doesn’t help much.” He lifted her hand and placed it on his thigh. The hand was cold as putty. “Why, I remember walking barefoot on the beach as a kid, and the sand would be so hot I’d come home with blisters on my feet. That kind of heat—August heat—gets sucked into anything that’s holding still.” Vilenov rocked against her playfully. “But enough about me. I know you must be sick of hearing about my crummy childhood.” He peeled off his shirt, spat out, “Damn, it’s hot!” and grabbed a handful of golden hair. Vilenov yanked her head around, his bitter gray eyes narrowing. “You’ve never told me, sweetheart. Just what are you hiding from, anyway? You think you’re too good-looking for the rest of us? Is that it? You think we common folk will just catch fire and explode if we have to endure even one teensy peek at your precious, intoxicating beauty?” He shoved her head so hard the cartilage in her neck popped. Purly’s chin rolled shoulder to shoulder, at last coming to rest buried in her chest. Vilenov ran his tongue through her long damp hair, grimacing at its sweetness. “Honey Blonde,” he mumbled. He pulled her head back up, but this time with tenderness. “Listen, lover, before I started doing you I had ’em all, and like any sane male I went for the youngest and prettiest, the dumbest and blondest tail I could find—models, beach bunnies, playgirls; you name it. Not so very PC you think? Not sensitive enough? But that’s how we men are. We’re hardwired for action, not for airs.” He turned her drooping head to face him and spoke like a confident suitor about to pop the question. “Well now, Mary Jayne, let me tell you. For twenty years I’ve been peeling back the primest poon this county has to offer. But you know what? Sooner or later a man grows up. Sooner or later he realizes that all those snotty plastic bimbos out there are purely superficial, and finds himself going after . . . strange fruit.” He released her head and shifted tighter against her, whispering in her ear while his hands roamed. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? You don’t know who I am, or how many nights we’ve spent together, or just how crazy I am about you. Or how happy it makes us both when your pretty little nightie comes sliding down . . . it’s so pretty . . . so pretty.” Vilenov shuddered as Purly’s babydoll dropped to her waist. He moaned, pressed down her hand and slid it up his thigh.
The hand resisted.
Vilenov froze, every sense questing. For half a minute he didn’t even breathe. Then, very slowly, he reached over, gently pinched her chin in his fingers and turned her head. Purly responded with a petite cough, flecks of froth emerging at the corners of her mouth. In Vilenov’s pale gray eyes a pair of red blazes appeared and passed. He carefully studied the slack, heartbreakingly lovely face. “That chest cold of yours is getting worse, Mary. We’ll have to do something about it. Now you just sit here like a good girl while I go get the medicine. Don’t make a move.” Vilenov rose and stood absolutely still, feeling the room. He listened closely, studied every object visually, sniffed the air for unfamiliar scents. Sweat was building round his hairline, rolling down his chest and back. The place was a freaking sauna. He took another long look around and tiptoed into the bathroom.
Purly sat in a slump, staring at nothing. She thought she could hear voices outside, very much subdued. Whispers. There were also a few miscellaneous sounds: the soft turning of gravel underfoot, what might have been a radio chattering in the distance, a familiar creaking of floorboards in the apartment above. Then, except for the tiny squeaking of the medicine cabinet’s hinges, complete silence. Without knowing why, Marilyn Purly wobbled to her feet. She walked to the front door in a trance, noiselessly unlocked the knob, and returned to her place on the couch. Her eyes fell on the black oblong box of the VCR, squatting atop her television’s dull maple cabinet. Hello, she wanted to say.
Vilenov walked back in; a jar of Mentholatum in his left hand, his trousers and briefs in his right. He tossed the clothes on the coffee table, liberally lathered his hands with the mentholated goop, and turned to face the hunched woman. Their knees locked. Vilenov reached down, got his hands full and began to massage. “That’s my baby,” he breathed. “That’s the girl I love.” He let go reluctantly, placed Purly’s palms on the backs of his thighs, and walked his left hand down her chest while his right hand gently pulled her head forward.
Nicolas Vilenov admired his reflection. Sweat was rolling all down his body. His eyes were glazing. After a minute his right knee began to tremble. He smiled, let his head fall back, and closed his eyes.
Carre placed all his weight on the edge of his left foot, keeping his balance using only two fingertips pressed lightly against the apartment’s outer wall. He’d held his breath so long his eyes were popping. Muted, oddly rhythmic sounds came from inside; the sounds of hogs in a dream. He delicately rested his ear on the door, and the hogs took on a distinctly human quality. Except for those muffled grunts and sighs, Purly’s apartment was dead quiet. Carre soundlessly exhaled.
His eyes met Vincent Beasely’s, raging just across the doorway. Carre’s head cocked warningly. He could see Beasely was ready to blow; the man’s body language was all profanities—brows knit, nostrils flared, lips drawn back in a snarl. Carre had watched these symptoms grow more pronounced with each passing day, beginning with Beasely’s first good long look at a surveillance photo of the suspect, culminating in his yearning, embarrassingly anxious comments about the Purly woman. Now, thanks to their shared hot and cold emotions, the relationship between these officers couldn’t have been more electric. Both men were comfortably married, both were immovably principled, and both were irresistibly drawn to Marilyn Jayne Purly. Beasely had it worse: he’d always been, if anything, dedicated to the letter of the law; a soft-spoken cop with a good record. Not the sort of man to lose his head or his heart. Carre was by nature on a tighter rein; stiff, pressed, and polished, and notorious for his ability to take drastic disciplinary measures without a trace of sympathy. Yet, despite Beasely’s steady and very unprofessional change, Carre had refused to have him reassigned, had instead become his staunchest supporter. For, from somewhere in his midbrain, Roland Carre hated, hated, hated Nicolas Vilenov almost as much as did Vince Beasely.
Carre flicked his head and looked back at the drive. Most of the buildings’ tenants were standing in a broad crescent facing Purly’s apartment, restrained by three uniformed officers. A man in a white shirt and tie waited at midpoint, staring at an upstairs window. The rest of the tenants were leaning on the twin building’s upper rail, watching intently.
All this crowd control should have been unnecessary. The buildings’ occupants had proved quite compliant, even shy, timidly filing into their units to peep from windows and cracked doors. There they had remained until only a few minutes ago, when their massive manager began sucking officers into a whispered shouting match over rights and procedures. One by one they had reopened their doors to mill uncertainly between the buildings. The woman became more unruly in their presence, as though readying a charge, but backed off grudgingly when officers threatened her with obstruction. She returned to pacing her assigned perimeter, only to subtly work her way back in as the raid neared the moment of truth.
Carre lowered his left hand until the fingers just graced the doorknob. He pinched it lightly, turned it centimeter by centimeter. The knob was unlocked. He turned it back just as slowly. The chain might be up, but it wouldn’t stand against his and Beasely’s shoulders.
The coordinating officer’s full attention was on the apartment directly above Purly’s. In that unit the drapes parted to reveal a dark standing figure. This man turned his head to look back into the room. After a tense half-minute he dropped his arm in a chopping motion, copied instantly by the man on the ground. Carre gently turned the knob. He and Beasely, with a quick exchange of glances, hit the door as one.
What Carre saw stopped him dead. He barely budged when Beasely slammed into him from behind.
Seated at opposite ends of the couch were a clothed man and woman. A tall glass of iced tea stood on a coffee table at their knees. Scattered about this glass were maybe two dozen supermarket coupons and a number of magazines. Carre automatically sampled titles: Sailboating Now. Kittens & Puppies. Poetry For Beginners. His eyes were drawn to an old black and white TV across the room. On the screen a cartoon whirlwind raced across a cartoon desert.
“Beep beep!” the whirlwind cried.
A black videocassette recorder was perched on the set’s console. Carre walked over and stared into the VCR’s remote control sensor. For a weird moment he was totally in the dark. He straightened and found himself studying the faded print of a skinny, homely ballerina. As he turned back to face the room his attention seemed to drift along behind.
The suspect was on his feet; every aspect of his expression and posture consistent with surprise and indignation. A cussing Beasely had one arm around his neck, the other twisting his wrist up behind his back. Marilyn Purly, dressed in happy-face muumuu and fuzzy pink slippers, was screaming out of her mind. On an end table were a green rotary telephone and a carefully folded tablecloth. Carre overcame a ridiculous urge to drape this cloth around the screaming woman.
There came a repeated, dreamlike stomping above. The concussions staggered Carre. One moment he thought he would faint, the next his consciousness was struggling with two separate perceptions of a single event: he could have sworn he saw his transparent mirror image reach into a fanny pack to extract something pallid and flaccid. Carre watched dumbstruck as the apparition placed an evidence bag under Purly’s chin, signed a document on a clipboard from forensic officer Beloe, and helped the woman undersign. The hallucination blurred, shivered, and passed.
“Marilyn?” Carre managed.
Purly peeked between her fingers and nodded frantically.
“I wonder,” Carre’s voice said, “if we could step into the kitchen for a minute. You remember me, don’t you, Ms. Purly?” She nodded again, languidly now. Carre was absolutely blown away, as though for the first time, by the woman’s terrible beauty. A tiny voice in the back of his head begged him not to stare, but he couldn’t help it. He took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to relax. “I’m officer Roland Carre,” he said clearly, and with authority. He was back on track. “We had an arrangement to spring a sort of trap on a man suspected of being a serial rapist in the South Bay. You were very cooperative. Does any of this ring a bell with you?”
Purly’s head bobbed resignedly. She extended a shaking hand. Carre helped her to her feet and quietly led her into the tiny kitchen, sat her down on one of the cheap little chairs around the cheap little table. He used a thumb to gently peel back an eyelid. Carre saw a red, but otherwise perfectly clear, eyeball.
“Ms. Purly, can you tell me what was taking place before we came in? If you’re up to it, that is.”
She sobbed and nodded, shivered up and down. “We were having tea. Iced. Nicky and I were discussing catamarans and the migratory patterns of blue whales.”
“Nicky?”
Purly giggled spasmodically. “Nicolas,” she gushed. “It’s my pet name for him.” Her expression collapsed, and Carre found himself staring into the flickering baby-blue eyes of an unspeakably frightened woman. His fists clenched. “He . . . he calls me Mary Jayne. No one has ever called me ‘Mary Jayne’ before.”
Carre grasped her shoulders and felt her flesh melt in his hands. He went down on one knee to be face to face. Exercising great control, he said with exaggerated clarity, “Ms. Purly, right before we came in, was this man Nicolas taking advantage of you sexually, or in any manner making you feel afraid for your safety?”
Her reaction was so dramatic Carre had to recoil. Purly tensed up and glared, a lioness protecting her cub. “Certainly not! Nicky is a perfect gentleman!” Plush tears rose under the lids. Suddenly her eyes were rolling in her skull. “What’s going on here, officer? What are you doing in my house? Why are you asking these disgusting questions?”
Carre stepped back, his cheeks and ears burning. “I’m very sorry, ma’am. And I deeply appreciate your cooperation.”
He stomped into the front room and stood nose-to-nose with Vilenov. Carre’s expression underwent a complete transformation, from lovingly sympathetic to jungle-pissed. The breath hissed between his teeth as he fought to retain his professionalism. “One question,” he said icily. “Just what the fuck was going on before we blew in here?”
Vilenov winced. Beasely twisted harder.
“Nothing, sir,” Vilenov gasped. “Oh, please . . . nothing! We were talking about boats!” His whole face became contorted. “We were talking about whales, for Christ’s sake!”
Slowly the blood drained from Carre’s face. When he turned back around, Marilyn Purly was slumped in the kitchen doorway, shivering; a wounded doe in headlights. “Ms. Purly,” he said crisply, “I’d like to use your phone, if I may.” Without waiting for a reply, he picked up the receiver and dialed Pacific Division. Carre stood facing the wall for a few minutes, his jaw hanging. At last he looked straight up and shook his head in disbelief. He nodded at Beasely.
Beasely cruelly jammed the suspect’s arm while whipping out a pair of handcuffs. Vilenov cried out and dropped to his knees. Beasely slapped on the cuffs even as a trio of officers dragged the man back to his feet. “Now pay real close attention,” Beasely snarled, his lips right up against Vilenov’s ear. “I’m gonna introduce you to Miranda. Oh, I just know you’re gonna love meeting her, prick, because we’ve all seen how interested you are in rights. First off, you’ve got the right to remain silent. But I’ve got the right to make you squeal like a pig.” Beasely twisted even harder as he shouldered him out the door. Vilenov, protesting all the way, was bullied through a scattering fence of tenants.
Carre turned to face the kitchen doorway. Even bundled in her floppy terrycloth muumuu, Marilyn Purly was the classic damsel in distress, reanimating every guilty fantasy he’d died through since that first interview just outside the black little room. “My work is done here,” he said softly. “An officer will arrive shortly to help you get everything sorted out and back to normal. Because of certain inconsistencies, Ms. Purly, I’m requested to assign a crew of specialists. They’ll be gathering evidence for a very short while, and I promise you the absolute minimum of inconvenience. It’s just that something doesn’t make sense here.” He ran out of words. Carre dropped back his head and blew out a sigh. “Have a nice day,” he whispered, “Mary Jayne,” and turned on his heel.
In the apartment directly above, three men were stationed before a long folding table. On this table rested a daisy chain of patched boxes, a computer keyboard, and a large video monitor. The man in charge was seated, his two partners standing close behind his chair. The men were watching the real-time image of Purly sitting topless on the couch, apparently in a trance.
“She looks gone,” said the seated man.
“Jesus,” whispered the man to his right. “Would you get an eyeful of those! Oh, mama!” Sweat was trickling around his collar. He traded a nervous grin with the man on his left.
It was terribly hot and stuffy in the small apartment. Windows and drapes were sealed for secrecy’s sake, fan and air conditioner shut down to preserve the integrity of electronic readings. The sitting man wiped sweat from his eyes and leaned closer to the monitor. He watched Purly step offscreen and return to the couch. Almost as if reading his mind, she slowly turned her head to face the camera. The seated man saw what appeared to be a spark of emotional pain. He tapped a finger repeatedly on a key. The image on the monitor zoomed in to feature Purly’s flawless face. He made a quick note on a pad to his right, zoomed the image back to full room.
“Oh, Lord,” a voice whispered, as a naked Nicolas Vilenov walked in from the bathroom. Vilenov squeezed between Purly and the coffee table, his back to the camera. The seated man tapped rapidly on the keyboard. A bordered image appeared around the naked man’s left arm. A few more taps, and features within the border enlarged. He returned the image to normal. “Menthol something,” he said.
“Mentholatum,” came a voice behind him.
“Oh . . . mama!”
They watched the man throw his clothes on the table and lather his hands. As he pulled her face forward, the seated man barked, “Davis!”
Immediately the man to his left stepped to the window and parted the drapes. He raised his arm and looked back into the room. The two men at the monitor leaned even closer, their heads almost touching. The camera zoomed in, showing only a buttock and most of Purly’s face. Her eyes appeared to be made of glass.
“Go!” said the seated man.
The man at the window dropped his arm. When the officer below copied his gesture he released the drapes and crept back to the chair. The three men huddled around the monitor expectantly.
Daylight burst in on the screen’s left side. The naked man whirled. One hand covered his eyes, the other his genitals. He tripped backward over the coffee table, but didn’t lose his feet.
The two crouching men laughed excitedly, pounding on the chair like a couple of drunken lugs watching the Super Bowl. The long days of whispering and tiptoeing were over. Gone were the endless hours in front of a featureless screen, waiting for Purly to turn on a light . . . to do anything. The men saw Carre and Beasely lunge into the picture. Beasely threw a vicious chokehold on the naked man, while Carre stood watching Purly going through the motions; arms embracing an invisible man, head rolling back and forth. They saw Carre bend down, saw his round brown eye look directly into the camera. Carre turned and walked over to an end table, picked up a folded tablecloth, spread it wide and draped it around the nude woman. The surveillance men groaned.
“No, Rollin’!” cried one of the crouching men, stamping his foot repeatedly. “You’re covering up the wrong one!” The man beside him giggled.
Carre pulled a pair of latex gloves from a fanny pack and tugged them on. He then extracted a plastic bag with a gummed label across its face, held this bag under Purly’s chin, put an arm over her shoulders, and spoke in her ear. Purly obediently leaned forward and spat. Carre sealed the evidence bag and handed it to Beloe. Beloe produced a clipboard. Carre signed, Beloe countersigned. Carre placed the pen in Purly’s cold hand and coached her signature. Beloe took the clipboard and moved out of the picture. Carre helped Purly offscreen into the kitchen. In a minute he reappeared alone. He strode up to the naked man writhing in Beasely’s grip.
Carre snarled something and stepped back. The man was forced to put on his clothes, even as Beasely maintained his chokehold. Beasely twisted the man’s arm until he lashed back his head to meet his tormentor’s eyes, but Beasely, muttering rapidly, kept his cheek pressed right up against his ear. Carre looked to the kitchen and spoke a few words, then stepped to the end table, hesitated. He turned to glare at the suspect.
A black cloud passed over the restrained man’s expression. His eyes swept all around the room, out the apartment’s doorway and back inside. For just a second they seemed to look straight into the camera’s lens. All three surveillance men shuddered involuntarily.
Carre, facing away from the camera, dialed a number and spoke to the wall. He replaced the receiver, stared hard at the ceiling and shook his head incredulously. He looked to his left and nodded.
Vincent Beasely savagely twisted Vilenov’s arm while whipping out handcuffs. Vilenov went straight down. Three officers swarmed onscreen and roughly hauled him to his feet. The knot of prisoner and officers moved offscreen into the wall of light. Roland Carre stepped out of the picture.
“Okay,” said the seated man. “Show’s over.” With nervous exchanges, the two standing agents signed out on a clipboard and went jostling outside. The man in the chair tweaked the monitor’s image, made a number of observations on the legal pad by his elbow.
But his eyes never left the screen.
Chapter Two
Abram
The man staring through the observation window was standing so still he might have been a cardboard cutout. The shatterproof glass of this window, as broad as the corridor’s facing wall, permitted booking officers, as well as lockdown officers, to make out every detail in the boxcar-shaped visitation room. Inside were a steel table and bench, a pay phone, and a smallish, dark-haired man in Levis, loafers, and light blue long-sleeved shirt. He was sitting perfectly still with his forearms resting on his knees, deep in thought.
Lawrence Abram’s eyes narrowed. The prisoner pretty much matched the impression he’d given over the phone; a contentious, physically and morally repellent character in his upper thirties, of East European descent. Even in half-profile there was something disturbing about the eyes.
“All right,” Abram said softly. “I’m ready.” The guard stepped around him and unlocked the door.
Nicolas Vilenov didn’t jump up as the famous defense attorney entered the room, didn’t gush with greeting and gratitude. His expression remained a spiteful scowl, but those peculiar eyes became quite focused. Abram felt an instinctive contempt for the man. It was the hardest thing in the world to recover his trademark geniality, but he smiled and extended a hand. The diamond winked on his pinky, the Rolex peeped from a silk sleeve.
Vilenov offered a limp hand. At its touch the sense of contempt came back a hundredfold. Abram was aware of a real sense of anger and resentment. Unbidden, an all but forgotten word returned to him. Incubus, he thought, and released the hand.
There was an unpleasant pause.
Abram said, “Mr. Vilenov, when my secretary accepted your sole allotted phone call, her first inclination was to put you on what we call ‘the elevator.’ The elevator places a caller on hold for eternity, while canned Muzak dumbs him into the ozone. Eventually he’s so anaesthetized by insipid recorded garbage he forgets his imaginary dragon and returns to the couch whence he came. However, Dottie said there was ‘something’ in your voice. I’ve worked with her for seventeen years, and have come to trust her like a lover. Now, I don’t generally conduct business on the strength of a call divulging a public storage locker’s combination, but it was a relatively slow day, the locker’s location was very near my office, and curiosity got the better of me. Or,” he said, trying the light touch, “maybe there was ‘something’ in your voice.” Vilenov glared. “At any rate,” Abram went on uncomfortably, “I discovered the locker did indeed hold sufficient cash—and then some—to retain my services. After removing a sample from the site, I reorganized my schedule around this interview but, because of ethical concerns, undertook a number of preliminary checks. The thoroughness of my investigation will explain, in part, why I’ve arrived so late in the day. In the first place, the money turned out to be unmarked.”
“It’s all clean,” Vilenov muttered. “Save your energy.”
Abram popped open his briefcase. Resting on parallel stacks of loose pages was a paper-clipped fan of bills, ranging from tens on the left to hundreds on the right, like a hand of cards. The bills were not new or well kept.
“Here’s your money, Mr. Vilenov. I want you to be aware from the outset that your property is in order.”
Vilenov didn’t bother to look. “It’s yours, man. That, and all you can spend. I’m prepared to make you a very rich man, Mr. Abram, just as soon as you get the job done.”
“And that job is?”
“To spring me immediately, and to clear me of any and all charges.”
Abram watched a prisoner being processed. “That’s pretty cut and dry.” After a minute he said, still staring out the wide window, “You, sir, are at this point what is known as a cipher. There’s no law against possessing so much cash, but it certainly doesn’t make your case look less suspect.” He turned back. “We don’t even have an address on you. Were you living under a bridge?”
“I use hotels, and I always pay in cash. Is that okay with you? Is there any law saying a man has to have a permanent address?”
“None whatsoever. I’m just trying to learn what I can about a prospective client. If we’re going to work together, I think it would be a good idea for us to be on the same side.” Abram clasped his hands behind his back and again looked outside. “After I visited your locker I headed back to my office and got busy on the phone. Finding information about you was like looking for water in the Mojave. According to every indication you are unemployed, do not file tax returns, and have not hit the lottery. Believe me, if you had a traceable real income the I.R.S. would know all about you. So unless you’re a very successful bank robber, a gun runner or dope dealer, I’m stumped. Have you been stashing money in a mattress all your life for just this eventuality? Have you found buried treasure? You’ll forgive my prying, but it’s not a matter of idle curiosity. I command high figures in my practice, and my clients are, as a rule, most accountable in their finances. But you, sir, as I said, are a cipher. An independently wealthy individual for whom a fairly thorough records check reveals no birth certificate, no social security number, no medical history, no rap sheet . . . the only documentation of your existence is a newly confiscated California ID card, demonstrated through a simple check with the DMV to be a quality street forgery.” Abram paused as Vilenov hawked and spat on the floor. The attorney scowled. “Excuse me, but I never got a spoken pronunciation, just Dottie’s scribble. Is it Vile, or something closer to Villain?”
The prisoner’s stare was so hard Abram had to look away. “My name is Nicolas Vilenov. Vi-len-ahv, if that pleases you. Or, better: V’len-of. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it quick enough.
“And as to my money, chew on this: I inherited it from my father, a Romanian immigrant who passed away in California. I am hiring you, the famous Mr. Lawrence Abram, to represent me in what has the potential to become, in my life, an absolute catastrophe. What part of the above escapes you?”
“There isn’t a whole lot about you that doesn’t escape me. But you yourself, Mr. Vilenov, have missed quite a bit.” Abram exhibited an erect forefinger. “Allow me to delineate the sequence of events leading to your present incarceration.
“First off, it seems that a number of weeks ago the landlady of Ms. Purly’s building, a Helga Scarboro, became highly suspicious of your dealings with her tenant.”
Vilenov rolled his neck, leaned back down, stared at the floor. “I know the witch,” he muttered.
“Yes. Apparently she had an ongoing altercation with you, adamantly claiming you had drugged and raped her tenant, a beautiful and helpless young woman with a history of violent self-abuse. This landlady’s defense of her lodger is undoubtedly selfish: Marilyn Purly’s tenancy is subsidized through monthly Social Security Insurance checks, direct-deposited into Scarboro’s account and guaranteed in perpetuity so long as Purly remains unable to provide for herself. At any rate, Scarboro got the rest of her boarders into a group and had them sign a petition claiming you were making a practice of taking the Purly woman against her will. Even though Purly at first refused to go along, Scarboro photocopied the petition and began circulating it throughout the neighborhood, to the media, to her congressman. She badgered Pacific Division to no end, and finally the division commander assigned a team to place you under surveillance. Over the course of the next two weeks you were tailed and photographed extensively. There are photos of you checking into various hotels for the night, dining alone, walking on the beach. If you boarded a bus, a man was dispatched to board at a stop farther on to continue the surveillance. You were followed wherever you went. And there are photographs of you paying visits to the homes of no less than eleven different women over those two weeks. All these women fit what Pacific’s men colloquially define as ‘drop-dead gorgeous.’ Yet, strange to say, none are married or romantically involved. They live quiet, lonesome lives, hold unglamorous jobs. They’re spinsters, before their time. All were interviewed by detectives, and not one had any recollection of a male visitor, but, upon viewing full-face surveillance photographs, each reacted with high emotion, in a manner the detectives described as expressing a range from repugnance to horror. Upon viewing shots of your entering or exiting their premises, these women, as a rule, went right into hysterics.”
Vilenov shook his head slowly, looking more bored than offended.
“Having gained these ladies’ permission,” Abram went on, “their places of residence were forensically sampled. And it was determined, as in the case of Ms. Purly’s apartment, that these residences were all littered with semen deposits, foreign hairs, fingerprints, tracks—you name it. Somebody, whether the good ladies knew it or not, had been very busy.
“The inconclusiveness and rising hysteria—there were two nervous breakdowns right in Pacific Division—prompted a videotaping of Ms. Purly’s apartment. After much cajoling from her landlady, Purly agreed to go along with the setup; to be the bait, if you will. A police technician disguised as a television repairman rewired Purly’s VCR and implanted a camera, its lens positioned behind the remote control sensor’s window. Surveillance equipment was tapped into the unit’s coaxial cable, and the apartment was observed, and videotaped, from the vacated apartment directly above.
Abram observed Vilenov narrowly. “The surveillance crew captured on videotape someone, who certainly appears to be you, receiving fellatio from Marilyn Jayne Purly. Purly maintains zero recollection of the event.” He raised a hand. “One of the members of this surveillance crew is trained to observe individuals for signs of intoxication, mental retardation, or any inability to respond defensively. It was this man’s professional opinion that Purly was totally out of it, and incapable of self-will. He had a man give the go-ahead to officers below. These agents then burst in and found . . . nothing.”
“She unlocked the door,” Vilenov snarled. “The bitch set me up!”
For some reason Vilenov’s display of rancor created an abrupt mood shift. Abram’s expression twisted nastily, his intended word of caution erupting as a bark bordering on assault. “Please, Mr. Vilenov! Save your whining accusations for therapy!” Abram just as quickly apprehended himself, and after a hard half-minute continued with forced civility, “Besides, if anybody has some explaining to do it’s the commander at Pacific, who, uncharacteristically, didn’t have the self-control to pull out at the climax, so to speak.” He removed his glasses from a vest pocket and consulted his notebook. “Roland Carre, senior officer at the scene, told the commander over Purly’s phone that the premises were clear of any overt criminal activity—informed him, in essence, that two weeks of surveillance and setup were a bust, that the claimants’ reports were a lot of hooey, that the monitoring specialists were all full of it, and that every man involved in the investigation, himself included, was an amateurish paranoiac in an expensive parade of fools.” Abram returned the glasses to his vest. “This might have been a bit much to swallow at one sitting. At any rate, Carre was reamed over the phone; was told to clean the crap out of his eyes and make the arrest, was told if he wanted to keep his job he’d better get busy and gather every scrap of evidence he could get his incompetent little hands on. Carre immediately assigned a team to the site, and that team was striking gold long before Dottie got your call.
“Oh, and one other thing:
“Purly earlier agreed to help collect a semen sample. At Parker Center that sample now awaits comparison with samples taken from the eleven sites aforementioned. The Purly sample was seized in conjunction with an affidavit—signed on the scene by Purly, a forensic man, and Carre . . . although not a one professes any recollection of so doing.”
“Bitch!”
In the corridor a cuffed prisoner whirled on his transporting officer. The two went down biting and kicking, quickly swarmed by deputies. Abram stepped to the window and watched, strangely excited. When he turned back to Vilenov his eyes were burning.
“Therein lies the rub. My investigation took me promptly to the District Attorney’s office, where I went over a copy of the videotape with Mr. Prentis, and discussed the details of your capture and the lack of pertinent records. The DA, Mr. Vilenov, simply has no eyewitness corroboration to any of this. Nothing is conclusive here. Tests for room toxicity were taken immediately. A whiskey bottle and an open jar of ointment were seized, along with an array of smut books and exactly three hundred and seventy dollars in loose cash. The contents of the refrigerator and medicine cabinet, water from the tap . . . even the air was sampled. Results so far, to the best of my knowledge, are all negative, and the discrepancy between visual and video remains a mystery.” He looked down his nose. “Item: you were filmed by the security camera at Barry’s Liquor half an hour prior to the raid. The tape shows you in a transaction with the clerk involving liquor, magazines, and what looks like most of the drawer. The owner calls Santa Monica police saying he’s been robbed by the clerk, who claims no memory of you or the incident.” Abram shrugged. “Ms. Purly’s apartment was quickly cordoned off for further analysis, leaving only a narrow corridor connecting rooms, so that she could continue living there as compensation for her assistance in this investigation. She reportedly made a beeline for her very black bedroom immediately upon Carre’s departure, and there remains barricaded, quiet as a mouse. My personal impression is that Marilyn Jayne Purly is an incorrigibly disturbed woman.”
“Abram,” Vilenov said with a throwaway glance, “her distress is only beginning.”
“How so?”
The prisoner stood up, sat right back down. He shook his head in frustration. “Just get me out of here, okay? And take all the money you need. You and your good buddy the DA can split it down the middle for all I care.”
Abram squared his shoulders. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” He took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. “Mr. Vilenov, I don’t have the power to arbitrarily orchestrate your release. And as for the DA being my friend, well, that doesn’t make him some kind of crony.”
Vilenov rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Strikes me as sort of funny that a defense lawyer and a district attorney should be so buddy-buddy, that’s all.” Again he spat on the floor.
“Your manners aren’t exactly winning me over, either.”
Vilenov shrugged.
Abram tapped his nails on the table. “Look, we weren’t always so close. Or maybe we were too close. You’re aware of my work as a prosecutor?”
“But money talks, huh, Mr. ex-Prosecutor?”
Abram glared. “With lucidity,” he said softly.
Vilenov rose and began to pace, but halted after only a few steps. With his head down and his fists stuffed in his pockets, he addressed Abram as though the attorney were a child.
“Now don’t you worry about your precious fee, Mr. Abram. That locker holds just a pinch. I’ve got cash stashed all over this city, and I can get more any time I feel like it. Lovely, lovely money. More than you can spend, more than you can count, more pretty green paper than you’ve ever even dreamed of caressing.”
“Really! You’ve certainly got my undivided attention now, Mr. Vilenov. I’m intrigued.”
“So you just get my ass out of here, now, and later on you and I’ll walk hand in hand into court, and you can flash that famous Lawrence Abram smile. We’re going to need it. I’m telling you, man, this is only the tip of the iceberg. You’re going to be hearing from a slew of . . . ex-girlfriends.”
“And why, Mr. Vilenov, would all these women wait so long?”
“Be-cause, Mr. Abram, an individual, in the flesh, can produce certain . . . effects . . . that can’t be generated by a simple two-dimensional representation.”
Abram raised an eyebrow. “Are you hinting you’ve been threatening women, and that these women will only identify you in person? Meaning, in custody?”
“No! You don’t understand; it’s way more complicated than that. They can only identify me when I’m not around them.” Vilenov cocked his head, affronted. “You know what, Abram? I’m not really sure I approve of your tone. ‘Threatening women,’ indeed. What’s that supposed to mean, dude? Like, I can’t get my way without resorting to intimidation or something?” He smiled vaguely. “Good-looking women are just fruit on my tree. They’re plums for the plucking, Abram, and I’m not ashamed to say I’m one hell of a plucker.”
Abram was speechless, his expression uglier than he knew. His appreciation of propriety, in this one short half hour, had been violated in ways that should have filled a lifetime. In the thundering silence he whispered, with barely contained venom, “I’m sure Marilyn Purly, if she had a voice in the matter, would be first to agree.”
Vilenov exploded. “Just get me out of here! All right? Get me out, get me out, get me out! You’re pissing me off, man! Use your connections, use your charm. Use my money. Just get on with it!”
Abram raised a warning forefinger. “Use your money?” But halfway to Vilenov’s nose the gesture was preempted. His arm fell to his side, dead from the elbow down. Abram forced a few deep breaths, suddenly clammy in his armpits and crotch. When he spoke again his tone was borderline-conciliatory.
“What you don’t understand, Mr. Vilenov, is that my reputation was gained over many years of playing by the book. I earned my stripes through hard work, not through hard cash. And I’m no simple bail bondsman. As I’ve been trying to explain, my investigation included a lengthy dialogue with the District Attorney, who is, understandably, in no great hurry to see you back on the street.”
“I know all about your big bad childhood pal Nelson Prentis,” Vilenov said sourly. “Dueling comrades, battling buddies. Right now I’m the wrong cat to lay that Butch and Sundance bullshit on; your relationship has been the movie of the week for too many years to count. So do me a favor, man. Don’t rewind the same old reel.”
That really stung; you could call Abram every name in the book, but no one could demean his family or friends. Vilenov was playing with fire here. Although he was still able to comport himself in a manner generations above Vilenov’s level, the attorney’s calling-out retort came like the snap of a whip. “Apparently, pal, you’ve got one hell of a lot to learn about—”
“Just get me out of here! Okay? Because you’re really starting to bug me, man. Get me out now, Abram! Not tomorrow. Not fifteen minutes from now. Now! Look, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. I’m paying you, for Christ’s sake!”
“Everything isn’t about money! People in this country can’t just buy their way out of legal problems, regardless of what you may have seen in the movies. The I.N.S. is going to want a crack at you, because from the look of things there’s absolutely nothing to show you’re in this country legally. Various departments of health are going to be interested in you, sir. Are you H.I.V. positive? Are you a vector? Mr. Vilenov, there are sexual predation claims of an egregious nature to investigate. What kind of system would just casually release such a suspect? Also, there’s a great deal of cash to be accounted for. I haven’t told a soul, mind you, but I’ll guarantee you the ball is already in motion. Detective work has a way of discovering bits and pieces, both peripherally and by extrapolation, about even the most discreet individual. A person in your position, Mr. Vilenov—if that truly is your name—has to go through channels, has to jump through hoops . . . and has to wait. I’m telling you right now, there’s just no way in hell you’re going to get out of here without first running a very tight legal gauntlet, no matter who’s representing you. Not even if you’ve got a pass from God Almighty.”
Vilenov looked around the room and smiled cockily. “Look, I can walk out any time I want, so don’t patronize me. And quit trying to spook me with all your legal mumbo-jumbo. People do what I want—always have, always will. And they always remember me in a positive light, no matter what went down. That’s if I want them to remember me at all. I can move men, Mr. Abram, and I can make women. I can do any bitch I please; upright, on all fours, or spreadeagled, and I can make her perform just the way I like.” He let his head fall, and in that instant Abram thought he saw the man’s eyes blaze with a frustration beyond words. He waited. At last Vilenov mumbled, “It’s a gift.” A thought struck him and he looked back up. “You’re a bright boy, Abram. What do you know about pheromones?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s got everything to do with everything.”
The attorney cocked his head and squinted at a tiny smudge on the ceiling. “Biochemistry,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hormones that induce same-species reactions. Very subtle. Glandular emanations, traceable in sweat, urine, breath.” He waved a hand irritably. “Chemistry was not my strong suit.”
“Too bad. You might have learned something.”
Abram scowled. “Been spreading your musk around town, have you? Well . . . guess what: I didn’t sleep all the way through classes. No microscopic secretion can produce a direct physical reaction. Your imagination’s running away with you.”
“My imagination is firmly ensconced in reality, Abram. I’m not talking about secretions; that’s crowd stuff. I’m talking about a focalized force, an adaptive influence established in maybe one in a billion people.”
“Keep dreaming.”
“It’s no fantasy. All I need is eye contact, and this whole silly-ass species will carry out my blackest wishes without hesitation . . . even without my bidding. I can make anybody eat right out of my hand. And I can do it with or without your fancy reputation.”
“You don’t say! Now I’m really intrigued!” Abram rapped on the wall. “But before you unleash your fabulous dark legions, just how do you propose to effect this awesome escape? Melt the walls? Break through bulletproof glass? Or is Scotty above us somewhere, all set to beam you up?”
“No, funny man. Like I said, I can walk out.”
“Of course you can. So the next logical question would have to be: what are you waiting for? And why do you need me?”
“Because, Mr. Abram,” Vilenov said exasperatedly, “there are now full-face photographs in the DA’s possession, and forensic samples in Parker Center. I need to get my hands on those samples fast, before a real case can be built against me. And the last thing I need is my picture all over the evening news. So it behooves me to make a legal exit; I don’t want to skip out of here as the bogeyman. Now, you’re going to arrange my immediate release. And if my face gets on TV you’re going to stand behind me, and sue the goddamned media if you have to. Then you’re going to work to clear my name so that I may walk around a free man again.”
“Mr. Vilenov . . . should I choose to represent you I will, at the minimum, guarantee you that in less than seventy-two hours you will be a ‘free man’ again. And, if you’re really all that camera-shy—”
“I don’t have seventy-two hours!”
“Sir! Please! You cannot be held forever! You are incarcerated under hearsay. You are here solely because the investigation’s commanding officer authorized your arrest over the phone on the word of a surveillance specialist, who determined, via an electronic medium, that you were committing rape. And the man saddled with the job of resolving this quagmire already knows he hasn’t got a leg to stand on.”
“Your buddy. Nelson Prentis.”
“My counterpart. The District Attorney. Mr. Prentis is aware you’ve been placed behind bars without cause, and realizes your release is imminent. As I keep trying to explain, you are, right now, being held for a variety of ulterior reasons—a murky mess which can and will be cleared by patience and application.” He glanced at his watch. “Mr. Vilenov, the DA is the county’s top prosecutor, and I am, if I may be so bold, the county’s top defense attorney. In any case built against you the burden will be on the prosecution, not the defense. So relax. I’m going to work this out with Mr. Prentis, I promise you.”
Vilenov sneered, nastily and pugnaciously. “You guys just leave me a few bucks for cab fare, all right?” His eyes glinted.
For a moment Lawrence Abram saw red. When his mind had cleared he said, quietly, “I think this interview’s gone on just about long enough.”
Vilenov nodded. “Me too.” He looked directly into Abram’s eyes and the attorney almost fainted. “So this is what’s going to happen, Abram. You’re going to accept my generous cash offer, and you’re going to attain my immediate release. You will represent me in this matter so that I am quickly cleared of any and all charges, and so that my name and face are not open to public censure. I will be able to move about freely. You are going to begin preparing my case, pronto. And that means all your other clients can just go to hell. You’ll get your facts, and you’ll do your interviews, and you’ll make my defense rock-solid. You’ll get on the tube and let everybody know that these claims are all bullshit, man, pure bullshit. You’re going to profess my innocence. Right? You are about to devote every ounce of your time, talent, and energy to making me look good. If your pal the DA gets on my back, you’re gonna jump right in his face. I’m your buddy now!” Vilenov rolled the tension from his neck while Abram fried. “So you’ll be smart. But you’ll play dumb if you have to. You won’t have enough good things to say about me, Larry. Additionally, I am authorizing you to pull from that locker whatever funds you deem necessary. Okay? Necessary is the operative word here. My money is for my defense—not for your leisure. So you just keep your fat sticky lawyerly hands clean! Don’t test me on this, man; don’t even think about it. You’ve been warned. Should the locker’s working capital become exhausted I will direct you to another site. But understand this: you are working for me. After this is all over you won’t have to like me, or care if I live or die. But for right now you and I are, as you so succinctly put it, ‘on the same side.’ Got it?”
With those final two syllables Abram felt his back slammed against the cold brick wall. His hands found the table’s edge and gradually pulled him forward. He swayed before the prisoner, sweat rolling down his face.
Vilenov studied him dispassionately for a while. Finally he drooped his head between his knees and spat. “Now go on, legal boy. Pull some strings. Call your chummy-ass pal and get me the hell out of here.”
While Vilenov’s head was lowered Abram slammed shut his eyes and turned his back on the man. “Pluck you!” he snarled, and before the wave of primitive fury could drag him under cried, “Guard!”
The door instantly swung inward. Vilenov was seized and led cursing from the room. Abram steadied himself against the stainless steel table, waiting for the stampede of savage emotions to subside. He would not reopen his eyes. Clenching his teeth, he slapped his palms against the wall, felt his way to the pay phone, and began fishing through his pockets for change.
The swaggering deputy made a point of banging the gate as he entered the cell house, all set to show the loudmouthed prisoner just who was who. In this particularly virile profession, this particularly short, skinny, and pigeon-breasted deputy boldly bore, in addition to his unimposing physical stature, the compound curse of a freckly face, buck teeth, jug ears, and overall cherubic expression. His compensatory scowl and blustering manner only worked against him, so he scowled a little deeper, stomped a little harder.
“Hey you, now just you chill out in there! Now, I mean it. You got me? You just stop all that darned hollering, buddy, or you’re gonna wind up with something to really holler about!”
Vilenov glared through the bars, and the deputy mellowed at once. Three other prisoners in the cell house—two bald, heavy-set, highly tattooed Latino gang members and a burly, bearded bar fighter—sat quietly on a stainless steel bench against the wall.
“Why am I still in here?” Vilenov demanded. “Where’s my attorney? Where’s Lawrence Abram?”
“I’m . . . not sure, sir.”
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