Loser's Town Read online

  Martin took highway 10 out through Rancho Cucamonga and Redlands to just beyond Cabazon. Terry was a mile or so behind him when he noticed the dot veer to the right and off the highway into a blank area. Martin was either flying or he’d driven onto a road too small for the chart. Terry sped up and missed the road the first time. The dot was heading south and Terry was still going east. He turned around and found the road, hardly more than a dirt path. In the distance he could see the cloud of dust kicked up by the Audi. There was no cover to speak of and Terry’s own dust-cloud could be spotted as well. Whoever had picked the location knew what he was doing. Terry waited for the dot to stop moving. It did finally, about three miles in. The Audi had disappeared around some hills a mile ahead. Terry decided to take his chances and moved his car at a snail’s pace down the dirt road, kicking up as little dust as possible. He was reasonably safe anyway until he rounded those hills. Then it was anybody’s guess. Meanwhile he prayed Martin wasn’t in a hurry to follow the road back. Meeting Martin head on would be interesting to explain, and there was no place to hide.

  Terry was lucky. The road turned around one set of hills and then, about a mile on, around another. Terry decided not to push his luck. He pulled off into the second hills and parked the car where it wouldn’t be seen. From the trunk he took a knapsack he always kept packed – goodies for all occasions – and a pair of strong Zeiss binoculars. He climbed up into the rocks and from there could see, half a mile on, a small house trailer sitting in the open. An SUV and the Audi were parked in front. Terry looked around him to make sure he wasn’t putting his ass down on a scorpion or a rattlesnake, then made himself comfortable. The contents of the knapsack included a thermos of coffee, bottled water, toilet tissue, snacks, and a paperback of The Silmarillion. Terry popped the iPod buds into his ears and listened to Enya while he read, for maybe the ninth time, about the history of wizards and orcs. Every now and then he glanced at the trailer. It wasn’t going anywhere.

  Martin was inside for just over an hour. He came out of the trailer carrying a brown paper grocery bag, and followed by a tall, skinny geeky-looking fellow in a knitted cap. They talked for a moment at the car, then Martin drove away and the geeky-looking guy went back inside. There didn’t seem to be anybody else around.

  Terry had decided to let Martin go. Terry’d done his job, he’d followed Martin to the source, and he knew where Martin was going next – right back to LA and Richie. Terry wanted to see what was inside that trailer. He was pretty sure he knew already. Terry didn’t think the geeky guy lived inside the place. The trailer was small and rusty and dented and the windows were covered from the inside with cardboard. It was no palace. It was the sort of place you got out of as soon as you could. At least Terry hoped so. He didn’t fancy sitting here all night. It would get cold and windy and he couldn’t use a book light to keep reading.

  It was dusk when the Geek came out of the trailer, locked the door, and climbed into the SUV and drove away. Terry waited until the sun went down, then, shouldering the knapsack, picked his way toward the trailer. He checked the perimeter of the place. A propane tank attached at one end and a tiny gas-run generator but no electrical wires or plumbing running in. The place was completely off the grid and could be moved or abandoned in a heartbeat. When Terry was satisfied there was no alarm system, he took out a small crowbar and jimmied the door. He waved his flashlight around. The place was as much of a shithole inside as out. A rickety kitchen table and a couple of chairs. An old refrigerator, damp and empty except for some cans of beer, a loaf of bread and some dubious lunchmeat. A small, new and efficient-looking four-burner stove. Lots of pots of various sizes and pans with their inside bottoms well darkened, three cases of bottled purified water, and ten boxes of baking soda. Plastic Ziploc sandwich bags. He looked into cupboards and nooks and crannies, then ran his hands over the surface of the countertops. As clean as a hospital. They were careful about the cocaine. Cocaine was expensive. Terry got out his digital camera and took a lot of photographs. Not much legal proof of anything, though maybe you could scrape the pots if you cared to get scientific. There was no point. Spandau didn’t need legal proof, he wasn’t a cop. Terry had found the source and that was all he needed. Terry felt very proud of himself. Spandau would be happy.

  He would have been significantly less pleased with himself, however, had he noticed the tiny red dot in an upper corner of the trailer. This was a camera, and Terry was starring in his own reality TV show.

  Sixteen

  The disreputable Potts drove his disreputable pickup truck to Ingrid’s house. It was exactly the sort of place he’d imagined she would live. A nice, quiet street with postage-stamp green lawns, flowerbeds and wooden houses. A Leave it to Beaver neighborhood, about as familiar to Potts as the far side of Jupiter. He drove past her house three times, afraid to pull in, waiting for the Neighborhood Watch to call him in to the cops. No mob with axes and clubs blocked the street. He parked in front of the house. He had a box of candy and some flowers. He thought about bringing wine, he knew people did that, but he knew shit about wine and you could make a moderately smaller ass out of yourself by bringing the wrong candy and the wrong flowers. He’d resigned himself to the fact that whatever he did would be wrong, and that the evening was never going to be repeated. Still, you had to try. Potts knocked on the door.

  Ingrid wore a blue flowered dress. Potts was surprised by the amount of skin showing. She opened the door and the first thing Potts took in was her bare arms and the V of a neckline that lost itself, as did Potts, in the shadow between her breasts. In truth it was nothing she couldn’t have worn to a church social, but Potts had always seen her looking so prim and so proper and so, well, covered. Potts had imagined her a kind of old maid. She wasn’t. Potts realized his eyes were ranging up and down her body and he felt himself going red. Ingrid didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Mr Potts,’ she said, giving him that smile. ‘You’ve indeed showed up. Please do come in. And flowers and candy! How gallant!’

  She ushered him inside. The house was dark and cool. Old heavy furniture. Some lace, some knick-knacks. Books. A goddamn baby grand piano. The smell of food cooking. A woman’s place. No hint of a man in sight. An old maid could live here. Potts looked at her shoulders, the back of her long neck, her hips. He couldn’t get one vision of her to merge with the other.

  ‘I was waiting for the sound of the motorcycle,’ she said to him.

  ‘I drove the truck.’

  ‘Don’t you look handsome!’ she said, looking him up and down. Potts had worn his one suit, the one he’d bought for the custody hearing over his daughter, the custody hearing that never happened. ‘Come into the living room.’

  Potts sat down on a rose-covered sofa. Rounded copper tacks outlined the frame, held the upholstery on. It felt solid, old, full of history and class. Potts took comfort in nervously rubbing the tacks at the end of the armrest with the tops of his fingers.

  ‘The flowers and candy, thank you, they’re lovely.’

  ‘I was thinking maybe I should have bought wine. But I didn’t know, like, if you drank wine, and, anyway, I don’t know anything about wine, I’d a brought the wrong stuff anyway, probably.’

  ‘No, you did well. These flowers are beautiful.’

  ‘Ingrid,’ called a woman’s voice from the back of the house.

  ‘It’s Mother,’ said Ingrid. ‘She’s curious about anyone who visits. She may join us for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Ingrid,’ the voice said again.

  ‘She has Alzheimer’s,’ said Ingrid. ‘She goes in and out. It can be distracting. Clear one minute and off the next. It’s sad. She was a college professor. She’s published books. She was an expert on Brahms.’

  ‘Ingrid.’

  ‘Excuse me, please,’ Ingrid said and left the room. Potts had no idea who Brahms was.

  Ingrid brought Mrs Carlson into the living room. She looked like a perfectly normal old lady to Potts. She was natti
ly dressed and had a string of pearls around her neck and her gray hair was done up neatly. She had lipstick on and her eyes were bright and she greeted Potts with a smile and her hand extended palm down. She looked kind of regal and Potts wondered for a second if he was supposed to kiss it but, no, it was for shaking. Potts shook it.

  ‘Mother, this is Mr Potts. He’s having dinner with us. I told you about him.’

  ‘Potts?’ repeated Mrs Carlson.

  ‘Yes, Mother, I told you about him. He’s staying for dinner.’

  ‘Oh good.’

  Mrs Carlson went over and turned on the television. There was a show about something called a meerkat. Mrs Carlson was immediately absorbed in it.

  Ingrid gave Potts an apologetic look. ‘Can we turn this down?’ she said to her mother.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The TV, Mother. Can we turn it down a little?’

  ‘I can’t hear it.’

  ‘You can hear it, Mother.’

  ‘There’s never anything on,’ said Mrs Carlson. ‘I never like anything they have on anymore.’

  Ingrid turned down the TV volume to almost nil. The old lady didn’t seem to notice and kept watching the screen.

  ‘Would you like a glass of wine, Mr Potts?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I can’t keep calling you Mr Potts.’

  ‘Just Potts is fine.’

  ‘It still doesn’t work for me,’ Ingrid said.

  Ingrid left the room. Potts watched the old lady, who appeared to have forgotten he existed. Her lips moved, as if she were talking silently to someone. Ingrid returned carrying glasses of wine for herself and for Potts. She handed him the glass.

  ‘Red okay?’ said Ingrid.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Red wine. I got it to go with the pot roast.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know anything about wine.’

  ‘Red usually goes with red meat. White wine with fish.’

  ‘Yeah? I usually just drink beer.’

  ‘I’m sorry, would you prefer a beer?’

  ‘No, the wine is fine.’

  Ingrid held up her glass in a toast. ‘Especially mine,’ she said, and it took Potts a second to realize she’d made a rhyme, a joke. Ingrid took a sip of her wine. Potts laughed nervously and took a sip of his. He didn’t like wine.

  ‘Maybe this was a mistake,’ Potts heard himself saying.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t know about the wine, I don’t know which fork to hold, I don’t know any of that.’

  Ingrid said, ‘There’s only one fork. One fork, one knife, one spoon. A plate, a glass. This isn’t a test. I invited you here because I wanted you to be here.’

  ‘Angelo,’ said Mrs Carlson. She was looking at Potts.

  ‘Who, Mother?’

  ‘Angelo. You remember Angelo.’

  ‘No, Mother, I don’t remember Angelo.’

  ‘Your father hated Angelo. I almost married him.’ Ingrid gave Potts a surprised look.

  ‘Well, this is something new. You almost married Angelo?’

  ‘You’d better get him out of here. Henry will be angry when he comes back,’ she said with some gravity.

  ‘This is Mr Potts, Mother.’

  ‘I can’t see you anymore,’ Mrs Carlson said to Potts. ‘I’m promised now to Henry.’

  ‘This is Mr Potts. Mr Potts, Mother, not Angelo.’

  Mrs Carlson became agitated. ‘He’d better leave, I’m telling you! Henry has threatened to shoot him!’

  ‘All right, Mother. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh lord,’ said Mrs Carlson, ‘I don’t want to make him mad! I hate it when he’s mad!’

  Ingrid went over to her mother. She took her hand and helped her up out of the chair.

  ‘It’s okay. Why don’t we just go to your room, you can watch TV in there.’ She started to lead Mrs Carlson from the room.

  ‘Tell Angelo I’m sorry, will you?’ Mrs Carlson said.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘He was good to me. You tell him.’

  ‘I will, Mother.’

  Ingrid led her mother from the room. She came back a minute later.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘No, it’s okay, said Potts.

  ‘She seems like a real sweet lady.’

  Ingrid sat back down, picked up her wine.

  ‘She is. She was the best mother in the world. The gentlest woman you ever met. It’s sad, all this. To watch this. It’s so unfair.’

  Potts didn’t know what to say, sipped his wine. Which he despises.

  ‘So it’s just you and me for dinner. I’ll take a plate to her room.’ She stood up. ‘Well the pot roast is done. We can eat now, if you’re ready. I hope you’re hungry. I made enough for an army.’

  ‘Yeah, I could eat,’ said Potts.

  They sat in the dining room, at right angles to each other at the end of a long table. In spite of his nerves, Potts was hungry. Maybe it was the wine, which was tasting better by now. The food was excellent and Potts chowed down pretty heavily.

  ‘Is it okay?’ Ingrid asked.

  Potts realized he was gobbling the food down too fast.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just . . . Yeah, it’s real good. I don’t know the last time I ever had a meal like this. I guess not since I left home. My mama could cook. Nothing this good though.’

  ‘You come from a large family?’

  ‘Just me and a sister.’

  ‘Are you close?’

  ‘We don’t talk. Leastways not unless we have to.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ingrid said, and meant it.

  ‘I don’t miss it.’

  ‘No, I mean that family is important. Everyone needs somebody. I have Mama, for instance. Even the way she is now, it’s something. Maybe the mind is going but it’s still the same heart, isn’t it?’

  Again, Potts had no idea what to say. He stared down at the food.

  ‘I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.’

  Nothing. Potts wants to say something but can’t. What the hell are you supposed to say?

  ‘I wanted you to meet her,’ Ingrid said. ‘She’s not always like this. Sometimes she’s worse, sometimes she’s better.’

  ‘She seems like a real nice old lady. I’m sorry she’s ill.’

  ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know about Angelo? It sounds racy. This is the first I’ve heard of him. Maybe Angelo is the great love of her life. I don’t think my father was. He was a good man, but I don’t see him as anyone’s great passion. But Angelo. Ah, my mother and some dark Latin lover, some torrid affair carried out under the noses of her puritan family. They were bluebloods, and bluestockings, old back East family. Oh yes, Angelo would have driven them crazy.’

  She looks at Potts, who’s watching her talk.

  ‘I’m sorry. Maybe it’s the wine. And I rarely get to talk to grown-ups. Not for a while, anyway.’

  ‘I like hearing you talk,’ Potts told her.

  ‘Oh I’m a talker,’ said Ingrid. ‘I’ll talk your leg off.’

  Potts shook his leg. ‘Still attached.’

  ‘Oh my, Mr Potts, you made a joke.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Could it be that you’re actually relaxing a little?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I guess.’

  ‘Would you like some dessert? Apple pie. I made it myself, and I’m not shy about accepting compliments on it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, that sounds real good. You want me to help you with these dishes?’

  ‘Thank you for the offer, Mr Potts, but we have this amazing new invention. It’s called a dishwasher. But you can, if you don’t mind, bring the rest of that pot roast into the kitchen. I’ll wrap it up before it dries out. You’re taking some home. I insist on it.’

  ‘Thank you, yeah, that would be real nice.’

  Potts followed her into the kitchen carrying the pot roast. He sat it on the counter and watched Ingrid scrape the plates into the garbage. When she bent over the fron
t of her dress opened and Potts could see the thin nylon bra with a tiny bow near the top and the darkness of nipple through the fabric. Potts watched her rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. She moved as if he wasn’t there, or else had been there all her life.

  ‘Voilà. And now for some coffee and that pie,’ she said.

  She started the coffee in the machine. She sliced the pie and licked some apple filling from her finger. She was aware that Potts was staring at her, watching every move she made.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother always taught me I should never . . .’ Potts had no idea what she was going to say. She let the sentence just end and hang there. She and Potts stared at each other.

  ‘I better go,’ said Potts.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ she asked him.

  ‘I best be going,’ Potts said again, but didn’t move.

  ‘No,’ she said to him. ‘Do what you want to do. Do what is in your mind.’

  Potts put out his hand and touched her face. She took the hand and slid it beneath her dress, his hand enveloping the nylon and the tiny bow and the tip of her breast growing hard beneath his palm. She raised the skirt and put his hand between her legs. Potts let it rest there, cupping her, felt the moist warmth of her fill his hand. Ingrid leaned against him, her hands around his waist, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. She led him slowly out of the kitchen and down the hallway, past the room where the old lady sat watching television, mouthing words to herself, and into the bedroom. Ingrid undressed slowly and allowed Potts to watch. Now, she was saying to him, this is who I truly am, and he finally felt the two versions of her in his head come together. She crossed to Potts who held her naked and then she began to undress him. He let her do whatever she wanted and she pulled him into the bed and slid beneath him and Potts was lost, oh so lost, put one arm beneath her neck and the other hand beneath her hips and tried not with just his cock but his entire body to enter her, to pass through flesh and into her core. He buried his face in her neck in a dimple where sweat gathered and he inhaled her, tasted her and ended with a violence that left him weak and helpless and not a little frightened. Potts lay on his back, her hand on his chest, head on his shoulder, and can feel the burning lines on his back from her scratches and the place at the base of his neck where she bit. She is warm and soft and he can feel every inch of her along the side of his body. Jesus.