A Better Goodbye Read online

  “Interesting? Maybe I’m missing something.”

  DuPree toyed with the idea of telling Scottie what a clueless motherfucker he was, and then held off because he could still be of some use. Not for any heavy lifting, but this was definitely a job for two men now—and a dog. DuPree just wouldn’t let him know about Blanco yet. There wasn’t anything to be gained by saying the goddamn dog was locked in the bedroom again, probably chewing the shit out everything it hadn’t sunk its teeth into the other day. The important thing was to focus on this two-man job DuPree had in mind, and how one of the two men didn’t have to be worth a shit. That was where Scottie came in.

  “Okay,” DuPree said, “we each got someplace to be. You got the trick pad, I got where she lives.”

  “You know where she lives?”

  “I know all kinds of shit. Just listen, all right? If Barry shows up at her place, I’ll call you and you get your ass over there. If Barry shows up at your place—”

  “The trick pad,” Scott said helpfully.

  “Yeah. If he shows up there, you call me right away, and then you got to make sure he stays there. You clear on that? The motherfucker cannot leave before I am on the scene. Cannot. If he gets away, we got a handful of empty, and that would be seriously fucked up, you hear what I’m saying?”

  “I’m with you, bro.” Now Scottie was starting that bro shit again—DuPree wanted to tell him to cut it the fuck out. “But there’s something I’m not clear on.”

  “What’s that?” DuPree asked.

  “How exactly do you want me to stop Barry? You know, if he shows up at the apartment—the trick pad, I mean—and then he starts to leave?”

  Of course Scottie would want to know what to do. The motherfucker was an actor. He couldn’t figure things out for himself. He needed direction. And it didn’t matter that they weren’t even to the criminal part yet. It didn’t matter any more than all the times Scottie had talked DuPree damn near deaf about the directors who had fucked him over and how he was thinking maybe he should try directing himself. The motherfucker still needed help with his process. DuPree thought that was what Scottie called it anyway—his process.

  “Just speak to the dude,” DuPree said. “Stroll up to him outside the building and say, ‘That’s a fine sweater, my man. Where’d you buy it at?’ Or ask him about his car. A motherfucker with a Rolls? With another white man acting like the car makes him a goddamn hero? Shit, sounds to me like you’ll have a captive audience right there.”

  “But he’ll see my face,” Scott said.

  “It don’t matter, dawg,” DuPree said. “How many times I got to tell you that? He’s outside the law. When we take him down, he can’t go running to the cops. All he can do is go home and watch your reruns on TV.”

  “I don’t think they show them,” Scott said.

  “Whatever.”

  Goddamn, DuPree thought, he better not start whining about his motherfucking residuals.

  “And we’re not really sure he’s a criminal.”

  “Your nuts, Scottie. You’re hanging onto them, aren’t you?”

  “You know I am, bro. I’m just trying to get this right, okay? So let me ask you another thing.”

  “Hold on a minute,” DuPree said, wondering if he should just call the whole thing off on account of this motherfucker. “You got to be straight on one fact, all right? The man is a criminal. He’s the perfect score. Just keep telling yourself that, you hear? The perfect score.”

  “The perfect score—got it,” Scott said. “But this is what I want to ask you: What if he blows me off? What if a stranger coming up and talking about his car, or his clothes or whatever, makes him nervous and he tries to get the hell out of there?”

  “Then you got to ram him.”

  “With my Porsche?”

  Scottie was whining now. Nothing pissed off DuPree more.

  “That’s right, unless you got another car. You got to sacrifice your Porsche for the greater good. Locate where he’s parked at and make sure you’re right there in position to T-bone the motherfucker. No, fuck it, a little fender bender will do. Just make sure you give me time to drive over so we can make our move.”

  A moment passed before Scottie said, “Okay, if you say so.” He didn’t sound convinced. “And then one last question: What if Barry doesn’t show up at all? It happens all the time, you know, clients flaking out on girls.”

  Just thinking about it set off a buzz in DuPree. No way he could walk away from this no matter how fucked up Scottie was. No way in hell.

  “Then we’ll track his ass down,” DuPree said.

  27

  As soon as he realized he hadn’t been fucking just for the sake of fucking, Nick knew he was in unfamiliar territory. He wondered if Jenny was trying to get a handle on what had happened, too. He found hope in the fact that there had been no rushed, almost embarrassed parting the night before, and no straining to remember her name when he awoke the morning after. “Jenny,” he said out loud, and liked the way it sounded so much that he said it again. But everything still seemed tilted at a weird angle because, when he thought about it, love and a jack shack didn’t belong in the same sentence.

  All the way to work he wondered if he even knew what love was. Christ, he thought, I’m getting soft in the head. Life had been easier when all he had to do was punch the man in front of him or throw another suitcase off a plane. Now he found himself wondering what he and Jenny would say to each other or if they’d just trade secret looks. And how would he feel the next time Barry came to see her? And what about that snake Sierra? She was always looking for something to gossip about, something that would give her leverage over the other girls.

  The strange thing was, Jenny was running late for her turn on the evening shift, which tied a knot in Nick’s stomach. At leaslt Sierra hadn’t started bitching about it yet. She was too busy reading a text that made her so happy she practically pissed herself. “They got the motherfuckers,” she told Nick.

  “Which motherfuckers?” he asked.

  “The ones that raped all those massage girls. Those two assholes.”

  “Police catch them?”

  “Actually, somebody blew their fucking brains out and stuffed them in the trunk of a car. The cops didn’t find them until they started stinking.”

  “I didn’t see anything in the paper. How’d you find out?”

  “A girl I used to work with is screwing some cop. He likes to talk, I guess.”

  “And this cop, he’s sure it’s the same guys?”

  “Yeah, the cops knew who they were, but somebody got to them first. Cool, huh? Like in a fucking movie.”

  Sierra’s thumbs flew over her cell phone’s keypad. She stood when she was finished and gave Nick an icy smile. “I hope you’re not getting too comfortable around here,” she said. “You may be out of a job. And guess what else? If your little friend Coco doesn’t show up pretty soon, her ass may be out the door too.”

  Sierra waltzed off to the bathroom while Nick tried to regain his bearings. If the job was over, the job was over. He’d socked away enough money to cover rent and expenses for a couple months, and maybe his luck would change when he went looking for work again. Jenny was a different story, though he didn’t know how the story was going to end. Maybe she hadn’t shown up because she’d been thrown off-balance by what happened between them too. To find out, he needed to see her again, talk to her again, maybe even make love to her again.

  Jenny was still consuming his thoughts an hour later when Sierra answered the phone and began pacing the living room and pretending her panties weren’t in a knot. “No, I’m sorry, sweetie, Coco isn’t here yet,” she said. Sweetie was a word that made Nick cringe, a cheap endearment the girls seemed to slide into every telephone seduction.

  Then Sierra said, “Oh, sure, Barry, I recognize your name,” and Nick started paying more attention. “I’m hoping she didn’t, like, have an accident, you know?” Sierra said.

  Nick had an idea w
hat would come next.

  “If you’re still interested in some company, though, I’m available. My name’s Sierra—blonde, thirty-fourC, all natural.”

  Barry must have shot her down instantly because the next thing Nick knew she was uttering a curt goodbye and tossing the phone onto the other sofa like it was diseased. “Asshole,” she said. “Fucking rice chaser.”

  She glared at Nick. “God, I could use a bump. You don’t have any coke, do you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “That’s right, you just clean shit up.”

  He wanted to tell her he’d never get all the shit cleaned up as long as she was around, but the ringing telephone kept him from saying a word. Sierra picked up and right away her tone of voice changed. It had to be Scott.

  “Yeah, I just talked to that douchebag . . . No, he’s not coming here . . . I don’t know, maybe Coco set up something with him at her place. I always thought she was a sneaky little bitch . . . Why are you asking so many questions about her? Are you turning into a rice chaser too?”

  Whatever it was she heard next stunned her.

  “I don’t believe it . . . Are you fucking crazy?”

  It was all she could do to keep her voice down. She glanced at Nick uneasily, as if he knew what Scott was saying.

  “Don’t tell me any more, okay? . . . Because I don’t want to know, that’s why. Besides, it’s not . . . Yeah, exactly . . . No, you know I won’t. Later.”

  Sierra hung up and walked to the kitchen without another look at Nick. He watched her go, wondering what Scott had called about, knowing he was up to something, worrying that it involved Jenny somehow. Maybe Barry too, but the hell with him. Jenny was Nick’s only concern, especially after Sierra asked Scott if he was crazy. Crazy meant DuPree was involved too. It had to.

  Nick bolted out to the kitchen and found Sierra lifting a glass of Two Buck Chuck to her lips. He grabbed her arm before she could get a taste of it and spun her around to face him.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she said, trying unsuccessfully to wrest free of his grip. “Let go of me.”

  “I want to know what’s going on,” he said.

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  He squeezed her arm tighter and she dropped her glass. It shattered on the floor, splashing white wine on her bare feet and his shoes.

  “Fuck you,” she said. “If you want to know so bad, talk to Scott.”

  “I’m talking to you.”

  “No.”

  “Talk, goddammit.”

  “He’ll kill me if I say anything, honest to God he will. Him or that psycho DuPree.”

  “Then you’re catching a break because all I’m going to do to you is this.”

  He yanked her toward the shattered glass and she screamed as she went up on her tiptoes. Then he yanked her in a different direction and she stepped on two pieces at the same time. Now she had something to scream about.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, hopping on one leg as she tried to check her gashed foot.

  “Worry about that later,” he said, pulling her away from the blood, wine, and broken glass and depositing her at the kitchen table. “Talk.”

  “They’re going to rob Barry. They think he’s rich or something. And they’re going to use DuPree’s dog, those twisted motherfuckers.”

  “Scott’s part of this? I thought he was an actor or something.”

  “Or something. The fat asshole got fired from his last acting job. Tried to talk some makeup girl into blowing him, like he doesn’t get enough freebies from the girls here.”

  “That doesn’t make him a robber, just—”

  “An asshole, like I said. And he’s an asshole that can’t get work in Hollywood anymore. You don’t need to be a genius to figure out why. So he talked DuPree into letting him tag along when they rob Barry. Like being a fucking pimp on the side isn’t enough for him.”

  “Scott told you this?” Nick asked.

  “Some of it,” Sierra said. “The rest I heard when he was on the phone. Once he starts talking all badass to impress DuPree, he forgets I exist. You know, I really need take care of this foot.”

  She started to get up.

  “Sit down,” Nick said, pushing her back into her chair. “Now I want to know what you haven’t told me.”

  Sierra hesitated.

  “Okay, time for another walk,” Nick said.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re crazy.”

  “You’re right.”

  Nick yanked her to her feet. She howled with pain when her wounded foot touched the floor.

  “No, no,” Sierra said. “He’s got a gun, all right?”

  “Who does? DuPree?”

  “Probably, yeah. But I’m talking about Scott. It’s one of those old-fashioned guns, like some cop used on TV back in the day. Drag-something.”

  “Jesus Christ. How about”—Nick had to stop himself from saying Jenny—“Coco? You tell her what’s going on?”

  “She’s not picking up.”

  “You could leave a message.”

  “I’ve left a shitload of messages. She doesn’t call back.”

  Nick didn’t need to ask if the messages contained a warning. He knew the answer just by looking at Sierra.

  “You know where Coco lives?” he asked.

  “Kind of.”

  “Fuck ‘kind of.’ You do or you don’t.”

  Nick saw Sierra’s eyes go wide and realized he had her backed against a wall. He knew he should give her some room, but he couldn’t make himself do it, not even when he heard her saying, “Hey, take it easy.”

  “Tell me where she lives,” he said.

  “Shit, I said I would. But how about some fucking space?”

  “Goddammit—”

  “It’s on the other side of, what is it, Sawtelle? Like two blocks over. Between Santa Monica and, you know, Olympic. I picked her up one day when her car wouldn’t start. She said everybody told her the building where she lives is, like, the color of baby shit. You’ll see it, trust me. It’s right on the corner.”

  Nick headed for the door without another word.

  He could hear Sierra behind him, asking, “Are you hung up on Coco, too? Is that what this is about? You want to be her fucking hero?”

  That was part of it. The other part would have taken too much time to explain.

  What had she been thinking about? Sleeping with a guy who killed somebody? Come on, you know? Even if it was an accident, what kind of sport would let someone do that? And what kind of guy would—no, Jenny wasn’t going to start on Nick. He had too many scars already, the ones she could see stitched on his face and the ones she knew were on his soul just by looking into his sad eyes. But she couldn’t handle seeing him today, not when her head was a ball of day-after confusion.

  Sleep was Jenny’s favorite pastime. She was going to stay in bed as long as she could, the way she had after her mother died, when she was just trying to keep it together, no family in America to fall back on, only an old lady who rented her an apartment above a garage. Six years later, with the covers over her head, moving in and out of sleep, it felt as though trouble couldn’t find her. There were none of the stories she’d read when she Googled Nick, the tragic ones about what he’d done to another boxer and the heroic one about his punching out a gangbanger who tried to rob him when he was delivering beer.

  Jenny was still wondering what that was all about when she climbed out of bed as afternoon crept toward evening. He hadn’t told her anything about himself, really. Maybe he was worried that too much talking would start him thinking about the man he’d killed, the man Jenny couldn’t get off her mind. Every time she thought about him, it brought her back to her questions about Nick.

  A check of her caller ID told her that Maria had phoned—they always unblocked their numbers for each other—and that the fifteen other calls had been anonymous except for Rachel from school. She guessed that Sierra had made at least a half-dozen
of the calls, and she hoped that Barry was among the others. It was the first time he’d been more than a passing thought since she and Nick got horizontal, and here Barry had been a viable candidate to become the epicenter of her life. But she had finally given in to the realization that this wasn’t the time to be thinking about anything resembling a relationship. She worked in a jack shack, she wasn’t trolling on eHarmony.

  With that in mind, Jenny put off checking her voicemail until almost six-thirty, deleting her e-mail unread, flipping through books without focusing on the pages, watching just enough reality shows on TV to remember how easy they were to hate. She saved Maria's and Rachel’s messages for later without listening to them, but she couldn’t resist playing the increasingly hysterical pleas Sierra had left, the gist of them being that Scott would be really pissed if she flaked out. Sierra called her Coco, a name that already seemed to belong to the past. Jenny shed it like cheap lingerie every time she left work, and now she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to put it on again.

  She was behaving as if she’d given up massage. It surprised her, but it felt right. Everything about the business now seemed too weird and complicated for her to handle, and if that meant her lawyer would have to wait for the rest of his money, she was sure it wouldn’t be the first time for him. The important thing, she decided, was for her to stay home and chill out, to make a cup of tea and give some serious thought to what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

  Her phone rang again. Another blocked number. She checked for a message almost reflexively and found herself listening to Barry say he was on his way over to make sure she was all right. “No,” she said aloud, and barely heard her teakettle whistling.

  Now she hated herself for letting him this far into her life, in a weak moment brought on by the illusion of romance, an urge to hold a man’s heart in her hands, instead of his johnson. Her first impulse was to leave. She was already wearing jeans and a sweater; all she had to do was grab a hoodie and step into her sandals. She could come up with an excuse later—or pretend Barry never happened. It wouldn’t be anything she hadn’t done before.