Shooting Elvis Read online

  Then he kissed me soft and easy on the mouth.

  My headlights flashed across his lean body as I swung the mini-truck around, and he gave a little salute as I pulled away. I was surprised as hell. Not just that he kissed me. But that I wanted him to do it again.

  Two A.M. in Woodland Hills, not a lot going on, a few late-night liquor stores still open, a couple cars stopped at every red, not much else to do that time of night in the Valley but drive. I found Ellenview easy enough, parked the mini-truck around the corner from Kabyenko’s house, stuck a crowbar and flashlight into a sack, walked through the side gate into the back yard. The house was typical suburban California. Shake roof, stucco exterior, wood trim, redwood-stake fencing around the back yard, a couple orange trees offering boughs of fruit across the fence. I sat in the patio deck chair a minute or two, listened and watched and thought about what I was going to do. When I was growing up, there were lots of houses like Kabyenko’s being built on the other side of the freeway. I used to go onto the construction sites and look at the houses as they went up. I’d think about myself owning a house like that one day. When the houses were almost finished, I’d break inside, walk around the uncarpeted floors, think about where I’d put the stuff I’d own. I wanted more than anything to be middle class. Life changes you, changes your dreams.

  Kabyenko had track-locks installed on the sliding glass door. Tough to beat. I checked the frame, didn’t see contacts, peered inside, saw no lights, no sensors, no sign of a burglar alarm. I moved along the back wall. The window above the kitchen sink had an aluminum frame and sliding catch-lock. I wedged the tip of the crowbar into the frame and popped the lock, about as quiet as a cough. I pulled myself through the frame, slid down off the sink, closed the window behind.

  It was clear somebody had been inside since Kabyenko. Things were taken out of cupboards, only half put back. I walked through the kitchen and dining room into the living room, crowbar up and ready for no reason except I was scared. The sofa and easy chair were cut, fabric folded back, stuffing pulled out in a neat pile. The stereo jutted away from the wall. The carpet looked like it had been yanked up in the corner, then laid back down. The front curtains were drawn open. The police must have been through everything. Whoever searched the place took their time, respected the sense of order.

  The den was off the living room, toward the back of the house. I settled down at the desk, propped the flashlight so the beam pooled on the desk top. No dust had settled onto the surface, I noticed. Drawers were pulled half out, papers stacked off to the side. I thumbed through the stack. Mostly personal correspondence. Anything incriminating, the police would have taken as evidence. I searched the desk drawers for something the police wouldn’t know about. Fleischer’s name. Didn’t see it. No address book or business cards. In the back of the bottom drawer, I found a lock box. Somebody had scratched around the keyhole, given up and pried the lid open. Kabyenko’s expired driver’s license was still inside. I stuffed the license in my back pocket.

  A car drove by outside. That time of night, quiet street like Ellenview, any car was cause to worry. I clicked off the flashlight, crept on all fours to the guest bedroom. Outside, a car door slammed. I braved a glance out the window. A squad car was parked at the curb, two patrolmen coming up the front walk. I dropped to the floor, crawled into the hall, lay flat as a snake, waited. The front door rattled, I was sure it was about to come flying open, but it didn’t, it held. A flashlight beam swept across the living room carpet, over the cut sofa, up the walls. I remembered the windows, how all the curtains were pulled back. Pulled back so anybody walking around inside could be seen from the outside.

  The cops talked about something as they circled the house, voices muffled by the walls. A flashlight spot-lit the side window, the gate creaked, the sliding glass door in back shook. They didn’t have keys. If they had keys, they would have come inside to look around. A beam of light traced the edges of the sliding glass door. I thought about what they were doing. They were looking for signs of a break-in. Scratch marks or dents near locks. An unlocked door or window.

  I tried to think if I remembered. Remembered to lock the window. I closed it. I remembered closing it behind me. Nothing else. I scrambled on my belly into the kitchen, slithered up against the wall. They were just on the other side. I could hear footsteps moving toward the kitchen window. I was going to be late. I reached out for the catch-lock. The footsteps stopped. One of them said something, I couldn’t hear what, a laugh got a dog barking next yard over.

  I slid the lock shut, pulled my hand away. A beam spotlit the window, raked across the frame. A hand shot toward my face, rattled the glass. I eased down on my heels. A flashlight beam played along the cupboards opposite. I started to breathe. The beam angled sharply down, glanced white across my knee. I jerked my knees against the wall. The beam turned back to where my knee had been, hovered on the floor, looked for something not there anymore.

  Then the light clicked off, and the footsteps scuffed away, around the side yard, down the front walk. I crawled to the front door, my ear up against the mail slot. Listened to door slams, the squawk of a radio, the squad car pulling away. I laughed, couldn’t believe I wasn’t caught. My first instinct was to get out of the house. I crawled over some old mail in the front hall going to get my flashlight in the den. I wanted to slide open the window, jump outside, run. The adrenaline pumping through my system made me stupid. It was safer where I was. If it was the neighbors called in, said they saw somebody, they’d stop watching the house soon, go back to sleep. I crawled to the front door again, picked up the mail, carried it into the master bedroom. I was thinking I’d find a big closet there, but the bathroom was even better. No windows. I closed the door behind me, clicked on the flashlight.

  Looked like somebody checked the mail regularly. It was mostly junk, a couple days’ worth. Three neighborhood circulars, an offer of credit, a solicitation for membership in a local health club, gas, something from an airline, a credit card bill. I slit open the credit card bill, read down a long list of charges. Kabyenko burned up the credit those last weeks. A couple pages’ worth totaling almost ten grand. Luggage, hotels, meals, clothes.

  I opened the envelope from the airline. It looked like a credit card bill. I never knew you could get a credit card specialized in airplane tickets. The statement listed two flights, St. Petersburg-L.A. The first charge, Kabyenko flew into L.A. on July 2, flight 1071, it cost him fourteen hundred bucks round trip. He repeated the flight on July 9, the day before I met him, and was billed just over two thousand. St. Petersburg was a lot of time zones away, the plane was flying west with the sun, I never was very good at math, had no idea how that would all work out in terms of time. I crawled to the phone in the den, looked up and called the airline’s number for flight information.

  When information answered, I said, “Could you tell me what time flight 1071 from St. Petersburg, Russia, to Los Angeles, what time it gets into Los Angeles?”

  She told me to hold a moment. I heard her fingernails clicking on a keyboard. She said, “That’s flight 1071, leaving St. Petersburg at 11:05 P.M. and arriving at LAX at 5:25 A.M.”

  “So let’s say it leaves on July 9, it arrives when?”

  “It arrives in L.A. on July 10.”

  “Are there any flights that arrive closer to noon?”

  “One from Moscow arrives at 9:55, but nothing from St. Petersburg.”

  I thanked her, hung up. I met Kabyenko a little after noon July 10. He’d flown into the airport six hours early. Probably said he was coming from Moscow, bought himself a little extra time. What was he trying to set up? Did he leave the case with the sink at the airport and hide a second case? If he’d hired out a storage place, maybe he’d used his credit card. I examined the statement again. No record of anything resembling a storage locker appeared on the list. He’d paid cash, or stored the thing somewhere else, maybe someplace where he worked. I looked again at the flight charges.

  I calle
d the same number, said, “I’m looking at my husband’s charge statement here for a flight he took, I notice he was charged over six hundred dollars more for taking the same flight a week later. Is there some billing mistake, or maybe he flew first-class the second time?”

  Information asked for the flight number again and the amount charged, said, “No, the difference between first and coach class on that flight is five thousand eight hundred dollars.”

  Must be nice to be rich, pay six thousand bucks more just to stretch your legs, drink champagne.

  Information asked, “Was he carrying extra baggage?”

  “Why is that important?”

  “All flights carry additional charges for extra bags or excess weight.”

  “Six hundred bucks’ worth?”

  “Depends on the number and weight of bags over the limit.”

  I hung up, climbed out the kitchen window. The air was cool, smelled fresh, I breathed it deep in my lungs, recognized the taste of flowers and earth. Another couple hours the cars would spill exhaust and the factories spit fumes and the sun rise hot and high to bake the air to a harsh and metallic taste. But just then I was happy to walk in the violet dark, smelling the air and thinking I knew something I didn’t know before.

  14

  I drove the major boulevards that spoked out of Los Angeles International Airport, roads a guy looking for a place to store something close to the airport might drive. I imagined I was Kabyenko, nervous about what I was planning, knowing I’d have five hours between landing and delivery, giving me an hour to get my two cases through customs, four hours to get one hid, worried the plane would be delayed, I’d have only one or two hours to get it all done. I’d leave the case with the sink in baggage claim, be a little worried someone might beat baggage security and steal it while I was gone. When a storage facility hit me as easy to get to, secure and private, I stopped, noted the address, gave the front desk a call.

  The last time, I gave my voice an anxious sound to it, like one of those people can’t say anything without their voice rising at the end. “Hello? My name is Marge Kabyenko? I have a small problem I hope you can help me with? My husband, Vic, he rented a storage locker, stuck the receipt in his back pocket? I washed the pants, erased all the ink, now I don’t know what was on the receipt, and Vic’s out of town, I need to get in to storage?”

  The man said, “Sorry, but I can’t let you in to any locker here unless you’re registered on the rental agreement.”

  I said, “I don’t need you to get me in, I have the key right here, I just need to know what the locker number is? My husband can’t remember the darn number either, talked to him just this morning out in Dallas?”

  The man said, “Last name’s Kabyenko?”

  I dug Kabyenko’s expired license out of my back pocket, spelled it for him.

  “Can you give me any identification?”

  “I’m looking at his old driver’s license? The number on it says California N0455886.”

  The man said, “That’s storage locker number 558.”

  I drove around the corner, parked the mini-truck in the facility lot, located the door to number 558, unlocked and opened it. The case was in the corner. On the outside it looked exactly the same as the first one, except there was an envelope taped to the top of it and not inside like the first time. I tore open the envelope, found a letter and customs form. The letter said if all went as planned, Mike was reading it, goodbye and good luck. If somebody other than Mike was reading it, they should know the buyer was Mike Fleischer of Fleischer Security. I read the customs declaration, it said Kabyenko carried plumbing samples, the value less than five hundred dollars. This Kabyenko guy was full of good jokes. I figured he brought two cases from St. Petersburg, listed them as plumbing supplies, put a sink in one case, something considerably more valuable in the second.

  I sprung the latches, saw crating like before, stenciled with that Russian writing, took the crowbar and pried it open. Shredded paper packed the case, different kind of paper from before, not newspaper but butcher paper. The object was held in place by wood blocks carved to shape. I reached inside, pulled out the paper shreds, felt cloth. Whatever it was in there, they wrapped it in something like a blanket, packed it up good, must have been valuable. I reached under the blanket, felt something hard and smooth, slowly lifted it up so I could get a look at it. I examined it a couple minutes, turned it around, let it gently back down again, didn’t know if I should laugh or cry, thought I’d come a long way to be nowhere at all.

  Going to work seemed stupid, I thought I had more important things to do. Lots of people think going to work is stupid but they go anyway, put bumper stickers on their cars that say, I OWE, I OWE, SO OFF TO WORK I GO. I parked across from Alice’s house, tried to think but fell asleep instead. About noon I woke up, thought the hell with Jerry, started the mini-truck. Our Joe wasn’t dumb. He knew what we drove. He knew when we were watching. He watched us. I drove to a liquor store on Franklin for a Coke, climbed back up the hill, this time taking the road on the other side of the canyon. I spotted Alice’s house on the opposite ridge, back porch perched on forty-foot stilts anchored in the hillside. The twin O’s in the big HOLLYWOOD sign stared down at the roof of her house like a pair of binoculars.

  I found a shady spot to park the truck, stuffed the Coke in my back pocket, slung the Nikon over my shoulder, followed the road on sneakers to the last house on the ridge. The asphalt ended at a gate and chain-link fence. Getting through was no problem. In a city of over three million people, you can usually count on somebody being there before you with a pair of wire snips. The hillside beyond the fence dropped steep through scrub brush and loose rock. I switched back and forth, worked my way down and then up the other side to the back of Alice’s house. The planks in the side gate split apart just enough for me to get a ten-degree slice of the front yard and driveway. A red Porsche 911 was parked in the drive. I’d seen it before. Alice was home.

  A wedge of fence shade gave me a sit-down spot out of the sun. My throat was thick with thirst. I popped the tab on the Coke, forgot the can got all shook up coming down the hillside, it shot a geyser up the front of my shirt. The wedge of shade retreated to a thin line, disappeared into the fence. Another beautiful day in L.A. Not a cloud in the sky. Just a thin brown gruel, color of boiled beef. I watched drops of my sweat evaporate on the concrete. Heard the front door slam shut, a clip of heels on the walk. I put my eye to the gap between the boards, saw it was Alice. This is when things started to happen. The branches of the big oak tree in Alice’s front yard trembled, and at first I thought it was the wind but the air was dead calm, a body flew out of the oak. It was our Joe. Dressed in whites, clenched a tennis racket. Alice took one look and ran for the Porsche.

  I got one shot over the top of the fence, put my shoulder to the gate, came out firing. Framed Alice as she struggled to key the door, with Joe background over her shoulder, tennis racket raised like a club.

  Joe shouted, “Wait, Alice! We have to talk! It’s important!”

  Alice scrambled into the Porsche.

  Joe reached out to her through the open door, called her name. In the viewfinder, his face was all pale and sweat-shiny. Alice slammed the door shut, locked it. Joe hammered on the window, shouted with each blow, “I love you! I love you! I love you!”

  I swung the camera to Alice. She shielded her head with her arms, huddled over the steering wheel. Joe dropped the tennis racket onto the driveway, slowly lifted his polo shirt to his neck. A square patch of gauze covered the center of his chest. He fingered the tape securing the gauze to his skin, cried out, “Look, Alice! Look at me!”

  Alice lifted her head from the steering wheel.

  Joe’s fingers jerked down, stripped the gauze from his chest. I released the shutter, zoomed the lens to 150 millimeter because I couldn’t see what it was underneath the gauze. At first, I thought it was a tattoo, something silly, like the name Alice unfolding on a banner across a heart shape. B
ut what he’d done wasn’t silly at all.

  What he’d done was dig a hole in his chest. The wound was a jagged eye a couple inches in diameter. Scabs ringed the outer edges, like he’d been digging at his flesh for weeks. Joe framed the wound with his thumb and forefinger, stretched the skin back, widened the hole to a gray and pink mass of bone. He stretched the hole wider still. Behind the bone, I saw something might have been his heart. His eyes swam back in his head. I thought he was going over, but he steadied. The wound ruptured, blood spurted down his belly, his body jerked. He gasped with each new spurt of blood. The way he gripped his chest, his gasping sounds, the blood spurting out, it was masturbation.

  I shot until I ran out the roll. Then I called an ambulance.

  When I walked in the door, Ben said, “What’re you doing here, you’re supposed to be at Alice’s.”

  I tossed the roll of film on his desk, said, “Joe showed up.”

  Ben sat up, held the film between two cigar-sized fingers, said, “Come over here.”

  I came over. He wrapped his big arm around my neck, gave me a kiss on the cheek. I said, “Thanks, don’t think I don’t appreciate it, but I’d like a little money too,” because they hadn’t paid me since I started.

  “We’d all like a little money,” he said, which made me wonder about Ben and Jerry’s cash-flow situation. He set a cassette player on the corner of the desk, started recording, asked me a bunch of questions for what he said was the client report. It was hot in the room, the fan was going, it blew his hair up to little exclamation points every turn it made around the room. Ben wanted to know who was there, what happened, when it happened and where it happened. I told him everything I remembered, leaving out the part about me hiding behind the fence because I didn’t want Jerry to get mad. Then I told Ben I had something down in the truck I wanted him to see.

  He said, “Sure, bring it on up.”