time.
“One more thing, MM.”
“What’s that?”
“Call the judge. If she hasn’t gotten a care package
yet, warn her she may.”
“I’ve already called her bailiff. Scratch up a few
more brownie points for our side.”
“Describe this asshole as precisely as you can,”
said Milo.
“My size almost exactly. Say five eleven, one
seventy-five. Raw-boned, muscles. Long face. a reddish
tan like construction workers get, busted nose,
big jaw. Wears Indian jewelry–two rings, one on
each hand. A scorpion and a snake. A couple of
tattoos on the left arm. Bad dresser.”
“Eye color ?”
“Brown. Bloodshot. A binge drinker. Brown hair
combed back, greasy kid stuff.”
“Sounds like a shitkicker.’
“Exactly.”
“And this Bedabye Motel’s where he lives?”
“As of a couple of days ago. He may be living in
his truck for all I know.”
“I know a couple of guys in Foothill Division. If I
can get one of them in particular, to go down and
talk to this Moody, your troubles’Il be over. Guy
name .of Fordebrand. Has the worse breath you’ve
ever smelled. Five minutes of face to face with him
and the asshole will repent.”
I laughed but my heart wasn’t in it.
“He got to you, huh?”
“I’ve had better mornings.”
BLOOD TEST
“If you’re spooked and wanna stay at my place,
feel free.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”
“If you change your mind, let me know. Meanwhile,
be-careful. He may be just an asshole and a
wiseguy, hut I don’t have: to tell you about crazies.
Keep your eyes open, pal.”
I spent most of the day doing mundane things
and appearing outwardly relaxed. But I was in what
I call my karate state–a heightened level of consciousness
typified by perceptual vigilance. The.
senses are finely tuned to a point, just short of
paranoia, where looking over one’s shoulder at frequent
intervals seems perfectly normal.
To get that way I avoid alcohol and heavy foods,
do limbering exercises and practice katas—karate
dances–until exhausted. Then I relax-with a half
hour of self-hypnosis and auto-suggest hyperalert-ness.
I learned it from my martial arts instructor, a
Czech Jew named Jaroslav, who had honed his self-preservation
skills fleeing the Nazis. I sought his
advice during the first weeks after the Casa de Los
Ninos affair, when the wires in my. jaw made me
feel helpless and nightmares were frequent visitors.
The regimen he taught me had helped me
mend where it counted–in my head.
I was ready, I told myself, for anything Richard’
Moody had in store.
I was dressing to go out for dinner when the
service called.
“Good evening, Dr. D., it’s Kathy.”
“Hi, Kathy.”
I A5 Jonathan Kellerman
“.Sorry to bother you but I’ve got a.Beverly Lucas
on the line. She says it’s an emergency.”
“No pi?oblem. Put her on, please.”
“Okay. Have a nice night, Doc.”
“You too.”
The phone hissed as the lines connected.
“Bev?”
“Alex? I’ve got to talk t’you.’
There.was loud music in the background–syn-thesized
drums, screa!lqing guitars, and a heart-
stopping bass. I could barely hear her.
“What’s up ?’
“Can’t talk about it here–using the bar phone;
Are you busy right now ?”
“No. Where are you calling from?”
“The Unicorn. In Westwood. Please. I need to
talk to you.”
She sounded on edge but it was hard to tell with
all that noise. I knew the place, a combination bistro-discotheque
(bisco?) that catered to the upscale
singles crowd. Once Robin and I had stopped in for
a bite after a movie but had left quickly, finding
the ambience too nakedly predatory.
“I was just about to have dinner,” I said. “Want
to meet somewhere?”
“How ’bout right here? I’ll put my name down for
a table and it’ll be ready when you get here.”
Dinner at the Unicorn wasn’t an appealing pros-pectmthe
noise level seemed likely to curdle the
gastric juices–but I told her I’d be there in fifteen
minutes.
Traffic in the Village was heavy and I was late
getting there. The Unicorn was a narcissist’s paradise,
mirrored on every surface except the floor.
Hanging Boston ferns, half a dozen fake Tiffany
lamps, and some brass and wood
tossed in, but the mirrors were the essence of the