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Overview
Down-on-his-luck drifter Wycliff has come to Los Angeles to scam his dying brother out of his estate. But as they get to know one another, having not been in contact for decades, the two brothers forge an unlikely bond. Just as he's planning to put his sordid past behind him, Wycliff meets a glamorous woman who offers him his first taste of the high life, and finds himself involved with a team of hustlers much more sophisticated and brutal than he is. Wycliffe begins to suspect he's being set up. But for what? He's about to learn the cardinal law of crime: there's always someone badder than you.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781780105031 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 05/01/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| Sales rank: | 1,060,325 |
| File size: | 598 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Turn Left at Doheny
By J.F. Freedman
Severn House Publishers Ltd.
Copyright © 2014 J.F. FreedmanAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78010-503-1
CHAPTER 1
Wycliff was going to take the Greyhound. He had enough money, that wasn't the problem. But as he stood in line to buy the ticket from Tucson to Los Angeles, an announcement came over the public address system that the scheduled bus had mechanical problems, and there would be a delay until a replacement could be driven down from Phoenix. That could take all day, so he stole a car instead, a late-model Lexus, from the Ventana Canyon Resort parking lot. Metallic champagne paint job, tan leather seats, Blu-Ray, six-disc CD changer in the dashboard, GPS in the dash. The owner was an attractive middle-aged woman who was getting the full salon treatment: hair (cut and colored), manicure, pedicure, and facial, so she wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. By the time she realized her wallet and keys had been lifted from her purse, he would be long gone.
The wallet contained eight hundred and fifty dollars in crisp bills fresh from the bank, and a bunch of credit cards. He kept the cash and tossed the plastic. Then he unscrewed a set of license plates from another car on the lot and switched them, a trick he'd perfected in his teens. All set now, he drove onto the I-10, set the cruise control to five miles over the speed limit, and nestled in the anonymity of the center lane. One stop to refuel and use the bathroom, and eight hours later he arrived in LA, exiting at the La Cienega turnoff and heading north into West Hollywood.
The stunned look on his brother's face when he walked into the hospital room was one of disbelieving shock, but it instantly morphed into blinding anger. 'What the fuck are you doing here?' he raged at Wycliff.
'I came to see you. What other reason would I have to be in this godforsaken shithole?' Wycliff replied with easy insouciance. He was a bird on a wire; he could come and go as he pleased. Billy couldn't. All the difference in the world.
'None,' Billy answered with unconcealed disdain. 'Including to visit me, I would have thought.'
'I wanted to see you before you die.'
'What you want is my money, you prick.' Billy's mocking laugh sounded like his throat was lined in sandpaper.
'Of course I do. We are blood, baby brother. If the shoe was on the other foot ...'
'I'd scrape it off, because it would be dog-shit.'
Wycliff smiled. He'd been insulted by pros. This was nothing. He pulled up a chair and sat down. His younger brother was nothing more than a sack of bones. You could practically see the skull through the stretched skin of Billy's ravaged face. He knew Billy would be fucked up, the scourge did that to its victims, but this was way beyond what he had imagined. Holocaust survivors from old Life magazine pictures had more flesh on their skeletons. Billy had been a beautiful boy, which was his downfall. Every fag from fourteen to eighty had wanted to fuck him, and he'd let too many do it. At least one too many.
'It's not going to happen,' Billy told Wycliff. 'I've made sure of that.'
'You left it to one of your friends, or some bleeding-heart charity?' Wycliff shook his head in annoyance. 'Get smart for once, Billy. What's yours is mine, and vice versa. That's the law.'
'So get a lawyer and sue my estate. If you can find one that'll take you on.'
'We'll see,' Wycliff answered. He checked out the dull, institutional surroundings. Hospital rooms gave him the creeps. 'They gonna leave you in here to rot?' he asked. 'You don't want to die in your own bed, surrounded by loved ones? Or in a hospice, with people who actually care?'
Billy swallowed and looked away, towards the window. 'They need to stabilize me some more. Than I'll go back home.'
'That's good,' Wycliff told him. 'You don't want to die in a hospital. Bad mojo for your journey to the next life, wherever that may be.' He stood, and stretched. 'Where are the keys to your place? Somebody's got to water the plants.'
His brother's face hardened. 'It's being taken care of. I don't want you setting foot near there.'
Wycliff took on a quizzical look. 'Where am I supposed to crash, then?'
Billy would have laughed again, but he wasn't capable of the effort. 'Like I'm supposed to give a shit? I don't want you here, there, or anywhere. I don't want to see you again, Wycliff. Like, never.'
Wycliff took on a hurt look. They both knew that was a joke. It took more than a dying brother to penetrate Wycliff's feelings.
'I'm all the family you have, bro',' he reminded Billy. 'It might be screwed up both ways, but that's how it is.'
Billy closed his eyes. 'Go away. And don't come back. I can have you removed. By force, if necessary.'
Wycliff got up. 'I'm leaving, so don't worry your pretty little head.' He patted the body under the sheet. It was like touching a skeleton. 'Get some sleep. I'll come back later.'
'Don't.'
Wycliff stared down at him. 'We're blood. Blood transcends everything.'
Billy opened his eyes and looked at Wycliff. His eyes were set so deep into his face it was like they were two dim lamps in a coal shaft. 'Except when it comes to you,' he said, his voice a weak whisper now. He was exhausted; it didn't take much. 'You transcend nothing.'
The man who was taking care of Billy's house stared at Wycliff through the screen door. 'Who are you?' he asked. His tone of voice was suspicious. This guy facing him looked like a biker, or a recently released con. Bad news, either way.
'Billy's brother,' Wycliff answered casually, with no undertone of threat or violence. He took out his driver's license and pressed it against the screen. 'See for yourself.'
The man, who was older than Wycliff, flabby and balding, fumbled a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket. The lenses were smudged. He peered at the license, taking a good, long look. 'I didn't know Billy had a brother,' he said suspiciously.
'We've been out of touch. But now he's dying, so here I am.' Solidifying his bona fides, Wycliff added, 'He knows I'm here. I just came from the hospital. Cedars.'
The man didn't look happy at this unexpected revelation. 'You can come in, I guess,' he said grudgingly.
The house was a Craftsman off Sunset, where Silverlake bordered Echo Park. It was set back from the street, so there was little traffic noise. The trim was past due for sanding and painting and the pocket front yard needed mowing and watering, but the borders around the lawn had been nicely planted with a variety of dwarf rose bushes, about half of which were in full bloom, so the overall feeling was cheerful. As Wycliff stood on the shaded porch, waiting for the nervous-Nelly house-sitter to unlatch the screen door, he made a quick mental inventory of how much work would be needed to whip it into shape so it could be put on the market. Not much, at least on the outside. This was a hot area for real estate; he'd checked it out on the Internet. Choice territory for young up-and-comers who couldn't afford the Hollywood Hills or parts west. All in all, a pretty, inviting little place. He wondered how big a mortgage Billy was carrying. One of the details he needed to check into.
As soon as the caretaker lifted the inside door-latch, Wycliff grabbed the handle on his side and yanked the door wide open. The pasty-faced man almost fell over from the sudden jolt. 'You don't need to be so rough,' he blubber-lipped.
The man's skittish whimper went in one of Wycliff's ears and out the other. He was in his brother's house, that was all that mattered. This pitiful specimen could stay or go, he couldn't care less. As long as he stayed out of Wycliff's hair and didn't try to pull some kind of squatter's-rights rank. Wycliff couldn't imagine this loser standing in front of him as a sexual partner for his brother. Not that sex had any part in Billy's life anymore. Still, you should care about appearances. Billy had been prime. Plenty of straight women had tried their wiles on him. He had slept with some of them, usually for money, but occasionally just to make them happy, because he liked them, as people. But he never got any true satisfaction from the act. He had been born gay, lived his life gay, and would die a man who loved men.
Except for Wycliff. Billy didn't love his brother. He hated him venomously, all the way back to their childhood. Wycliff knew that, always had. Not that he cared, not a bit. Being hated, or more usually, feared, was the emotion he most commonly engendered in people. When he'd been younger it had bothered him that almost everyone was either scared of him or despised him. But he'd outgrown that negativity, had learned to live with it, and use it. The leopard can't change his spots. We are what God made us, like it or not. He was a heterosexual thug, and his younger brother was a gay angel. Neither was ever going to change, even past the grave.
He dropped his duffel onto the floor. It raised dust-motes in the still air. 'Which bedroom are you using?' he asked Billy's friend, who was backing away from him. 'Billy's?'
'No. I'm in the guest room. Billy's coming home soon,' the man ventured bravely. 'So there's really no room at the inn.'
'He ain't home yet,' Wycliff reminded the man without subtlety.
He took in the surroundings. The house was dirty, you could feel the grunge. Billy hadn't had a cleaning service in for a while; that was obvious. When Billy came home, assuming he did, it should be to a clean house. The least a brother could do.
'I'm gonna change the linen and unpack my stuff,' he informed the man. 'Then I'll get to work. A house ain't a home if it ain't clean, don't you know that?'
Billy's sullen friend didn't answer. He was clearly intimidated by this bully who had burst in on him unexpectedly. He could see the resemblance between the two brothers, but still, that Billy could have a blood connection who had this kind of brutish personality didn't seem possible.
Wycliff was oblivious to the caretaker's feelings. He hoisted his duffel, went into his brother's bedroom, and shut the door.
There was no mop, and he had to be pushy to get the caretaker, whose name was reluctantly given out as Stanley, to go to a nearby CVS Drugstore to buy one, along with furniture polish, Simple Green, bath and toilet cleanser, and other janitorial necessities. He peeled off three of his freshly stolen twenties and thrust the bills into Stanley's sweating hand.
'And pick up a six-pack. Bohemia or Corona. And whatever you drink, for yourself. As long as it isn't Chivas, or something too pricy. Some chips and salsa, too.' He gave Stanley a crude wink. 'You look like a man of refined taste. Any friend of my brother's has taste. Billy don't truck with tasteless individuals.'
Which was true, back when Billy had a regular life as a decorating consultant specializing in Feng Shui. Billy counted movie and recording stars not only as clients but as real friends. You'd see his picture in People or Vanity Fair, in the background, at some hot party or another. Where were those famous friends now? Wycliff wondered. Nowhere near here or the hospital, he'd bet good money on that.
As he contemplated that discouraging thought, Wycliff felt more kindly towards this shlub. It wasn't easy, taking care of someone who was dying. Someone who had sores all over his body, a victim of the modern plague. He modulated his smile, so that it wasn't as wolfish as normal. 'Go ahead,' he cajoled the caretaker. 'Everything will be here when you come back.' He tossed Stanley the keys to the Lexus. 'You can hold these, so you'll know I won't be going anywhere.' With a sly grin: 'Don't be driving it, though. My insurance only covers me.'
After Stanley came back with the supplies, Wycliff knocked down a beer and a handful of chips, then spent three hours cleaning the inside. There was more left to do, but this was a lot better, and he wanted to get a start on the outside while there was still daylight left. Maybe he'd hire a professional cleaning crew to give the interior a thorough once-over. He didn't like being in a dirty house. He didn't like dirty clothes on his person, either. He had more socks and underwear than he needed, for that very reason. Putting on a dirty pair of socks or underpants made his skin crawl. In fact, tomorrow, once things got more settled, he'd root out a Ross For Less and buy some underwear because he was running low, having packed on the fly. He had friends who sneered at Ross, but not him. Their stuff was first-rate: Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, Jockey. No one knows where you bought it once you throw the shopping bag away.
The lawnmower was an old-fashioned manual reel-style, but the blades were sharp and it was a small lawn, so cutting the grass was no problem. It was hot out. Wycliff took off his shirt and worked up a good sweat, feeling the sun lubricate the muscles of his back and shoulders. He pulled weeds from around the rose bushes, let the hose run for ten minutes to water them, and found a usable rotating sprinkler in the garage. While he took his shower and shaved, the lawn got a good soaking. When he went back outside, now freshly bathed and dressed in jeans, a designer T-shirt, Lucchese cowboy boots in real alligator, and a Fred Segal linen sports jacket he plucked from his brother's closest (they were the same size, or had been), the grass looked much better, like he'd given it a new lease on life. Too bad I can't do that for you, little brother, he thought, as he coiled up the hose. Nurse you back to health with a dousing of tap water.
He went back inside. It was almost eight, getting dark. Stanley was in the living room, sitting in front of the television set, eating take-out from the Burrito King on Alvarado Blvd.
'Don't wait up for me, ace,' Wycliff told him jocularly, like they were old buddies. 'I'm a night owl.' He dangled a key-chain in his fingers. 'I found an extra set of keys, so you can lock the door if that makes you feel more secure. Just don't pull a gun on me when I come in,' he added with as friendly a smile as he could muster.
Stanley stared straight ahead, his mouth stuffed with chorizo, tortilla, and beans. 'Tomorrow we'll go see Billy,' Wycliff went on. 'Cheer him up. Friends and family, the best medicine.'
Stanley's doleful look was a clear sign he wasn't buying Wycliff's bullshit, but he just kept chewing and watching Wheel of Fortune. Wycliff gave a cursory glance at Vanna White's tightly wrapped behind as she turned three squares over to the letter E, and went out the door.
CHAPTER 2Wycliff didn't know how long he'd have to nurse his cash until he managed to convince his brother that the estate should go to him and he could legitimately dip into it, but a drink at a nice bar wouldn't break the bank, so he treated himself to a Johnnie Walker Red, water back, at the bar in the famous Chateau Marmont hotel where the hip movie stars hung out, according to the gossip rags he leafed through in the checkout stands at the fast-food restaurants he normally patronized back in Arizona. He didn't see any stars, but it was still early. No self-respecting actor or actress would show their face until at least eleven, that much about show business he knew. He could nurse his drink, maybe have one more (although at twelve bucks a pop drinks were damn pricey; Johnnie Black, which he preferred, was twice as much, so he passed on that), and stargaze like a pro. Covertly, with feigned nonchalance.
He heard the woman before he saw her. She was behind him, at the other end. 'Tanqueray on the rocks.' Her voice was low and silky, with a touch of tobacco in the throat, like an old-fashioned movie star's. 'With a squeeze of lime, please,' she instructed the bartender. The way she said please it was like a queen talking to a servant.
Wycliff rotated slowly on his stool so he could see what she looked like without seeming to be too obvious, although with hardly anyone else in here, any move was obvious. So what, he thought. It's a bar. That's what people do in a bar, besides drink. Check each other out.
The woman was alone. She was sitting at the end of the bar, where it was darkest. Glancing at her sideways, he could see that she was older than him, by more than a few years. Five or ten, maybe even fifteen. In this light, it was hard to tell. Good bars keep the lights low.
It took Wycliff a moment to realize she was looking at him. Not just looking, but openly staring. For a man who was normally the epitome of cool around women, it was strangely disconcerting. He wasn't sure, but he might have flinched, just for a second.
'I wouldn't mind some company,' the woman said, her voice carrying just far enough to reach his ears, but no deeper into the room. If the bartender had heard her, he didn't acknowledge it. He placed her drink in front of her, took some damp bills off the bar, and moved off.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Turn Left at Doheny by J.F. Freedman. Copyright © 2014 J.F. Freedman. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Ltd..
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