White Lies Page 4

  The gatekeeper marched him to a small waiting room. He picked up the entire spread of magazines, artfully displayed on the coffee table, and chose a comfy chair. He didn't have an appointment and was prepared for a very long wait. If Denny would see him at all. That was one bridge he hadn't just burned, he'd fire bombed it and scattered the ashes.

  Time slid by. There were no clocks in the waiting room. He was reminded of a bad rendition of Sartre's No Exit that he'd seen because friends were in it. He got it now. Hell was unfulfilled wishes always teetering on the cusp, a constant pining without any hint of resolution. He finished scanning the glossy gossip rag and added it to a thick stack in the chair beside him, then started on the next one.

  * * *

  Denny cursed, crumpling the note his assistant slipped him while he was on the phone. He should have gotten a heads-up from the front desk. At least they'd put him in the most isolated waiting room. Dreading the confrontation, he toyed with the idea of just sending someone to say he wouldn't see him, and found himself halfway to the waiting room. He didn't want to go down that road again, always hoping Asher had sorted himself out and always being disappointed. But somehow he couldn't stop himself from the always-hoping part. His assistant caught up with him in the hallway.

  "Denny, that guy is on the phone again."

  He sighed. It was always twenty questions with this one. Third assistant this year and he still couldn't find one with the knack. "What guy?"

  "He said you know him. He's got a deal with you."

  "Scott?"

  "Yeah, I think so."

  Denny ground his teeth. "No. I do not have a deal with him. You know that list of people I won't talk to?"

  "The one taped to the desk?"

  "Right. Add him to that list."

  "OK. Do I tell him he's on the list now?"

  Denny walked away without answering her. This was not the time to be distracted. He needed his wits about him. He paused in the doorway, unnoticed, and watched Asher a minute before speaking. He was sloppily dressed in an old Oxford shirt and jeans, worn huaraches on his feet. Denny looked for the signs, but found no hand tremors, foot tapping, sniffing or panting. He looked hot and tired, but beyond that he seemed up to snuff.

  "Ash?"

  Asher bolted to his feet, the pile of magazines avalanching to the floor. "Oh, hey, Denny. Thanks for seeing me. I’ve got a real quick question. I know you’re busy." He knelt down to gather them up.

  Denny nodded, warily patient. Asher seemed nervous, but he had every reason to be.

  "I need a list of my stalkers."

  Not what he was expecting. "Why?"

  Asher couldn't manage to meet his eyes. "The police want it. It's about Pam's murder."

  "What about it?"

  "I'm a suspect."

  Denny's hopes crashed. For Ash, there was always a crisis, even when it wasn't remotely related to him. He should have known that Pam's death would trigger a grand mal hissy.

  "Christ. It's always all about you, isn't it?" Denny clenched his fists feeling his blood pressure rising.

  "Let me explain—"

  "Don’t." He wanted to just walk away, but it would be worse if Asher tried to follow him.

  "OK. But I do need the list."

  "My assistant can pull it. Might take awhile, the files are in storage. I’ll have her email, no, fax it over. Give me your number." He didn't want Asher to have his email address. He didn't want to have any more messes to clean up.

  Asher pulled a card out of his wallet and gave it to him. "Thanks, I appreciate it." He sidled toward the exit door, a forced smile pasted on his face. For such a brilliant actor, he wasn't very good at keeping a façade with friends.

  Denny relaxed a tad. "That’s it? That’s all you wanted?"

  Asher dropped the fake smile. "I know I’ve burned a lot of bridges in this town, Denny. I got a lot of shit to undo."

  Denny was surprised by his apparent humility. "When did you get back in town?"

  "I never left."

  "You get a new agent?"

  Asher's mouth twitched with a half smile, and he gave Denny a wink. "I’ve got a perky, little teeny-bopper manager."

  "Good luck with that." Denny's jaw tightened, a sexy young thing was the worst thing for him right now. And from the rumors he'd heard, she was way too young.

  Asher sighed, took a big breath. "Thank you for hanging in there for so long. I know it was difficult."

  Denny had to look away. Asher still had that charisma. That hurt puppy look that sucked you in and made you love him, until he tore out your heart with his mindless self-destruction. He turned away from Asher, refusing to let that love rekindle. "Back then, I was stupid enough to think you were worth it."

  * * *

  Asher stared at the carpet trying to catch his breath. He didn't know that words could rip open his insides like that. He felt Denny leave the room and forced himself to move. Numbly, he walked to the elevator. Denny had loved him like a brother, once. And Asher had trusted him with his life. Denny had never gotten him drugs. He had scolded him constantly that being high would ruin his career. And when the binges had gone on for days, Denny had found the rehabs and the shrinks. There'd been such a long parade of them that they blurred all together, doctors, nurses, white coats and pale pastel walls.

  Asher had hoped that just being sober would make amends, but that was wishful thinking. Denny's cold words rode down in the elevator with him like an armed attacker. If he dared to look, the assault might be fatal. It seemed to him like that bridge could never be mended.

  The heat off the pavement swamped him as he exited the building. He couldn't bear another bus ride. With a surreptitious glance down the street, he hurried away from the building. He'd flag a cab on the next block. Right now an encounter with anyone who knew him would be the last straw. The stench of urine and steaming garbage engulfed him as he crossed the mouth of an alley. The reflected glare off the sidewalk deepened the shadows between the buildings. A flicker caught his eye, and he turned to squint into the gloom. Two bums sat beside a dumpster sharing a bottle in a brown paper bag. He was stronger and faster. He could take that bottle.

  What?

  The unbidden thought was like a gunshot of terror coming out of the blue and striking him down. Could he really sink that low? Was he so close, barely a step away, from joining two homeless alcoholics? Is this where he would end his days, eating out of dumpsters and panhandling to buy cheap booze? He turned away, shaking with fear, pain in his throat, his chest. He staggered a few steps to the next building gasping for breath.

  Cool air flowed from an open door gracing him with the smell of sugary sweets. He bolted into a Baskin and Robbins, forcing his brain to focus on flavors and toppings. People turned and looked. Was he panting? Did he look deranged? He gave them all a smile. "Sure is hot out there," he said with his best mid-western drawl.

  That got him a mumbled, "Tourists!" and a few eye rolls. There were families in here, children sticky with ice cream, teenagers gossiping over hot fudge sundaes. He was safe. But to be honest with himself, he had to admit that he wanted to be Elsewhere. He wanted that fuzzy, soft focus of life seen through altered perceptions. He didn't want to be thinking about how to find a murderer.

  Ice cream soda in hand, he went back out into the heat. There was a fountain and shade in the courtyard of an office building, and he sat down to clear his head. He was shaky from lack of sleep and nothing but sweets all day. There was a time when he could work those 20 hour days and still party afterwards. He was an old man in his industry. Maybe too old to be starting over.

  A man in a rumpled suit, cell phone clamped to his ear, dashed from a cab into the office building. Asher built a whole scenario. The man was a salesman, probably named Bob. He was late for a meeting with a major client. His mistress had kept him from leaving on time. They'd fought because he refused to leave his wife. In fact, he'd strangled her...

  His daydream crashed into reality. No deaths.
What was he doing? Making up stories when he was supposed to be figuring out why Pam had been killed. The smell of the ice cream turned his stomach. He started to toss it in the trash and stopped. Steeling himself, he went back to the alley and gave it to the men by the dumpster. Their heart-felt thanks brought tears to his eyes, but he couldn't say whether it was sympathy or shame.

  Chapter 10

  Asher sat in the living room, carefully not thinking, until it was dark enough for the streetlights to flicker on. It had been a very long and twisted day. His brain felt raw. He went to the bedroom and changed into loose cotton pants and a soft t-shirt. In the twilight gloom, he went through the house and out the back door.

  His hands were steady as he gracefully slid through a Tai Chi long form. His breathing was calm, his steps firm. A car with a raging boom-box passed. He continued unaffected. A passel of screeching kids rode bikes down the street followed by Mr. Knudson’s curses. He continued to concentrate only on the movement of his muscles. Hands here, then move down to there, up on one leg, step over. The world narrowed down to his breathing and moving, nothing else. It was the closest to Elsewhere that he allowed himself to get.

  Calm. A lull in traffic made the cicadas sound louder. The only illumination was from the streetlight out front. He didn't need much. He knew the form in his muscles now. A gentle patting on his shin intruded. Looking down, he found the little calico looking at him expectantly.

  "Well, hello there." He didn't move, knowing how skittish she was.

  The cat meowed and looked at the porch.

  "Oh. Are the bowls empty?"

  Me-oow!

  Asher bent down slowly and gave her a careful pat. She purred, rubbed against his shins and then bit him.

  Taking the hint, he obediently refilled the bowls with cat food. When he finished, he discovered a patient audience waiting. The calico walked right past him to the food, but four fluffy kittens sat in the middle of the yard. Asher stepped down off the porch, and they scattered.

  "OK, guys, going in the house now." He put a handful of kibble on the step, just in case they were too shy to come up on the porch. As he stepped back into the kitchen, the phone rang.

  "Ash, it's Fred."

  "Hey, Fred."

  "You exceeded your credit card limit."

  Asher rolled his eyes. He'd called it. "Really? The restaurant didn't say anything."

  "Not the credit card limit, your limit. Remember, you agreed you wouldn't charge more than a hundred at a time."

  "Oh, right. Well, this is kind of an exception. I didn't know we were going to end up at Sur Place."

  There was a long moment of silence. "Ash, I don't like the sound of that. Were you drinking?"

  Asher frowned. "No, of course not. It was one of Sharon's outings. She didn't remember the name, and I didn't realize how fancy it was till we got there."

  "I see. Well, I think you need to get a better handle on her."

  Asher nodded. "Yeah. I think you're right."

  "She's just a kid, Ash. Don't let her lead you around like that. Next thing I know, I'm going to be transferring real estate again."

  Asher closed his eyes, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. "No, Fred. I promise, no giving away houses anymore." He hung up the phone and stared at it. Things as they were, weren't working. He needed to make some changes.

  Chapter 11

  The following morning, Asher got to work right after a breakfast of sticky buns and coffee. He had made an office in the smallest of the three bedrooms and furnished it from a discount office supply catalog. The bookcases that he'd assembled were crammed with photo albums, tapes and DVDs, repositories of his past life. They were proof of what he had been, what he had accomplished. The wobbly bookcases themselves were a testimony to his more recent achievements, small potatoes by most measures, but he was inordinately proud of himself for managing that much.

  One wall displayed a progression of images, sixteen years of Asher Blaine’s professional life. Movie stills that captured him as someone else, someone far more interesting than the small-hearted person he had devolved into. They ran the gamut from fresh-faced heart-throb to junkie-thin wastrel. He put them there as a warning to himself, a reminder of the wrong path taken. They reprimanded him for the years lost and promises broken. If he looked hard enough, he could almost see when the joy fell away, when his love for the work could no longer fill the necrotic holes in his ego.

  Some of the memories were fuzzy, but there was one movie he didn't remember at all. Renting the DVD hadn't helped. His performance was more than embarrassing, it was troubling. The reviews were scathing. Behind-the-scenes interviews said he was difficult to work with, a temper-tantrum-throwing diva. Even while watching it he couldn't conjure any memories of crew or location. If it weren't for the visual evidence, he'd happily deny any part of it. But there it was, proof of how far down the rabbit hole he'd tumbled.

  In the hospital, he'd put together an old fashioned three-ring binder of lost time. When he checked the year that movie had been filmed, he found a divorce, an arrest and the death of a friend by overdose. The binder was full of newspaper clippings, interviews he didn't remember giving, magazine articles and snippets off the Internet, all telling him things he did in a blank expanse of time. Pieces of his life burned away in a drugged delirium, never to get back. Days, months, years, spent like the easy money he had wasted on booze and pills. Gone but for the scars. A life not quite lived.

  Shaking off his dismal thoughts he turned back to the puzzle of Pam's death. He spent the day sifting through site after site on the Internet. He printed pages and sorted them into piles. Then resorted those piles. Then found more loose ends to try and track down. The sun slid behind his neighbor's cottonwood and he realized he'd spent the whole day crouched over the computer. He straightened up slowly, cramped and achy. The office was dark and he was starving. Stretching and groaning, he made his way through the dim house to the kitchen.

  Twilight was Asher's favorite time of day. Shadows softened edges to a gentle blur. The heat of the day eased back. He could feel energy as it gathered for the explosion of nightlife. Not that he allowed himself to imbibe of that heady brew anymore. This city's nightlife was too toxic for him. He'd learned that lesson repeatedly, until it finally took. As of today, he was two years, three months and five days sober, an accomplishment that still managed to surprise him.

  Somewhere along the line he'd decided to live his life instead of drifting. He wanted to remember things: the occasional loving comment casually dropped by a friend, a hug on a rough day, elation at a performance perfectly executed. He'd lost too many of the good morsels into the distorted fog of his defective memory. It was time to start living in the present and cherishing the voyage. His life, as it was, was starting to give him reason to smile again.

  Taking a bag of cat food from the cabinet, he went out the back door to refill the bowls on the porch for the strays he'd been feeding. Then he sat on the step to see if any of them would stop by. There was an old, scarred tom with half a tail and ragged ears, a black tuxedo with white paws and an orange tabby. And of course, the dainty but dangerous calico. He wasn't sure if they were feral. They all kept their distance.

  There was no sign of the cats, but he stayed to listen to the sounds of traffic and children playing. A streak of low-angled sunlight cut across the yard highlighting a whirling cloud of gnats. He watched the light dwindle until the kids were called into dinner, and the crickets started tuning up.

  He'd grown up in a suburb like this, with a mother who drank and a father who travelled. Those memories were very far away. For a therapist, he'd unearthed them once, but found no sentiments worth the resurrection. Asher had learned early on how to judge a situation, how to forecast emotional storms, and used those skills to circumvent the confrontations and showdowns. It also taught him how important it was to keep all that fear and love and neediness under wraps. Somewhere along the way, he'd replaced those skills with pharmaceutical
walls and alcohol moats.

  Shaking himself loose of his inertia, he went back inside, and gathered ingredients from fridge and pantry. The stove light cast a cozy circle of illumination on the vegetables he washed and lined up on the counter. Rice simmered on a back burner. Digging through the cabinets, he pulled out a cutting board, found a sharp knife and started chopping: long slender matchsticks of sweet red pepper, half-moons of pungent onion, coins of carrot. The repetitious work was soothing. Cooking was a new found joy. With luck, it was instant gratification. There was enough simplicity that he knew anyone could achieve a reasonable outcome, and enough art that you could spend a lifetime learning.

  The doorbell rang, bursting his bubble of domestic tranquility. He grabbed a dish towel and wiped his hands on the way to the door. The living room was dark, but outside the window the sky was holding onto the last bit of light.

  Asher opened the front door to find the small porch unoccupied. A quick glance through the thorny bones of an elderly bougainvillea showed him nothing. A smothered giggle from the shrubs would be reassuringly normal, a child's prank. That would be so simple a thing, so innocent. But there was no galloping herd of prepubescent boys to be found, just a lumpy manila envelope on the front path.

  With a creeping sense of dread, he picked it up and took it into the house. After a moment's thought, he flipped on the porch light, the living room light and locked the front door. Returning to the kitchen, Asher pulled open the back door and stuck his head out. Cicadas had joined in, but nothing human was stirring out there. Still gripping the envelope, he stepped back inside and tossed it on the table. It was light but stuffed full of something. He didn't want to know what was in it.