After a couple of weekends, he had it running smooth. Of course, it was no good for anything longer than a trip to the beach. These old engines overheated in a hurry, and the six-cylinder was underpowered by modern standards. He needed a week to go zero to sixty. But he could run it back and forth to work, and that was all he wanted.
Yeah, he couldn’t complain. California was all right. He thought about Caitlin less than he would have expected. A couple of weeks back he’d seen her at a club in Burbank, looking pissed, standing with another girl who could have been her twin. No guys around. He wondered if Gruber had dumped her already. He’d ducked out before she saw him, blown the fifteen-dollar cover. He had nothing to say to her.
Once in a while he remembered what Caitlin had said to him on their last night together. No, he couldn’t say he was proud of everything 673 had done. Especially at the end. But he was done now. He lived in the Valley and played drill sergeant to overpaid actors, none of whom cared about his time in the army. If they asked, he said, “Yeah, I was a Ranger.” People in Hollywood preferred to talk about themselves anyway, so most of the time he didn’t need to say anything else. On those rare occasions when somebody pushed him for details, he’d say, “I wish I could tell you. But it’s all classified. Maybe in fifty years.”
WYLY STOPPED at an In-N-Out Burger, thinking he’d refuel, then head out to one of the bars near his house, have a beer, watch the end of the Lakers game. While he was waiting to order, he changed his mind. He was eating too much junk these days. He’d noticed this morning that he’d gained a couple of pounds. Out here, that mattered. Being an ex-soldier wasn’t enough. He needed to look the part.
He pulled out of line, headed home. He had a date tomorrow night, a nurse he’d picked up at a Starbucks the week before. Girls out here were easy. He was pretty sure that if he paid for dinner and half listened to whatever she told him, they’d wind up back at her place. Playing doctor. Though he better not make that joke. He’d tried it with another nurse a month back. She hadn’t laughed.
At the Safeway on De Soto, he picked up a premade salad and low-fat turkey. The guys he’d served with would be laughing. So be it. If everything went right, in a year or two he might start getting regular acting gigs. He could deal with a few tasteless dinners.
Chatsworth was a dull middle-class neighborhood, built in the 1960s and 1970s as Los Angeles expanded into the northern end of the Valley. Houses here were packed tightly on small lots, separated by walls or hedges for privacy. Wyly made a left onto Lassen, a right onto Owensmouth, another left and right, the streets getting shorter and shorter, and finally swung into his driveway. The place had two narrow bedrooms, a galley kitchen, and a living room that barely fit a couch and a coffee table. Wyly didn’t mind. After living for years in army housing, and then that barracks in Poland, he was just glad to have a place of his own.
He caught the very end of the Lakers game, then flipped on ESPN. At about 11:30, he was watching SportsCenter , nursing a Corona Light, and slapping mustard on the low-fat turkey to make it go down easier, when the doorbell rang.
“Yeah,” Wyly yelled. “Who’s there? ”
“Domino’s.”
Wyly hadn’t ordered any pizza. A month before, Pizza Hut made the same mistake. Maybe someone was pranking him. But as a prank, ordering pizza for someone was lame. The Pizza Hut guy left, no argument, when Wyly said he hadn’t ordered it.
“Not mine,” he said. He pulled open the door, saw the Domino’s box—
And then his stomach was torn in half. The pain was worse than the worst punch he’d ever taken, not just his skin or his abs but tearing deep into his gut.
“Oh, God,” he said. He dropped his beer and stumbled backward. His upper body jackknifed, closed on itself,
Yeah, he couldn’t complain. California was all right. He thought about Caitlin less than he would have expected. A couple of weeks back he’d seen her at a club in Burbank, looking pissed, standing with another girl who could have been her twin. No guys around. He wondered if Gruber had dumped her already. He’d ducked out before she saw him, blown the fifteen-dollar cover. He had nothing to say to her.
Once in a while he remembered what Caitlin had said to him on their last night together. No, he couldn’t say he was proud of everything 673 had done. Especially at the end. But he was done now. He lived in the Valley and played drill sergeant to overpaid actors, none of whom cared about his time in the army. If they asked, he said, “Yeah, I was a Ranger.” People in Hollywood preferred to talk about themselves anyway, so most of the time he didn’t need to say anything else. On those rare occasions when somebody pushed him for details, he’d say, “I wish I could tell you. But it’s all classified. Maybe in fifty years.”
WYLY STOPPED at an In-N-Out Burger, thinking he’d refuel, then head out to one of the bars near his house, have a beer, watch the end of the Lakers game. While he was waiting to order, he changed his mind. He was eating too much junk these days. He’d noticed this morning that he’d gained a couple of pounds. Out here, that mattered. Being an ex-soldier wasn’t enough. He needed to look the part.
He pulled out of line, headed home. He had a date tomorrow night, a nurse he’d picked up at a Starbucks the week before. Girls out here were easy. He was pretty sure that if he paid for dinner and half listened to whatever she told him, they’d wind up back at her place. Playing doctor. Though he better not make that joke. He’d tried it with another nurse a month back. She hadn’t laughed.
At the Safeway on De Soto, he picked up a premade salad and low-fat turkey. The guys he’d served with would be laughing. So be it. If everything went right, in a year or two he might start getting regular acting gigs. He could deal with a few tasteless dinners.
Chatsworth was a dull middle-class neighborhood, built in the 1960s and 1970s as Los Angeles expanded into the northern end of the Valley. Houses here were packed tightly on small lots, separated by walls or hedges for privacy. Wyly made a left onto Lassen, a right onto Owensmouth, another left and right, the streets getting shorter and shorter, and finally swung into his driveway. The place had two narrow bedrooms, a galley kitchen, and a living room that barely fit a couch and a coffee table. Wyly didn’t mind. After living for years in army housing, and then that barracks in Poland, he was just glad to have a place of his own.
He caught the very end of the Lakers game, then flipped on ESPN. At about 11:30, he was watching SportsCenter , nursing a Corona Light, and slapping mustard on the low-fat turkey to make it go down easier, when the doorbell rang.
“Yeah,” Wyly yelled. “Who’s there? ”
“Domino’s.”
Wyly hadn’t ordered any pizza. A month before, Pizza Hut made the same mistake. Maybe someone was pranking him. But as a prank, ordering pizza for someone was lame. The Pizza Hut guy left, no argument, when Wyly said he hadn’t ordered it.
“Not mine,” he said. He pulled open the door, saw the Domino’s box—
And then his stomach was torn in half. The pain was worse than the worst punch he’d ever taken, not just his skin or his abs but tearing deep into his gut.
“Oh, God,” he said. He dropped his beer and stumbled backward. His upper body jackknifed, closed on itself,
Similar Books
