Chapter 29 #2
Somehow, I segue from graveyard to ringside, the only constant being Pete, clutching a paper cup of beer in one hand.
Junior’s doing his version of table hopping, up and down the aisles in the casino’s indoor stadium, and the Pacheco fan club swells to fill the seats and cheer for their man.
One of us, one of us, their rhythmic applause seems to say.
Every time I watch Troy box, I remember the less-than-sober night he told me once that fighting for three minutes was like fighting for eternity. That’s what hell would be, he’d told me. One long round and no bell. That’s how I feel now, how I’ve felt since Lisa’s death.
We’re on round number four, halfway through, only worse than that, if you consider he’s fighting three minutes a round with only one minute between. He sags against the ring, white shorts collapsed against him in shiny, sweaty folds. His head lolls, as he lifts his parched lips to his manager.
Pete nudges me. “He’ll be okay. He always comes back, just wait.”
Pete is the definitive kid. That’s what Lisa always said. He has to sneak into his Christmas presents early. He tries to make those he loves do the same, even if he has to help them with the unwrapping. An ethical attorney, he can’t, when it comes to family, keep a secret.
I’m hoping that is still the case.
“We have to talk,” I say. “You know what I’m asking.”
He gulps his beer, jerks his head, just in case I’m missing the angry storm in his eyes. “No, I don’t. I thought we were here to cheer on our compadre.”
“You know exactly why I came here tonight, Pete.”
“You think I’d invite you if I knew you were on one of your missions?”
“Maybe that’s the reason you asked me. You knew there’d be too much noise, too much action, too many people we’ve both known since high school.”
He shrugs. “You’re overreacting. You’re still grieving too hard to make sense of what’s happened.”
“Can you make sense of it, Pete?”
I hear the bell, watch Troy dance in a flash of white, out into a rain of fists. Troy doesn’t let up. Neither do I.
“You knew her better than anyone, even better than I knew her.”
“Maybe,” he whispers through dry lips.
“In all of that perfection, something wasn’t right. I felt it, but you know it, Pete. Why did Lisa have to die?”
Blows fly; Troy tumbles, finds his feet and the music of his movements again. Cheers and applause envelop us. I don’t move, waiting for my answer.
Pete looks as if he’s been bitten by a vampire. In a way, he has. I’ll pay big-time guilt dues for it later. Right now, I just have to know.
“Pete?”
“Fuck it. I’m leaving.”
He jerks up, stalks, in his slacks, his crew-neck gray sweater, up the aisles, to the exit.
I dash behind him, no longer caring about anything but the truth.
Finally, I gain on him. Grab his sweater from behind.
“I wish it would go away, but it won’t. You have to tell me.”
The anger in his eyes is hot enough to blast this stadium of noise to splinters. I match it with my own anger, my own need. I’ll die before I as much as blink.
“Okay.” He chokes out the word, looks around as if someone can hear, but they can’t hear. They’re all on their feet, dancing, cheering for Troy. “It’s my fault.”
Perfect diction, no sign of tears.
Through the cheers of Viva Troy, I ask, “Why?”
“I’m a perfectionist.”
“So was she.”
“I made it worse.”
He’s thrown me a line I’d love to hang on to, but I know better. That’s why I’m here. He’s not the one to blame, not the reason. At worst, he’s a symptom.
I take his arm, say, “Come on,” and lead him down the steps to our seats. He’s no longer fighting me.
“She thought she had to try too hard,” he says.
“She always thought that, long before she met you. It’s the way we were raised.”
I can’t think about it, or I’ll be the one who falls apart. Just think about the stairs. One step, then another. We’ll be down there soon, ringside. Another round, another eternity, is over, and Troy sprawls in his corner, a satin dot on the black night of the ring below.
“You know about Julie Larimore,” he says.
“You mean that Lisa wanted to look like her?”
“If it hadn’t been Julie, it would have been someone else.” His voice offers no hope. His eyes are dark shields of pain, curtains down, no visitors, please.
Then the bell, and Troy goes for it. And so do I.
“When we were growing up, I knew what she did, even though I didn’t see it.”
“I didn’t see it, either,” he says. “She was too careful.”
I feel as if I’m the one who wants to vomit now. As we near our seats, I know what he’s going to tell me. Worse, I know what I should have told myself years before. We’ve both seen the truth. We’ve both managed to avoid it. And now, with Lisa gone, there’s no reason to lie.
I slide my arm down and squeeze his hand. “Lots of people have eating disorders,” I say.
“It wasn’t a disorder. She was just too much of a perfectionist.” He shakes free of my grip, rubs both hands together.
The hairs on my neck ripple with the recognition of what he can’t admit.
“She binged. She ate and ate and ate, then tried to eliminate the consequences.”
“I didn’t figure it out for a long time,” he says. We’re back in our seats, the fight before us only noise now. His voice comes out exhausted, yet relieved. “Then I found the syringes.”
I hadn’t expected this, but I let myself absorb his words, trying to keep from trembling, trying to pretend it is an interview, that I am an emotion-free reporter. “What then?”
“I had to confront her. She said they were some high-tech weight-loss drugs the Killer Body trainer had picked up in Mexico. I was worrying over nothing, she said. All she wanted was to be perfect by our wedding day.”
“And you believed her?”
“I thought I did. I couldn’t let myself think that she had a problem, not even when she’d go days at a time without seeing me.”
The sickening reality settles in my body. “She did the same thing to me. She told me she liked her space, and I could never let myself get close enough to question her.”
“Neither could I.”
As the magnitude of what we’re admitting to each other sinks in, one jagged piece stands out.
“Which Killer Body trainer got her the drugs?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Some guy with a funny name.”
“Lucas?” My mouth is so parched that I can barely speak.
He shakes his head, as if impatient to connect to the memory. “Something weirder, like a color. Beige? No, that’s not right.”
“Blond?” I offer.
“Yes, that’s the guy. Blond Elvis. If those sudden drops in weight didn’t bring on the heart attack, they had to weaken her. What did she do on those days we were apart? Binge?”
“Or get her weight back down.” I shudder as the possibilities float through my mind. “It’s not your fault, Pete, and it’s not my fault. We have to keep reminding each other of that.”
He grabs my arm and nods, and although he cannot speak the words, I know he understands.
Then, Troy Pacheco’s fist connects; the man in black goes down. And as the victory is counted down, the crowd surges to its collective feet in a mantra of Viva Troy, Viva Troy. Because it is expected and somehow easier than remaining seated, I stand, too, Pete beside me.
We don’t talk about it again. We don’t need to. Pete goes off for another beer while we wait for the next match. Someone moves close to me. I smell cigarettes, beer. I turn into the harsh whisper. “Some people get the best seats in the house.”
“Den.” My first reaction is guilt. I’ve begged him to let me stay on this story. Now, here I am, at a boxing match.
I want to hug him, want to sob out everything I’ve just learned. Before I can, Den Hamilton’s flushed face breaks into an embarrassed smile. “I came with a date. Couldn’t believe it when I saw you here.”
Date ? Well, why not? The newspaper doesn’t say its editors can’t date, only that they can’t date the reporters they supervise. I crane my neck to see if there’s a solitary woman standing nearby, but it’s impossible with this crowd. “I haven’t been in town long, but I’ve got good stuff for you.”
“Lord, woman, when do you sleep?”
I ignore the compliment, wanting to prove to him that I’ve been making progress. “I found where Julie Larimore’s from. I’m going back there tomorrow.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Why not? The town doesn’t close up on weekends.”
“Want some company?” he asks.
“I’m leaving early in the morning.” I feel myself blush as I say it, asking questions with the implication that they are none of my business.
He flushes for both of us. “The earlier, the better. Shall we take my car?”
“It’s probably better if you ride with me and fly back,” I say. “I need to go to San Diego Monday. There’s a medical clinic there I need to check out.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
The admiration in his voice warms me, makes me realize how emotionally numb my conversation with Pete has left me.
“I can’t give up,” I say. “This clinic, Den. Tania Marie told me she saw Julie Larimore there, at least someone she thought was Julie Larimore.”
“She couldn’t tell? Was Julie in some kind of disguise?”
“Just dark glasses, but that wasn’t the problem. She said Julie was huge.”
He frowns, and I can see him trying to make sense of it, recalling the image on the Killer Body poster. “Overweight, you mean?”
“Grossly overweight,” I say. “Tania Marie said she was obese.”
Lucas
She found him on his boat that morning. He’d come down to do some work and ended up sleeping there.
His first thought when he spotted her approaching the slip in casual pants and a lace-up burgundy sweater was that she’d come because of him, because of them.
But her unsmiling expression, the look of determination, told him otherwise.
Now they walked the pier, and Lucas tried to make sense of what she had told him. There must be another explanation.
“It can’t have been Julie,” he said. “It makes no sense.”
“Not to me, either, but Tania Marie insists it was Julie. She talked to her, she said. Didn’t you tell me Julie would disappear for months at a time?”
“Weeks at a time. Months this last one. But she had too much self-control to go off like that. She had too much to lose.”
He paused at the pier railing, wondering how much he should say. Would Rikki be able to help? Or would she spread this story all over the newspaper?
“There’s something you haven’t told me.” She tilted her head, and the sun glinted off her hair, so shiny she must have just washed it. “I know it.”
“I’m trying to tell you everything. I just don’t know what’s important.”
“Is that true, Lucas?” Her unyielding eyes narrowed on him with lie-detector precision.
“Of course it’s true.” He hesitated, unable to look away from her. “There is something. I’m just not sure how important it is.”
She touched the tender place beneath his eye where the drunk had hit him. “Tell me.”
It was down to a simple choice, his loyalty to Bobby W or his belief in her.
“Bobby W has a trust,” he said. “If Julie violates the Killer Body code of ethics before or after his death, it’s going to cost her and her survivors a lot of money.”
She shuddered, and for a moment, he regretted saying it. “Ever the controller, isn’t he? Even beyond the grave. So, did he also dictate her personal life? Does the Killer Body code of ethics include dating, marriage, maybe?”
“I believe it does.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No.” He turned toward the ocean, wished he were out there on it, where it was easy to make the right decision, where he had only himself and the stars to depend on.
“Bobby W doesn’t have a family. Killer Body is it.
I told you this only to prove that it would cost Julie a fortune to violate something as basic as control over her weight. ”
“Maybe it was out of her control.” Her eyes looked wet, catching the reflection from the sea. He questioned again his wisdom in trusting her.
“She’s controlled everything else. Lived her life by the book.”
“Perfect. She was perfect.” She clenched her fists. “Damn. That’s why she disappeared.”
“Why? You think she’s hiding until she can get the weight off? Come on, Rikki.”
She glared at him. “You really don’t get it, do you? Even the most rigid people can lose control, and when they do—”
He reached out for her, wanting to stop the pain that shimmered in her eyes. She jumped at his touch, pulled away.
“I have to go. There’s something I need to do.”
“Wait. I’ll go with you.”
“No.”
He hated the way she could shut him out like this. “Have it your way, only I think you owe me something before I go. The briefcase with Julie’s bank statements in it.”
“Damn.” She threw her arms around him. “The briefcase, of course.” And she was gone, dashing toward her car, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll phone you.”
“Wait,” he called.
“I can’t. Den’s waiting for me in the car.”
Den?
Lucas watched her until she disappeared into the parking lot.
Her boss, Dennis Hamilton.
A voice that might be Bobby W’s, a voice he was ashamed to acknowledge, whispered to him, “He’s probably a slob. Please let him be a slob.”