«It's my back,» said Doris, thumping the base of her spine as though it were a misbehaving appliance. «It hurts like stink and I have the one Beverly Hills doctor who doesn't like to overprescribe for his patients.»
«It's still that bad?»
«As ever.»
«I thought you were trying a new — »
«It's not working.»
«Can't you go to another doctor? Get more pills?»
«I could. But I won't. Not now. I'd feel so — I don't know,
«So you'd rather be in pain?»
«For the time being? Yes.»
Her temper was brushed over. When the CNN news ended, John had an idea. He went into his room and looked through his old address book. All these numbers and names and not a friend in the lot. John wondered why it is people lose the ability to make friends somewhere around the time they buy their first expensive piece of furniture. It wasn't a fixed law, but it seemed to be an accurate-enough gauge.
He flipped through pages of numbers and memories and meetings and sexual encounters and deals and washed cars and flights booked Alitalia and Virgin, and tennis games catered — a small stadium's worth of people who would find John Johnson whatever he needed.
He removed his working clothes and shed them into a pile in the corner. He was sick of being Mr. Corporate Office Guy. He rooted about his cupboard and found some old clothes Doris hadn't thrown out — old mismatched shirts and pants used for painting the kitchen drawers and for yard work. Every day was now going to be casual Friday for John.
He returned to his old address book. In it he located the name of Jerr-Bear, a child actor of the
Jerr-Bear may have gone skank, but the goods he carried were the finest. John looked in his bedside table and found eighteen hundred dollars remaining from a five-grand float Ivan gave him for the month. It was all in twenties and looked sleazy sitting in a heap the way it did. He dialed Jerr-Bear, and against the odds, Jerr-Bear answered.
«Jerr-Bear, it's John Johnson.»
«The happy wanderer!»
«Yeah, that's me.» John heard chewing sounds. «Are you at dinner now? Do you want me to call back?» The thought of Jerr-Bear at a nonrestaurant dinner table seemed almost impossible for John to visualize.
«Yeah, it's dinner, but big deal. What are you, a telemarketer? How can I help you, John?»
«Call me back.»
«Right.»
Jerr-Bear maintained a complex system of cloned cell phones so as to avoid tapping by authorities. A minute later John's line rang. Even then, the two spoke in veils.
«Jerr, what do you give someone who's in a lot of pain?»
«Pain's a biggie, John. Life hurts. Specifically — ?»
«Back pain.»
«Ooh — most people need heavy artillery for that one.»
«You have any artillery?»
«I do.»
They arranged for lunch the next day at the Ivy.
Chapter Twenty-six
After the scuff with the other Chrysler, Vanessa took the wheel of the car and John sat in the back seat spinning theories about Randy and semipacked luggage.
«Drugs. It
«No, John,» said Vanessa. «There's nothing in Susan's banking or Visa card patterns that indicates a consistent drain of drug-caliber discretionary cash.»
«You got her banking info?»
«I gave her Susan's Visa number,» said Ryan. «It was in the video shop's computer. I mean, once somebody's got your Visa number, they can pretty well clone you.»
«Not really,» said Vanessa. «In order to clone you they'd also need your phone number.»
«Why do I bother even trying to generate ideas?» asked John. «You two are the most drag-and-click people I've ever met. You're wearing the pants here, Vanessa. Why don't you tell me what we ought to be doing next?»
«Okay, I will. We are currently en route to the North Hollywood home of one Dreama Ng.»
«She's a numerologist,» said Ryan.
«Is she going to give us potatoes, as well?»
«Oh, grow up,» said Vanessa. «Susan's been giving Dreama Ng twenty-five hundred bucks a month for a few years now.»
«I
«Your naпvetй yet again sickens me,» said Vanessa, adding, «You, who spent maybe 1.7 to 2 million dollars on both drugs and drub rehab programs over the past six years.»
«
«Probably more. I wasn't able to access one stream of data out of Geneva.» Vanessa continued steering the car with a pinky around a sharp curve. «You know as well as anybody, John, that drug consumption only escalates. It does
«Drum roll …» said Ryan.
«Randy
«Well, I'll be fucked,» said John.
«A bit less color, if you please,» said Vanessa. «Anyway, we're almost there. I already phoned ahead and made an appointment to get our numbers read.»
«What else have you done that I don't know about?»
«When you two were out unlocking the bumpers a few minutes ago, I phoned my brother Mark, and he is now parked across the street from Randy Montarelli's house, and you're paying him twenty-five dollars an hour plus meals so that he can maybe get an inkling where that luggage is headed.»
«Where were
«No, John. It was unsavable.»
Vanessa and Ryan plunged invisible peacock feathers down their throats. John went quiet. They spun onto and then off the Hollywood Freeway, and parked outside Dreama's apartment building. John had a dйjа vu, but then realized it was actually a flashback to the beginning of his film career. The smell of Dreama's elevator was identical to the hallways of his first apartment in a building off Sweetzer, a blend of cat piss, cigarettes, incense and other people's cooking. Vanessa asked John, «What do we do once we're in there. John?»
John shrugged. «We'll know when we get there. I hope. Look for clues.»
«Hi.» Dreama answered the door. «Come on in. You're Vanessa?»
«I am. This is Ryan and this is John.»
«The apartment's a mess.» The most obvious aspect of Dreama's apartment was luggage on the kitchen
