'Town without pity,' I drawled.
We had the faculty lounge to ourselves, as usual. Marcello was kicking back on the fuzzy plaid couch, thumbing through The Hollywood Reporter, and I was rereading the few assignments Paeng Bugayong had handed in, mini-scripts for shorts he could shoot later in a production class. So far he had a castrating wizard who targeted jocks, a serial vandal who kidnapped Baby Jesuses from Christmas nativity scenes, and a girl who had resorted to cutting because she was so misunderstood by her parents. Standard disaffected adolescent fare, half goth, half emo, and all seemingly harmless enough.
When I'd asked the department assistant to pull Bugayong's student file for me earlier, bumbling out some pretext about wanting to make sure he wasn't recycling skipped-attendance excuses, she'd held eye contact a beat too long. My nervous grin had frozen on my face even after she said she would put in a request to Central Records.
'Either of you teach a kid named Bugayong?' I asked.
'Odd name,' Marcello said. 'On second thought, that's probably like John Doe for Korean people.'
'Filipino,' I said.
Julianne banged the coffeemaker with the heel of her hand. It appeared unmoved. 'Little weird kid, looks like he's always sucking a lemon?'
Marcello asked, 'So Pang Booboohead is your lead stalking suspect?' He was starting to take an interest in the updates. Or didn't like being left out. 'Is his writing troubling or something?'
Julianne said to me, 'If someone read your scripts, they'd think you were paranoid.'
'Good thing no one reads them, then.' Marcello, ever supportive.
Julianne came over, stirring coffee into hot water. Not freeze-dried instant, but ground. She said, 'I know,' took a sip, then retreated and dumped it into the sink.
'A student of mine told me he's a little loose around the hinges,' I said.
'And they're such good judges of character at this age,' Marcello said.
'Bugayong's a wuss,' Julianne said. 'I'll bet you a new coffeemaker that he pees sitting down.'
I tested one of the scabs on my knuckles. 'I know. It's not him. He's got the imagination for it. I doubt he has the nerve.'
'And your neighbor has the balls but not the imagination,' Marcello said. 'So who's got both?'
Simultaneously, Julianne and I said, 'Keith Conner.'
Her zeroing in on the same name unsettled me. Not that any of the prospects were good ones, but given Keith's resources, his targeting me was a pretty chilling scenario to contemplate.
Julianne sank into a chair, picked at her flaking black nail polish. 'You never really think about it,' she said. 'How thin the line is that separates everyday resentments from obsession.'
'The stalker's obsession or mine?' I headed for the door. I wasn't sure what I hoped to accomplish, but if my scuttled career had taught me anything, it was that a protagonist has to be active. I wasn't gonna sit around and wait for the next escalation--the intruder, inside my house, with a camcorder and a claw hammer.
From behind, I heard, 'ON FEBRUARY NINTH, PATRICK DAVIS HAS. NOWHERE. LEFT. TO HIDE.'
I said, 'Today's the tenth, Marcello.'
'Oh.' He frowned. 'ON FEBRUARY TENTH--'
I closed the door behind me.
Chapter 13
I found Punch Carlson in a lawn chair in front of his ramshackle house, staring at nothing, his bare feet up on a cooler. A scattering of Michelob empties lay crushed next to him, within ape-swing of his arm. Punch, a retired cop, worked as a consultant on movie sets, showing actors how to carry guns so they didn't look too stupid. We'd met several years ago when I was doing research for a script I never sold, and we stayed in touch over the occasional beer.
Bathed in the glow of the guttering porch light, he took no notice as I approached. That blank gaze, fixed on the house, held an element of defeat. It occurred to me that maybe he dreaded being inside. Or perhaps I was just projecting my feelings of late for my own house.
'Patrick Davis,' he said, though I couldn't tell how he knew it was me. He was slurring, but that didn't stop him from cracking a fresh brew. 'Want one?'
I noticed the script in his lap, folded back around the brads. 'Thanks.'
I caught the can before it collided with my forehead. He kicked the cooler over at me. I sat and took a sip. It was good as only bad beer can be. Punch lived four blocks from a seedy stretch of Playa del Rey beachfront, and the salt air burned my eyes a little. A plastic flamingo, faded from the sun, stood at a drunken, one-legged tilt. A few lawn gnomes sported Dada mustaches.
'What brings you to Camelot?' he asked.
I laid it out for him, starting with the first DVD showing up unannounced in yesterday's morning paper.
'Sounds like some bullshit,' he said. 'Leave it alone.'
'Someone's laying the groundwork for something, Punch. The guy went inside my house.'
'If he was gonna hurt you, he would've already. Sounds like an elaborate crank call to me. Someone trying to get a rise out of you.' He looked at me pointedly.
'Okay. So it worked. But I want to know what it's about.'
'Leave it alone. The more attention you pay to it, the more it'll turn into.' He waved at me. 'If you remove a woodpecker's beak, it'll pound itself to death. It doesn't know, right? And it keeps bashing its little woodpecker face against the tree. So--'
'Is that true?'
He paused. 'Who gives a shit? It's a metaphor--ever hear a' them?' He frowned, took another sip. 'Anyways'--he struggled to recapture his momentum--'you're like that woodpecker.'
'A powerful image,' I concurred.
He took a healthy swig, wiped the dribble from his stubbled chin. 'So where do I come in on this little boondoggle?'
'I want to talk to Keith Conner. You know, given our whole fiasco, he's my top contender. But he's not listed. Obviously.'
'Try Star Maps.'
'It still shows his Outpost address,' I said. 'He's in the bird streets now, above Sunset Plaza.'
He flipped halfheartedly through the script. It seemed he'd zoned out.
'What do you say?' I pressed. 'You think you could dig up an address for me? And nose around on him a little?'
'Police work?' He raised the script, let it fall back into his lap. 'If I was any good, you think I'd be doing this shit?'
'C'mon. You always know the right moves, who to talk to to get something done. All that LAPD-brotherhood stuff.'
'Going official routes never got anything done, my friend. You do it all unofficially. Call in a favor here, return another there. Especially when you're shooting a movie. You need a street permit, some asshole needs to rent the SWAT chopper, whatever. You're on a deadline.' He smirked. 'Not like, say, when you're trying to catch a serial rapist.'
I could read his tone, so I said, 'And?'
'A tired dog like me, I only got so many favors. I gotta spend 'em for rent.'
I stood, drained the beer, dropped it on the lawn beside the others. 'Okay, thanks anyway, Punch.'
I went back to my car. When I closed the door, he was at the window. 'When did you start givin' up easy?' He jerked his head toward the house.
I got back out and followed him across the front yard and into the kitchen. Dirty dishes, a dripping faucet, and a trash can overstuffed with bent pizza boxes. A strip-club magnet pinned a child's drawing to the fridge. A crayon depiction, nearly desperate in its cheer, portrayed a family of three, all stick figures, big heads, and oversize smiles. The requisite sun in the corner seemed the single spot of color in the dingy room. I couldn't blame Punch for having retreated to the front lawn.
I looked for somewhere to sit, but the sole chair was piled with old newspapers. Punch poked around for a while before producing a pen. He tugged the drawing off the fridge, the magnet popping off and rolling beneath the
