Dreams Die First Read online

  I ground out the cigarette. For a moment I had felt elation. But now it was gone. The Hollywood Express was a throwaway sheet. Every once in a while I would find a copy stuffed in my mailbox.

  He knew what I was thinking. “What did you expect? The LA Times?”

  “The Express is not a newspaper.”

  “That’s a point of view,” he said. “To me eight pages of newsprint is a newspaper.”

  I fished for another cigarette but came up empty. He pushed a box across the desk. I took one and lit it.

  “Your unemployment’s run out. There’s not a paper or magazine that would touch you and you know it. You’re not a good enough writer to make it free-lance in the magazines, and your novel has been turned down by every publisher including the vanity press houses.”

  “Why me, Uncle John?” I asked. “You got to have better than me on your list.”

  His eyes met mine. “Put it down to vanity.” He permitted himself a faint smile. “You got something going inside you. Maybe it’s the way you look at yourself. Or society. You’re skeptical about everything. And still you believe in people. It doesn’t make sense. Not to me anyhow.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “How long has it been since you got out of the army?”

  “Five years. They kept me in for a year after I got back from Vietnam. I guess they didn’t like the idea of a Green Beret getting out and spouting off against the war.”

  “You could get a GI loan to take over the paper,” he said.

  “You really are serious about it, aren’t you?” The amazement showed in my voice.

  “I always am about business,” he said flatly.

  “And what’s in it for you?”

  He took off his glasses, polished them, then put them back on his nose. His eyes were hard and bright. “Four pages of classified ads at a thousand dollars a page. That’s four thousand a week.”

  “Impossible. That rag couldn’t sell ten lines a month.”

  “That’s my problem. For your ten percent of the ads all you have to do is write them.”

  “You mean make them up? Just like that?”

  He nodded.

  “Who pays for them?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “The money comes to you in cash. A dollar a line, four to ten dollars an ad. You just process it and skim your ten percent.”

  Now it all began to fall into place. My uncle had to do a big cash business. This was as good a way to wash the money as any I had ever heard. The going rate on the street for turning black money into white was forty to fifty percent. He had it figured for only ten percent. “I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

  “You do that. Tomorrow morning Bill will pick you up at your place and take you over to the paper so that you can look over the setup.”

  “Bill?”

  “The Collector.”

  “Oh.” Until now I had never known he had a name. I got to my feet.

  “You meet me here tomorrow night at the same time and give me your answer.”

  “Okay.” I started for the door.

  “By the way… that boy up at your place. If you fucked him, better get yourself a shot of penicillin. He’s got a bad clap.” He took a twenty from his pocket and threw it on the desk. “In case you haven’t got the money, there’s enough there for you and the Mexican girl you had dinner with.”

  I looked down at the money then up at him. “I have enough,” I said and closed the door behind me. I went down the stairs and through the bar to the street.

  Now I was sorry I hadn’t had Verita wait for me. Slowly I started walking back downtown. It would take at least an hour for me to make it back to her place. But I owed her that. She didn’t deserve clap on my account.

  The awful part of the whole thing was that I couldn’t remember whether I had balled the boy or not. I couldn’t remember anything about last night. I shook my head angrily.

  I used to have times like that when I had first come back from Vietnam. Times when I would lose a day or night. After a while the blackouts stopped. Now I wondered if they were coming back.

  CHAPTER 3

  A muggy, steamy smell rose from the streets as the heat baked the rain off the concrete. The streets were narrower as you came into East LA. The old houses leaned together as if to hold one another up. Now that the lights were out, the streets were almost totally dark. Even so, I was aware of life and movement within the shadows. It was something I sensed, yet did not see. Suddenly I found myself walking out in the middle of the street, my eyes searching the darkness. It was almost as if I had returned to Nam.

  I felt as if I were going crazy. This is Los Angeles, I told myself. I’m walking down a street in the city, not up a jungle path.

  I didn’t see it. I didn’t hear it. But I knew it was there and spun to one side. In the dark the loaded sock whistled by my head.

  When I straightened up, he was standing there, a silly grin on his cream-colored face. The sock hung limply from one hand; the other hand held the inevitable bottle of orange juice. “I’m goin’ tuh hit you, Whitey,” he said.

  His eyes were out of focus and he was weaving slightly to some music that only he could hear. “I’m goin’ tuh hit you, Whitey,” he repeated, still smiling that inane smile.

  I stared at him, trying to penetrate his heroin fog. “You do and I’ll kill you,” I said quietly.

  Somewhere in his head the music had come to a stop. He no longer weaved; his eyes struggled into focus. He sounded puzzled. “Why would you do a thing like that? I didn’t do nothin’ to you.”

  Just then a car turned the corner and in the approaching headlights I could see him clearly for the first time. He was just a kid. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen. A straggly mustache and beard tried vainly to cover the pimples that were still on his face. Slowly we separated, moving backward toward opposite sides of the street as the car passed between us.

  By the time the car went by he had disappeared back into the shadows from which he had come. I searched the street but saw nothing. Still, I didn’t move until the radar in my head told me he was really gone. Then I went back into the middle of the street and kept on walking.

  You’re getting old and stupid, Gareth, I told myself. You have no right feeling sorry for a junkie. That loaded sock could have broken your skull. But I did feel sorry for him. If you’d never known the sweet surcease from pain the needle could give you, you might feel differently. But if you knew, all you could feel was sorrow at the waste. And I saw more men in Vietnam wasted by the needle than by bullets.

  It was three thirty by the time I leaned on her doorbell. After a moment her voice came tinny and frightened through the brass speaker. “Who is it?”

  “Gareth. Can I come up?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I have to talk to you.”

  The buzzer sounded and I pushed the door open and went up the stairs. She was in her doorway waiting for me. I followed her into the apartment and she locked the door behind us.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

  I heard the sound of the television set coming from the bedroom. I reached into my pocket, took out the ten-dollar bill and held it out to her. “I didn’t need it,” I said.

  “You didn’t have to come back for that.”

  “Take it. I’ll feel better.”

  She took it. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

  “That would be fine.”

  I followed her across the room and sat at the table while she made a cup of instant and put it in front of me. She took one for herself and sat down opposite me. Her eyes were questioning.

  I took a sip of the coffee. It was hot and strong. I met her eyes. “I may have picked up a dose and given it to you,” I said.

  She was silent for a moment, but when she spoke, her voice was uncomplaining. “Why did you not say something before?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “How did yo
u find out?”

  “Lonergan. He told me I’d better get a shot of penicillin. You too.”

  She sipped at her coffee.

  “Do you have a cigarette?” I asked.

  She nodded, took a pack from the drawer and pushed it toward me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll go now if you want.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not angry. Most men I know would have said nothing. I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

  “I’ll give you the money for the shot as soon as I can.”

  “It will cost nothing. My doctor works at the clinic.” She was silent again for a moment. “Is that all Lonergan wanted to see you about? He has no job for you?”

  “No job. He wants me to buy a newspaper.”

  “A newspaper? Buy one? He must be crazy.”

  “He is, but that’s not the point.”

  “What does he expect you to use for money?”

  “My GI loan. He said he could get one for me.”

  “And what does he get out of it?” she asked suspiciously.

  “The advertising. That goes through his company.”

  “I don’t know what kind of newspaper you can buy like that.”

  “The Hollywood Express.”

  “That one,” she said in a strange voice.

  “You know something about it?” I asked. “Tell me.”

  “It’s not good,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing but trouble.”

  “How?”

  “In the office we have a list. Tax-delinquent employers and companies that do not pay the withholding taxes. The Express owes about thirty thousand with interest. If you buy it, you could become liable for it.”

  “Do you think Lonergan knows that?”

  “He knows everything else,” she said flatly.

  I nodded. It was much too obvious for him to miss. I wondered what he had in mind. It made no sense for him to stick me into that kind of jam.

  “Did you say you would do it?”

  “I told him I would think about it. I’m supposed to look it over tomorrow morning.”

  She reached for a cigarette. “I would like to go with you.”

  “Why? What could you do?”

  “Nothing maybe. But I am a CPA. And at least I will understand the books.”

  “Certified public accountant—state license and all?”

  She nodded.

  “Then what are you doing at unemployment?” As soon as I asked the question, I felt stupid. There could be few, if any, jobs for Chicana accountants. “I would be grateful if you would come.”

  She smiled. “Okay. What time?”

  “The Collector’s going to pick me up in the morning. I’ll go on home now and let you get some sleep.”

  “It’s after four. You stay here. I’ll drive you over in the morning.”

  “But what about your office?”

  “It’s Saturday.” She reached for the coffee cups and put them in the sink. “The office is closed.”

  ***

  The Collector’s red Jag was already in front of my house when we pulled up at ten o’clock in the morning. I walked over to his car and stuck my head in the window. “Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Not on Lonergan’s time.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at Verita’s car. “How’d the chick take the bad news?”

  “She’s not mad.”

  “I figured that when I saw her drive you over to the clinic at Cedars. You got your shots?”

  I nodded. “I don’t get it. Lonergan has to have more important things for you to do than to follow me around.”

  “I just do what I’m told.” He pulled a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. “Ready to go?”

  “I just want to go upstairs and change. Then we’ll be right with you.”

  “We?”

  I nodded my head toward Verita, who was walking toward us. “She’s coming along.”

  “What for? Lonergan said nothing about her.”

  “She’s my accountant. Even Lonergan knows that nobody buys a business unless their accountants go over the books.”

  For the first time he wasn’t as sure of himself. “I don’t know.”

  I pointed to the telephone under his dash. “Call him and check it out. I’m going upstairs. If it’s okay, toot your horn and I’ll come down. If not, just forget it.”

  Verita and I went into the building as he was picking up the phone. She followed me up the flight of stairs and into the apartment. I opened the door and stared in astonishment. The apartment had never looked like this.

  It had been cleaned so thoroughly that even the windows and the crummy furniture shone. And when I went into the bedroom, I found that my clothes had been pressed, all my shirts washed and neatly ironed.

  “You’re quite a housekeeper,” she said. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  Before I could answer, the boy came out of the bathroom. He was nude except for an apron around his middle. In one hand he held a bottle of Clorox, in the other a cleaning brush. He stared at us. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m Gareth,” I said. “I live here.”

  His face broke into a sudden smile. “Oh, Gareth, I love you,” he said. “I want to cook and clean and wash and press for you. I want to be your slave.”

  Just then I heard the horn blast from the Jaguar outside in the street. I looked from one to the other. Nothing made sense anymore.

  There was a hint of laughter in Verita’s voice. “I think you’d better send him down to the clinic and get him a shot—but not until after he finishes in the bathroom.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The offices of the Hollywood Express were located in a dingy store on Santa Monica Boulevard about a block from the Goldwyn Studios. The Collector pulled his car to a stop in front of the store in a no-parking zone. With a fine disregard for the rules of the road he managed also to take up half the bus stop.

  The windows of the store were painted over with dirty white paint so that you could not see inside, and smeared black lettering spelled out the newspaper’s name.

  The Collector opened the door and walked in. Along the walls of the store were eight or nine empty desks. At the back of the room was a large wallboard filled with papers pinned up with red, yellow and blue tacks.

  “Anybody here?” the Collector called out.

  There was the sound of a door creaking from a back room and a tired-looking middle-aged man came out, drying his hands on a paper towel. He dropped it on the floor as he came toward us. “You’re an hour late,” he said in a complaining voice.

  “I wasn’t late, you were early,” the Collector said flatly.

  “Lonergan said—” The man’s voice faded as the Collector looked at him.

  The Collector gestured to me. “Gareth Brendan, Joe Persky.”

  The man shook my hand unenthusiastically. Even his fingers felt tired. “Nice to meet you.”

  I nodded. “This is Verita Velasquez, my accountant.”

  He shook hands with her, then turned back to me. “Lonergan says you’re interested in buying the paper.”

  “I’m glad he told you. I didn’t hear about it until last night.”

  Persky turned back to the Collector. For the first time a note of emotion came into his voice. “What the hell is Lonergan trying to pull? He told me he had a bona fide customer.”

  The Collector just looked at him.

  Persky turned back to me. “Are you interested or not?”

  “Maybe. That depends. I’d like to look over your operation before I make up my mind.”

  “There’s nothing to look over. It’s all here.”

  “You don’t sound as if you want to sell. Maybe we’d better forget the whole thing.”

  “He don’t have any choice,” the Collector said. “Lonergan says he wants to sell.”

  There was a moment’s silence; then the anger seemed to seep out of the man. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

  “The usual things. Circula
tion, sales, advertising revenue, costs. If you’ll show your books to Miss Velasquez, I’m sure we can find out everything we want to know.”

  The man was sullen. “We never kept any formal books.”

  “You must have records of some kind. How else would you know how you were doing?”

  “I operated mostly on a cash basis. The money came in. I paid it out. That’s all.”

  I turned to the Collector. “Does Lonergan know that?”

  The Collector shrugged. I should have known better than to ask. Of course Lonergan knew. I turned back to Persky. “You must have some figures. You had to file tax returns.”

  “I don’t have any copies.”

  “Somebody must have. Your accountant?”

  “I didn’t use an accountant. I did everything myself. And that included stuffing the paper into mailboxes.”

  I’d had it. If Lonergan thought I was going to stick my neck into this mess, he was crazier than I was. I turned to the Collector. “Let’s go.”

  The Collector moved so fast I hardly saw his hand. Suddenly Persky was thrown back against a desk. His hands clutched at his stomach and he was bent over and almost retching. The Collector’s voice was empty. “You give the man the information he asks for.”

  Persky’s voice rasped in his throat. “How do I know this guy an’ this dame ain’t some kind of revenue dicks? There’s nothing in the law that says I got to incriminate myself.”

  “Fuckhead! Internal Revenue ain’t goin’ to get Lonergan’s money back for him.”

  Slowly Persky straightened up. His face returned to its normal color. “I don’t keep the books here. They’re in my apartment.”

  “We’ll go over there and look at them then,” I said. “Where is your apartment?”

  “Upstairs,” he said. “Over the store.”

  ***

  Verita spread the ledgers and the pile of forms across the kitchen table. “It’s going to take me some time to sort this out,” she said.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Maybe the rest of the day. It’s a mess.” She turned to Persky. “Do you have a four-column pad?”

  “What you see is what I got.”

  “I’ll run down to a stationery store and get one,” she said.