Read Online The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes by Marcus Sakey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marcus Sakey
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Daniel’s and gas station coffee. The lines in the road blurring solid, trees a green wall, “reality” less dependable with every exhausted moment. A mad dash into the eastern sky.
Which does beg the question: If it’s not physical, what is it?
What would make someone run that hard, that fast?
T
he chunk of shiny pink flesh slipped from his grip and splashed dark fluid all over the table.
Bennett shook his head and gave up on the chopsticks. Stupid invention. Snagging the salmon between thumb and forefinger, he dunked it in the soy again and popped it in his mouth, closing his eyes to savor the way the fatty fish melted as he chewed. He followed it with a sip of sake, gone lukewarm now. When he wiped his fingers, he smeared prints on the linen napkin.
The taste of fall was in the air, but the afternoon was still warm enough to sit on the patio of Takami, twenty-one stories above the stark clatter of downtown L.A. The small outdoor area was packed, mostly men and women in sharp suits and pricy watches. He leaned back, took in the buzz of conversation.
“. . . market is overextended. I’m telling you, we’re headed for a double-dip, and that’s if we’re lucky . . .”
“. . . it’s yoga, but you do it at 105 degrees. Thing is, you’re sweating a lot, and then bending over and spreading your legs, and, well . . .”
“. . . shot one pilot, now she thinks she’s Jennifer Freaking Aniston . . .”
“. . . the problem with looking for your glasses is that you don’t have your glasses on while you’re looking . . .”
“. . . you know they’re sleeping together. Which is so stupid. How does that work? I mean, she has everything, and yet . . .”
It was funny how noisy the world was if you listened. So many sounds the human brain filtered out. Talk was the water people swam through, constant, crucial, and unnoticed. There were so many things you could learn if you just listened.
Everybody had multiple identities. They were different people alone than with friends, different with friends than with family. There was the part of them that sinned, that did things they knew were shameful; and then there was the part of them that judged that same behavior in others. The loving wife who had an affair was two people. One of them was carefully constructed. The other was an animal howl. One feared the chaos of night; the other was desperate to believe the world was hers to light aflame.
That’s how it worked. She could be honestly devoted to husband and children, because the woman getting plowed in a motel room was a different person.
People liked to pretend that wasn’t true, and that was how he made his living.
“Can I get you anything else, sir? Maybe some green-tea ice cream?”
Bennett shook his head. “Just the check.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department number from memory, then punched an extension.
When the man answered, Bennett said, “Do you know who this is?”
There was a long pause, and then the man said, “Yes.”
“You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”
“Fuck off.”
Bennett smiled. “Well brother, you’ve got brevity on your side. I need you to look something up for me.”
“And I need a blowjob from—”
“Do you really want to go down that road?”
“The statute of limitations is up.”
“Maybe legally.”
There was another pause, then, “What do you want?” “I need an inventory manifest from a crime scene.”
“Which one?”
Bennett told him. Then he started counting backward in his head. Five, four, three, two . . .
“Were you involved?”
“Not personally. This is a favor for a friend.”
“You don’t have friends, Bennett. You’re a cockroach, crawling in and out of everybody’s dark places.”
“Very poetic. I’ll wait.” The waitress brought the check, and he nodded to her. He laid down cash enough cover the tab and 18 percent—leave 10 percent or 30 and you might be remembered— then put his foot up on
Which does beg the question: If it’s not physical, what is it?
What would make someone run that hard, that fast?
T
he chunk of shiny pink flesh slipped from his grip and splashed dark fluid all over the table.
Bennett shook his head and gave up on the chopsticks. Stupid invention. Snagging the salmon between thumb and forefinger, he dunked it in the soy again and popped it in his mouth, closing his eyes to savor the way the fatty fish melted as he chewed. He followed it with a sip of sake, gone lukewarm now. When he wiped his fingers, he smeared prints on the linen napkin.
The taste of fall was in the air, but the afternoon was still warm enough to sit on the patio of Takami, twenty-one stories above the stark clatter of downtown L.A. The small outdoor area was packed, mostly men and women in sharp suits and pricy watches. He leaned back, took in the buzz of conversation.
“. . . market is overextended. I’m telling you, we’re headed for a double-dip, and that’s if we’re lucky . . .”
“. . . it’s yoga, but you do it at 105 degrees. Thing is, you’re sweating a lot, and then bending over and spreading your legs, and, well . . .”
“. . . shot one pilot, now she thinks she’s Jennifer Freaking Aniston . . .”
“. . . the problem with looking for your glasses is that you don’t have your glasses on while you’re looking . . .”
“. . . you know they’re sleeping together. Which is so stupid. How does that work? I mean, she has everything, and yet . . .”
It was funny how noisy the world was if you listened. So many sounds the human brain filtered out. Talk was the water people swam through, constant, crucial, and unnoticed. There were so many things you could learn if you just listened.
Everybody had multiple identities. They were different people alone than with friends, different with friends than with family. There was the part of them that sinned, that did things they knew were shameful; and then there was the part of them that judged that same behavior in others. The loving wife who had an affair was two people. One of them was carefully constructed. The other was an animal howl. One feared the chaos of night; the other was desperate to believe the world was hers to light aflame.
That’s how it worked. She could be honestly devoted to husband and children, because the woman getting plowed in a motel room was a different person.
People liked to pretend that wasn’t true, and that was how he made his living.
“Can I get you anything else, sir? Maybe some green-tea ice cream?”
Bennett shook his head. “Just the check.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, dialed the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department number from memory, then punched an extension.
When the man answered, Bennett said, “Do you know who this is?”
There was a long pause, and then the man said, “Yes.”
“You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”
“Fuck off.”
Bennett smiled. “Well brother, you’ve got brevity on your side. I need you to look something up for me.”
“And I need a blowjob from—”
“Do you really want to go down that road?”
“The statute of limitations is up.”
“Maybe legally.”
There was another pause, then, “What do you want?” “I need an inventory manifest from a crime scene.”
“Which one?”
Bennett told him. Then he started counting backward in his head. Five, four, three, two . . .
“Were you involved?”
“Not personally. This is a favor for a friend.”
“You don’t have friends, Bennett. You’re a cockroach, crawling in and out of everybody’s dark places.”
“Very poetic. I’ll wait.” The waitress brought the check, and he nodded to her. He laid down cash enough cover the tab and 18 percent—leave 10 percent or 30 and you might be remembered— then put his foot up on
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