Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

“What day is it, Willie?” she asked.

They could have bought newspapers, could have bought them in Carlsbad or Oceanside or San Juan Capistrano or Newport or any of the stops along the way and read all about the frantic search. The Times and Examiner were on sale at the newsstand at the depot on Olive. They had no interest in newspapers. Willie had seen the papers at Hussong’s days before, and the only thing changed was that they were back and no one knew it. Had they bought newspapers they might have learned about Gil, but maybe not. Anyway, they didn’t.

“It’s Wednesday,” he said.

The trolley ran by Echo Lake, pretty little lake that first caught his eye when he was looking for a site. The park was dark, just a few couples strolling, and men with dogs, people bundled up against the night chill in the air. He sat quietly, Angie at his side, both staring out the window, thinking of the past, thinking of the future, listening to the whirr of metal wheels on the tracks and the swoosh of the trolley doors as they opened and closed, a few people in and out, not many for it was late. Past Park Avenue, the conductor clanged a car off the tracks, out of his way. The car didn’t argue.

Around a turn and there it was: The Temple of the Angels, his Temple of the Angels. The conductor opened the door and the car sat waiting. People coming out of the temple, coming toward the trolley. Over the temple doors a large banner announced: “Rev. Willie, Sister Angie: Candlelight Vigil Tonight 8:30.”

“An hour earlier and we could have attended the vigil for us,” she said.

He looked straight ahead, straight into the eyes of the boarding passengers, defying them to recognize him. Filing in, pushing and chattering, most didn’t notice the shabby pair at the rear. One or two who caught his eye looked quickly away, embarrassed.

The car started up again, trundling on, over Sunset, along Silver Lake. They both stared hard at Tony’s ice cream shop, where it all started. They clanged across the dry riverbed and over the little cross streets, stopping to let passengers out, mostly Soldiers picked up at the temple. How well they both knew this route, how many times each had taken it—though, oddly, never before together. It was midweek and except for the temple vigil no reason for people to be out. Day workers were already home, night and swing shifters already at work.

The building would be watched, but there was a back alley. They spotted the stakeout, a dark sedan with a man inside. Getting off past the building, they circled the block to approach from the rear, checking for a rear lookout, seeing no one, slipping separately down the alley, past the car stalls, past the garbage cans, a cat darting out, into the rear entrance. Angie went first, waiting inside until Willie was safely in. They had five flights to climb up the service stairs, and Willie, with the suitcases, took them slowly.

Breathing heavily, he set the bags down outside the door and leaned against the wall. Angie had the keys out but hesitated, waiting for him to catch his breath, understanding the effort he’d made. They listened to the quiet building, people already retired, the clang of another trolley somewhere far off. Neither had given any thought to the apartment. Why would they after a month? The important thing was to get in without being seen.

She turned the key, opened the door, switched on the light and screamed. Willie came in quickly behind her and shut the door, afraid the scream would bring people into the hallway. They stood against the door, looking out over a living room littered with newspapers and trash. They instantly understood that he had been there, living there. The curtains were closed, and she had not drawn them. To their left, the kitchen alcove and table looked a mess as well, and the shades to the street were down, something she never did. To their right, the door to the bedroom was open.

“I don’t want to stay here,” said Willie.

“It’s been a month,” said Angie. “He’s cleared out.”

“He has a key.”

“Put the chain on, Willie.”

“We could go to my place.”

“Walk by your front desk and it will be on the front page tomorrow. No, I’ll change the sheets and we’ll deal with the mess tomorrow. I want sleep.”

In the bedroom, Gil lay quiet as a mouse, barely breathing, listening. He capped the bottle and came up on his elbows. Good thing he’d turned out the lights. He got up silently in the dark, catching the bottle before it thumped to the carpet. Moving quietly in his boots, he slipped behind the bedroom door. Through the crack he saw a bearded old man put the chain on the door. He saw her start toward the kitchen and stop, turning instead toward the bedroom. They’d thought he was gone but now weren’t sure. She turned toward the bedroom but couldn’t see because of the darkness. Couldn’t make up her mind, took a step back toward the chained door, then spun around and started toward the bedroom. He held his breath and didn’t twitch a muscle.

She flipped the switch.

“Gotcha,” he cried, jumping out and grabbing her wrist.

Her scream was deafening. “Wil-l-i-eee!”

He punched her hard in the gut to shut her up. She collapsed.

“This is the guy,” Gil shouted, pointing at Willie. “This . . . !”

Staggering to her feet, Angie moved toward the closed window that gave onto Glendale Boulevard, but Gil grabbed her and knocked her back.

Willie hesitated, turned and ran for the living room windows, tripping on a rug and nearly falling. The detective was just across the street. Surely, he would be listening and looking up. That’s why he was there. Open the curtains, he told himself.

Grabbing Angie’s wrists in a gnarly hand and slapping her hard with his free hand when she tried