Mars

Chapter 4 of the science fiction crime thriller Freak

Freak

Chapter Four

Mars

Despite the DA’s warning, Abram was blown away by the circus on Westminster Avenue. He had to park a mile and a half down; the curb spot, payable up front to a hard-as-nails homeowner, cost him twenty bucks and an earful. Luckily a rookie traffic cop, recognizing him from his splendid performance in the final Jackson molestation case, gleefully transported him like a green chauffeur delivering his first movie icon.

Ten a.m., and it was already cooking. Westminster was spilling over with blankets and tarps, with beach umbrellas and folding chairs. Catering trucks were pulled into the driveways of residences, in some places brazenly parked on sidewalks and lawns. The area’s immigrant vendors, having cannily traded their oranges and flowers for garlic wreaths and rattan crucifixes, could sporadically be seen dashing through traffic like figures in a bull run. Curbside amateur artists sold soulful portraits of Vilenov the Christ-figure, Vilenov the snarling animal, Vilenov the rock star. The gushing officer drove Abram as close to Scarboro’s apartment complex as the jostling crowd would allow. Abram then moved smiling and quipping through the slowly parting sea--past the reaching men and women shouting questions born of pure curiosity or outright fear, past the reporters and cameramen winging their booms and whirling their cams, past a fluid barricade of uniformed officers struggling to hold back the tide--all the way to the quiet drive between apartment buildings, where a single dour policeman stood within a broad rectangle of plastic yellow tape secured to rails and branches. Police Line, the tape warned, Do Not Cross. The escorting officer begged shamelessly for an autograph, and the lawyer obliged. The rookie scampered off with his prize.

Abram turned to the residing officer with charm and humanity still smeared across his face. One look at the man’s expression, and his smile collapsed. Abram automatically extended his attorney’s hand in greeting. The uniform scowled and shook his head.

“You’re over the line, Mr. Abram.” He gestured at the lawyer’s hovering arm. “In more ways than one.”

Abram groaned. “Officer...”

“No way, Mr. Abram. This scene is being treated as a possible homicide.”

Abram’s sphincter clenched. “Homicide? Who...”

“Ah-ah-ah,” said the uniform. “The star witness is kaput.” He studied Abram coldly. “A tenant in this building,” he jerked his head over his shoulder, “a Marilyn Purly, was discovered deceased in her apartment this morning after she was non-responsive to a number of phone calls. She slit both wrists with a new razor blade. She knew how to do it, too. Up the vein, not across it.” He demonstrated with an imaginary blade, watching Abram for signs of squeamishness. “She was found stone dead in her bedroom at seven hundred hours. The coroner says she did herself in around midnight. The black curtains in her bedroom were closed, the front room door was crudely wedged and blocked, and every light in the place was out except for the ring of bulbs on her vanity mirror. Oh, and one other thing. Before she goes for her wrists this hot young babe takes the razor and slashes her face into hamburger. The place looks like a slaughterhouse.” He sucked the crud from his front teeth and respectfully spat to the attorney’s side. “Now what do you make of that?”

But Abram’s self-preservation instinct was screaming at him. Only a career built on poses allowed him to pull himself erect rather than shrink, and to reply in a voice that boomed with authority. He looked pointedly at the man’s badge. “Officer Warren, your conduct couldn’t be less professional. Who’s your superior at this scene?”

The cop tossed his head at a sergeant just exiting Purly’s unit. Drop cloths could be seen in front of the apartment and inside the doorway. “Around the tape!” Warren retorted, and watched minutely as the attorney navigated the narrow corridor defined by the building’s staircase and taut police tape.

The sergeant ambled over after making a note on his pad.

“Good morning, sergeant,” Abram offered congenially, his personal unease automatically moving to the back burner in the presence of authority. He wasn’t remotely interested in reporting the surly cop; once circumvented, the man was history.

“Good morning, Mr. Abram. I’m sorry, but this perimeter is sealed for now.”

“Gotcha. I’m really sorry to hear about Ms. Purly.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Abram. But the perimeter is sealed for right now.”

Abram bowed, half-turning toward the mob. “Did I, sergeant, commend you on your security?”

“That, Mr. Abram, won’t be necessary. And, forgive me, did I mention that this perimeter is sealed for now?”

Abram grinned and nodded. “Well, sir, I’d still like to interview a tenant or two, a Frederick Mars in particular.”

The sergeant raised his eyes to the landing behind them. “That’ll be fine, sir, but let’s just make sure you stay clear of the police line.” He jerked his head at the churlish guard. “And please confine your interviews to tenants.”

Abram smiled and walked to the second floor landing’s cement staircase. At the bottom of this staircase, squeezed between the building and trash dumpsters, a tiny laundry room poked out like a hemorrhaging tissue. Abram, facing the room’s sole window as he stepped around the rail, experienced a brief, disturbing hallucination: hanging in the room’s little window was an old navy blue beach towel. At some time a hose had dashed water across the glass, leaving it marked by a single spray of drops. To Lawrence Abram, just turning away from the sun, the immediate impression was a blood-spattered mirror. His hand slid up the iron rail as he casually climbed the steps, still looking back. For a nanosecond he thought the towel had been yanked aside to reveal the face of an extremely large, angry middle-aged woman. But the room’s contents were hidden. There was no face.

On the upstairs landing to his left were five apartments. A single unit at the landing’s end faced the staircase. Mr. Mars’s door, like two others, was open, but Abram paused to lean deeply on the rail, so that his body nearly described a right angle. In this pose, that of a casual observer, he gazed across the drive into the open door of Purly’s apartment.

It was an absolutely perfect view. There was the couch, and one corner of its large framed backing mirror. And there, directly across the room, was the old maple television cabinet, a black videocassette recorder planted firmly on top. The view was such that he could see a good part of the kitchen and most of the single doorway leading to bathroom and bedroom. The bedroom’s black velvet curtains were down for analysis, sterile drop cloths carefully hung in their place. Occasionally an officer passed between rooms, into and out of Abram’s view.

Feeling another presence, Abram turned and said pleasantly, “Mr. Mars?”

A lanky shadow appeared in 11’s doorway. The sun lit a withered hand. “I’m Fred Mars.”

Abram shook the hand, gently pulling the figure into full view. “Well, Mr. Mars,” he said, his mind processing the snapshot…black, seventy-something, frail, hint of Creole, basically honest and forthcoming…“my name’s Lawrence Abram, and I’ve been retained to represent a certain Mr. Nicolas Vilenov, whose mismanaged arrest I pray is in no way related to today’s most uncomfortable police presence. I didn’t know Ms. Purly personally, but it breaks my heart to learn of her terrible passing. Were you a close friend of hers?”

“Miss Purly had lots of admirers,” Mars said, “but she didn’t have any friends. Except one. And this is the man you say you’re representing. Perhaps he could help you more than me.”

“Mr. Vilenov, alas, is presently unavailable. Um, you wouldn’t have, by any chance, seen him around over the weekend? He’s pretty easy to spot.”

“No, sir, I most certainly would not have. And Miss Purly never once opened her door after that raid took place.”

“About that arrest,” Abram mulled. His arm swept the building and drive. “As I understand it, you had a pretty good eagle’s eye-view of the event.”

Fred Mars peered warily at the lawyer, then at the dawdling sergeant below. “Well...I...”

Abram reached into his vest’s pocket. “Forgive me,” he said, and handed Mars a business card.

Once he’d studied the card punctiliously, Mr. Mars placed it in his shirt’s pocket with exaggerated care. His eyes slid down a rail to his visitor’s black, highly polished calfskin shoes. “I’d invite you in, Mr. Abram, out of the heat, but I’m afraid I keep a very humble house.”

Abram instinctively laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Mr. Mars, you’re embarrassing me. I’d be honored to be your guest, under any circumstances. Please realize you’re doing me a favor just by talking to me--much more so by entertaining me. And I’d be delighted to share in whatever amenities you habitually make your own.”

After an awkward moment Fred Mars apologized, almost in a whisper: “All I’ve got is beer. But it’s cold; as cold as drinking beer can be. I pulled it from the freezer just this morning.”

Abram’s eyes slid away and his mouth turned down. “What--” he managed. “What brand?”

Fred Mars sank back. “Only Budweiser, I’m afraid.”

“Thank God! Mr. Mars, I was afraid you were going to poison me with some of that sickly green imported stuff. But the King of American Beers! And icy cold, you say? I have a feeling this little interview isn’t going to be so rough after all.” He bowed toward the room. “Shall we?”

Mars, terribly embarrassed, creakily returned the bow. “Shall we, indeed.”

Abram got comfortable on a small upholstered chair while Mars busied himself in the kitchen. The attorney’s brain was a video camera: Pine coffee table. Yellowing magazines. Homey hunks of cheap furniture. A spotless ashtray. No more, no less than he’d been hoping for.

“Cold glass?” Mars fumbled from the kitchen. “Ice?”

“Not on a dare. It’s already way too hot for manners between men. Let’s get down, Mr. Mars, to brass tacks.”

Fred Mars, smiling frailly, limped up with two ice-cold sixteen-ouncers. Abram saluted the room and gratefully downed a third, his eyes rolled back lovingly. Mr. Mars giggled and swallowed what he could, trying hard to look relaxed.

Abram wiped his lips with a forefinger. “Mr. Mars, I have exactly two things to say. The first is: thank you so much for helping me hit the spot. And the second is: God bless America!” He tilted back the can and chugged slowly, until there was only backwash, all the while studying his host from the corner of his eye.

Fred Mars was obviously unused to company. And craved it. He laughed softly while drinking, eyes closed and knees crossed awkwardly. Although Abram quickly killed his can fractionally, Mars managed to swallow over half as much by more frequently sneaking up on his own. Abram pinched his empty and raised an eyebrow.

Mr. Mars made a show of being above recycling. He tittered, determinedly killed his own beer and pinched the can, and wobbled to his feet. He tossed both empties at a kitchen wastebasket, missed with one, picked it up and tried again, missed again. A neighbor on the landing laughed at the street mob. Blushing, Mars hurriedly trashed the can and looked outside.

Suddenly Abram felt California Good. It was just another make-believe day, perfectly hot and clear. A zephyr the moment it turned stuffy. Sunshine so clean an Angeleno could be myopic and still see wonders. Real sunshine. Beer weather.

“Mr. Mars,” he said, “please feel free to call me Larry. And, if you’ll honor me with another beer, I’ll gladly repay you with an extra large pizza.”

Fred Mars padded out with two more tall frosty Buds. “Thank you so very much, Larry, but you don’t owe me a thing. I’m just glad to be enjoying your company on this beautiful summer day. And you, Larry, may call me Fred.” He placed the cans on coasters and nodded politely. “I’m guessing you have something to ask me concerning...that day.”

“Just a few simple questions, in strictest confidence, about your observations.” He was dawdling with his beer, waiting for Mars to move along with his own. The old man took painfully slow, delicate sips. But the attorney knew Mars’s age would work against him. Abram popped open his new can and took it easy. He already had a buzz on, and the gorgeous day almost demanded he drink deeply. His mouth was dry before the beer hit his stomach. And the brew was so cold. “By the way, Mr. Mars...Fred, what inspired you to call channel five?”

“It’s my landlady, Miss Scarboro. Maybe you’ve run into her, Larry. If you haven’t, I’m sure you soon will.” He managed to down a quarter of his second can, as if just speaking her name left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I know about her.”

“Well, she’s a very pushy woman, Larry, a very pushy woman. She pushed everybody in these buildings into a tenants’ committee, then she pushed everybody into believing Miss Purly was being drugged and abused by some poor guy none of us had ever even met.” After catching his breath he took another healthy swig. Abram immediately followed suit. “She just flat-out didn’t like this man, and told us he was an agent of Satan. She said she’d cast a spell to protect us, but that the only way to fight for poor Miss Purly was to band together, and use our combined energy to cast him out.” His expression was hesitant, guilty.

Abram spread his hands. “I’m following you, Fred. And I’m not saying you bought into it. I know you’ve got more sense than that.”

“I do not like being pushed. And I do not respect this Miss Scarboro person.” Mr. Mars pulled at his beer. “Speak of the Devil!”

“So this tenants’ committee,” Abram fished, “was the force of Goodness, rallied against the force of Darkness? And anyone not adamantly pro-committee was...”

“Larry, I’ve been disgusted with Miss Scarboro from the get-go. She’s a witch, but not in the supernatural sense. She’s a witch wannabe. And she does dearly love to get people to answer to her--excuse me, Larry, to her...B.S.”

“Go on, Fred.”

“She hammered her ideas into our heads, and made subtle threats about possible evictions. It was all pure baloney. But as long as you fell in line the heat was off you, and she’d work on the next tenant. Mr. Abram, I don’t know what she had against this fellow, but there was some real bad blood between them. I used to watch her shouting bloody murder through the space between the door and jamb. Miss Purly would refuse to take down the chain, and Miss Scarboro would stand hunched in front of that door like a fighting bull, her head down with that big straw hat half-covering her face, almost as if she was shielding her eyes. But Miss Purly always ended up closing the door on her, and Miss Scarboro always ended up stomping back to her apartment to cuss out the walls. It would have been really funny if it wasn’t so intense. Then, once this gentleman was gone, Miss Scarboro would confront Miss Purly in a kinder mood, but Miss Purly would just zone out whenever Miss Scarboro mentioned him directly. Otherwise Miss Purly seemed okay; okay enough to catch the bus to do her shopping, anyway.” He raised an eyebrow. “Sir, I personally witnessed Miss Scarboro use her master key to go through that apartment a number of times when Miss Purly was gone.”

“It’s her building,” said the attorney.

“And then she’d come out, gather us all in her little back yard over lemonade and cookies, and tell us over and over that Miss Purly was being drugged and raped by this stranger in some kind of horrible dark ritual. She got all the tenants focused into an unblinking rage. Everybody but me. I’ll discuss anything with anybody, Mr. Abram, but nobody can push me. Pretty soon Miss Scarboro started on me with the silent treatment, then with the Evil Eye. And she passed around a petition, and got everybody but me to sign, stating that this guy was doping Miss Purly and having his way with her. She’d worked hard on the other tenants, until they believed her unconditionally. Nobody understood why I couldn’t deal with the ‘truth’.”

“Sounds like she’d make a great prosecutor.”

“So Miss Scarboro sent copies of this petition to the police and to the news stations; radio and television. The police contacted Miss Purly by phone, and apparently an expert investigator listening in was convinced Miss Purly was under the influence of some pathogenic substance. I know all this because I received a letter from a Commander Burroughs, wondering why I was the sole committee holdout, and asking me if maybe I’d be a witness if anything came down. I agreed, no problem, Mr. Abram, and I’m ready to be subpoenaed if that’s what it takes.”

Mars now became involved in a delicate little tap dance. Abram understood; his own bladder was floating. Being host, Mars switched on the old black and white TV. “I’ll be right back,” he grimaced, “Larry,” and tiptoed into the bathroom.

Abram watched a televangelist passionately lecturing on rape as the natural consequence of a God-weary society. He leaned forward and turned the fat plastic knob a notch, from 4 to 5. A commercial appeared, featuring a line drawing of a horrified woman crouching beneath hovering eyes. Abram heard a voice urging Internet participation as a graphic leaped across the screen: catcharapist.com. He cranked the knob up to channel 7, but before the station came in he heard an eager recorded voice on 5 say, “Rape survivors! Next on--”

In a heartbeat he’d forgotten his bladder.

There was Nelson Prentis, at a podium surrounded by microphones. Behind the DA was a huge symbolic check for fifty thousand dollars. The letters WFW were emblazoned in the check’s upper right hand corner.

Lawrence Abram grew excited every time his childhood friend appeared onscreen. He hunched forward with the can dangling between his fingers, mesmerized by those deadly-serious drooping eyes behind the black, severe spectacles, by the salt and pepper crew cut, by the wide and mirthless mouth, by that rich baritone that instantly filled a room. Who but Prentis’s ex-wife and few close friends knew of the warmth and humor behind the efficient public image...“are banded today,” Prentis was booming magnificently, “out of concern for the basic inviolability of our neighborhoods, for the security of our God-given sense of decency, and for the abiding safety of our sweet, priceless children. All our hearts are whelming over; as intelligent and sympathetic Angelenos we are deeply moved by the number of caring citizens who have come forward, with strong voice and with great generosity, to support the South Bay’s branch of Women For Women.” Prentis half-turned. “Today this check for fifty thousand dollars is being offered to any person or organization providing information leading to the apprehension of escapee Nicolas Vilenov!”

Behind him, Mars said quietly, “Not showing a picture, I notice.”

Abram hadn’t heard the flush. “Smart move. Enough is enough.” He shook Mars’s elbow and grinned up at him mistily. “I used to write for that man!” Mars smiled back as his guest rose and swaggered into the bathroom. When Abram returned he found the old man perched gingerly on the little padded chair, looking like he was about to be sucked into the big television’s screen.

Channel 7 was now featuring the Westminster crowd in a live shot. As the videocam panned to a reporter in the mob’s midst, the studio camera pulled back to reveal a poker-faced talking head at his desk. Thus superimposed, the blue-screened broadcaster matter-of-factly announced the reporter’s name, location, and situation. The studio camera cut out, leaving the mobbed reporter to comment over a wide shot now zooming onto Marilyn Purly’s open door. That shot was cut, and once again the screen was all street mob.

Fred Mars tiptoed outside and leaned half over the rail, obeying a childish impulse to be, even for an instant, on camera. Abram, listening to crowd members granted their fifteen seconds, was riveted. What amazed him was not so much the absurdity of the responses, but their complete sincerity. He told himself, over and over, This is the 21^st century. These are healthy, educated people.

What proof have we, a grown man wondered, that Nicolas Vilenov’s spirit didn’t somehow infiltrate the premises to murder Ms. Purly? A man in a white shirt and tie assured him that the place was solidly monitored; a greased eel couldn’t have slipped in. But, a soccer mom countered reasonably, how do we know Vilenov can’t make himself invisible, or sneak through by morphing into a cop? This woman wore an extra large T-shirt with a silk screen image on either side. On the front was a glaring, terribly dignified portrait of the Scarboro woman surrounded by smoking censers. On the back was that cold, ubiquitous booking photo, smack in the middle of a circle containing a diagonal bar that cut the face into halves. A pimply UCLA student solved the problem for both parties. Ghosts, he explained, and sometimes even modern zombies, are capable of movements beyond the senses. But then a hypertensive genius behind the reporter began jumping up and down, holding a placard bearing an enlarged photocopy of Marilyn Purly’s state ID. “He’s the Devil!” she screamed. “The Devil!” There was a roar of approval.

Abram and Mars listened as the roar tore up the drive like floodwater. The suddenly-erratic crowd image switched back to studio. 7’s apologetic broadcaster, shuffling a handful of papers, described a series of clips unfolding on the screen behind him. The first showed a covered body being wheeled from Purly’s apartment and loaded into an ambulance. The landlady’s face faded in as the ambulance faded out. Abram’s eyes narrowed. 275 pounds, he thought, well over six feet. An absolutely formidable woman. Hostile witness. Will not answer an honest question honestly. He unconsciously canceled his plans for an afternoon interview. Scarboro was replaced by a wide-angle shot of a typical suburban street. Dozens of children were lined up in ranks well away from the curbs. A woman on each sidewalk, wielding a STOP sign and pursing a nickel-plated whistle, preceded the files. These women methodically halted at houses, performed right faces and marched up to front doors. Grateful mothers handed over cringing schoolchildren. The orange-vested monitors then marched back with their precious cargo in tow. Flanking sidewalk monitors, stamping in strict time, guided the children to places in the rear rank. With a choreographed blast of whistles and jerk of STOP signs, the parade moved up to the next set of houses.

Imitating the voice of Mister Rogers, Fred Mars mumbled, “Can you say ‘change of venue’?”

Abram said, “Come here a minute, Fred.” Mars followed him out onto the landing. “Let’s see where you were standing when those officers broke into Ms. Purly’s apartment.”

Mars took a few steps to his right.

“And how were you standing?”

The old man casually leaned on the rail.

“Excuse me, Fred.” Abram slid into Mars’s place while gently nudging him along. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Abram relaxed his knees, his forearms weighing on the rail. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that.”

Abram was now standing a few feet to the right of his earlier vantage point. He looked into Purly’s apartment. Couch and end tables were draped, but the huge backing mirror was still uncovered. And reflected in that mirror could be seen the innocently-perched videocassette recorder. Evidence tags were everywhere.

“When that whole scene came down, Fred,” Abram said carefully, “what exactly did you see through Ms. Purly’s front room doorway?”

“Larry...what I saw was the personal business of Miss Purly and her guest. I’m no voyeur. I only saw what I saw because it was downright unavoidable.”

“But you saw...”

“I saw,” Mars said with finality, “Miss Purly and her guest minding their own business. That’s all, sir.”

“Watching television. Sipping iced tea.”

“Minding their own business.”

Abram smiled at Mars’s resolve. But suddenly he saw himself from the old man’s unlettered viewpoint--as an arrogant authority figure; someone who would, five minutes after pretending to bond with you, aloofly spin your story for the sake of his case. Right on the tail of this little insight came the feeling that this viewpoint actually wasn’t Mars’s own. It hit him: Mars in truth wasn’t the kindly observer he made himself out to be. Abram’s wry grin twisted into a bitter snarl. Mars was an eyewitness and a rat, a pig and a liar. No way could he be allowed to testify. It became urgently important that Abram know exactly what Mars had seen. He placed a hand on the man’s forearm, and heard a voice that was not really his, wheedling, “Oh, sir, I’m not prying, believe me I’m not. And I respect your right to not divulge a thing. But you’ve got to understand something here. I’m the one who’s going to be defending this poor guy. I’m all the hope he’s got.”

Mars could have sworn he saw something burning in the attorney’s eyes. He looked away, saying quietly, “I observed those policemen breaking in on Miss Purly and her caller. But I didn’t see any tea. What I saw was a whole lot of skin.”

Abram bristled. A moment later he was himself again.

Mars eyed him defensively. “I could see and hear everything, Larry. Everything! And I watched the police jump on Miss Purly’s gentleman friend, and knock him around while he tried to get his pants on. I saw this one mean-looking policeman in plain clothes twist his arm behind his back and really rough him up while cussing in his ear--foul stuff, sir, language I would never repeat. This went on while the policemen at the front door kept neighbors back, even as Miss Scarboro urged them on. An officer inside covered up poor Miss Purly, and had her spit in a plastic bag. He took her into the kitchen. The officer questioning Miss Purly came back out and said something to her visitor, then made a phone call while the man was forced to dress. Miss Purly’s boyfriend was handcuffed and led outside, shoved through everybody and stuffed in a police car. And they weren’t exactly gentle with him.”

Abram grunted. An odd memory fragment came to him, crumbling even as he attempted to put his finger on it. Something in his subconscious warned him not to pursue the thought, but another part of his mind wasn’t about to let it pass. “Fred, during any of this did you directly exchange glances with Mr. Vilenov? Did you make eye contact?”

“No, Mr. Abram, I most certainly did not.” A change came over Mars’s voice, and Abram realized, without turning, that Mars was staring at him with great feeling. “By that time I’d seen more than I could stomach for a lifetime.” Abram nodded. Figuratively standing in Mars’s shoes, he visualized Vilenov at work. The urge to commit mayhem on the man seemed a perfectly rational and healthy reaction.

“Now you know how I felt,” Mars mumbled.

There was a pause. Abram said, “If you really felt that way, why did you hold out on that petition?”

Mars took a deep breath. “Larry, I believe that what goes on behind closed doors is nobody’s business but the parties concerned, so long as there’s consent. If Miss Purly invites a man over, that’s her affair. Miss Scarboro had no business interfering, and the police shouldn’t have compromised their privacy. That said, I’m not bleeding for that dirty fellow they took in, regardless of how it may appear. The man’s rights are my concern, not the man himself.” There was a longer pause. At last Mars said, “So why are you really here, Larry?”

Abram shrugged. “I’ve been retained. I have a reputation to uphold, and I’m going to win this case.”

“With that client?” Comprehension dawned on Mars’s face. “You’re here to have me subpoenaed, aren’t you Larry?”

“With that testimony?” Abram shook his head. “But I want you to understand that you will be subpoenaed, Fred, though not from my side of the fence. You represent what will be the first real piece of evidence in this whole mess, and that’s eyewitness testimony.” He chucked Mars on the bicep. “Pretty soon, my friend, your name is going to be a household word. That crowd out there is going to become infected by Marsmania. But don’t worry. Even for a decent man celebrity has its compensations.”

Mars looked sickened by the thought. “So. Where do we go from here?”

Abram drummed his fists on the rail. His mind was made up. “Fred, you bust us open a couple more cold ones and I’ll make a phone call. Let’s see if Domino’s can get a pizza with the works through that crowd out there.”