Material Things Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Larry Spencer

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—spoken, written, photocopy, printed, electronic, mechanical, recording or other wise through any means not yet known or yet to use—without prior written permission of the publisher, except provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This book is a work of both fiction and also based on fact, real events and real people. However all the names, characters, some places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and have been changed. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. No legal or moral allegation is made as to the actual or potential activities of any organization, institution or government nor to any individual, living or dead.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914176

  ISBN: 978-0-578-21232-6

  Book Cover and Interior Design: Ghislain Viau

  Cover Art: Bodgan Maksimovic

  Author photo Laurie Spencer @ Lolo Spencer Photography

  For Laurie, Kate and Riley

  For countless reasons

  In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which

  seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.

  —A. E. Housman

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  NOVEMBER 10, 2016

  7:30 a.m. Valencia, California. A neighbor calls 911 and reports what might have been the sound of a gunshot ringing out from the house next door. Police arrive at the home of Logan Alexander, sixty-nine, and discover a body sprawled in a pool of blood on the floor of the garage. In the victim’s grip is a .357 Magnum revolver.

  It’s one horrific sight. First responders ID the body as the homeowner, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs and a sweat-stained Grateful Dead T-shirt. A fitting item of clothing in keeping with this unfortunate tragedy. He is noticeably thin and scrawny, almost anorexic, as if he hasn’t eaten in months. It’s reported that the victim is DOA with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. It appears to be an apparent suicide, but they’re not ruling out foul play. The only witnesses to this horrible scene were his lawn mower and 2012 Toyota Camry, its engine still idling as if to say, I saw it go down.

  Authorities surmise the VIC must’ve tried carbon monoxide fumes but when that didn’t work, he took the quicker way out—a bullet. The cops rule out robbery, as there is no sign of a break-in.

  The medical examiner, a woman thorough at her job with years of experience, has seen too many of these cases. You never get used to the horror or the gratuitous deed. She confirms the head wound was the cause of death. At close range it entered and exited the skull through the brain. Time of death was approximately 6:30 a.m., an hour ago, maybe less.

  They transported the still-warm body to the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Morgue for further evaluation. The VIC’s wife, Joyce Alexander, who had been out of town, was notified to come in and ID her husband. There was no evidence of any suicide note left behind to provide a lucid reason for this gruesome incident. None was really needed. His wife had anticipated this day would come—but a lot sooner than it did.

  Two days after, on the other side of the pond, Matthew Street sits alone in his kitchen in Scotland. Matthew is now a vibrant and striking sixty-nine years of age. With his long, chaotic, silver-gray hair and dark-tinted welder-like tinted glasses with leather side panels (to keep out any rays harmful to the retina), he looks more like an aging rock star than a retired interior designer.

  He presently makes his home in Edinburgh. But that wasn’t always the case. He spent the majority of his life growing up in Southern California, which he holds responsible for giving him far-reaching knowledge of what would be his greatest triumph, as well as his supreme downfall in the garment industry.

  He had just finished feeding his cats when the phone rang. It’s his friend Chris Styles, who he’s known since seventh grade. Chris, a one-time TV comedy writer, had just written Fade Out on his first screenplay, “In Search of Ina Byers.” He had left television behind for the much-maligned bureaucratic reason—ageism. Discrimination against anyone whose pubic hair turns prematurely gray. The entertainment community figures your imagination is the first thing to go. Then you can’t get it up, which they see as a sign of writer’s block, until finally your thesaurus becomes so outdated its primary function is that of a doorstop. This is the requiem for a seasoned writer with years of knowledge still crammed in his mind, aching to be used again.

  It’s 1:15 a.m. in California, so you can bet this call was not a frivolous inquiry about the weather. It had to be serious, and Matthew was guessing this was one of those rare holy crap moments that jolt you out of your comfort zone. Someone had died. Someone he knew. Either in an awful twisted-like-an-accordion car wreck or a body was found in a shallow grave somewhere in the Mojave Desert. With his ear pressed to the receiver, Matthew waited with trepidation for the news—he was right on target, speculating death. Chris, his voice at a low pitch, tells him that their estranged friend and former business partner, Logan Alexander, shot himself in the head this last weekend.

  “Accident?” Matthew asks.

  “Intentional. In his garage. In front of his car and the lawn mower,” he says. Chris always had to throw in a treacle breaker to lessen the morbid description.

  “Guess his life got too much for him,” Matthew says flatly with no emotion whatsoever. Maybe a self-satisfied smirk at best.

  “It’s a real shame,” Chris says.

  “Is it?” Matthew responds.

  “Look, there’s a memorial service if you’re interested.” With that comes a pause. “Yeah, I realize it’s a long way to travel to preserve the memory of a guy who fucked you over but—” Chris never finishes his sentence.

  “You going?” Matthew asks.

  “Yes. No. Maybe. I’m on the fence. The guy was our friend up until the early seventies. Just because he was an unsympathetic lowlife doesn’t mean I have to be one.”

  They both agreed that Logan Alexander never got the hang of what it was like being one of the good guys. The real crime here, Matthew thought, is that he never got to enjoy his kids the way a father should. He cheated them out of memories. Matthew felt bad for his wife Joyce, who knew he struggled with alcoholism but stuck with him through all the hell and anguish. And then there was the mother of his children, Emily. Both these ladies knew he was a handful, but also saw something unique in him that never surfaced. Our friendship had broken up into small pieces of resentment and bitterness.

  “If you decide to go, I’d love to see you, man. It’s been a while since we shared a hug and a glass of burgundy,” Chris says.

  “I’ll let you know, but don’t count on me,” Matthew says.

  “Don’t rule it out,” Chris said before hanging up.

  Matthew got other calls and emails, and most people were saying Logan could never overcome the hard-line depression, the feelings of emptiness and the colorless life he was struggling to turn around. Matthew took a deep breath, not because he was feeling a sense of personal loss, but because this once nailed shut CHAPTER of his life was just pried open like a can of foul-smelling sardines, and he hated the idea of going backwards to a time and place that disrupted his now peaceful existence.

  Matthew crosses to the stove and puts the kettle on to make a cup of tea. Tea is a big deal here in Scotland. Actually, anywhere in the UK. It’s an addiction. Soothing. Kind of like a heroin fix with milk and two lumps of sugar. As fast as he turned on the kettle, he turned it off even faster. He needed fresh air. This unexpected news, although not surprising, demanded attention and rumination, not a cup of Earl Grey.

  §

  The Firth of Forth is a large firth on the east coast of Scotland and the estuary of the Forth River; location of Edinburgh. This is where Matthew came to savor his solitude, and remember his lovely wife, Melinda, who kept him strong and mentally indestructible before he lost her.

  He thinks to himself: why would I fly for twelve hours and pay my respects to a person who disrespected me? As he cradled this thought, he
’s reminded of the words of wisdom Melinda, whose memory was alive in his heart, whispered to him before she took her last breath. She made him promise to make amends with his adversaries, and heal the one growing ache that has gnawed at him for the past forty years. She was, of course, talking about coming to grips with Logan Alexander, the same guy who didn’t have the courage to grow old, so he decided to take the coward’s way out with a bullet to the head. Her words inspired Matthew and gave him a new perspective. He resolved that showing up at the funeral would help erase the contempt that’s been lingering since the early seventies. Matthew picks up a stone, kisses it, then sails it into the Firth of Forth, and watches it skip over the water before it slowly sinks and disappears in just about the same spot he had spread Melinda’s ashes a year ago. This moment of sweet acknowledgment was his way of giving her a heads-up that he was about to fulfill her wish, as well as telling her she’s never far away from his thoughts.

  Chris and Matthew agreed to make an appearance together. As a team. As protection against the mourners and grief-stricken friends who might be out to challenge their audacity of showing their faces.

  CHAPTER 2

  It began exactly how you would expect a funeral would start—a person dies, then a solitary black hearse slowly makes its way up a steep incline to a burial plot. We can visualize and almost hear the muffled sounds of mourners weeping in their cars and grabbing tissues from the travel box that sits idle on the dashboard and hasn’t been used since the last death in the family five years ago, when Uncle Ed slipped off a ladder and broke his neck while trimming a tree branch. Death: it happens and it’s not always pretty. And in this case, death was beyond comprehension. Horrific and regrettable.

  Matthew and Chris trail the small procession of ten cars and a vintage Ford pickup truck that looks totally out of place. They are not crying. They do not have tissues. They did not have an Uncle Ed. What they do have is a feeling of trepidation about even being there in the first place. Not really sure how these people are going to react about seeing them again after forty years of invisibility. Maybe they won’t react with words but just stare or shrug or spit in their direction like they were the friggin’ enemy. They would not see this as an act of redemption but as a jab in the ribs.

  At the burial site are, of course, the usual family, friends, and drinking buddies Logan had amassed at local bars during his last few conscious days. Logan Alexander by definition was your typical example of an alcoholic who refused to dignify himself with any level of sobriety. According to his Logan’s buddies, liquor gave him courage, strength, and suppressed the ugliness in his life. The Ford pickup truck, with its radio blaring The Doobie Brothers’ “This Is It,” belonged to a member of Logan’s former speedboat racing crew—a marine mechanic who once worked on his high performance engines. A frivolous recreation that proved to be a costly investment that brought him nothing but conflict between him and his father, who saw this activity as just another road to nowhere that siphoned off his bank account.

  As predicted, the mourners are noticeably surprised to see Matthew and Chris in attendance. They decide to keep a safe distance, standing in the back almost covertly. Most, if not all, knew of the bad blood between Logan and Matthew Street. The Jon’s Drawer clothing store feud that dates back to 1974 was a highly sensitive topic and usually never brought up in mixed company. If at all, period. It begins to rain. Why is that a shocker? It’s not. It’s a funeral, and funerals usually take place under murky, cloudy, depressive skies. Why should this one be any different? So there everyone stands, maybe twenty-three of them, getting soaked while some rent-a-preacher recites Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd…” Both Matthew and Chris make eye contact with Emily, the mother of Logan’s grown child. She has managed to remain attractive and fit, wearing her hair shoulder length and very blonde. And Joyce, his widow, who seems to be in a trance, staring blankly down at the ground. Maybe in prayer. Her eyes register more relief than pain. In spite of the situation, the women find the strength to force a smile in our direction. Matthew nods. Chris smiles back. It’s awkward as hell, and Matthew wanted to get the fuck away from this whole dismal feeling as fast as possible. But he is not surprised by his feelings. He knew what he’d be in store for—deadly stares, self-satisfied smirks, and clenched fists.

  §

  The guys head for their car before the Mexican cemetery worker, who first crosses himself, lowers Logan into the ground. And before they have to witness the tears when they throw dirt on his casket. Tears they cannot and will not shed themselves. The lumps in their throats are not produced by the grief they felt for an old friend, but is rather a reminder of a time and place that will always be significant and pivotal in their own lives, when they were just pups trying to make a name for themselves.

  Attending the funeral was probably enough to satisfy Matthew reaching closure. Yet he and Chris felt a need to go to the post-funeral gathering and sample the catered deli before taking off back to their own reality, away from the unpleasant bouquet of death. It was being held at Logan’s home in Valencia. Valencia is a bedroom community stuck in the middle of the Santa Clarita Valley. Logan’s house was a modest California ranch-style, three bedrooms with a two-car garage on a small lot and a brown front lawn that was dying of thirst. For most of his youth Logan had lived in the lap of luxury. But when he stopped bringing in a paycheck, he had to rely on his wife Joyce to survive. Some say this alone was the cause of him losing his self-respect and excessive drinking. He was no longer the breadwinner, and this was an insult to his manhood. It was like cutting off his balls. What little balls he had left to cut off, that is.

  Again, Matthew and Chris are on the perimeter of the crowd, out of the way of the people who look at them with indifference. Lots of stares. A few courteous nods in their direction but for the most part not many engaged them. The family dog was the only one who showed any interest, approaching them with a tennis ball in its mouth. Looking to be petted and told everything was going to be okay now that his master will no longer be taking him for walks or tossing that saliva-soaked tennis ball for him to fetch. Matthew grabbed the ball and, as a symbolic gesture, tossed it across the yard. Displaying a glimmer of sadness, the dog just loped for the ball, knowing this game he so loved was not the same.

  The guys were leaning on a three-foot pony wall, drinking beers and wondering why people spend so much money on food and drink at these gatherings. For what purpose? Is it the party atmosphere that is supposed to bring joy to this morbid occasion? Matthew never saw the benefit of catering a funeral. Dead people couldn’t care less if you’re having a good time at their expense—if anything they’re pissed that their loved ones are spending money frivolously on macaroni salad and fried chicken. A ridiculous rant, for sure. So Matthew got off the subject of food when Chris opens up about a nail-biting situation that took place in the late sixties. Three in the morning. Logan was drunk. His parents out of town. He calls Matthew and says he hated his life and was going to end it by sucking on the barrel of a shotgun. This was an obvious cry for help, so he and Matthew raced out to the house in Chatsworth and took the shotgun away from him. Fortunately, it wasn’t even loaded. But that wasn’t the point. The point being, if it were loaded, could they have made it in time to prevent this suicide from happening? They would never know. Logan recovered from whatever was bugging him, and the guys never talked about it again to anyone. Not even to themselves.

  “Should we mention it now?” Matthew asks Chris.

  Would it help them to understand Logan’s recent state of despair—that went back over forty years ago? They paused a moment before making that decision—no. All they needed to know was that he blew his brains out last week. They didn’t need the added drama while they mingled and quietly spoke of the deceased as if he were looking over their shoulder, listening.

  Finally, someone approaches them. He looks drunk, teetering like he’s wearing high-heeled pumps. He introduces himself without a handshake because his hands are busy. One is holding a drink; the other is tugging on his pants that keep slipping down below his waist. He is a shit-faced mess.

  “Hey, I’m Alan Randall,” he says, his speech slurred. “A friend of Logan’s and the last person to see him alive.” We aren’t that open to starting a conversation and just nod and smile without saying a word. But that doesn’t stop him from filling in some details. He rambles on at lightning speed. “Logan and me had several drinks the night before he did himself in, at a local tavern in town. Mulligan’s. Truly great ambience. It was happy hour, so I picked up the tab. I always picked up the tab. The man had no money. Ever. Got an allowance from his wife, which he usually spent at the local liquor store on beer and cigarettes. I already told the police all this in detail. I think. But I forgot to add that Logan told me he was going to end it all later. I thought he was just overreacting—that it was just the Maker’s Mark talking, and I didn’t take him seriously. I was wrong not to come forward and say something. I was wrong. I should’ve tried to stop him, but I didn’t because like I said, I didn’t take him seriously. I should have. It’s my fault he’s dead. It’s my fault all these people are here grieving and crying and speculating about his death. I’m not even sure if speculating is the correct word to use in this time of misery.”