To live and die in America [by Ian]
Life in California was good. We had a small and happy group of friends. Pete and Alice in particular were an interesting couple; and we spent a lot of time with them.
Pete was a Vietnam veteran, and had a law firm. Rhona and I helped out here and there. The offices were situated just adjacent to the Transamerica building; and boasted English phone-boxes and Penny Farthings on the walls. Pete could often be seen roaring around the city on his vintage English motorcycle.
Alice was a writer, and knew all the city faces. She invited us to lots of parties at her apartment on Nob Hill. She'd written several articles and a book on the effects of advertising and celebrity culture on young women; and was in demand with the tv and radio companies.
Rhona and I would often spend the weekend away with them, happily cruising along the coast in Pete's boat. The California coast is quite stunning in places, and I still remember it with clarity.
One weekend in May we had a phone call from Pete; incoherently trying to explain that someone had died. He was drunk, and it was 11 in the morning. We rushed round to his office, to find him asleep in a lounger on the sun-roof. We managed to drag him to the shower and drenched him in cool water. He began to rouse and very quickly was a sobbing, heaving mess. He told us in between huge intakes of breath that Alice was dead. She'd been found in her apartment. Alice had been brutally murdered.
In the following weeks, Pete withdrew from life. His business almost collapsed; and survived because friends and colleagues across the city helped out while he imploded. Pete became an "almost" person, secluded in his apartment over at Candlestick Park. His hair grew, he lost interest in his life-long pursuits.
Eventually a man was arrested. The court case followed. The man was bailed. 3 weeks later the man was found shot dead at his front door.With no other evidence and no other suspect, the case was wound down.
Those of us who knew Alice began to grieve again; was there to be no justice for the snuffing out of such a gifted and special life?
Pete gradually began to venture out from his isolation.He sold his apartment and bought a house in Sausalito, by the bay.We were happy to be invited there for dinner; and sat late into the night reminiscing about Alice, and all that she'd meant to us.
At the end of the evening, we hugged and kissed as we said goodbye. I told Pete I was looking forward to roaring down Route 1 on the bikes with him again.He smiled and said faintly "I think i'll be giving up the bike soon..getting a tad old for that".
A few months went by. We saw Pete less and less; and he seemed to almost be avoiding our company.Friends told us that they too had seen little of him, and rarely had he returned calls.
The following Spring, I heard that Pete had sold the business and his house.He'd moved across the country to a village in New York State.We wrote and rang a few times, with no reply. We heard from a mutual acquaintance that Pete was now living alone in the sticks, growing his own food and living off savings.
In late September I received a call from the Sullivan County Police Department. Pete had walked into the department and confessed to the shooting of Alice's killer.
Pete had followed this coke-dealing murderer home one night; and shot him once in the head and once in the chest.
Now, Pete is in prison. He writes to me here in England, and says I must come out to New York when I can.I plan to be there when he's released.
Meanwhile, I'm searching New York State for vintage English motorcycles.
Ian is of a certain age when dealing with ear-hair can seem too much of a priority. He would secretly like to wear a cardigan and slippers. He thinks writing is the new black.
Pete was a Vietnam veteran, and had a law firm. Rhona and I helped out here and there. The offices were situated just adjacent to the Transamerica building; and boasted English phone-boxes and Penny Farthings on the walls. Pete could often be seen roaring around the city on his vintage English motorcycle.
Alice was a writer, and knew all the city faces. She invited us to lots of parties at her apartment on Nob Hill. She'd written several articles and a book on the effects of advertising and celebrity culture on young women; and was in demand with the tv and radio companies.
Rhona and I would often spend the weekend away with them, happily cruising along the coast in Pete's boat. The California coast is quite stunning in places, and I still remember it with clarity.
One weekend in May we had a phone call from Pete; incoherently trying to explain that someone had died. He was drunk, and it was 11 in the morning. We rushed round to his office, to find him asleep in a lounger on the sun-roof. We managed to drag him to the shower and drenched him in cool water. He began to rouse and very quickly was a sobbing, heaving mess. He told us in between huge intakes of breath that Alice was dead. She'd been found in her apartment. Alice had been brutally murdered.
In the following weeks, Pete withdrew from life. His business almost collapsed; and survived because friends and colleagues across the city helped out while he imploded. Pete became an "almost" person, secluded in his apartment over at Candlestick Park. His hair grew, he lost interest in his life-long pursuits.
Eventually a man was arrested. The court case followed. The man was bailed. 3 weeks later the man was found shot dead at his front door.With no other evidence and no other suspect, the case was wound down.
Those of us who knew Alice began to grieve again; was there to be no justice for the snuffing out of such a gifted and special life?
Pete gradually began to venture out from his isolation.He sold his apartment and bought a house in Sausalito, by the bay.We were happy to be invited there for dinner; and sat late into the night reminiscing about Alice, and all that she'd meant to us.
At the end of the evening, we hugged and kissed as we said goodbye. I told Pete I was looking forward to roaring down Route 1 on the bikes with him again.He smiled and said faintly "I think i'll be giving up the bike soon..getting a tad old for that".
A few months went by. We saw Pete less and less; and he seemed to almost be avoiding our company.Friends told us that they too had seen little of him, and rarely had he returned calls.
The following Spring, I heard that Pete had sold the business and his house.He'd moved across the country to a village in New York State.We wrote and rang a few times, with no reply. We heard from a mutual acquaintance that Pete was now living alone in the sticks, growing his own food and living off savings.
In late September I received a call from the Sullivan County Police Department. Pete had walked into the department and confessed to the shooting of Alice's killer.
Pete had followed this coke-dealing murderer home one night; and shot him once in the head and once in the chest.
Now, Pete is in prison. He writes to me here in England, and says I must come out to New York when I can.I plan to be there when he's released.
Meanwhile, I'm searching New York State for vintage English motorcycles.
Ian is of a certain age when dealing with ear-hair can seem too much of a priority. He would secretly like to wear a cardigan and slippers. He thinks writing is the new black.
1 Comments:
Great story, Ian.
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