G is for Gumshoe (4 page)

“Well, no. I've got a job. I have to drive down to the desert tomorrow and I need to get to the bank.”

She pointed a finger and then poked me on the arm. “Tonight, you come to my place. I'm gonna buy you a glass of schnapps.”

We left at the same time. I offered to drop her off, but the tavern's only half a block away and she said she preferred to walk. The last I saw of her the mild spring breezes were billowing through her muumuu. She looked like a hot-air balloon shortly before liftoff.

I headed into town, detouring by way of the automated teller machine at my bank, where I deposited Mrs. Gersh's advance and pulled a hundred bucks in cash. I circled the block and parked my car in the public lot behind my office. I confess this news about a hit man had made me conscious of my backside and I suppressed the urge to zigzag as I went up the outside stairs.

In my office, I picked up my portable typewriter, some files, and my gun, then stopped into the California Fidelity Insurance offices next door. I chatted briefly with Darcy Pascoe, who doubles as the company's secretary and receptionist. She had helped me on a couple of cases and was thinking about changing fields. I thought she'd be a good investigator and I was encouraging her. Being a P.I. beats sitting on your ass at somebody else's front desk.

I moved on to Vera Lipton's cubicle, completing my rounds. Vera's one of those women men are mad about. I
swear it's not anything in particular she does. I suppose it's the air of total confidence she exudes. She likes men and they know it, even when she sasses them. She's thirty-seven, single, addicted to cigarettes and Coca-Cola, which she consumes throughout the day. You'd think that would offend the health nuts, but it doesn't seem to cause dismay. She's tall, probably a hundred and forty pounds, a redhead who wears glasses with big round lenses, tinted gray. I know none of this sounds like the girl of your dreams, but there's something about her that's apparently tough to resist. She's not in any way promiscuous, but if she goes to the supermarket, some guy will strike up a conversation with her and end up dating her for months. When the relationship's over, they usually remain such good friends that she'll match him up with someone she knows.

She was not at her desk. I can usually track her by the smell of cigarette smoke, but today I was having trouble picking up the scent. I cleared a chair and sat down, taking a few minutes to flip through a handbook on insurance fraud. Wherever there's money, somebody finds a way to cheat.

“Hello, Kinsey. What are you up to?”

Vera came into the cubicle and tossed a file onto her desk. She was dressed in a denim jumpsuit with shoulder pads and a wide leather belt. She sat down in her swivel chair, reaching automatically into her bottom drawer where she keeps an insulated cold pack filled with Cokes. She took out a fresh bottle and held it up as a way of offering me one.

I shook my head.

She said, “Guess what?”

“I'm afraid to ask.”

“Take a look around and tell me what you see.”

I love this kind of quiz. It reminds me of that game we used to play at birthday parties in elementary school where somebody's mom would present a tray of odds and ends, which we got to look at for one minute and then recite back from memory. It's the only kind of party game I ever won. I surveyed her desk. Same old mess as far as I could see. Files everywhere, insurance manuals, correspondence piled up. Two empty Coke bottles . . . “No cigarette butts,” I said. “Where's the ashtray?”

“I quit.”

“I don't believe it. When?”

“Yesterday. I woke up feeling punk, coughing my lungs out. I was out of cigarettes, so there I am on my hands and knees, picking through the trash for a butt big enough to light. Of course I can't find one. I know I'm going to have to throw some clothes on, grab my car keys, and whip down to the corner before I can even have my first Coke. And I thought, to hell with it. I've had it. I'm not going to do this to myself anymore. So I quit. That was thirty-one hours ago.”

“Vera, that's great. I'm really proud of you.”

“Thanks. It feels good. I keep wishing I could have a cigarette to celebrate. Stick around. You can watch me hyperventilate every seven minutes when the urge comes up. What are you up to?”

“I'm on my way home,” I said. “I just stopped by to say hi. I'll be gone tomorrow and we'd talked about having lunch.”

“Shoot, too bad. I was looking forward to it. I was going to fix you up.”

“Fix me up? Like a blind date?” This news was about as thrilling to me as the notion of periodontal work.

“Don't use that tone, kiddo. This guy's perfect for you.”

“I'm afraid to ask you what that means,” I said.

“It means he isn't married like
someone
I could name.” Her reference was to Jonah Robb, whose on-again, off-again marriage had been a source of conflict. I'd been involved with him intermittently since the previous fall, but the high had long since worn off.

“There's nothing wrong with that relationship,” I said.

“Of course there is,” she snapped. “He's never there when you need him. He's always off with what's-her-face at some counseling session.”

“Well, that's true enough.” Jonah and Camilla seemed to move from therapist to therapist, switching every time they got close to a resolution of any kind; “conflict habituated,” I think it's called. They'd been together since seventh grade and were apparently addicted to the dark side of love.

“He's never going to leave her,” Vera said.

“That's probably true, too, but who gives a shit?”

“You do and you know it.”

“No, I don't,” I said. “I'll tell you the truth. I really don't have room in my life for much more than I've got. I don't want a big, hot love affair. Jonah's a good friend and he comes through for me often enough . . .”

“Boy, are you out of touch.”

“I don't want your rejects, Vera. That's the point.”

“This is not a reject. It's more like a referral.”

“You want to make a sales pitch? I can tell you want to make a sales pitch. Go ahead. Fill me in. I can hardly wait.”

“He's perfect.”

“ ‘Perfect.' Got it,” I said, pretending to take notes. “Very nice. What else?”

“Except for one thing.”

“Ah.”

“I'm being honest about this,” she replied righteously. “If he was totally perfect, I'd keep him for myself.”

“What's the catch?”

“Don't rush me. I'll get to that. Just let me tell you his good points first.”

I glanced at my watch. “You have thirty seconds.”

“He's smart. He's funny. He's caring. He's competent . . .”

“What's he do for a living?”

“He's a doctor . . . a family practitioner, but he's not a workaholic. He's really available emotionally. Honest. He's a sweet guy, but he doesn't take any guff.”

“Keep talking.”

“He's thirty-nine, never married, but definitely interested in commitment. He's physically fit, doesn't smoke or do drugs, but he's not obnoxious about it, you know what I mean? He isn't holier-than-thou.”

“Unh-hunh, unh-hunh,” I said in a monotone. I made a rolling motion with my hand, meaning get to the point.

“He's good-looking too. I'm serious. Like an eight and a half on a scale of one to ten. He skis, plays tennis, lifts weights . . .”

“He can't get it up,” I said.

“He's terrific in bed!”

I started laughing. “What's the deal, Vera? Is he a mouth breather? Does he tell jokes? You know I hate guys who tell jokes.”

She shook her head. “He's short.”

“How short?”

“Maybe five four and I'm five nine.”

I stared at her with disbelief. “So what? You've dated half a dozen guys who were shorter than you.”

“Yeah, well secretly, it always bothered me.”

I stared at her some more. “You're going to reject this guy because of that?”

Her tone became defiant. “Listen, he's terrific. He's just not right for me. I'm not making a judgment about him. This is just a quirk of mine.”

“What's his name?”

“Neil Hess.”

I reached down and pulled a scrap of paper from her wastebasket. I took a pen from her desk. “Give me his number.”

She blinked at me. “You'll really call him?”

“Hey, I'm only five six. What's a couple of inches between friends?”

She gave me his number and I dutifully made a note, which I tucked in my handbag. “I'll be out of town for a day, but I'll call him when I get back.”

“Well, great.”

I got up to leave her office and paused at the door. “If I marry this guy, you have to be the flower girl.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

I bypassed my run the next morning, anxious to hit the road. I left Santa Teresa at 6:00
A.M.
, my car loaded with a duffel, my portable Smith-Corona, the information about Irene Gersh's mother, my briefcase, miscellaneous junk, and a cooler in which I'd tucked a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, a tuna sandwich, a couple of tangerines, and a Ziploc bag of Henry's chocolate chip cookies.

I took Highway 101 south, following the coastline past Ventura, where the road begins to cut inland. My little VW whined and strained, climbing the Camarillo grade until it reached the crest, coasting down into Thousand Oaks. By the time I reached the San Fernando Valley, it was nearly seven and rush-hour traffic had crammed the road solidly from side to side. Vehicles were changing lanes with a speed and grace that I think of as street surfing, complete with occasional wipeouts. Smog veiled the basin, blocking out the surrounding mountains so completely that unless you knew they were there, you might imagine the land to be flat as a plate.

At North Hollywood, the 134 splits off, heading toward Pasadena, while the 101 cuts south toward downtown L.A. On a map of the area, the heart of Los Angeles looks like a small hole in the center of a loosely crocheted pink shawl that spreads across Los Angeles County, trailing into Orange County to the south. Converging freeways form a tangle, with high-rise buildings caught in the knot. I've never known anyone who actually had business in downtown Los Angeles. Unless you have a yen to see Union Station, Olvera Street, or skid row, the only reason to venture into the neighborhood around Sixth and Spring is to check out the wholesale gold mart for jewelry or the Cooper Building for name-brand clothing discounted to bargain-basement prices. For the most part, you're better off speeding right on by.

You'll notice that I'm skipping right over the events of Thursday night. I will say that I did, indeed, stop by Rosie's for the drink she'd promised, only to discover that she and Henry had arranged a surprise birthday party for me. It was one of those mortifying moments where the lights come up and everybody jumps out from behind the furniture. I couldn't believe it was happening. Jonah was there, and Vera (the rat—who hadn't breathed a word of it when I'd seen her earlier), Darcy and Mac from CFI, Moza from down the block, some of the regular bar patrons, and a former client or two. I don't know why it seems so embarrassing to admit, but they had a cake and actual presents that I had to open on the spot. I don't like to be surprised. I don't like to be the center of attention. These were all people I care about, but I found it unnerving to be the object of so much good will. I suppose I said
all the right things. I didn't get drunk and I didn't disgrace myself, but I felt disconnected, like I was having an out-of-body experience. Reflecting on it now in the privacy of my car, I could feel myself smiling. Events like this always seem better to me in retrospect.

The party had broken up at ten. Henry and Jonah walked me home and after Henry excused himself, I showed Jonah the apartment, feeling shy as a bride.

I got the distinct impression he wanted to spend the night, but I couldn't handle it. I'm not sure why—maybe it was my earlier conversation with Vera—but I felt distant and when he moved to kiss me, I found myself easing away.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing. It's just time for me to be alone.”

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

“Hey, no. I promise. I'm exhausted, that's all. The party tonight just about did me in. You know me. I don't do well in situations like that.”

He smiled, his teeth flashing white. “You should have seen the look on your face. It was great. I think it's funny to see you caught off-guard.” He was leaning against the door, with his hands behind his back, the light from the kitchen painting one side of his face with a warm yellow glow. I found myself taking a mental picture of him: blue eyes, dark hair. He looked tired. Jonah is a Santa Teresa cop who works the missing persons detail, which is how we'd met almost a year ago. I really wasn't sure what I felt for him at this point. He's kind, confused, a good man who wants to do the right thing, whatever that is. I understood his dilemma with his wife and I didn't blame him for his
part in it. Of course he was going to vacillate. He has two young daughters who complicate the matter no end. Camilla had left him twice, taking the girls with her both times. He'd managed to do all right without her, but the first time she crooked her little finger, he'd gone running back. It had been push-pull since then, double messages. In November, she'd decided they should have an “open marriage,” which he figured was a euphemism for her screwing around on him. He felt that freed him up to get involved with me, but I was reasonably certain he'd never mentioned it to her. How “open” could this open marriage be? While I didn't want much from the relationship, I found it disquieting that I never knew where I stood. Sometimes he behaved like a family man, taking his girls to the zoo on Sunday afternoons. Sometimes he acted like a bachelor father, doing exactly the same thing. He and his daughters spent a lot of time staring at the monkeys while Camilla did God knows what. For my part, I felt like a peripheral character in a play I wouldn't have
paid
to see. I didn't need the aggravation, to tell you the truth. Still, it's hard to complain when I'd known his marital status from the outset. Hey, no sweat, I'd thought. I'm a big girl. I can handle it. Clearly, I hadn't the slightest idea what I was getting into.