The Manipulated (Joe Portugal Mysteries) (5 page)

I’d had enough trouble dealing with one universe. Now I had billions to obsess about. Good going, Portugal.

Next morning when I called, Alberta Burns was home, and she had a craving for pancakes.

We met at the IHOP on Manchester Boulevard in Inglewood. They seated us at a corner table. Burns let the waitress pour coffee. I asked for tea. I received a pot of tepid water and a basket of teabags. I picked out an English Breakfast, removed it from its packet, started examining it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Burns said.

“Looking at the leaves.”

“You’re supposed to get them wet before you tell fortunes.”

I dropped the bag in my cup. I made sure the coast was clear, unpacketed another bag, ripped it open. “This stuff is like powder,” I said.

“So?”

“It’s the dregs of the dregs.”

“Have coffee, then.”

The waitress passed by, saw what I was doing, shook her head.
White people
.

“Portugal,” Burns said.

“Hmm?” I’d dumped the tea into my saucer and was poking it with my fork.

“Does whatever you want from me have anything to do with your science project?”

I pushed the whole thing aside and launched into the Donna Lennox story. By the time I was done, our food was there. When I finished, Burns told me—for the third or fourth time—that I was out of my mind.

“Probably,” I said.

“People misidentify people,” she said. “Trust me on this. I’ve interviewed dozens, probably hundreds of witnesses who swore they saw someone somewhere and turned out to be wrong. And ninety-nine percent of them were a lot closer than all the way across Staples Center.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Will you stop saying ‘probably’? Next time I’m going to whack you one.”

“So you’re not going to help me.”

She took a sip of coffee, made a face, put the cup down. “Even if you weren’t chasing wild geese here, you’re forgetting that I don’t work for LAPD anymore.”

“And the minute you left the force, all your contacts there went up in smoke.”

“A lot of them did.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah, fine. I just thought I’d ask.”

“You have something up your sleeve, don’t you?”

“Who, me?”

“I can read you like a book, Portugal.”

“Let’s change the subject. Tell me about your script.”

“Why do I have the feeling I’m about to be manipulated here?”

“Go ahead. Tell me. Last I heard, you and your partner, what was his name?”

“Paul Witten.”

“Right, you and Paul Witten, you had this idea for a TV show. All about a woman on the police force, written with all the authority a veteran of … how many years was it?”

“Twelve.”

“All the authority a twelve-year veteran of the force can muster. This Paul Witten guy, he’s pretty good, is he?”

“Yeah. Hell of a writer. Portugal—”

“But never had anything produced. Which means he doesn’t have any more contacts in Hollywood than you do.”

“You shithead.”

“You know, they could use a show like that. I mean, what was the last show about a lady cop on the streets? Sure, they have women on
NYPD Blue
, but everyone knows it’s really about Sipowicz and whoever his partner happens to be that season. No, there hasn’t been anything like that since that Angie Dickinson thing
Police Woman
, has there? And I always had the feeling it wasn’t exactly realistic.”

“I say again: you shithead.”

“Have I mentioned Donna Lennox’s son is Dennis Lennox? TV’s flavor of the month?”

“This is blackmail.”

“No, blackmail is when you’ve done something wrong and someone wants money to keep it quiet. Off the force a couple of months, and already you’ve forgotten simple stuff like that? Actually this is closer to extortion, though that doesn’t quite cut it either. Hmm. The term
quid pro quo
comes to mind, and I’m sure if I thought about it a little more I’d come up with—”

“Shut up.”

I did.

“You know,” Burns said, “I’m going to come out of this a lot better than you are.”

“Probably. Oops. Please don’t whack me one.”

“I’m not going to find anything out.”

“But not for lack of trying, right?”

“Right. And when I’m done finding out nothing—”

“I’ll set you and your writer friend up with a meeting with Denny Lennox. And, hey, he’ll be extra receptive, because you’ll have gone out of your way to help him find out whatever happened to his mother. Give him some closure.” I’d stopped to Xerox the marked-up seating chart on the way over, and I handed over a copy. I stood, pushed my chair under the table, said,“Thanks for breakfast.” I walked outside, got in the truck, and drove away, wondering how many pieces of my soul I’d be willing to trade away for my new friend’s sake.

It was a permit parking area, and I had to drive three blocks from DL Tea, finally finding a spot under a big ficus. The sidewalk was root-raised and cracked and covered with dozens of figlets crushed by passersby. Someday a senior citizen would trip and break his or her neck, and then the city would get around to fixing the sidewalk and putting a root guard around the tree. Maybe if I stuck around long enough I’d see it happen.

Instead I walked back to San Vicente and stood across the street from the tea shop. It was between a flower stand and a hat store. The first person in was a little old lady. So was the first one out. Aha. Just as I suspected.

The next person in was a tall young man with spiky hair and a leather jacket. The next person out was a stunning young woman in the miniest of skirts.

Thus assured I wouldn’t be the only non-little old lady present, I crossed San Vicente and sauntered in. I recognized the grid of tea tins from the photo on the Internet. There were six shelves, each with roughly twenty tins. The leather-jacketed guy stood by a bunch of tea paraphernalia, deep in discussion with a short round man in a fez. There were more tins at the far end, next to a door leading to a room with tables and chairs and lots of hanging ferns.

“Hi. May I help you?”

She looked about sixteen, a strawberry blond. Her shirt was covered with pictures of little bowls of green stuff. Across her perky bosom it said
TEA SHIRT
.

“Not quite yet,” I said. “I’m going to browse a while.”

“Let me know if I can help, okay?” She motioned with her hands, taking the room in. “This can be a little intimidating the first time.”

“How do you know it’s my first time?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Yes, but how’d you know?”

A minute shrug, so cute I wanted to take her home and set her up as Ronnie’s little sister. “You have the look.”

I eavesdropped on the leather jacket and the fez while checking out some squat metal pots on the wall opposite the big display. They were discussing Assams. I picked up a pot. It was heavier than it looked. It cost seventy bucks. A placard said it was a
tetsubin
, from Japan. Others were stoneware, fanciful shapes like frogs and dragons and little old fishermen. Yixing, from China. The card provided the proper pronunciation.
Yee-zhing
.

I wandered, seeing but not really registering the pots and filters, cups and mugs, jars and cans. I looked through the door at the end, into the tearoom. Bright and airy and civilized. There was a small open kitchen and a patio in back with a few more tables, one of them occupied by the senior I’d seen go in when I was spying on the place. A woman all in white saw me, smiled, offered me a table.

I shook my head, turned from the tearoom, saw the memorial. It was along the wall, near the corner. The centerpiece was a color eight-by-ten of Donna Lennox. There was an engraved name plaque below it. Next down was a wooden shelf bearing several white porcelain bowls of tea, a lit candle spewing a vaguely soapy smell, a couple of carved soapstone animals. One was a frog and the other could have been nearly anything with four legs. A couple of wall vases flanked the photo, one with dried lavender and the other with cut orchids. Dendrobiums, I thought, but my knowledge of orchids was rusty and I intended to keep it that way.

“Sometimes I think she’s still here.” The young woman was at my shoulder. Up close, she looked older, though not much. “I mean, I’m not a spiritual person, but sometimes at night, when I’m the only one here, I can feel her around, watching over the place.”

“Did you know her?”

“Only for a few days. I came to work here right before she went to China and … well, you know.”

“I do?”

“I knew you’d be coming in.”

“Okay, I’m confused.”

“Mike told me about seeing her the other night. And about you.”

Soon the entire tea fraternity would expect me to work a miracle. “How’d you know I was me?”

“Those bug ads on TV. I’m Carrie, by the way. Carrie Fitzpatrick.”

She held out a hand. It was small, delicate, warm. I told her my name, she said she knew, I said of course she did.“So what do you think, Carrie? Did he see her?”

“Of course not.”

“You seem pretty sure.”

“She’s dead.”

“You seem pretty sure of that too.”

“Or she’s in white slavery in China somewhere, so she might as well be. I try not to think about it, but when I do, that’s what I come up with.”

“So you think I’m wasting my time.”

“No.”

“I don’t get you.”

“I don’t think you’re wasting your time if you manage somehow to make Mike feel better. Excuse me a sec.”

The two customers were at the counter. The younger one had Carrie fill three bags from the bins. The fez bought one of the Yixing pots. A dragon. When they left Carrie came back over. I said, “Tell me what you meant. About making Mike feel better.”

“He has to let her go.”

“Why?”

“To move on with his life.”

“You seem to care about him a lot.”

“I do.”

Silence. I remembered Mike’s frown, his unfinished thought, when I said I was old enough to be Ronnie’s father.

“You and him,” I said.

“Me and him,” Carrie said.

She turned to the shrine, back to me. “How long?” I said.

“A little over a year.”

“You’re …” I stopped because I knew she’d heard it a thousand times.

“Young enough to be his daughter? I know. Believe me, I know.”

“I didn’t know he was involved with anyone.”

“Yeah, well … he’s very conflicted about it.”

“I guess he must be.”

“But what’s he supposed to do? He’s never going to have proof she’s dead, unless some Chinese peasant stumbles across her skeleton sometime. Is he supposed to spend the rest of his life alone?”

“No one said that.”

The door opened. Another young man came in. His shopping bag banged against the door frame and metal clinked inside. “Hey, Carrie,” he said.

“Hey. Be with you in a minute.” To me: “Hang on, okay?” She went behind the counter, scribbled something on a slip of paper, then crossed to a display near the door and pulled out a white cardboard box, a foot square, six inches high. She came back and handed me the note. “Call me. We’ll talk some more. I think we can help each other.” She gave me the box. “And this is for you. Mike said you needed one.”

“What is it?”

“Starter kit.” She smiled. “What we call in the catalogue, An Introduction to the World of Fine Tea.”

“How much?”

“A gift.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome. Oh, and if when you call you get my roommate … she’s lousy with messages. So try again.”

“Will do.” I took my prize and left.

When I got home Mike Lennox was staring at my front door. He turned, saw me, stood by the driveway as I pulled in. I got out, carrying the tea kit. “You’ve been to the shop,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And met Carrie.”

“Right again.”

“And now you think I’m a dick.”

“Actually,
prick
was the word that came to mind, though I admit they’re similar in both sound and meaning. But I think women tend to use
dick
more than men do.”

“Let me explain.”

“No need to. I said the word came to mind. But it left as quickly as it came. It’s your business. You want to come in?”

“Okay.”

I unlocked the door. We went inside. I put the box on the dining room table.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mike said.

“Not now,” I said. “I want to do it alone. Some kind of voyage of discovery thing.”

“Gotcha.”

I went in the living room, stuck
After the Gold Rush
on the turntable, got it going. I sat on the couch.
My
couch. There were two of them jammed into the room, my crappy old one and Gina’s designer version, awaiting the day when the addition was finally done and we could figure out what to do with two homes’ worth of furniture.

I was vaguely aware I should be offering Mike refreshment of some type. He sat on Gina’s sofa, kept the beat to “Tell Me Why” with his hand on the arm. When the chorus came he sang along. When the song was over he said,“Here’s the thing. Donna is still the biggest thing in my life, but a guy’s got to move on and—”

“That’s exactly what Carrie said. ‘Move on.’ Look. I can’t say this for sure, but if Gina disappeared for four years and change, I could see myself hooking up with someone else—”

Or even if she just went to San Francisco for the weekend.

“—even while I still hoped and prayed every day that the doorbell would ring and she’d be standing out there. So it’s okay if you do the same.”

He nodded slowly. His mouth clenched, and I was afraid he was going to go weepy on me, but he forced a smile. “So you really don’t think I’m a dick? Or a prick?”

“I think you’re both those things, but it has nothing to do with your love life.”

Nothing.

“That was a little guy humor. I’m sorry, I don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing.”

“Oh. Funny.”

Guy silence, until:

“I mean, after all,” he said, “didn’t you ball that Ronnie chick, and your wife’s not even—”

“Jesus, Mike, nothing happened with me and Ronnie. Get that through your thick head, will you?”