“Your arm in a sling,” she repeated, scoffing. “I’ll have more than that in a sling if you keep needling me.”
“All right, all right,” I said. “Lay off, slugger.”
We played around a bit more and actually got some more work done before I told her I needed to go. We kissed in the doorway, the Harmon’s case in my hand, and then I left, telling myself it was a good start to a better day.
I headed to Guillermo’s where I collected Carmelita, me being the bad guy who had to pry her away from her new love. According to Guillermo, the pair had been inseparable, and he’d needed to threaten Osvaldo with being locked in the workshop overnight if they didn’t stop playing with the little globe toy and get some sleep. The threat had worked, but he’d still locked the door of the tiny house’s back bedroom where Carmelita slept; he’d kept the key, too, his door open so he could hear if Osvaldo tried slipping away from the couch where he slept to try getting into Carmelita’s room.
The whole thing still made me uncomfortable although I couldn’t have said why, exactly. Guillermo clearly trusted the young man, and I had seen more than once how Carmelita’s programming kicked in when her safety was threatened; if Osvaldo tried something she wanted no part of, he’d likely come away in need of medical attention. It wasn’t the honorableness of his intentions that bothered me, though. Rather, it was the strangeness of it all, the sudden shift in both of them, and the way Osvaldo’s attentions had completely disarmed Carmelita’s normally aloof demeanor. I knew she’d behaved rashly before I’d known her, and I didn’t want to see it happen again, mostly for Guillermo’s sake.
Carmelita pouted most of the way into the office. It was a short drive from Chavez Ravine to Broadway, which meant there wasn’t enough time for the sadness of parting from Osvaldo to wear off. I tuned the radio absently as I drove and tried starting conversations that wouldn’t turn over. I finally decided to look the issue in the eye, opting to take a friendly approach rather than run the risk of poisoning things by expressing the vague misgivings I’d been mulling over since the day before.
“I’m glad you’ve found a new friend,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot off of Broadway.
“Me, too,” Carmelita said, the words more sighed than spoken.
I decided to let it go.
We spent that day tying up loose ends and waiting for the phone to ring. There wasn’t much I could do on the Rigsby case until Monday, so I contented myself with going back over my notes and even re-writing them more neatly to help pass the day.
That evening, I dropped Carmelita at Guillermo’s again—per Carmelita’s request and with Guillermo’s willing acceptance. The old man really enjoyed seeing this strange couple together. Still uncomfortable with the whole situation—but not so much as to need to speak up about it—I went back to Hollywood for my Saturday night gig, which led to another invitation to stay with Sherise. I told myself that if these arrangements kept being made, it wouldn’t make sense to keep paying rent on the little house in Echo Park.
Sherise and I spent Sunday morning working on the song, and although having Carmelita out of my sight for that long was starting to weigh on me, Sherise was very convincing when it came to steering me back into the lane she wanted me in. By eleven, I felt certain that the song was polished and ready to roll. That was when she sprang a new melody on me, something she’d been toying with for a while.
“You’re full of surprises,” I said, trying to pick out the tune on the guitar.
“You know it, Jed.”
“And you think we’re ready for a follow-up already?”
“We can’t very well just debut one song, can we? What if they call for an encore? What do we do? Just play the same one again?”
“I’ve got a few things in my arsenal.”
“That would suit my voice? I don’t think so.” She shook her head and said, “Try again.” And then she started humming her new melody.
At the risk of invoking her wrath, I insisted on calling Guillermo—knowing that if I didn’t, the new song might pull me down a hole there’d be no getting out of for a few hours.
“Make it quick,” Sherise said with a wicked smile.
Guillermo answered on the second ring, and I asked him if he needed me to come split up the lovebirds. Part of me was hoping he’d say yes, not because I wanted to end my time with Sherise but rather because I didn’t like the idea of this much togetherness for Carmelita and Osvaldo.
The old man just laughed. “No, lobo,” he said. “I’m not sick of them. But I think they’re sick of me.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve gone out on a date.”
I felt hot and cold at the same time, alarm bells ringing in my nerve endings even though I couldn’t have said why.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, no. Very serious. Osvaldo went home to get his nicest clothes and Carmelita drove them both to a restaurant for lunch.”
Where she won’t eat anything, I thought, and Osvaldo won’t say anything to the waitress.
“Do you think Osvaldo’s okay in a situation like that?” I asked.
There was no point in asking about Carmelita’s ability to blend in. She’d been doing just that since long before I’d met her.
“A few days ago, I would have said no,” Guillermo answered. “Now, though…He’s like a different person. I think he’ll be all right as long as Carmelita’s with him.”
“And they took that little gizmo with them?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t think that’s going to draw some attention?”
Guillermo didn’t like clear evidence of Chavezium getting out to the public, mostly because he still hadn’t decided the best course of action should manufacturers or the government try to pressure him into selling the rights to the miracle element.
“I’m not worried. It’s a toy. Most people won’t pay attention.”
“All right,” I said, not sure if I meant it. “Tell Carmelita I’ll come get her later. Don’t let them get too comfortable, okay?”
“You worry too much,” Guillermo said. It wasn’t a criticism. Rather, it was good-natured advice. If we’d been together, he would have patted me on the back as he said it.
“Maybe. But you don’t worry enough, Guillermo.”
“What’s to worry about?”
“I don’t know. One of these days, though…something’s going to come at you from an angle you’re not expecting. I don’t want to see you get hurt when it does.”
“Well…I suppose you’re right that something could happen. It’s happened before. Accidents, yes? But I don’t think anything bad is going to come out of Osvaldo being with Carmelita.”
I didn’t like the connotations of “with” but I let it go.
Sherise had been humming the new tune the whole time I was on the phone, feigning disinterest in my call. When I hung up, she turned up the volume and did a few provocative dance steps to go along with the tune.
“What kind of song is this?” I asked.
“The good kind,” she said. Then she nodded toward my guitar. “Play,” she commanded with a smile.
I played, but my heart wasn’t in it. Sherise saw this and put an end to her cajoling after another half hour.
“Why don’t you write down what we’ve got and then we can get out for a little while?”
“Out?”
“Sure.” She nodded toward the door. “You remember outside, right?”
“Where to?”
She shrugged. “How about up the coast?”
“I don’t know. I need to go get Carmelita before long.”
She shook her head. “No. Guillermo says she’s fine. He also said you worry too much.”
“You could hear his end of the conversation?”
“I just filled in the blanks. You’re not the only one who can detect things around here, you know?”
Knowing I was beaten, I said, “A short drive. And then I need
to go.”
Her smile doubled in size. “Good enough.”
Half an hour later, we were heading up the Pacific Coast Highway, the cliffs of Santa Monica to our right and the blue expanse of waves to our left. Scattered clouds made it less than picture perfect, but I didn’t care. Sherise held my hand as I drove, and the smell of the sea coming through the open windows and the sound of the road under my wheels made me forget my troubles. There was no Osvaldo, no Carmelita, no Leonora Rigsby, no anemic bank account, and no specter of Elsa Schwartz to worry about. Sherise tuned the radio, and the “Blacktop Blues” came across the airwaves as the sun broke through a particularly dense cloud. It was like I had driven into a magazine ad for California tourism or real estate. All that was missing were orange groves against the distant mountains.
This bliss lasted about five minutes.
That was about how long it took me to catch sight of a green Meteor station wagon in the rearview mirror, about four cars back—too far away for me to make out the driver.
I wanted to change lanes and slam on the brakes so the other driver would have no choice but to zip past me, at which point I would gun the engine, catch up, and figure out if it was Mulvaney or not. But I hesitated to do any such thing with Sherise in the car. For one thing, it would scare her, and though I know she could handle a jolt, I had no desire to give her a fright. For another, there was the potential that such an action would put Sherise in danger, not just from my reckless driving but also from the person who was tailing me. What if it wasn’t Mulvaney? What if I’d ticked off a former client, or someone associated with such a client? And what if this unknown person had a gun and was looking for an opportunity to use it? I hated the thought of forcing such a situation, especially with Sherise in the line of fire.
But even if that wasn’t the case, if it turned out to be Mulvaney, or—even worse—if the “tail” ended up being a suburban couple out for a joyride up the coast, my rash actions would needlessly bring up the subject of how dangerous my job could be. Sherise had made it very clear that she didn’t like me skulking around LA’s dark streets, as there was always the possibility that I’d run across the wrong type of person and come home bloody, or worse. On the occasions when this had come up in conversation, I had countered that I would prefer her not to prance around in lingerie for crowds of drunken men, but—as you can guess—that was not a good strategy on my part.
All of which is to say that I opted not to slam on the brakes, or to do anything rash.
Instead, bringing all my acting skills to the fore, I leaned toward Sherise and, over the sounds of traffic and the wind rushing in off the beach, said, “You want to stop up ahead?”
“Sure,” she said.
Keeping an eye on the Meteor, I waited until the last second to get over and then slowed rapidly in the left hand turning lane. It was almost as good as slamming on the brakes in traffic. I watched as the other driver, realizing too late what I’d done, gunned the Meteor’s engine and then got over to the right to be as far from me as possible as the car flew by. You could say we both succeeded; I proved to myself that the tail wasn’t just in my imagination, and the person tailing me managed to keep from getting made. The car passed in a blur. The driver could have been Mulvaney, but it might not have been. If pressed, I suppose I wouldn’t have been able to say for certain whether or not the driver was male. Again, the possibility arose in my mind that I’d been wrong about it being Mulvaney. What if it was someone else, maybe even Elsa Schwartz trying to make good on her threat to whisk Carmelita back to the Third Reich for disassembly and scientific research?
My fingers twitched on the steering wheel as I considered whipping the Winslow back into traffic and launching into pursuit of the Meteor. It would feel good to run the station wagon off the road and charge up to the driver’s door, ready to pull Mulvaney out and give him a thrashing along the side of the highway.
But then I caught Sherise’s gaze. Her blue eyes bore into mine, one eyebrow raised. She didn’t say a word…didn’t have to. I saw right away that there was no chance she’d accepted my rapid deceleration in the turning lane as the whim I’d hoped it would seem to be. We’d never been tailed before, and I’d never done any kind of evasive driving with her in the car, but she knew nonetheless.
I didn’t say anything, just looked back at the road and waited for a break in the southbound traffic. Once an opening appeared, I punched the accelerator and pulled into the beach parking lot, taking my time about selecting a spot before killing the engine.
“Sorry,” was all I said.
She nodded. “I’m not going to ask the obvious,” she said, which meant she was going to let me keep the details of whatever had happened on the coast road to myself. “All I want to know is if we’re safe right now and if I have anything to worry about being out in public with you.”
I let a long sigh out and then said, “We’re safe. Absolutely. There’s a person who’s been following me who—”
She made a sharp shushing sound to stop me. “I don’t want to know the details, Jed. I just need to know if there’s reason to worry.”
“None. I promise.”
In my mind’s eye, I was still pulling Mulvaney out of the Meteor, giving him a good pounding for having put me in this situation. I had to let it go, though, at least for now. Sherise had a way of knowing if I wasn’t with her in both body and mind, and I didn’t want to let my anger put a wedge between us, not now, not after everything I’d been through to find a person I could feel like myself around and not wonder what I was missing in the version of the world I’d come from.
“Feel like taking a walk?” I asked.
She gave me her steely stare for a few more seconds, and then her smile broke. “Sure,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Seven
Come Monday, I was determined things should return to normal—or the nearest thing to normal as was possible in the world I was now calling home. Carmelita and I drove in to the office to find Peggy there ahead of us, which was definitely normal. And we set to work on the one case we had in front of us.
Carmelita was a bit listless at first, the dull colors of our office walls and the dim bulbs burning in their sockets being pale substitutes for the patterned lights of Osvaldo’s magic wand toy. But once I gave her a task—to get in touch with her contacts at the newspapers and in the hidden-away, unglamorous corners of Paragon Studios with the goal of finding out something about this Jackson fellow who’d shot Leonora’s pilfered pornography—she perked up and seemed to forget that I wasn’t nearly as dreamy as her new beau.
For my part, I called O’Neal, waiting until Carmelita was out in the lobby with Peggy so as not to get her curiosity piqued or her wrath kicked into gear. I had to sit through a bit of the runaround before I actually got O’Neal on the phone, but I had found more than once that the detective’s penetrating focus made jumping through all those hoops well worth the effort.
“What trouble are you in now, Strait?” she asked instead of offering any sort of greeting.
“Hopefully none,” I said. “I need a plate run, though.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s an invasion of some citizen’s privacy. I’ll do nothing of the kind. And you’re getting lazy if you think I’m going to give you a shortcut like that in whatever adultery case you’re sniffing around.”
“It’s got nothing to do with adultery,” I said.
“Then what’s it got to do with?”
“It’s got to do with me being followed.”
“By an angry client? Who’d you disappoint this time?”
I could hear the smile in her voice. It didn’t mean I was going to get the information I needed, but at least I knew I was still in the detective’s good graces.
“It’s not an angry client. Or, at least I don’t think so. To be honest, I don’t know for certain who it is. I’ve got an educated guess. The one thing I’m pretty sure of is it’s someone who knows me and doesn’t want to be recogn
ized.”
“Okay,” she said, still waiting for the kicker that would convince her.
I gave it to her. “I’m concerned it might be Elsa Schwartz.”
It was a lie, and I felt bad about it, but at least it wasn’t completely a lie. The possibility that my Nazi nemesis had been behind the wheel of the Meteor had crossed my mind more than once, only to be dismissed each time I thought of it. Still, I didn’t need to tell O’Neal that part. If I had told her I thought my tail was an irritating hack writer hoping to get the scoop on a PI’s private life, the detective would have laughed at me and then hung up. I told myself I’d be sure and do her all the favors she asked of me for at least the rest of the year to make up for the deception.
“Schwartz?” O’Neal echoed. “I thought she backstroked it to the Fatherland after you and Carmelita spooked her out in Goldrush Gulch.”
“That’s what I hoped. There’s been no sign of her since then as far as you know?”
“Not that I’ve heard of. Why do you think it’s her?”
This was where my creative use of the truth would play out or not. “Just a hunch,” I said. “It’s been a while since she got chased off. Long enough to lick her wounds and get new orders.”
“Which would be?”
“Who knows? We’re dealing with the Nazis after all. But I do know this: she has an idea about Carmelita and might be looking to snatch her.”
“Now, you know that’s not going to get me crying in my beer, Jed.”
“I know,” I said. I was well aware of the detective’s doubts about the wisdom of letting a mechanical woman run freely through the streets that O’Neal had sworn to protect. Because of this, I’d anticipated the hesitation she’d likely express over the possibility of Carmelita being the subject of the shadowy Elsa’s supposed stalking of me. As a result, the bending of the truth got a little more elaborate. “But it’s not just her. If Elsa has figured out that Carmelita’s mechanical…” And here I dropped my voice lest Carmelita be able to pick up my words on the other side of the closed door and over the sound of Peggy’s pounding at the keys of her typewriter. “Then she’s also figured out that someone had to do the mechanic work. And she knows that’s not me.”
The Shakedown Shuffle: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 3) Page 8