Traces of the Past

by Steve Laracy

  “I cleaned her up and moved in, living in the back. As I said, I was a little low on cash, so I couldn’t afford to change the name painted on the window from Monte to Stanley. Left it the way it was. By the time I had enough money to replace the name, everyone in town was already calling me Monte. Didn’t want to confuse them any more than necessary, so I started answering to Monte.

  “That’s all there is, except I haven’t left this town or watched a baseball game since.”

  Monte then became silent. He had reached the end of his story.

  “Do the people in town now know your real name is Stanley?” I asked.

  “Half do, half don’t,” Monte replied. “But they all call me Monte, and that’s what I answer to.”

  He was now finished with the shave and returned me to an upright position. He added lather to the sides and back of my head and trimmed those areas with the razor, then took a hot towel out of a little heated cabinet below the sink, held it to my face for a moment, and used it to remove the leftover lather.

  He grabbed a bottle on the counter that contained a light blue liquid, shook a little on his hands, rubbed it between his hands and then applied it to my face. It had a slight medicinal smell and did not burn as I expected—rather, it felt cool and refreshing.

  His last acts were to remove the sheet and tissue paper, dust around the back of my head with a soft brush, then brush any remaining hair off with a whisk broom.

  I got out of the chair and admired myself in the mirror. The haircut and shave were an improvement, and I looked halfway decent for a middle-aged man who had forgotten how to take care of himself.

  “That’ll be two dollars,” Monte said. “Inflation, you know.”

  I handed him a five and told him to keep the change.

  “Much obliged,” he said and threw the bill in a drawer beneath the shelf. “Maybe now I can afford to change the name on the window. Think I’ll change it to Gus just to have a little fun.” He laughed and winked.

  “Thanks a lot, Monte or Stanley or Gus,” I said. “I enjoyed your story.”

  Monte was now cleaning up the clippings from the floor using a broom and dustpan with handles long enough, so he didn’t have to bend over. It looked like this would be an all-day project since any hair his shaky right hand swept into the dustpan was immediately shaken back out by his left.

  “Well, sir,” he said, “come back again and I’ll tell you about my road trip across the country. Say hello to Miss Felicity for me.”

  I assured him I would do both—and I meant it.

  > CHAPTER 37

  AN EVENING AT JIMMY CHANG’S

  I went back to the boardinghouse to get ready for the evening’s date. I found an iron and ironing board in a closet in the upstairs hall and removed some of the wrinkles from the suit I was wearing the day I arrived in Cordoba. I then decided to clean up a little bit and walked down the hall toward the bath. All the rooms were quiet on both sides, so the other boarders were out or napping. I walked down to Felicity’s room and heard her moving around, her nap over.

  I knocked on the door and said, “I’m going to take a quick bath. Will you be needing the bathroom?”

  “No, I’m finished with it,” she replied. “And take your time. It takes me a little longer than usual these days to get made up.”

  “Don’t worry. You look great without the makeup.”

  I took a relaxing bath and went back to my room to get dressed. I surveyed myself in the mirror and was not disgusted with the results. I was outfitted in a black suit, white shirt, blue-and black striped tie, and a fresh haircut, which somehow gave me the illusion of respectability.

  Felicity was still in her room when I went downstairs, and the lower floor was still empty, so I went to the parlor to wait. I sat on the sofa and fidgeted, feeling like a schoolboy waiting for his prom date to come down. It had been a while since I had dated a woman.

  Before long I heard Felicity’s door closing, so I walked out into the hall. She was standing at the top of the stairs looking radiant.

  She wore a dress covered with pink and light purple flowers that came to just above her knees and black shoes with medium high heels and straps around the ankles. A knit shawl hung around her shoulders. Her hair was brushed straight with a slight curl at the bottom, with one side brushed back and tied behind her ear with a small ornamental orchid.

  As she walked down the stairs, I struggled to get my breath back and blurted, “You look terrific.”

  “Thanks,” she said as she reached the bottom. “You look pretty spiffy yourself.”

  She reached up and straightened my tie and I caught the scent of her perfume, a combination of citrus and some sort of flower which I couldn’t identify since my knowledge of flower aromas is limited. Whatever it was, it smelled great.

  “This is for you.” I pulled the miniature cactus I got from Indian Charlie from behind my back. “It was the best I could do with the short notice and lack of florists in Cordoba.”

  “Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you but forgive me if I don’t wear it as a corsage,” Felicity said, placing the cactus on the stand in the hall. “Let’s go in here and decide where we’re going.” Felicity headed for the parlor. “By the way, your hair looks nice.”

  “Thanks. Monte says hi.”

  “He’s a nice man,” Felicity said. “Did you get the story about his name?”

  “Yes, interesting.”

  “You have to go back and hear it again sometime. He changes some of the details each time. The last time he saw me at the diner, he said he joined up with a traveling circus that went broke near here. He said the owners just took off and let all the wild animals loose in the desert. So look out for runaway lions and giraffes on your way out of town.”

  “I got the Brooklyn Dodger version.”

  “I think that is the true story, or mostly true. So where would you like to have dinner? I’m afraid the choices around here are limited. Frank doesn’t serve much food at the tavern, and there’s no other restaurant in Cordoba. There’s Jimmy Chang’s Chinese restaurant in Bell City and a few smaller places. There’s a Mexican place over in Chiquita, but that’s a longer drive.”

  “Then Jimmy Chang’s it is. Chinese food isn’t my favorite, but I appreciate a good egg foo young.”

  “Don’t worry, Jimmy’s menu is eclectic,” Felicity said as we left the house. I held the car door for her, and we headed for Bell City.

  Bell City has a wide paved Main Street with diagonal parking spaces on both sides. Following Felicity’s instructions, I found a parking space in front of Jimmy Chang’s.

  The restaurant was in a wide brick building that looked like it had been two side-by-side businesses that had been converted into one. There were entrances in front of both former buildings. The one on the right had a sign that said, “Use Other Door,” so we headed for the door on the left.

  Both buildings were fronted with glass windows, much like Monte’s, and on the window to the right of the working entrance, the name of the establishment was painted, although with much more elaborate lettering. After pausing to contemplate whether Jimmy had to change his name to match his window, I stood in front and read the sign before entering.

  The lettering was gold, in an oriental-looking script. In large letters, centered in the middle of the window, was the restaurant’s name: “Jimmy Chang’s Szechuan Palace, Pizzeria and Biergarten.” Below in somewhat smaller letters was written, “Entertainment Nightly.” To the left of the lettering was a painting of an Asian chef wearing a chef’s hat and throwing a round pizza dough in the air. To the right was a picture of a leprechaun, dressed in bright green, jumping in the air and clicking his heels together while holding a mug of beer.

  Since at this point, nothing in the area could surprise me much, I gave Felicity a slightly quizzical look.

  “I told you the menu was eclectic, didn’t I?” She smiled.

  I turned back and looked past the lettering into the building
, but this looked like a normal Chinese restaurant. Seeing nothing further of interest, I took Felicity’s elbow and we headed inside.

  There was a long bar that ran the length of the building, and tables lined the wall to the right, interrupted by a couple of doors. The tables had white tablecloths topped by small bowls of fortune cookies.

  To the right of the entrance was a glass counter holding a cash register and the usual assortment of mints and toothpicks. A rosy-faced girl of high school age stood behind the counter, ringing up departing customers.

  To the left was a podium, about five feet high, behind which, I saw with some difficulty, stood an Asian gentleman, also about five feet high, straining on tiptoes to see the reservation schedule on the podium. When he saw us enter, he scurried around the podium and said, “Howdy doody, Missy Felicity, how you tonight?”

  “Hello, Jimmy, I’m fine,” she responded. “Jimmy, this is my friend Milo Forbes. He’s visiting from San Diego.”

  “Howdy doody, Mr. Forbes.”

  “Hello, Jimmy.” Scanning the restaurant, which was quite full, I added, “Looks like business is pretty good.”

  “We do okay. Friday night always busy.” Then turning to Felicity, “Where you sit tonight?”

  “It’s a beautiful night, Jimmy. Do you have any tables available in the garden?”

  “Always for you, there is a table.” Jimmy grabbed menus from a slot in the side of the podium and said, “Follow me.”

  We followed him to the first door on the wall to the right and walked through to the other building. The stereo system was playing Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore,” and the atmosphere changed from Chinese to Italian. The layout was about the same except there was no bar and the tables were covered with red and white checked tablecloths. The aroma also changed as Italian dishes were being served.

  After taking a few steps into the Italian zone, Jimmy turned left and headed toward the back of the building. We followed him through a door in the back onto a patio that went back about twenty yards and covered the length of both buildings. There were more tables scattered around, this time wooden with no tablecloths. The patio was surrounded by a wooden latticework fence about six feet tall, and the sides of the patio were lined with large plastic potted plants to give the area a feeling of seclusion. The floor of the patio was composed of wooden slats.

  Jimmy guided us to a table against the building’s wall and about halfway down. There were few tables in this area and potted plants on both sides, which provided us with privacy.

  Jimmy dropped the menus on the table and said, “Waitress be here soon.” He smiled and left.

  Felicity mercifully did not say anything but gave me a little more time to take in my surroundings.

  My attention was focused on the far end of the patio. Upon a stage in the middle of the area, a German oompah band was playing “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”

  The band was four men dressed in white shirts and short black pants held up by wide suspenders covered in embroidered patterns and wearing Tyrolean hats. To the left of the band, a barbershop quartet, wearing white shirts with vertical red stripes and straw boaters, crooned the words to the song. An elevated wooden bandstand was in front of the band. The bandstand was occupied by a few couples trying to keep time.

  Other than that, there was nothing unusual about the patio except for the tiki bar tucked away in the far left-hand corner. A bartender wearing a lei was engaged in serving a couple some drinks in hollowed-out coconuts with little parasols peeking out.

  Felicity spoke. “Well, what do you think of Jimmy’s?”

  “It certainly is different.”

  “We don’t have many restaurants in the area, so Jimmy tries to cover all the bases.”

  The waitress arrived, another fresh-faced teenager in a Bavarian costume. “Hi, Miss Fremont,” she said to Felicity. “Are you ready to order or do you need more time?”

  Noting I would obviously need more time to recover and study the menu, Felicity responded, “Thanks, Jennie, I think we’ll need some time.”

  “No problem. Would you like to order drinks?”

  “I’ll have a red wine. Milo?”

  “I’ll have a mug of the German beer,” I said, surveying the drink list on the menu. There was a notice at the bottom informing diners, “Happy hour 5:00 to 7:00 every night except Sunday through Thursday.”

  “You got it,” said Jennie. “I’ll be right back.”

  As Jennie left, I again surveyed the scene in front of me, and my eyes were directed to another waitress, also in Bavarian garb, waiting on a table on the far side of the patio.

  “Isn’t that Annie Webster?” I asked Felicity, pointing in that direction.

  “Yes, she works here,” Annie said with a surprised look on her face. “I’m surprised to see her back to work so soon.”

  “Me too. Maybe she wants to return to her normal routine and get her mind off Billy.”

  After another short period of silence, Felicity said, “I guess we should get the obvious topic out of the way first so we can enjoy the rest of the evening. What do you think of Mr. Costello’s story?”

  “I can’t be sure, but it makes sense. And I think his decision to keep his findings a secret is the right course of action. I can’t picture the citizens of Cordoba being put under a media spotlight.”

  Felicity agreed and we discussed a few parts of Costello’s story for a few minutes, but we were both anxious to put the conversation behind us by the time Jennie returned with our drinks. She laid them on the table along with a small platter of German-style soft pretzels. “Need more time?” she asked, noticing that our menus had not been touched.

  “If you don’t mind, Jennie, I think we’ll wait a while before ordering,” Felicity said. “We’ll just sit here and enjoy the evening.”

  “Super,” Jennie replied. “Just give me a holler when you’re ready.”

  It was a perfect evening to enjoy. The desert temperature had dropped as the sun was setting, not uncomfortable but cool to where Felicity was pulling the shawl around her and I was glad I had a jacket on. The blue sky was darkening as night approached but still contained swirls of pink cotton candy clouds. Felicity looked beautiful and I wondered why she was still single.

  Felicity took a sip of her wine and I tasted my beer. The German beer tasted suspiciously like Frank’s Fromova, but again, it was cold and tasted fine. Small chips of ice floated on top of the beer, and my fingerprints were visible on the frosted mug when I put it down.

  Felicity took a pretzel from the platter. “Jimmy’s idea of complimentary breadsticks,” she said.

  I followed suit and grabbed a pretzel. It was a small version of a soft German pretzel, still hot and lightly salted. As I bit into it, I discovered it was soft on the inside and had a nice crunch on the outside.

  “Very good,” I said. “This is quite a place Jimmy’s got here.”

  After we had sat for a few minutes, enjoying the drinks and the pretzels and the weather, Felicity said, “Aren’t you going to ask me the question?”

  “What question?” I responded, confused.

  “The question I always seem to get asked when I meet someone new. How come a nice girl like you isn’t married?”

  “I wasn’t…” I stammered.

  “It’s all right. I’m used to it. You know, to begin with, you are aware by now that there aren’t many eligible bachelors in Cordoba, and the few unmarried men, like Ben, are determined to stay that way.”

  I started to say something, but Felicity quickly continued. “Of course, some eligible men stay at the boardinghouse, mostly traveling salesmen and campers on the way to the desert.” She then added, “And the occasional private detective,” looking at me and smiling.

  “I’ve had a few relationships in the past,” she continued, “but most of the men were not interested in settling down, except maybe in the dining room and the bedroom. Even the ones who stayed on never lasted longer than a few weeks without gett
ing bored with our small town—and me, I guess—and moving on.”

  She again looked at me and gave me another slight smile. “That’s my story. What about you? There must be plenty of eligible ladies in San Diego. How come none of them have hooked you? Or has one?”

  “Nope,” I said, “no attachments and never been married. I’d like to say that in my dangerous line of business, there’s no room for relationships. I’d like to say that, but unfortunately, I can’t. The business I get isn’t dangerous. I simply haven’t met anyone who has made me feel like I want to spend the rest of my life with them. And the few possibilities didn’t want to spend their lives with me. Similar to your experiences, many leave town after a few weeks of dating me, and these are lifelong residents of San Diego.”

  Felicity laughed and I continued, “The only people I know in San Diego are my secretary and my accountant, neither of whom I need, and a few bartenders that I do need. I have a few friends, mostly married, who provide dinner and consolation.”

  “Then why stay there?” Felicity asked.

  I started to answer but couldn’t think of a reason, so I picked up a menu and said, “Why don’t we order. I’m starting to work up an appetite.”

  Felicity smiled again and picked up her menu.

  The menu was large and covered in brown plastic to simulate leather. Inside were seven or eight laminated pages printed on both sides, arranged by style of cooking, with a separate page each for Chinese, Italian, and German selections. There was also a page with items that did not fit into the three categories, with everything from meatloaf to corned beef and cabbage to tamales.

  “If you want something that’s not on the menu, ask for it and they can whip it up in the kitchen,” Felicity said. I replied that that would not be necessary.

  Felicity decided on a garden salad and the Chinese beef and broccoli. I opted for the day’s special from the German page, a sample of German sausages titled “From Best to Wurst.” We motioned to Jennie, who had been busy waiting on other tables while keeping one eye trained on our table. She came over and took our orders, which included a couple more drinks. While we were waiting, we listened to the band, accompanied by the quartet, playing hits from the turn of the century, the twentieth, not the twenty-first. There were a few couples on the floor dancing, including ladies who couldn’t get their husbands to join them.