The Rabbit Factory

by Marshall Karp

  “I don’t need a fantasy girl,” Jim would answer. “I need a feisty old woman who can jump off a burning building but is totally dependent on me to light the barbecue.”

  “Feisty old women die,” my Mom would tell him. “When I do, take my advice and go back for this one.”

  They used to joke about it, but somehow that night it seemed to make perfect sense. Jim offered Angel a job as his housekeeper. Much to his surprise she said, Gracias, but no.

  He called me the next morning, totally wounded. “Can you believe it? I offered her more money than she makes at the hotel, plus free room and board, and she said no.”

  “So hire somebody else,” I said. “L.A. is knee-deep in housekeepers. There’s got to be at least one out there who could tolerate working for you.”

  “No dice,” he said. “This is the one your mother thought would make a good housekeeper. I’m going back next weekend and offer her the job again.”

  Angel said no again. Now Jim was pissed. He drove back to L.A. and bitched and moaned to Joanie and me over fried chicken and beer. “I offered her an extra hundred a week, her own car, a TV in her room, a VCR, whatever she needs, and she still turns me down. I give up.”

  “Give it one more shot,” Joanie said. “Try offering her dinner.”

  Jim and Angel started dating. Six months later, he asked her if she’d like to leave The Hillview and move in with him. Permanently. This time she said, I do.

  CHAPTER 14

  It was 8 p.m. when I pulled into El Rancho Lomax. Only thirty minutes late. Not bad for a cop. Angel’s spring flowers were starting to bloom and the Mexican-style decorative lights along the pathways heralded their arrival.

  The house itself started out in the 1930s as a rambling, single-story California Hacienda. It was, I am told, semi-tasteful for its day. But over the years, it expanded without any architectural rhyme or reason. The original white stucco exterior has been joined by an eclectic combination of red brick, bluestone, clapboards, and oak beams. In the ultimate insult, my parents, who were far more pragmatic than artistic, covered several of the add-on sections with vulgar vinyl siding from Sears. There are also four undistinguished, industrial-strength outbuildings on the property, whose sole function is to house vehicles, not people. Buckingham Palace it’s not, but every time I pull into the driveway, that big old eyesore feels like home to me.

  There was a car in the driveway that I didn’t recognize. A black Jeep Cherokee. I figured it must belong to the pilot, and right now he’s waiting for his wine to arrive. I’ve met more than my share of Jim’s fly-boy friends, usually colorful war veterans who can regale you for hours with the gory details of every bombing mission they ever flew. Boy, was I not in the mood for that.

  Angel opened the front door. “Mike,” she said, singing my name, her eyes radiating joy like she was genuinely happy just to hear me ring the bell. “You’re looking well.”

  “And you look like a Latin movie star ready for her close-up. Perfect hair, perfect makeup.” She gave me a big, step-motherly hug and kiss. “And you smell fantastic,” I said. “I hope my father knows what a lucky man he is.”

  “I tell him ten times a day, but it couldn’t hurt if you remind him.”

  Skunkie was right behind Angel, patiently waiting for me to notice him. The Skunk is a photogenic mutt with shaggy hair that’s black and white and about forty shades of gray. In a world full of yapping, high-strung, Type-A dogs, Skunkie is the low-maintenance exception. He’s loving, mellow, and zero trouble, which is why he’s the only dog allowed to live in the house. The other three have to be content with the kennel out back.

  Skunkie sat at my feet, his tail sweeping the floor as I bent down to say hello. He tilted his head quizzically, which I decided was his way of asking about Joanie. He hadn’t seen her since she got sick over a year ago, so I’m pretty sure he was concerned. He’s that kind of dog. No pedigree, but extremely sensitive.

  I handed Angel the bottle of wine and followed her into the living room. Big Jim was already out of his oversized brown La-Z-Boy and bounding over so he could crush me to death in his loving arms.

  “Detective Lomax, I’m so pleased you could make it,” he bellowed after I came out of the bear hug. “I want you to meet one of my fellow pilots. This is Diana Trantanella. Diana’s one of those misguided pilots who still flies a high wing. A Cessna 172. I’m trying to get her to switch to a real airplane.”

  I had hardly noticed her sitting in the corner of the sofa when I entered the room. She stood up, and I could immediately see there was a lot to notice. This was definitely not some ancient bombardier here to share war stories. Diana had the clean, wholesome look of a high school cheerleader who had made a graceful transition into her early forties. Her hair was that curious shade of California dirty blonde which I’m never sure is real or store-bought, but which works for me, no matter what its origins. She was wearing a casual summery dress, that salmony, pinkish color that blondes always look great in. She had what my mother used to call a ‘lovely figure,’ which meant that she’d never make the centerfold of Playboy, but any man who spent the night with her would surely thank the Almighty for His generosity.

  She extended her right hand, which had, of all things, a Rambunctious Rabbit watch on the wrist. Small weird world. I’d have to tell Biggs. There appeared to be no jewelry on her left hand, emphasis on the ring finger. “Big Jim has told me so much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said, shaking my hand. I quickly made a few more mental notes. Five-foot-six. Pretty blue eyes. Sexy voice. Drop dead smile. I was really pissed.

  Pilot, schmilot, this was a goddam fix-up. Granted, at first sight, she looked to be a nine and a half on a scale of one to ten, but that didn’t change the fact that my well-meaning father had ambushed me with an unwanted dinner date. There are worse fates, I know, but I was not prepared to make an evening of it with this woman. Not this evening.

  I shook her hand grudgingly, giving only about five percent of the enthusiasm that she gave when she shook mine. I then muttered that I had brought wine and excused myself to go to the little boys’ room.

  In addition to all her other attributes, Diana apparently also has excellent antennae. She caught my I’m-not-interested vibe and turned on a dime. By the time I got back from the bathroom, she had gone from happy-to-meet-me to politely chatting with Angel in the kitchen. Jim and I had our drinks in the living room and quietly watched the Dodgers get their asses kicked by the Mets.

  Dinner was a little more sociable. Four people sitting around a table tend to make small talk. We tried. Jim asked what I was working on these days. In deference to Amy Cheever and the Governor of California, I decided it wouldn’t be wise to bring up the Lamaar murder with Diana in the room. So I mentioned the dentist who got stabbed at the Bottoms Up.

  Diana literally dropped her fork. “Oh, my God. Alan Trachtenberg?”

  “You knew him?” I asked.

  “Not well, but I work with his wife, Jan. We’re nurses at Valley General. She’s in Maternity; I’m in Pediatrics. Have you caught whoever killed him?”

  “Not yet.” I said. “But a lot of things say it could be drug-related.”

  “That doesn’t shock me. Alan had a real problem. Jan and I have talked about it many times. I’m sure she told you.”

  “Not right away,” I said. “But we’re aware of it now.”

  “This chicken is delicious, Angel,” Diana said. “And I can’t get over how fluffy this rice is.” My connection to the Trachtenberg case had briefly opened the door to a real dialogue. Diana was now shutting the door.

  “Thank you, Diana,” Angel said. “It’s just regular rice from the box.”

  “My rice usually cooks up into one big sticky lump,” Diana said.

  I caught the look on my father’s face. The women are now talking about rice. I hope you’re happy.

  I decided to make an effort. “So, Diana, how long have you been flying?”

  “A
year and a half. I took it up after my husband died. It helped a lot with the grieving process.” She smiled, “Plus it gets me four thousand feet closer to God.” She let the smile dissolve into a look of concern and compassion. “I understand your wife died recently. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks, and I’m sorry for yours.” Now I understood Jim’s logic. Recent widower meets recent widow. A match made in Teamster Heaven.

  “Have you ever considered taking up flying?” she asked.

  “About ten years ago my brother Frankie and I took a few lessons,” I said. “It just didn’t do it for us.”

  “Speaking of Frankie,” our father said, “what do you hear from him?”

  “Not much. It’s been over a week,” I said. “But you know Frankie, the telephone is not his favorite way to communicate.”

  “Unless he’s putting his money down on a basketball team,” Jim said. I could tell he regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. He tried lamely to recover. “He’s a good kid,” he told Diana. “Runs a health club in Beverly Hills.” Jim turned back to me. “If you hear from him, tell him to call his aging father.”

  The main course was over, and we all heaped mucho praise on Angel. I helped clear the table. “I made flan for dessert,” she announced.

  “I’ll have to take a rain check,” Diana said. “I’m on an early morning shift this week.”

  We all expressed our regrets as Diana threw a white cardigan sweater over her shoulders and picked up her purse. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said. “Mike, the Sauvignon Blanc was particularly excellent.”

  I smiled. Mr. Big Shot Wine Connoisseur.

  “Mike, do me a favor,” Big Jim said. “Let me know if those automatic floodlights over the truck garage went on. They’ve been giving me trouble lately. And as long as you’re going out, you may as well walk Diana to her car.”

  “Oooh, a police escort,” Diana said, and once again I caught a glimpse of the bouncy cheerleader from days gone by. “How exciting.”

  She kissed Jim and Angel goodnight. I clucked to Skunkie, and the three of us walked to her car. The sky was peppered with stars. The moon was a few nights away from being full, and Diana Trantanella looked extremely desirable in the heavenly blue-white glow of night. Under different circumstances, it could have been a hell of a moment. I took her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m usually better company. I really do apologize.”

  “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to sandbag you,” she said, squeezing my hand ever so slightly. “I didn’t even know you were coming. Big Jim told me ten minutes before you got here.”

  I shook my head. “There’s nothing worse than a well-meaning parent.”

  “What do you expect from a jerk who flies a Piper?” She smiled. Her mouth looked very kissable in the moonlight. But I had been a total asshole this evening. I know the rules. I was in no way entitled to a good-night kiss.

  And then she kissed me. She leaned forward and gently pressed her lips to my cheek. It was just a kindhearted little peck to let me know that she accepted my apology, but her lips were soft and full and warm, and I felt a tingle run from my brain to the pit of my stomach.

  “’Night, Mike,” she said, and she got into the Jeep and drove off.

  Skunkie was parked at my feet, and I crouched down to scratch him behind the ears. “What do you think, boy?” I asked him. “Interesting woman.”

  He didn’t answer. He just rolled over on his back so I could scratch his belly. Hey, we’ve all got an agenda.

  CHAPTER 15

  When I got back into the house Big Jim had finished eating his flan and was already working on Diana’s.

  I sat back down at the table, picked up a spoon and toyed with my dessert. “The outdoor floodlights seem to have come on just fine,” I said, drilling a hole in him with my best pissed-off stare.

  “I’m not surprised. They’ve been working well for years,” he said, inhaling the rest of his second bowl of custard. “I didn’t send you out there to check on the lights. Did you apologize to her for behaving like an asshole?”

  “Me? What I should have done is apologize for you behaving like an asshole. What the hell were you thinking? Since when do I need you to mastermind my playdates?”

  “It’s six months today, isn’t it? I loved Joanie like a daughter, but it’s time to move on with your goddam life,” he said.

  “Look who’s talking. When Mom died you spent the first six months holed up in this house.”

  “That was different. Your mother and I were married almost forty years. I needed more time.” He eyeballed my dessert. “You gonna eat that?”

  I shoved the bowl his way.

  “So,” he said, digging into the caramelized gooey brown sugar topping, “now that the ice is broken, are you gonna call Diana?”

  “No,” I answered loudly. “I am not calling her.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “I have all her phone numbers. Work, home, cell. She’s not doing anything Saturday night. I checked.”

  “You asked her if she… Jesus F. Christ!” I tried to count to ten. I got to three and exploded. I started furiously tapping my fingers on the tabletop as if it were a computer keyboard. “Dear Abby,” I said, typing. “I am a forty-two-year-old widower. It’s only been six months since my wife died, and in my heart I don’t feel ready to start dating. My problem is that my meddlesome father won’t mind his own fucking business. He invited a recently widowed woman over to dinner in a pitiful attempt to jumpstart a relationship for me. I love my father, and I really don’t want to hurt his feelings, but how do I tell the fat, nosy bastard to back the hell off? Signed, Pissed-Off Police Officer in L.A.”

  Jim swept aside the dessert bowls in front of him so he could create his own imaginary computer. He began to type. In real life, he can barely hunt and peck using two fingers. But now he raised both hands and let all ten fingers fly across the phantom keyboard with all the passion of Billy Joel in concert. “Dear Pissed-Off Police Officer,” he said, spitting out each word. “First of all, I’ll bet your father has more brains in his left butt cheek than you do in your entire head. Do you think he wants you to be miserable? No, he’s looking after your happiness. Don’t be a dumb fuck. Do what he says. He’s never been wrong. And he never will be. Love and kisses, Abby.”

  I stomped into the kitchen. Angel was making coffee. “I hear much yelling,” she said, setting a creamer and a sugar bowl on a gleaming silver tray.

  “I’m sorry, Angel, but your husband is driving me crazy.”

  “In my family, yelling is another way to say te amo. I am making Irish coffee. That will make you both feel better.”

  “I’m driving,” I said. “I’ll have the coffee. Hold the Irish.”

  I helped her carry the tray into the dining room. Big Jim had finished my flan, his third. “Do you believe this guy, Angel?” he said, angling for spousal support. “He won’t ask Diana out on a date.”

  She set a cup of aromatic, steaming black coffee in front of him and added a hefty shot of Bushmills. “Maybe he should invite Diana to move in with him and become his housekeeper. It worked for you.”

  Jim’s face flushed. I burst out laughing. It’s always a joy for me when someone nails the big guy, and Angel was getting to be almost as good at it as my mother. Finally, Big Jim let loose. “Fuck you both,” he erupted, and then all three hundred pounds of him shook and whooped with laughter. “Just what we fucking need around here. A drop-dead gorgeous Mexican wiseass.”

  Angel poured me some coffee, but it didn’t smell half as comforting as Big Jim’s. So I put my two fingers very close together and said, “un poquito, por favor.” She added a tiny splash of the whiskey, and I inhaled deeply. The heady blend of rich, dark French Roast and smoky Irish spirits wafted up my nostrils and into my brain. Without even taking a sip, I felt that warm calming buzz. I inhaled a second noseful.

  Angel sat down with us and shared her flan with Big Jim. He had lo
ng ago converted her to his Oprah religion, and she recounted some of the highlights of that afternoon’s show. It was all about aging gracefully and accepting where you are in your life right now. “So many women, they resent growing old,” she said. “They can only think about the wrinkles, the sagging breasts, the menopause. But what they forget is that now we have so much more wisdom, we have life experience, we are in touch with our inner spirit. Getting older can be a joy.” She stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry, Mike. This is not good talk for you.”

  She had suddenly thought of Joanie, who would never see menopause or wrinkles or experience the joy of growing old with grace. “No, please, it’s fine.” I said.

  Angel’s eyes welled up, and a tear trickled slowly down her cheek, leaving a visible streak across her perfect makeup. “It’s my bedtime,” she said, quickly blotting her face with a dinner napkin and standing up. “You two macho men can stay up and yell at each other all night. It won’t keep me awake.”

  I stood up, and she hugged me. Not a perfunctory goodnight squeeze, but the compassionate, consoling embrace reserved for loved ones in pain. “I miss her too,” she whispered.

  Then she put her arms around Jim’s neck and kissed him gently, and I could see him melt. I wondered what my mother would think about Jim and Angel. Was she joking when she used to say “next time we go up to The Hillview we should bring her back home with us,” or did she have a vision?

  Angel left the room. Skunkie curled up at the foot of Jim’s chair. I tuned in to the rhythm of his breathing as he drifted into Happy Doggie Slumberland.

  “Can we drop the Diana thing?” I said. “I’m working on a homicide, and I need your help.”

  He bowed his head. “I live to serve.”

  I took him through the Elkins murder. The jump rope, the flipbook, the missing ear, every detail. He didn’t utter a single word until I got to the part about Rambunctious Rabbit being a convicted pedophile. “When you find the killer,” he said, “somebody should pin a medal on him.”