Write Me a Letter (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  It was a good ten minutes later by the time I had thought it all through. "Try this on for size," I said to him. "You still got all the money?" He nodded. "Do you know how much of it came from where?"

  He nodded. "Kept a list."

  "Hope you kept it somewhere safe," I said. He grinned. "The other stuff, the trinkets, likewise?" He nodded again.

  "The money, the knickknacks, you give to me. I mail them back, registered mail, to their rightful owners, from L.A. I say I had an attack of conscience or my old lady got at me or I got religion. OK. Next—in the forthcoming edition of whatever it's called—the Senate Estate Mobile Home News?—after Katy the manager's bit about how delighted she was that all the money and stolen goods were recovered, thanks to the tireless efforts of Yours Truly, she puts in a bit about you. What it says is, to try and avoid suchlike problems in the future, one of our distinguished residents, you, now retired but who at one time had extensive contacts with various law enforcement agencies, to put it mildly. . ."

  Here he grinned again.

  " . . . has kindly volunteered to help. He will visit any resident who so desires on a one-to-one basis and advise them on home protection systems, completely free, of course, merely as a service to his neighbors. Meantime, to ensure you get a little something out of it above and beyond that warming glow that comes from being a good citizen, you go into town. You make a connection with a local locksmith or security outfit or a hardware, even to work for them strictly on commission. They saw yes, because what have they got to lose. Then every time you legitimately suggest someone replaces the lock on his front door, you stand a chance of getting a piece of the action. Capisce?"

  "I capisce," he said, biting off the end of the wool.

  " 'Course I have to sell all this to Katy," I said, "but I think I can, giving that everything's been returned and that She's a nice lady, also that the alternatives could be highly unpleasant as well as costly, the cops called in, your real name getting out, your old employers seeing your name in the headlines, plummeting mobile home values due to the bad publicity, need I go on? Next."

  "I can't wait." He picked up a skein of yellow yarn and looked at it critically.

  "As for all those so-called straights out there," I said, finishing up the milk, "when I ran a check on you, I also ran one on every male resident in the estate. I can't name any names but I came up with one nonpayment of alimony, two with juvenile records, one car theft, one assault and battery conviction, and one guy banned from all racetracks in the United States and Canada for life." What the hell, dress it up a bit.

  "No kidding?" said Elkins, his face brightening. "Wonder which one he is?"

  "So there it is," I said, getting slowly to my feet. "Thanks for the milk." I checked my watch. "I'm going to give Katy a call so she doesn't send in the marines while you dig up the loot from wherever it's hidden. Wherever it is, I bet I could find it in five minutes."

  "Bet you couldn't," he said. He trotted off toward the bedroom. I called Katy and told her all was well and I'd see her anon. Elkins came back with a well-stuffed money belt and a shoe box.

  "List is in the belt," he said as I was strapping it on under my shirt but over the corset. His eyebrows lifted when he spied my unusual undergarment but he didn't say anything. We shook hands at the door.

  "Thanks, friend," he said.

  "What the hell," I said.

  "In the shoe box," he said. "There's something for you. If you don't like it, chuck it out."

  "Those other two windows in the ark," I said. "Who goes into them?"

  "My two girls," he said. "But I haven't seen them for so long who knows what they look like now."

  "So do them as they looked then," I said. "See ya."

  "Anytime, and I mean that," he said.

  I walked back to Katy's. I didn't see anyone to say good morning to, so I said it to a bench. Katy, kindly lady that she was, agreed completely with my plan, I didn't even have to start listing the unpleasant alternatives. When I mentioned the state of Mr. Elkins' icebox, she snapped her fingers and said, "Now it's my turn to have an idea. Mrs. Galanti and Mrs. Swaine."

  "Elucidate," I said.

  "They're both great cooks," she said, her dimples bigger than ever. "I'll get them to give Mr. Elkins cooking lessons."

  "He'll love that!" I enthused. "Oh, and by the way, tell the ladies, anytime they're short a fourth for canasta, he's their man."

  20

  Not a bad morning's work, I thought to myself on the way back to the motel, checking the money belt every few seconds to see if it was still there and clutching the shoe box to my manly chest. Mr. Elkins was out of the shit, and out of that fuselage he lived in, going around being an expert on home security devises—and if not him, who—also enjoying tasty, dimly, lit intime supper parties with Mrs. Galanti and Mrs. Swaine. Eight upset citizens would soon be mighty relieved to have their lucre back, Katy was mighty relieved to have everything resolved without any fuss, and also relieved of five hundred smackers she pressed on me as I was taking my leave and bending over to kiss her curvaceous cheek.

  Back at the motel, I packed up what little I had, paid my bill, dropped by the Bunkhouse for a microwaved hot dog, then had Sal call me a cab. When it appeared, I said goodbye and catch you next time to her, and eased myself into it rear end first, Doc, then took in the passing scenery, what there was of it, as the cabby drove me sedately to the airport.

  As the Sacramento city fathers had wisely located their airport in a reclaimed swamp, fog commonly descended or rolled in or formed or materialized or whatever it is fog does, most afternoons; I believe my flight was the last one out that day. Adiós, Sacramento and all whom there do dwell. Buenas tardes, Burbank, likewise, and hour or so later.

  I cabbed it to my apartment, waved a hello to my landlady, Feeb, who had the apartment below mine and who was watching afternoon TV game shows as usual, receiving a spirited wave in return. I then let myself in, went up stairs, myself in, opened a window or two to air out the place, took off the money belt, then made myself comfortable on the sofa with the telephone and my address book both near at hand.

  I called up Mom. The receptionist said she was napping and better I didn't disturb her. I said please tell her I'd drop by tomorrow, late afternoon, all being well. She said it would be a pleasure. I called up Precious, who I estimated should be just home from school, and she was. She answered me from her garden, on her portable phone she was so proud of, where she was thinning her parsley, she informed me. I told her that I was tiptop and that Benny was progressing better than could be expected, according to the doctor.

  "How's his wife?" she said, giggling. "Bet you were surprised when Sara walked in."

  "Nothing that birdbrain does has the slightest effect on me anymore," I said. "You are the one who surprised me, quite frankly. Thanks for forewarning me. Thanks for telling me you two flew up together, in adjoining seats no doubt, giggling away, just like you're doing now, knocking back Shirley Temples and having a right old time."

  When her merriment had subsided somewhat, we made a date for that eve. I made her promise no serious messing about as I wasn't sure my back was up to it. She said she was having second thoughts about our date already. Then I dug out the yellow pages and began calling airline charter firms. On my third attempt I found one that had a flying ambulance service—they used a Cherokee 100 that had been converted to hold four stretchers, pilot, copilot, attendant, and one other passenger. I made a tentative booking early the following week. Then I obtained the number of Sara's motel from information and tried her, I figured it was safe enough.

  "Yeah?" she said when we were connected.

  "Yeah yourself," I said. "So how's it going, Mrs. Clam? How's the patient?"

  "He's doing OK," she said. "It's me who's freaking out. You should see this dump I'm in. I'm thinking of moving, like maybe to the Sheraton."

  "No, no!" I said. "Stay right where you are, I need you there. Anyway, you should be out of there soon."
I told her about the plane I'd booked.

  "I didn't know they had planes like that," she said.

  "I did," I said. "Any more visits from Kalagan and his straight man?"

  "One," she said. "Just for a minute. He says as far as his department is concerned, they've closed the case."

  "Sure, sure," I said. "Remain alert is my warning to you two, even if he says he's been transferred to a desk job in Death Valley."

  "That old guy," she said. "They buried him today, you want me to send you the bit from the paper?"

  "Forget it," I said. I told her to write down the name of the charter airline so she wouldn't forget it. I told her if the lieutenant did come back, your story was, having your hubby in L.A. would be a lot more convenient as you had a place to stay there and the use of a car so you wouldn't have to keep paying out for the motel and cabs twice a day to and from the hospital, and restaurant food all the time.

  She said she got it, she got it, she wasn't totally thick. Then she asked me in a heavily casual fashion if Marlon had just happened to call, looking for her.

  "No, he hasn't, sugarplum," I said. "If he should chance to, what do you want me to tell him?"

  "Aw, forget it," she said. "He's not going to anyway. Even if he does, don't tell him where I am, promise?"

  I said I promised. There was a pause.

  "Were you ever in love, Vic?" she asked then.

  "Twice," I said, "not counting juvenile follies."

  "Oh yeah? Who with?"

  "Well, before Evonne, there was Benny's Aunt Jessica."

  "What happened with her?"

  "She went back east."

  "That ain't no answer."

  "It's all you're going to get, nosy, I'm no kiss and tell. Talk to you soon. Give us a call if there's problems."

  She said, "OK, adiós, V.D.," and rang off. I did likewise.

  There followed a brief conversation with Mrs. Leduc in Canada, and an almost equally brief one with Will; all seemed to be progressing smoothly up there in the land of the Northern Lights. Big John D., too, had put my plan into operation, he informed me, with no mishaps so far, but he was finding it hard to bowl strikes with his fingers crossed. There were other things as well he was finding it difficult to do with crossed fingers, he said. Do not be crude over the phone, I said.

  Then, without enormous expectations, I tried the Lew Lewellens again. To my surprise, I got Mrs. Lew. After greeting her politely, I inquired if I could have a word with her husband, if he was back from wherever it was he hadn't been. As soon as he was on the line, I said, "I just called to tell you I'm never going to one of your movies again."

  "Oh come on, my main man," he said. "What would you do if someday someone said to you, "Your country needs you, so put up or shut up?' "

  "I'd probably put up," I said, "but I'm still never going to one of your rotten films ever again. Do you know what you got me into?"

  "Yes, I do," he said. "And I'm sorry, Vic, especially about your good buddy."

  "Me too," I said. "But how did you find out about it all."

  "Had a phone call."

  "Gee, wonder who it was from. Well, let me be telling you this, Mr. Patriot. I've booked an ambulance airplane for Benny this weekend to bring him down here if the doc is saying it's OK, you are in for half. You are also in for daily deliveries from the delicatessen of his choice when he does get her."

  "Anything else?" he inquired mildly.

  "I'll let you know," I said. "That blabbermouth who phoned you with all the latest news, I don't suppose you know where I can phone her."

  "No idea," he said.

  "Good," I said. "I never want to see her or talk to her again. Oh, by the way, Lew, if you've got Michelle Pfeiffer in your rotten film, I'll think about it. Farewell forever. Love to your wife." I hung up forcibly. Well, you have to forceful with movie producers, otherwise they'll steamroller all over you. Then I bestirred myself all the way to Mom's closet, where she stored all her useful some-rainy-day you-never-know items. Such as used paper bags in assorted sizes, old wrapping paper, Scotch tape rolls with only a couple of inches left (and you could only get at those if you broke a fingernail), an assortment of empty boxes of various sizes, used Christmas cards, ditto Easter, ditto Mother's Day, a one-glove set of gloves, a string of plastic beads without the string, need I go on? Ah, women! Would that we could fall into their arms without falling into their hands, or something like that.

  I do not mean to suggest that we men do not have a shelf in our own bedroom closets where we store our rainy-day bits and pieces, our flotsams and jetsams from other tides and times. However, ours do tend to be either of obvious value or undoubted practicality, such as my rubber band collection, my old Gil Hodges first baseman's mitt, an almost intact five-thousand-piece "Fisherman Unloading Their Catch" jigsaw puzzle, and several Scandinavian publications of an uplifting nature, to name but a few at random.

  Anyway, Mom's one-glove set of gloves gave me an idea: gloves. So before I went any further, I squeezed my digits into a pair of leftover washing-up ones. Then I extricated the Scotch tape, the string and some brown wrapping paper from the jumble, then exchanged the brown wrapping paper for Christmas wrapping paper as it seemed more fitting. I emptied the money belt of its contents, which turned out to be one list and $7,545.00. I emptied the shoe box of its contents, which turned out to be one snuff box, I guessed, silver; one set Eisenhower commemorative dollars, mint; one cameo brooch; one unrecognizable pointed thing, mayhap a jeweled hatpin and mayhap not; and one pearl-handled ladies; two-shot .22-caliber Derringer. Plus my surprise gift from Mr. Elkins. It was a small—say, a foot by a foot and a half—needlepoint portraying an airport at night, much as a child might see it—there were rays of light done in yellow wool beaming out from the windows of the control tower, and old-fashioned biplane taking off, the pilot waving, and in one corner an owl with orange eyes on a post and in the other a bunny rabbit sleeping under a bush. If you want to see it, drop by the office, it's hung where that outdated calendar of Armenian lovelies Mr. Amoyan had given me used to hang.

  I wrapped up the right amounts with the correct artifacts, then tied them and sticky-taped them. Then addressed them clearly, using the street addresses provided by Mr. Elkins. He hadn't provided any names, and I couldn't remember them all, nor had I remembered to bring a list of the names with me, so I packed them all into the shoe box, where they just fitted snugly, and addressed that to Katy, whose last name I did remember—Goode—and wrapped that most securely. Then I unwrapped it, went downstairs to Feeb's.

  When she came to her door, I said, "Feeb, you look lovelier than ever. Do you know how to write?" I gave her crimson rinse a pat.

  "Now what are you up to?" she said. "Come on in. Want some date and nut loaf?"

  "Always," I said. After I'd taken care of the inner man, I dictated and she wrote in a large, plain notebook: "Sorry for what I did. I was just trying to get even. You should put a couple of feet of bobbed wire on top of that fence, electrified. I feel better now."

  "What do I sign it?" was the only question she asked.

  " 'Remorseful, San Diego,' " I said. "Thanks, honey, I'll tell you all about it someday."

  "Sure you will," she said. "Like you told me all about it that time I pretended to be your grandmother on the phone."

  "I'm going out to see Mom tomorrow," I said hastily. "Want to come?"

  "Sure," she said. "Just give me five minutes to get ready."

  Back upstairs, I regloved, then rewrapped the shoe box, this time with the unhandled-by-me note inside. Why take even a one-in-a-hundred chance and write it myself? And leave my prints all over everything? To purloin a phrase much used by a certain tedious saphead I happen to know, No way, José. As I believe I have mentioned before, kids, do cover your stern, especially when all it costs is a modicum of time and a minimum of effort.

  Then I changed my shirt, gave my endearing cowlick a hasty brush, tucked the package under one arm, and ambled down to a post offi
ce I didn't normally patronize. Wherein I nudged, with one knuckle, said package across the counter toward the clerk, and off it went on its registered way. Unbelievably, I had to fork out fourteen dollars and forty-five cents just to do someone else a good turn. Maybe someone would do me one some fine day for a change. Sure, and maybe Hawaiian shirts would be all the rage someday. Well, my joke of a car made it, didn't it?

  That evening Evonne and I ate Japanese, which she liked to do once in a while although the green horseradish was the only part I really liked. Then we sat in her garden on her swinging sofa and billed and cooed. I am probably better at billing than she is but she had few if any equals when it comes to cooing.

  The following day, it being a Saturday and thus not one of my regular working days, I didn't open up the office; we drove out to Manhattan Beach instead, where I did some gingerly paddling, which was supposed to be good for me, while she did some serious swimming. In the early evening she and I and Feeb drove out to the Pasadena Hills to Hilldale, where resided mater. We found her in high spirits in the pool room, kibitzing loudly a game that was in progress between her usual opponent, Erwin, a miniscule but most dapper geezer dressed today in a skin-tight aubergine suit with yellow high-heeled shoes and a taller, older man I didn't recognize. Erwin was beating the high-cuffed pants off him.

  Mom led the way into the cafeteria, but not before calling out to Erwin, "You lucky little stiff. You get to live for another day." Mom was small, attractive, and when in form, full of energy, with curly hair and great legs, both of which she was vain about. I mentioned she suffered from Alzheimer's disease; the prognosis was a gradual and irreversible decline into increasingly aberrant behavior, with a good chance of pneumonia thrown in. But when she was like she was that day, like she had been up until a few years ago, you couldn't believe it, you didn't want to believe it. But when her control slipped or she didn't recognize you, then you believed it.

  I got us all drinks and told Mom about Canada and watching Les Habitants and eating moose soup and she told us about the latest scandal at Hilldale—two of the residents, both over eighty, one male, one female, had been caught swimming in the nude in the pool at two o'clock in the morning, and with all the lights out, too. Also in the pool at the time were two empty wine bottles. Then Evonne and I took a little stroll through the grounds while Mom and Feeb got caught up to date. On the way we bumped into Dr. Donald Fishbein, the guy in charge of the joint, out for a little stroll himself, only he never strolled, he ran. Doctor Don was half energy, half beard, and half brains. He must have had a little common sense as well, to say nothing of the odd male hormone, because when he caught sight of Evonne's legs in those minishorts she loved to wear, he skidded to a stop and almost fell over her.