Write Me a Letter (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  "So you are human after all, eh, Doc," I said. "I always wondered. Yes, it's me, Victor, Mrs. Daniel's eldest. Any more problems since last I was here?" He'd had series of petty pilfering one time that I'd helped him with.

  "One," he said, when he finally finished shaking Evonne's hand. "Someone's been lifting Mr. James's copies of Penthouse from his mailbox before he's had a chance to read them."

  "Hum," I said. "A tricky one. I'd look for a man who's got a faraway look in his eyes. A sort of bemused expression."

  "Also extremely listless," said Precious, to my surprise. Doctor Don's teeth gleamed through his bushy black beard.

  "How's Mom?" I said.

  "No miracles yet," the doc said.

  "Ah, shit," I said.

  "Right on," he said. We made our good-byes and off he ran. Evonne and I sat for a moment on a bench under a magnolia tree which we shared with a ruddy-cheeked elderly lady with a walker, dressed, in a T-shirt that said, LIE NO. 371—LIFE BEGINS AT 40, shorts, and sneakers with no socks. She was industriously working away at something in an embroidery hoop.

  "Ah, I see we're busy at our needlepoint," I remarked.

  "I'm tatting," she said. "Which isn't the same thing at all, as anybody but an ignoramus would know. Now go away. Your emanations are muddy."

  We went away. As soon as we were out of earshot, I said to Evonne, "What was that all about?"

  "I don't know, sweetheart," she said, taking hold of my arm. "But they are muddy."

  "Yours would hardly be crystal clear, whatever they are," I said, striding along, "if you'd been through what I've been through this week. Some fucking old Nazi is dead and so is Solomon, who I never even met and I'm alive and Benny's in the hospital getting reinflated. And Fats is doing God knows what, and who knows or cares what the twerp's up to and her heart throb is having it off in the snow with Tits McGurk and I don't know what else."

  "And your mother's dying," Evonne said, tugging me to a halt.

  "Well, there is that too, Evonne Louise Shirley." I enfolded her in my arms in the middle of the path. An old man in pajamas and slippers, using two canes, passed us by.

  "Sure could use a little more of that around her," he said.

  "Around anywhere," I said. After a minute she raised her face toward mine.

  "That's new," I said.

  "What's new?"

  "That freckle on the side of your nose." I touched a finger to it and it came off. I showed it to her. "See? It was just a mote after all."

  "Maybe a spore," she said.

  "I like that idea better," I said. We walked back, arm in arm, to the reception area, found Feeb, and went home. Young Doctor, I am being sorry about the relapse that followed. It was all my fault. See, I didn't sleep on my back that night. I slept on my right side, as close as I could possibly get to Evonne Louise Shirley without inhabiting the same epidermis.

  Chapter the Last

  Well, it started with her, whoever she was and still is, I hope, so it is only fitting that it end with her, if only for neatness' sake.

  Salmon was the color of her blouse, pitchblende the color of her hair, forest green her skirt, short jacket, and shoes. Her earrings were a still-darker shade of green jade, her lipstick and hair clip, scarlet, me' Open your paintboxes, kids, and color me any color you want to.

  I was sitting in my office trimming my cuticles and waiting for a client who was late for her appointment when she walked in. It was on a Monday, almost two weeks to the moment from her first materialization into the life of that well-known Studio City boulevardier, V. (for Victor) Daniel.

  "Miss Braukis, as I live and breathe." I stood politely to greet her. She proffered a hand. I pretended I didn't see it.

  "Mr. Daniel," she said in her throaty voice.

  "Please be seated," I said. "Anywhere you like." She sat demurely in the only other chair in the office aside from mine. "I am awaiting a client," I said, sitting down myself, "at any minute, one of Burbank's leading society matrons, so please be brief."

  She let me have one look from those unfair eyes; one was enough.

  "I would have come sooner, she said, 'but I've been sitting shivah."

  I used to dog-sit myself," I said. "A beautiful Labrador puppy she was. She's in doggy heaven now."

  "To sit shivah is how the Jews honor their dead," she said.

  "I apologize," I said, blushing to the roots. "I didn't know. What does it consist of?"

  "Seven days of mourning," she said. "Shivah means seven. Officially it is only performed by the immediate family—brothers, sisters, father and mother, sons and daughters—and the deceased must have been buried within three days of his death. You could perhaps think of it as a Jewish wake"

  "What do you do?"

  "Traditionally, you sit on wooden boxes, although now stools are often used, without shoes. To combat vanity, all mirrors are covered. Food is served, of course, and there's no lack of conversation, it's not entirely a sad occasion."

  "Were you related to Solomon?"

  "No," she said, "he had no relations at all as far as I knew, they were all killed in the Second World War, except one cousin he mentioned once, he was one of the few tank commanders we lost in the Six-Day War. But I wanted to do something so myself and a few friends, we did the best we could."

  "God damn it anyway," I said, or something equally impolite and meaningless.

  "How's your friend?" she asked then.

  "He's doing terrific," I said. "We flew him down here the day before yesterday, he could be out in the world and up to his old tricks again in what, ten days, two weeks?"

  "I knew you moved him," she said. She opened up her purse (also forest green, I neglected to mention) and put an envelope on the desk in front of me. When she leaned forward, her blouse parted slightly; I averted my eyes. Inside the envelope were travelers checks totaling two thousand dollars. "Half for the plane," she said. "The rest for you if you'll take it."

  "I hope they're kosher," I said.

  "They are," she said.

  "The half for the plane," I said. "Is that my half or Lew's half?"

  "Yours," she said.

  "Oh," I said. "Jolly decent of you." I put the money away in a drawer. "If I decide it's too contaminated, I'll buy you a couple of trees. Who was that old guy, anyway? I hope he was worth it all."

  She rummaged again in her handbag, then slid a sheet of paper across to me. This time I failed to avert my eyes in time and couldn't help noticing her undergarment was black and lacy, unlike mine, which was sweatstained, fraying around the edges, and getting to be a bigger nuisance than Mickey Rooney at a beach party. Luckily I only had to wear it another couple of days.

  The name at the top of the sheet I didn't recognize although no doubt Nathan Lubinski would have. There followed his date of birth,—some small town in Austria—school records, and so on. The came the date of his joining the Nazi party, then the SS with his SS number. Passed some course. Transferred to Essen. Got his commission. When the war started, served with a Waffen-SS group blitzkrieging French, Belgians, and anyone else who had the temerity to resist the mighty Third Reich. He got promoted. Sent as second in command of new extermination camp at Riga. One year later promoted to commandant. Estimated one million (1,000,000) slain 1941–1944. Assumed he escaped late 1944 by boat from Riga or Ventspils, then via Portugal to South America.

  "That little guy?" I said. "It's unbelievable."

  "Want to see a picture of him as he was then?" she asked me.

  "No, thank you," I said.

  "Would you like to know what his particular specialty was?"

  "No, thank you," I said.

  "So you tell me," she said. "Was it worth it?"

  "It's not a question of worth it," I said.

  "What is it a question of, then?"

  "How should I know?" I said. "Ask the rabbi, maybe he knows. What I do know is you set me up, lady, and good."

  "I'm sorry about that," she said.

  "You're sorry
," I said. "I've had some time to think about it, and here's what I think, correct me if I'm wrong. The purpose of the whole number wasn't for Uncle Theo to recognize Cookie, it was for Cookie to recognize Uncle Theo, and did he ever. I don't know if they knew each other from a camp or before or after, but as soon as Cookie got one look at him he knew what was involved."

  "After," said my ex–dream girl. "Theo tracked him from Argentina to Chile to Mexico. He had him, then he lost him."

  "Theo should stick to picking grapes," I said. " Anyway. After a while, our favorite nightmare pops up again, this time in the U.S. You're going to have a hell of a time extraditing him from here after all this time and you probably don't want to go through another one of those show trials that break everyone's heart, no, no, what you need is some stumble-bum to do the job for you, some gun-toting hick who's as dispensable as a used throwaway diaper. So Lew puts you on to me, the perfect goat. Thanks again, Lew."

  "To be fair," she said, "he said you were not only quick on the uptake, but perfectly able to take care of yourself if you had to."

  "Lucky for me," I said bitterly. "You make it all mysterious enough and potentially dangerous enough with your hints and lies and following people around to ensure I do pack a gun. Cookie sees Theo. Cookie comes looking for Theo. Brilliantly, I've even suggested Theo and I change rooms. If I hadn't suggested it, I'll bet he would have. Bang bang—me and Cookie in a shootout. Hopefully, I nail Cookie—if he nails me too, ah well, c'est la guerre. And there's Solomon, armed to the teeth, prowling around to make sure at least Cookie's had it, if not, ideally, the stooge too. God knows what Uncle Theo was packing, just in case. I never thought to look. He went through the airport detector with no trouble, so it was probably some new-fangled all-plastic capsule shooting gizmo you've come up with."

  "What an imagination," Miss Ruth Humbug Braukis murmured. "And by the way, the handgun to which you refer is called a Glock. And it is not all plastic, either, although it is partly made of polymer two. Or so I've read."

  "Oh really? And what would you have done if I hadn't sneaked a gun up there?"

  "Provided you with one. Believe me, no one wanted to see you killed, Mr. Daniel."

  "I'd love to believe you," I said. "Sure would make a change. How did you know I already had my own weapon, anyway?"

  "Theo searched your room. Twice."

  "I might have guessed. Luckily I guessed right about most of the rest of it."

  "I'll tell you something else you were lucky about," she said, crossing her legs in a vain attempt to distract me. "Or rather your friend was. That Cookie, as you call him, had to use a gun with a silencer."

  "What's so lucky about that? You mean he could have used a bazooka?"

  "Silencers only work efficiently on small-caliber handguns, about up to a twenty-two," she said. "I hate to think what might have happened if your friend had been shot with anything larger at so close a range."

  "You seem remarkably well informed," I said. "Have we been reading the gossip columns again? Or were we lurking in the underbrush waiting to drive the getaway vehicle? That Uncle Theo. He even remembered to collect his teeth. And as for all that stuff about silencers, these days you can silence weapons of any caliber up to and including thirty-aught-six rifles. Or so I've read."

  A movement outside my reinforced picture window caught my eye. It was just what I needed right then—the twerp herself, snub nose pressed against the glass. "Pardon me the nonce," I said, rising. I went to the door, opened it an inch, hissed, "Beat it!" closed the door again, locked it, then regained my seat.

  "The Burbank society matron?" suggested Miss Ruth Braukis, who of course had turned to watch.

  "Hardly," I said, giving her a withering glance. In return she gave me a slow, sweet smile that, if I wasn't imagining things, had a touch of sadness at one corner. She looked down at the elegant timepiece circling her tanned, slim wrist.

  "Going somewhere?"

  She nodded.

  "Somewhere nice?"

  "Home." She arose. So did I.

  "Give my love to the grapefruits," I said. She came around to my side of the desk,

  "Bend over," she said. I bent over. Naturally, the twerp was watching all. She pressed her cool lips to my hot cheek. "Leshana habaa beyerushalayim," she whispered.

  "Thank you," I whispered back. "That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me."

  The most beautiful woman in the world swayed to the door. Just as she opened it, I asked her, "What does it mean?"

  "Next year in Jerusalem," she said.

  "Wasps gather," I said, but by then she had gone.

  A moment passed.

  Then enter the twerp, eyes goggling.

  "Holy shit!" she said. "Who was that?"

  "An ex-client," I said. "Her name is Ruth. Or perhaps Barbara. It might be Agnes for all I know."

  "What did she want?"

  I smiled in a nonchalant fashion. "What do all beautiful women want with me? She wants to meet me again sometime, that's all."

  Sara whistled.

  "No shit?"

  "No shit."

  "You gonna do it?"

  I patted the nerd's head fondly. "Are you jesting, child? I am strictly a one-woman man, as well you know, unlike some I could name. I've never even thought of another woman since I met Evonne Louise Shirley, the very idea revolts and upsets me. Yeech. I'm surprised at you, Sara, I really am. I know you've been through a troublesome phase, but that is no reason to suppose all men are fly-by-night cads and rotters. Oh, seeing as you're closest, do us a favor, hand me down that cheap atlas you gave me, will you, there's a place I want to look up."

  Appendix

  Answers

  I forget how he did the pyramid and the alternate heads and tails. Write to him care of the Round-Up Saloon, Lafayette, La.

  The lightweight bag. Weigh any three against any other three bags. If they are equal, the remaining trio must contain the light bag. Weight any one bag from it against any other. If they are equal, the leftover bag is the light one. If they are not, the light bag is the light one. Similarly, in your first weighing, if one trio is lighter than the other, proceed as before, weighing any one bag from it against another.

  The traveling salesmen. One traveled east around the world, one west, thus one kept gaining days, the other losing them.

  The Rileys are not twins because they are what is left of triplets.

  The five matches: IIIII. The answer is not given here due to a wish to avoid vulgarity whenever possible.

  To pour a whole pint of beer into a half-pint mug, supposedly you fill the half-pint mug with sawdust.

  Those lipstick traces. The lucky winner reasoned like this. Time has passed. Both other guys are still in the room. If either one of them saw two pink kisses, they'd know they had a red one. So if either of the two others have a pink one, the winner couldn't have, otherwise there would be two pinks in view, and one of his rivals would claim victory. If there are no pinks in view, the winner reasons that he can't be pink either because if either of his opponents spotted his pink kiss, from the reasoning above they could deduce they couldn't have a pink kiss as well. So the winner knows he has a red one. Clear? I figured it out, or at least I think I did, on the drive the following day.

  That's all folks.

  *Editor's note: The L.A. Dodgers did not win the World Series that year but finished a distant last in their division.

  *Added by me later: Les Habitants (or familiarly, Les Habs) didn't get to the finals a few months later; they were knocked out in a preliminary round, by Buffalo! Or it might have been Hartford—who cares? some hick town, anyway.

  *See appendix for the solutions: Ed.

 

 

 
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