My conscience was bothering me, and I don’t like that. I thought about it and finally came up with a compromise I found acceptable. I went back to the main house.
Pete was watching another baseball game. The Dodgers fouled up an attempted squeeze into an inning-ending double play. Pete groaned. “It could be a long season,” he sighed.
“It’s early in the year.” I handed him a piece of paper. “Maybe this will console you.”
“What’s this?” He was examining my check for $1,750. “Your rent’s paid up.”
“It’s not for the rent, Pete. It’s your share of my fee.”
“Fee? What fee?”
“That embezzling case in Orange County. It was worth $3,500 to me to come up with the correct answer. I feel you’re entitled to half of it. You crunched the numbers, but I had the contacts and did the legwork.”
Pete looked at the check. “It seems like a lot of money for very little work. Tell you what. I’ll take $250, and credit the rest towards your rent.”
A landlord with a conscience! Maybe I should notify the Guinness World Records. “Seems more than fair to me.”
Pete tucked the check in the pocket of his shirt. “Tell me, Freddy, is it always this easy, doing investigations?”
I summoned up a wry laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. So far, I’ve asked you two questions that just turned out to be right down your alley. I’ve sometimes spent months on a case and come up dry. That can make the bottom line look pretty sick. What’s it like in your line of work?”
“I don’t really have a line of work. I have this house and some money in the bank. I can rent out the guesthouse and make enough to live on. People know I’m pretty good at certain problems, and sometimes they hire me. If it looks like it might be interesting, I’ll work on it.” He paused. “Of course, if they offer me a ridiculous amount of money, I’ll work on it even if it’s not interesting. Hey, we’re in a recession.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I turned to leave the room. Pete’s voice stopped me.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?”
I turned around. “I give up. What?”
“We had a bet. You owe me five bucks.”
I fished a five out of my wallet and handed it over. He nodded with satisfaction as he stuffed it in the same pocket as the check, and then turned his attention back to the game.
CHAPTER 3
A MATTER OF TIME
Under normal circumstances, I gathered that Pete was not averse to houseguests, and I wanted permission to invite a houseguest. However, the circumstances we were under were not normal.
To begin with, we already had a houseguest, Pete’s cousin Cindy. Actually, we had two houseguests, for Cindy had brought along Muffy. Muffy (species: dog, genus: miniature poodle) wasn’t a person, but if she had been, people would have said that she was spoiled rotten. Muffy’s diet seemed to consist of caviar and truffles—at least, she turned up her nose, what there was of it, at generic dog food. Muffy would also yip at all hours, to Pete’s consternation, since Pete has a tendency to sleep at all hours. On the credit side of the ledger, at least Muffy was housebroken; otherwise, my chances of getting Pete to take on an additional boarder for a few days would have been approximately zero.
The boarder I was trying to get Pete to take on was Bill MacDonald. I guess everybody categorizes their friends, and Bill was on the “old friend, close to but not really a best friend” list. We had grown up in the same neighborhood, gone to school together, and done favors for each other over the years. Bill had become an insurance agent, and I had a case a few years ago in New York that required in-depth research into the insurance business. Bill had supplied it, and I owed him a favor. Bill had done well; in addition to his apartment in Manhattan, he also had an attractive beachfront condo somewhere north of San Diego. Besides, Bill was a perfectly presentable guy who knew enough not to try to sell insurance to his host.
Pete has southern genes, meaning he is by nature quite hospitable. When I asked Pete whether Bill could stay for a few days, he shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s your guesthouse. You’re paying the rent.”
“I know, but I thought I’d run it by you first. No sense antagonizing the landlord.”
“What’s your friend like?”
“He’s an insurance agent. Nice guy, not particularly fascinating, but not a bore. Good manners. Won’t mess up the place.”
“Tell him he can stay if he doesn’t bring a poodle.”
Maybe Pete wanted to kill as many birds (visitors) in as short a time as possible. Anyway, I told Bill he was welcome provided he was dogless.
It occurred to me, somewhat belatedly, that I might have given some thought to how Bill would get along with Cindy, and vice versa. I hadn’t, so I paused to take stock of the situation.
What I knew about Cindy wasn’t a whole lot because she had only been staying with us a couple of days. Cindy was from some place down south, had starred in her senior class play, and had done rather well in drama courses in junior college. Feeling that this was just the ticket to fame and fortune, she had set her sights on a career in the movies and/or TV, and you know where you go when you have set your sights on such a career. Especially when you have a cousin there who can supply you with room and board.
What I knew about Cindy, though, I liked. When you asked her a question, she paused for a few seconds to gather her thoughts and then answered in complete sentences. No pauses for “you know.” Maybe it was part of drama class training. Another thing I found endearing was that she was never without a book. I’ve always liked readers.
To my delight, Bill and Pete hit it off quite well. Admittedly, Pete was already pleased by the fact that Bill hadn’t brought a poodle. However, it turned out that Bill was a lot more interested than I was in any activity with a scoreboard, so Pete had someone knowledgeable to discuss sports with. As a result, Pete got the impression that my friends were more than worth talking to. He even went so far as to indicate that invitations to other potential houseguests on my part would be favorably considered.
On the other hand, when Cindy was around, Bill would develop a bad case of incoherent babbling. While Cindy would make complete sentences, Bill couldn’t even make sense, much less stick nouns and verbs together. In addition to developing a bad case of brain-lock, his face would become flushed, and one could see beads of sweat break out on his forehead.
Recognize the symptoms? Well, if you don’t, I did. They are the unmistakable signs of the onset of lovesickness in the immature adult male. I knew because I had contracted the disease once or twice myself, both as an immature and a mature adult male.
And how did Cindy react to all this? You’ve got me. I have to say that I didn’t think Bill was showing himself to best advantage, but one never knows. Women often say and do things I don’t expect—but at least I’m in distinguished company. Freud was reputed to have said on his deathbed, “Women! What do they want?” Freud spent a lifetime studying women. I haven’t even spent a third of what I hope will be a long lifetime on the subject, and Freud was undoubtedly a whole lot brighter than I am.
However, I have noticed that some girls prefer guys who are smooth and polished, while others like guys on whom they have an unsettling effect. For Bill’s sake, I hoped that Cindy belonged to Category Two, because Bill was definitely unsettled around her.
Meanwhile, Cindy the actress-to-be was doing substantially better than expected. I had heard horror stories of people who went for years in Hollywood without ever landing more than a role as an extra, but within two weeks Cindy actually managed to get a small speaking part in a movie that was due to begin shooting in Chicago in about a week. She had about ten or so lines, which meant that she could get her SAG (Screen Actors Guild) card. Who knows, maybe the producer was stunned to find someone who answered questions in complete sentences and actually read? Anyway, Cindy was ecstatic, and Pete and I were certainly happy for Cindy. As was Bill, as evidenced by the fac
t that he actually stopped babbling incoherently long enough to tell her so.
An added bonus was that, while three may not always be a crowd, four plus a poodle sometimes makes for an overly crowded household. Pete and I were both looking forward to regaining sole possession of the premises because Bill was scheduled to leave at about the same time that Cindy left for Chicago. To do some rehearsing on the way, she was planning to take a train and familiarize herself with the script.
Bill had taken to confiding in me his feelings for Cindy, not realizing how unnecessary it was. I didn’t have to be a genius to realize that he was hoping that I would intercede somehow to get him a date with Cindy. He didn’t ask me directly, but it was clear what was going on. As far as I was concerned, nothing doing. I had gotten him room and board, and enough was enough. If he had been on the best friends list, I might have been willing to take a shot (although this can often be an easy way to lose a friend, even a best one), but as things stood, not a chance. Besides, even if I had been willing, I didn’t know Cindy well enough to chance a direct encounter, and doing it indirectly through Pete was clearly inadvisable. You don’t ask your landlord to fix his cousin up with your friend. At least, I don’t.
Of course, I wished Bill the best of luck, but I felt that it was up to him to work things out in the romance department, and on the eve of Cindy’s departure, it was clear that he had yet to do so. On awakening the next morning, I found that I had run out of coffee. I can’t function without my morning coffee, and fortunately Pete’s sense of southern hospitality extends to items such as this. Bill and I traipsed over to the kitchen of the main house to remedy this deficiency. There I was, at about 8 a.m., making coffee for Bill and myself, when I suddenly heard one of the most anguished sounds ever to split the silence of a tranquil morning.
It woke Pete, and we both charged into the living room, the source of the aforementioned anguished sound. I saw Bill with a rolled-up newspaper in his hands, about to deliver the coup de grace to Muffy. Dogs like to chew things. Muffy had somehow managed to masticate all but a few pages of Bill’s customer account book, which he had foolishly taken into the main house in range of Muffy. I say “foolishly” with the benefit of hindsight, which has an unblemished track record of being notably more accurate than foresight.
I stopped Bill in midbackswing. I should note that it wasn’t clear whether the aforementioned anguished sounds came from Bill or Muffy.
“I don’t think pounding Muffy to a pulp is too likely to score points with Cindy,” I said to Bill.
He looked crestfallen, although I could not say for sure whether the crest had fallen because of the destruction of his customer account book or because he could not properly work out his aggressions against Muffy. I suspected that Bill was jealous of Muffy because Muffy clearly had a place in Cindy’s affections, whereas Bill was still on the outside looking in.
After a moment, however, he came back to business. “Freddy, I need a large favor. Can you drive me to my condo? I’ve got a copy of my account book at home, and I need it tomorrow.”
I was less than enthusiastic, but there wasn’t anything on my calendar for that day. Nonetheless, I didn’t relish a day’s worth of driving. “Can’t you get someone to fax it to you, or something? Don’t you have it on your computer?”
“Yes, but it’s encrypted, and I don’t leave the decryption code on the computer. It’s in the house, too, and I’ve got the only key.”
“You could rent a car,” I proposed.
“True, but I’d like to get back in time to say good-bye to Cindy. Renting it, driving to the car rental place, and picking up the car would take a couple of hours.”
“What about taking a train?” I was still looking for a way out. “The gridlock on I-5 gets worse and worse.”
“Trains don’t run often enough for me to get back in time.”
I guess I could have let Bill take my car, but I realized that sacrificing a day of my life now would be a good idea. As I said, Bill had done very nicely in the insurance business. Should I decide to visit New York, it would be nice to have a place to stay—especially considering that any place in New York that passed a sanitation code inspection cost an arm and a leg. A few hours invested now could obviously pay dividends down the road. Besides, he was a friend.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Thanks, Freddy, I owe you one. Let’s see, my condo is about 120 miles away. It’s morning now, so we should be able to average about 40 miles per hour on the way down, and it won’t take me more than a couple of minutes to dig up my account book. Unfortunately, I read that today they’re going to shut down a couple of lanes of northbound I-5, and we’ll be lucky to average 20 miles per hour on the way back. What time does Cindy have to leave to catch her train?”
“Somewhere around 5:30.” I calculated rapidly. “Forty plus twenty divided by two is thirty. We’ll average thirty miles per hour. That’s eight hours for a 240-mile round trip. If you hurry, we should be ready to leave a few minutes before 9:00. That should give us enough leeway.”
“We have to eat. I have to, anyway.”
“Not to worry. There’s undoubtedly something in the fridge we can take with us, or we can stop for a Big Mac.” I turned to Pete, who was not thrilled about being awakened by anguished sounds, a subparagraph under the general heading that Pete is not thrilled about being awakened.
“Pete, do you suppose you could fill Cindy in while we’re on the road?” I should probably mention that Cindy, who slept with earplugs (probably to drown out Muffy’s early-morning yipping), was blissfully unaware of developments.
“I’ll leave her a note.” Pete yawned. “I only got to bed at 3:00 a.m., so I’m going back to sleep.” Yawning some more, he departed. I told Bill to leave a note as well, as I had no idea when Pete would awaken.
Bill and I got dressed hurriedly and were on our way a little before 9:00. Bill was obviously familiar with freeway conditions, and as he predicted, we were able to average about forty miles per hour on the way down to San Diego, arriving a little before noon. It took only a few minutes for Bill to grab his duplicate account book, and we were once again on the road.
The return trip to Los Angeles was a nightmare, as it always is when two lanes of a major interstate are shut down. Nonetheless, we were able to manage almost a constant speed of twenty. You can see why I tried to duck out by steering Bill toward Amtrak.
The afternoon wore on. And on and on. What made it even more wearing was the fact that Bill spent the afternoon discussing romance, women in general, and Cindy in particular. As a philosopher, Bill left much to be desired. After a couple of hours of this, I managed to turn on the radio to a Dodgers game. I’m not really a baseball fan, but Bill is, and I’d rather listen to live baseball than a rehash of the past couple of hours of Bill’s angst.
Finally, as we neared the outskirts of Long Beach, I took a glance at my watch, and was horrified to find that it was almost 5:00! What had gone wrong? We had averaged a little better than forty miles per hour on the way up, and almost exactly twenty miles per hour on the way back.
We arrived back at the house a few minutes after 6:00. Pete greeted us and said that Cindy had left a little over half an hour ago. Bill cursed.
“I thought you said we’d be back in plenty of time, Freddy.”
“I thought we would. I don’t know what went wrong.”
Pete had been lounging on the couch but had obviously been paying attention to the conversation, for he turned to face us and said, “I think I can tell you what happened.”
Bill was still glowering at me. Pete might have been annoyed by having been awakened early, but at least he wasn’t glowering at me. Deciding that it was better to converse with a nonglowerer, I told Pete, “I don’t get it. We averaged forty miles per hour on the way down and twenty on the way back. We only needed a couple of minutes to get Bill’s account book, and another five to grab a burger and fries. We should have had time to spare.”
(
Calculating averages continued on p. 150)
“You assumed that the average of twenty miles per hour and forty miles per hour is thirty miles per hour. That is only the case if you drive for equal times at those speeds. The two of you, however, drove for equal distances at those speeds. You actually took three hours to drive down and six to drive back, an hour more than you thought you would.”
Bill glared. “This is all your fault, Freddy.”
“My fault? I get you room and board. The girl of your dreams is under the same roof. You, on the other hand, leave your account book where it can be chewed by dogs. I take an entire day to chauffeur you, and this is the thanks I get?” I was more than a little angry.
Bill backed off. “Sorry, Freddy. I should have asked her for a date sooner, but I just didn’t have the guts.”
“Why not ask her for a date now?” Pete suggested.
I won’t say that Bill’s face was suffused with the glow of hope, but the glower diminished in intensity. “What have you got in mind?”
“Why don’t you take care of your insurance business and then fly to Chicago? You can meet her when her train arrives.”
Bill thought it over. “Yes, I could do that. But I don’t even know how she feels. I could end up with an awful lot of egg on my face. Besides, she may have made other plans, and she certainly won’t be expecting to see me.”
Pete gave me a “do-I-have-to-fill-in-all-the-details-for-him?” look. Well, he gave me a look, and that’s how I decoded it after he said, “You must have some idea of what she likes. Roses, chocolates, Chanel No. 5—something along that line. Have it delivered to her stateroom. Trains make stops along the way, so you can certainly arrange this. Sign the card “From a secret admirer.” Then, after the receipt has been acknowledged, send her a text or an email revealing that you are the secret admirer. Say that you had business in Chicago and you’d love to get together with her. It’s done all the time.”
L.A. Math: Romance, Crime, and Mathematics in the City of Angels Page 4