Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  “That’s enough.” It was Mavis. She was still holding the pilsner glass but looked as if she was getting ready to smash it on the bar and grind the shards into somebody’s face, maybe even mine. “I think she gets the point.”

  The poet looked annoyed with the interruption. It took a second and louder “I said, I think she gets the point” from Mavis to convince him that the fun was over. He gave my hair one last yank before letting go. Several people from the café had left their tables and were standing around like spectators at a train wreck. Bo stood near an overturned barstool a few feet away, flanked by Mavis’s two other bar buddies. They weren’t touching him, but the tension was palpable. Bo seemed big enough to take out both of them with one punch, but his body remained rigid with indecision.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Mavis said, “Sit down, Bo. I’ll buy you a beer.”

  My breath didn’t return to normal until Bo finally righted the overturned barstool, and the three men went back to their drinks. Mavis gave me a look that said, get out while you still can. That I understood, but if she thought I got the “point,” she was wrong. I had no idea what had just happened, or why. All I knew was, my lungs felt compressed by the weight of many bad decisions.

  I reached down to get my purse. That’s when I noticed Bo’s boots. They were black, square-toed jobbies with a buckled strap and a silver medallion riveted to the leather. They looked like the pair worn by the man who’d attacked me in Evan’s apartment. My heart pounded so hard in my head that I could barely hear.

  Bo ignored the draw Mavis set at his place on the bar. Instead, he walked around the partition wall and headed toward what had to be the restrooms. I made a pretense of leaving, but at the last minute I ducked around the wall and followed him. I found him standing in front of a vending machine in the hallway, trying to buy a pack of cigarettes. The machine apparently wasn’t cooperating, because he gave it a hard kick, frustrated that it kept rejecting his torn dollar bill.

  “Nice boots,” I said.

  His voice was low and dull. “You better split, pretty lady, before you get us both in real trouble.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  He hesitated and then glanced down the hall to make sure Mavis and the boys weren’t anywhere near. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Maybe I’m just trying to have a conversation.” When he didn’t respond, I went on. “Look, Bo, they’re just boots. What’s the big deal?”

  He made several more unsuccessful attempts to feed the dollar bill into the machine. Finally he sighed as if he’d decided to settle a debt.

  “They’re from the movie. We was supposed to be part of an outlaw motorcycle gang. Jakey got Lola to pull some strings, and they let us keep the boots.”

  “Does Jakey have a pair, too?”

  “Hell, we all got a pair.”

  “Why is Mavis so prickly about Lola Scott?”

  He looked around again, nervous. “I don’t know. Maybe because Jakey’s her ex.”

  “And she’s upset with Lola Scott because Lola stole her husband?”

  “Shit. You don’t know nothing. Nobody steals from Mavis unless she wants it that way. If anything, she’s just trying to protect Jakey.”

  Now I was frustrated. “Protect him from what?”

  “Do me a favor. Get the hell out of here before somebody rearranges that pretty little face of yours.” His words were more warning than threat.

  When I turned to leave, he was still hunched over the cigarette machine. He wouldn’t look at me, but he mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out.

  I paused for a moment. “You say something?”

  “I’m on parole,” he said a little louder, “or I would a helped you.”

  He jammed the ratty dollar bill into the machine again, but it came back out. That’s when I reached into my purse and pulled out a newer bill. I didn’t approve of his smoking, but I couldn’t stand to see him fail one more time.

  I decided to exit from Clancy’s before Muscle Boy came barreling around the corner on his way to take a whiz and found Bo and me talking. As I stepped onto the porch outside, I heard what sounded like a blastoff at Cape Kennedy. My startled shriek was obscured by the sound of dozens of motorcycles roaring to life. Almost immediately, they began peeling away one by one like flies off road kill. I sprinted back to my car and locked the door, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one had followed me.

  I glanced across the street at a vacant lot next to the café. Above, a hawk circled and then dived. I diverted my gaze because I didn’t want to see some bloody little field mouse that just moments before had been thinking he had a future in this town.

  For the second time in as many days, I’d escaped a predator. I hoped the mouse had fared as well. Unfortunately, neither of us could survive on luck alone. I wasn’t sure what that meant for the mouse, but for me it meant that all the way from Las Virgines to the coast highway, I kept checking my rearview mirror to make sure I wasn’t being followed.

  -15-

  it was dark by the time I got home. As expected, Eugene’s car was gone from the driveway, but surprisingly, so was Pookie’s. That troubled me. My mother had never been one to provide a detailed itinerary of her movements, but technically I hadn’t seen her for twenty-four hours. It was unusual for her to disappear for that long without telling me where she was going. Bruce didn’t own a car, so I assumed they’d left together.

  The house seemed eerily quiet as I searched unsuccessfully for any notes from her. I told myself that she and Bruce could have left before I got up this morning, and come home and left again in the time I’d been away. That calmed me enough to go next door to retrieve Muldoon. The little guy was technically my mother’s responsibility, but he and I had grown closer during the couple of months my mother and Bruce had been traveling. I worried about him, so at times like these I appreciated Mrs. Domanski’s free pup-sitting services.

  By all appearances, Mrs. D. was already well into her third martini when she answered my knock. Thanks to her largess, Muldoon now had a new tug toy that looked like a floppy purple ponytail tied in the middle. Her words were a little slurred, but I gathered that she’d had the toy delivered from the market with her weekly gin supply. I thanked her and headed home with the pup in tow.

  Once inside the house, I walked into my office. It was immaculate. Eugene had labeled all the muumuu folders and filed them in my desk drawer. He’d also emptied my wastepaper basket and dusted the desktop. I was probably hallucinating, but the windows looked cleaner, too.

  Deegan was due at six. That was dinnertime. I wondered if I was expected to feed him. I’m not much of a cook; the kitchen was Eric’s domain when we were together. After we split, I’d bought a lot of cookbooks and marked numerous interesting-looking recipes with Post-it notes. Despite my good intentions, none of the pages had any greasy butter stains on them, just those Post-it notes wagging like mocking little tongues from dozens of untried recipes for turkey wing ragout and trout meunière.

  The fact was, I wasn’t a big eater either, which meant there wasn’t much food in my refrigerator. To remedy that, Muldoon and I made a quick trip to the Trancas Market for some Brie and a box of heart-shaped crackers. By the time I’d finished shopping, my cart also included a salmon fillet big enough for two, and enough romaine, Kalamata olives, and pecorino cheese to make a salad. As an afterthought, I threw a bottle of champagne into the cart, because it’s about the only alcohol I like to drink.

  At 6:15 the doorbell rang. Deegan stood under the light on the deck, in a dark blue business suit. The top button of his cream-colored shirt was undone, and a jazzy blue and gray tie hung loose and casual around his neck. He smelled good, too, like clean sheets hanging on an outdoor clothesline. In his hand was a white paper bag.

  When he saw me, he frowned. “What the hell happened to your face?”

  So much had happened since morning that I’d almost forgotten that Sheila had given me the Moulin Rouge ma
keover.

  “Get a life,” I said. “It’s makeup. What’s in the bag?”

  He guided me into the house and under a light in the kitchen to get a better look. “It’s takeout,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “As I recall, you’re not exactly Julia Child. And I’m not talking about the makeup. I’m talking about what it’s trying to cover up. Who’s been pounding on you?”

  “I fell.” He wasn’t buying that even as a joke, so I added, “Want some champagne?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and waited, as if he were trying to figure out what I was up to. “If that’s what it takes to get the story.”

  Muldoon looked as if he might shred Deegan’s pant leg, pawing for attention. The two of them hadn’t seen each other in a while, but they’d been pals once, and the leg-lifter never forgot a scent. When Deegan finally squatted down to pay homage, Muldoon rolled on his back and allowed his stomach to be patted.

  I popped the cork on the champagne and put the cheese and crackers on a Lucite platter, which had been a wedding gift from my grandma and grandpa Felder. It was one of the few household items I’d kept after my marriage ended. The crackers looked a little forlorn sliding around on the oversized tray. Eric would have said there wasn’t enough color, but I doubted Deegan would notice.

  I didn’t have a dedicated cheese knife, so I pushed aside a Martha Stewart hors d’oeuvres kit with remnants of the white Styrofoam packing material still clinging to the metal container and pulled out a set of decorative spreading knives with ceramic fruit basket handles. I stuck one in the middle of the cheese. Then I peeked inside Deegan’s white takeout bag and found some kind of dreamy chicken dish and an Italian chopped salad. It definitely looked better than grocery-store fish frying in a peeling Teflon skillet, so I put the salad in the refrigerator to cool, the chicken in the oven to stay warm, and the salmon in the freezer to be forgotten over time.

  Deegan had already removed his jacket and laid it neatly over the arm of my living room chair. He’d only been to my house once before, so if he noticed Bruce’s feng shui modifications, he didn’t comment on them. His eyes were closed, and his head was resting on the back of the couch. He looked tired. Muldoon was lying next to him with his head on Deegan’s thigh. The pup’s teeth were still clamped over the tug from Mrs. Domanski, and a pool of slobber was forming on Deegan’s trouser leg.

  When I set the cheese tray on the coffee table, Deegan opened his eyes. By the time I’d made a second trip to get the champagne bucket and glasses, he was at full attention and inspecting the spreader. He looked at me and grinned.

  “Don’t even think about giving me a bad time,” I warned.

  He held up his arms in a sign of surrender. “Did I say anything?”

  I filled two glasses with champagne and handed him one. By rote I said a quick “Cheers.”

  Before the glass reached my lips, Deegan said, “Whoa! You call that a toast? You need to practice before the wedding so your ex doesn’t think you’re still pining away for him.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to be teased. “I don’t need any practice.”

  He shrugged. “I got the impression you want him to think you’ve moved on. Isn’t that the reason you asked me to be your date?”

  I tried for a shocked and dismayed tone in my voice. “You think I’m using you?”

  His eyes crinkled in amusement. “Sure you are, but I wouldn’t get in the car if I didn’t think I’d enjoy the ride.”

  Deegan was right. In a way, I was using him, but there were other reasons why I’d invited him. The truth was, I liked him. He could be funny and warm. He was also old-fashioned and bossy, which was why nothing had jelled between us other than this off-again, on-again friendship. I might have taken his teasing come-ons more seriously, except that good-looking guys are never attracted to me. Mostly, I’m a magnet for octogenarians playing chess in the park, or teenage boys bagging groceries at Vons. When a guy like Deegan gives me that my-place-or-yours look, I always think he’s hitting on the person who’s standing behind me.

  “Okay,” I said, “so show me your version of a good toast.”

  He raised his glass and got an Oscar-caliber seductive look in his eyes. “To us.”

  I knew he was just joking, which produced an unexpected twinge of regret. Nevertheless, I delivered my response in a tone that was as dry as the Korbel. “Knock it off, Deegan. I’m not in the mood.”

  He laughed. “Which is why you didn’t hear me say ‘Happy anniversary, baby.’”

  I raised my glass, smiling in spite of myself. “Skoal.”

  “So, where’s your mom? I was hoping to meet her.”

  I told him I hadn’t seen Pookie since she and Bruce argued the night before, and that I was worried.

  All he said was, “It’s only six-thirty, Stretch. They’re probably at a motel making up. Why don’t you give it a few more hours?”

  “It’s just not like her.”

  “Maybe not, but people do strange things when they’re in love.”

  He paused for a moment, no doubt trying to interpret the look on my face. Worried? Annoyed? He must have picked up on my distress, because his expression softened. He patted the cushion next to him and said, “Come here.”

  It sounded like something he’d say to the dog, so I said, “I can hear the lecture from here.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Fine. Then stop stalling, and tell me what happened to your face.”

  I didn’t want to wrinkle his jacket, so I moved it from the chair to my grandma’s steamer trunk before sitting down. “It’s a long story.”

  He pointed to Muldoon and the slobbery tug resting on his thigh. “Do I look like I have other plans for the evening?”

  “No, but you may change your mind when you hear what I have to say. Deegan, we need to talk about Evan Brice’s homicide investigation.”

  He didn’t look happy about that. “You know it’s not my case, and even if it was, I couldn’t tell you anything.”

  “Just hear me out. Okay?”

  He listened attentively as I explained about helping Cissy close the apartment, interrupting only to express his suspicions about her motives. He wanted to know why she’d asked me to lend a hand, instead of a family member or her insurance company. Of course, I’d wondered about that, too. I’d thought Jerome Fielding was the logical person for the job, until I saw him interact with Cissy. There was underlying tension between those two. In the end, their rapport, good or bad, didn’t matter. I was convinced that the reason Cissy had asked for my help was because she wanted to reconnect me with her mother. My theory didn’t rock Deegan’s world.

  “Look,” I said, “I think Moses Green wants to nail Cissy Brice for the murder, because the wife is always the easy target. But he’s on the wrong track. Cissy swears she’s never even been to the Venice apartment. Besides, how could she stab Evan to death and not even break a fingernail? Think about it.”

  “I hate to tell you, Stretch, but women kill their husbands all the time.”

  Generalizing was getting me nowhere. I had to tell Deegan about the freight train attacking me, or I’d lose his interest. When I did, the look on his face reminded me of the presidents on Mount Rushmore: silent and stony. For the next few minutes, he asked me lots of questions about the guy’s height, weight, distinguishing marks or tattoos, and about the clothing he had on, including those boots. He also asked me to tell him anything I could remember about the porn video and the missing mail. This was more like it. I found myself wishing Deegan were in charge of Evan’s homicide investigation.

  By the time I finished describing Bo, the crowd at Clancy’s Cantina, and that the distinctive boots my attacker wore could be traced directly back to Lola Scott and her boyfriend, Deegan was rubbing his temples as if he were trying to contain a monster headache. Even Muldoon sensed the tension and retreated to the opposite end of the couch.

  “I can’t prove it was Jakey who stole Evan’s mail and Lola Scott’s porn
video,” I said, “but who else could it be?”

  Deegan paused for a moment, as if considering his next statement. “Did you ever consider that Cissy Brice might be lying to you?”

  “She may be lying but not about killing Evan. I think she’s innocent. If you have proof to the contrary, tell me. I can keep a secret.”

  I studied his face but got nothing from it. He’d make a good poker player. “All I can tell you is what’s been officially released to the public.”

  “Okay, I can work with that.”

  According to Deegan, on the night Evan died, he attended an open-mike poetry reading at Poet’s Corner, the same coffeehouse in West Hollywood I’d learned about from Claire Jerrard. He ate chicken and a salad at about seven p.m. and left the café at around eight. The coroner estimated the time of death sometime between midnight and three a.m. I waited for Deegan to mention Evan’s trip to the market that night, but he didn’t bring it up. Obviously the police were holding back some facts, because according to Moses Green, Evan was alive and shopping for champagne at one a.m. That narrowed the time of his death to between one and three a.m.

  Deegan paused for a moment, watching me intently. “That poem Brice wrote to you. It was pretty steamy. The guy obviously had a thing for you. Was it a two-way street?”

  I bristled. “It was until he dumped me for my best friend.”

  “Cissy Brice?”

  “The one and only.”

  Deegan didn’t speak for what seemed like a long time. When he did, his voice was soft. “Your so-called friend did you a favor. From what I’ve learned about Evan Brice, you’d have thrown your life away trying to save him.”

  Maybe he was right, but I didn’t feel all that lucky right now.

  “She didn’t do it, Deegan. You couldn’t possibly understand, but I know she’d never take Dara’s father away from her.”

  “I don’t get you, Stretch. The woman steals your man, and you still try to help her. Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”