The Feral Detective

by Jonathan Lethem

  It didn’t take much Googling to discover my target. A bar called PianoPiano, billed as a scene of raucous X-rated dueling-piano novelty songs, perfect for bachelor and bachelorette parties, also the hub of Claremont’s otherwise tepid pickup scene. Yelp reviews termed the place, specifically, a “cougar bar”—I might hope to be one of the younger cougars on the premises, and drag something back to the Doubletree with me.

  It also didn’t hurt that PianoPiano happened to lie just walking distance across the hotel’s parking lot. I could learn how the Inland Empire fucked, and show it my stuff in return. The well of despondence I’d fallen into seemed to demand it. So it was that I was dressed to the nines, or at least the sevens, when Heist knocked on my door again.

  The rain had tapered a little, the sun long since given up somewhere behind the storm. It could have been six in the evening or four in the morning, deepening the sensation of limbo that had overtaken me. Heist had shed his rain poncho. Perhaps the absurd red leather cowboy jacket had been underneath through our whole adventure. Perhaps it was part of his body.

  “Where are we going this time?” I said.

  “We could eat and talk.”

  “My winter coat is drying in the shower.”

  “We’ll stay in.”

  On the truck’s seat between us, in place of the coffee thermos, sat a steaming white paper sack, foil lined, crimped at the top. Takeout Indian, hugely aromatic. I was made ravenous. We pulled in behind the spa and tattoo building. The prospect of returning to his office was dreadful and fascinating, and I made myself ready for it. But he left the motor running, removed a pint container from the sack between us, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  “For the girl?” I asked when he returned.

  “For Jean.”

  “The opossum?”

  He nodded. “She can only handle plain stuff, white rice.”

  “Until the infection clears up, right? Then back to the prime fare, lamb biryani, glass of chardonnay.”

  I drew a smile. Heist wasn’t stone impervious to my dork charms. And he recognized the word chardonnay, apparently. This I could work with.

  The rain had quit. He switched off the wipers, leaving just the engine rumbling our little steamed-up space capsule.

  “Where are we going?”

  He’d put the truck in gear and swung back out around the building. At the entrance to Foothill Boulevard, we held for a break in the traffic, those glistening lights barely visible through the windshield’s kaleidoscope.

  “My place, to eat. Unless you want to eat in the truck.”

  “Who is that girl?” I needed an answer, suddenly. “Doesn’t she eat? Why don’t you say her name?”

  “Her name is Melinda. I found her a place. She’s staying with some people now.”

  A place, some people. It wasn’t quite good enough. “A foster family?”

  “Not officially. That system wasn’t doing her any good.”

  “So, a nonofficial foster family?” I am the Lorax. I speak for the runaways.

  “Melinda isn’t much for moms and dads. She needed another format.”

  “What format?”

  “I helped her to go off the grid. You want to eat?”

  “The traditional term is ‘kidnapping,’ Mr. Heist.”

  “Then I guess that makes me untraditional.” It would have been a snappy comeback, if Heist were capable of those. Instead he uncovered each word as if coining it, groping toward his tautological reply. The man was unprovokable to an almost autistic degree.

  “So, you installed her in a drainpipe somewhere? Or no, you’re relocating the drainpipe people. Where’d you take them, anyhow? Off the grid?”

  “There’s a shelter in Pomona. They might still be there, if you need proof.”

  “No, I need dinner. I’m dying for a drink, actually.”

  “I think there’s some wine.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  We curled onto Foothill only to perform a wide U-turn back to a gravel roadway, through a gated opening in a wide fence, where lay the trailer park I’d noticed earlier. My heart, or my gut, endured another quiet pitch. Dinner in his office, which fronted to Foothill Boulevard, now seemed the civilized option. This was another Wash, a dark woods I hadn’t banked on stepping inside. I wasn’t dressed for it, for one thing.

  I might be more than a little wrought up, still turned on by our mission of rescue in the flooded arroyos and the concrete tunnel. Now that Heist was back in my sights, my craving for a random piano-bar pickup began to look like sour grapes. The frisky feeling easily reattached to my smoke-free Marlboro Man. The special air between us in the truck had brought it back, or maybe it had never gone. I wanted to stay dry, sure, and I would have been happy to be taken inside a good restaurant or even a gaudy bar. But I wanted to be soaked again too. Then again, more simply, I was terrified of the trailer park. I didn’t want to have to rescue myself.

  I said nothing, and we rumbled inside, past trailers both lit and dark, some on blocks and others looking as though they’d pulled in more recently and could get back on the road if they needed to. What had seemed a road disintegrated into a maze unmarked by curbs or street lamps, to the far edge of the grounds. There, Heist pulled up at an Airstream cocked at the edge of another gravel canyon, across which the lights of civilization glittered only distantly. In the sky, a plane sagged toward the shadowy southern mountain range. We left the truck. Heist grabbed the food and made for the Airstream. The bloated silver thing resembled a foil party balloon or toy zeppelin that had sunk to earth, then grown heavy and tarnished in its crater. I had no voice.

  The dogs were happy to see us. I took it as a sign of something. Inside, everything was warm and tiny and curved, fitted blond wood and pale-painted walls, like a ship’s cabin. The surface on which Heist laid out the Indian food was made by a hinged chopping block that swung out across the small range-top. The dogs thronged on the covers of the bed, which formed the entire near end of the Airstream and was the only place to sit. So I sat there, and removed my coat, and they nuzzled my armpits. Behind the savor of the food, I smelled man and dog, a concentrated aroma. It wasn’t a bad one. Heist removed plates and silverware from a compartment tucked above eye level. He also pulled a cork on a bottle of red wine and poured it into two juice glasses. I drank half of mine, and began nosing around with the dogs. They got excited and tried to French me, in rounds and all at once.

  “Who’s this?” I said, without turning to Heist. “I don’t do tongue until properly introduced.”

  Heist reached over me and crowned the dogs with his hand, each in turn. “Jessie, Miller, and Vacuum.”

  “Vacuum?”

  “Vacuum likes to clean up. You’ll see.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  He stood to the counter, pulled a paper carton nearer with a finger and peered inside. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean? Didn’t you order it?” I went for a teasing tone. Five minutes earlier, in the parking lot, I’d wanted to be a supervisor or district attorney to Heist’s rogue cop. Now I’d be his trailer girl.

  “A friend owns the restaurant. It’s called The Blessings. He drops meals off when he’s got extra.”

  “Handouts for you and your strays?”

  “He likes to feed people. I helped him a few times.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean anything.” I swallowed down more wine and Heist refilled my glass. I felt a little crazy already, or still. “Once, in college, my friends and I got really high and crashed a Hare Krishna feast. That might have been the best food I ever tasted.”

  Heist raised his furry eyebrows but said nothing. He only seemed to measure me again, to see if he could fit my lability and sarcasm into the frame of his stillness. The rain was inaudible from within the Airstream, or it had stopped. It was as if we’d been pressure sealed against the outside. Jessie, Miller, Vacuum, Heist, and I, playing sardines, except no one searched for us. The surroundings were imp
ossible now to keep in mind, the labyrinth of identically boxy trailer homes, the barren moonlit darklands extending around and beyond us. I supposed the Airstream’s tiny windows must glow like beacons, but the accordion curtains were sealed tight against any prying eyes. There was at least that. Heist made plates, heaping saag paneer and tikka masala around a long crisp dosa, and handed one to me. As with the coffee, I slurped the food gratefully.

  “You know why I’m dressed like this?” I said with my mouth full.

  “No.”

  “I was going to see dueling pianos. Like, two guys playing two pianos. It’s supposed to be a pretty corny scene—corny but pornographic.”

  “I’ve never tried it.”

  “We could go now!”

  “Maybe it’s time to discuss your situation.”

  “Right, right.” Vacuum shoved his snout under my armpit to scarf a grain of long basmati rice from my cleavage. “My case, you mean. Arabella.”

  “Yes. You had a chance to talk to Sage.”

  “The girl in the Wash, you mean. The one with the toilet.”

  “Yes. What did you think?”

  “She mentioned a man, maybe an older man. A Buddhist.”

  “Yes.”

  “She also, if I got her meaning, said Arabella had been going by my name.”

  “I wanted you to hear that for yourself.”

  “Well, I did.” Apparently it required both Nancy Drew and a Hardy Boy to nail that down. I didn’t say this aloud. “Could I—” I reached past him, to pour myself more red wine. Airstream living was arm’s length living. You could grow drunk and fat in a place like this, if you never needed to walk the dogs.

  “Did it mean anything to you?”

  “What do you mean, did it mean anything to me? You sound like a shrink.” I left my parents out of it, for the moment. “You think Arabella’s my imaginary friend or something? Or I’m hers?”

  “No.”

  “She’s a runaway. She didn’t want to be found. I thought you were good at that sort of thing.”

  He didn’t reply. Unlike Vacuum, Jessie and Miller had remained on their bellies and haunches, front paws sphinxed outward, their brows furrowed as they watched us eat. Now Heist began forking up sauced rice and vegetables and feeding the dogs. They patiently waited their turns—even Vacuum—as Heist went around twice, three times, treating them to samples of the several flavors on his plate. I had to admit the dogs were neater eaters than I was, I who’d relied on my leaned-over plate to catch what had dripped from my fork.

  “Buddhists means up Mount Baldy, right?” It was the destination I’d had in hand before walking into Heist’s office, before even getting on the plane.

  “It could mean that.”

  “So, we’ll go there?”

  “I guess so,” said Heist. “It’s not my favorite place.”

  At this I felt maximum irritation, but it wasn’t as though he’d taken my money, or promised much in particular.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Sure. It’s too late tonight.”

  “Is there more for us to discuss?” I tipped back my glass, found I’d emptied it.

  “Not if you don’t want to.”

  Something had dissipated, or curdled, in my lascivious mood. Curdled, I mean, between me and myself. For Heist? Beholding that hieroglyph face, there could be no way to be sure whether anything of my flirting had landed in the first place. Maybe I’d imagined all reciprocity. My pride bristled.

  “I should have driven my own car,” I said.

  “If you had, I wouldn’t let you use it.”

  Heist didn’t think I could hold two juice glasses’ worth of merlot? Chuck you, Farley. Then I felt my hand, which had been patting absentmindedly at Jessie’s neck and ears, covered by Heist’s. His large rough fingers slid between mine, our hands’ twinned weight resting on the dog’s fur together, barely moving. I looked at his crooked knuckles covering mine, not at his face. Nested in Jessie’s swirling nape, our hands were as complicated as Heist’s face, like an Escher drawing or a sleeve tattoo. There was no relief to be found.

  “I like Jessie best,” I said. “You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “His fur is the reddest.” Maybe I was drunk. “And the softest.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I am. And he’s the noble one. He’s having the deepest thoughts. The others don’t hold a candle to him.”

  “What’s he thinking?”

  “He’s wondering why you don’t have any music around here.” I pulled my hand free of his. “Give me some more wine.” Heist obliged, his eyes wide but also kind. I drank, drooled, all of a sudden utterly looped, having eaten barely anything. I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and Vacuum licked my knuckles clean. I tore off a portion of dosa and tried to eat it, got a few bites in, fed the remainder to Jessie. “I like dogs.”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, I’m a cat person, but I like these dogs on an individual basis.”

  “They’re good dogs.”

  “I have a klaxon in my bag.”

  “I’m not sure I understand. Is klaxon a drug?”

  “A drug?”

  “I don’t mean anything illegal. It sounds like an antidepressant.”

  “No, stupid, it’s, you know, a little horn.”

  “A little horn?”

  “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t kiss men with facial hair.”

  “That’s fine.”

  I kissed him. In the company of the dogs, anything short of tongues struck me as pathetically Victorian. I couldn’t keep mine in my mouth anyhow. The dogs rose, adjusted to our positions, settled again. They nestled near to form a hairy life preserver. The exception was Vacuum, who, following his own script, went to the floor for my plate. Heist had set it there. He’d moved entirely onto the bed without my being certain when.

  “It’s too bright.”

  Heist switched the lamps. I took the moment to smooth down my skirt but also to undo the top button of my blouse. I had boobs, after all. He’d never once glanced to see, or I’d never caught him.

  I put both my hands into Heist’s fascinating hair, the radiant waves of his temples. It felt coarse, not greasy. My fingers sank in to caress his skull. His eyes were closed. I kissed his eyelid, turned his head with the pressure of my palms, put my nose and lips to his strong-cabled neck. At last his hands found me, stroking my shoulder and back as if I were one of the dogs. I blew wine breath in his ear, bit his lobe. I might be steaming up the whole Airstream like a bag of takeout. I wished for Heist to uncrimp my foil.

  “Who did you vote for?” I whispered.

  “Sorry?”

  “Don’t answer, never mind, forget I asked.” It might be as germane as asking the same question of the dogs. I ran my hand inside the famous red jacket. Shifting toilets into levees and corralling strays of all species apparently kept Heist perfectly muscled, not a phony cowboy with a pickup. I smelled him, put my nose close and licked his clavicle.

  “Say something.”

  “What?”

  “Practically anything, words, just so I don’t have to listen to my own heavy breathing.”

  “You feel amazing.”

  “You haven’t even really felt me yet.”

  “So far.”

  “You’re okay so far too.” His stomach was bumpy, like an underwear model’s. I’d usually scorned the look, but to smooth his furry terrain with my hand was just now my favorite thing. Before I knew it, I was under the waist of his jeans and held his hard cock.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said.

  “I want to.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “I’m not. I mean, I could be drunker.”

  “Oh god.”

  He was uncircumcised, another thing I didn’t like before and now did, this splendid unshucking of his oyster-pink, rubbery self. I covered him with my mouth, just embraced the p
ulsing head. Then nursed, really suckled for a minute, while he twisted his body and moaned into Jessie’s fur, ending with a sudden mouthful for me.

  So often I’d turned away, used my hand. Not now. I wanted what he had, or was drunk enough. Sweet behind the salt; a vegetarian, I found myself guessing. Vacuum sprang for my face, but I shoved him off. In my journey down Heist’s length I’d slid to my knees, off the bed and onto the floor. Now I climbed back into the dogpile.

  One hand covered Heist’s face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “That was sudden.”

  “Listen, if you hadn’t been responsive, I’d be pretty sure I’d raped you.” I pried a finger, like a starfish from a rock. Underneath, his cheeks were tear-streaked, trailing into his sideburns. “What’s the matter?”

  “Sorry. It’s been a while.”

  “You don’t always cry when you come, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, because that would be weird. Kiss me.” I shoved the hand I’d peeled from Heist’s face between my legs and put my mouth to his. Predictably, also honorably, he tried shifting south. “No,” I whispered. “Just touch me with your hand.” I was swamped, totally awash, could imagine him drowning there. Anyway, I wanted to see his face. If he’d gone below my horizon and begun licking, I’d have thought too much of the dogs.

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t need understanding. I need to come.” I scooted my skirt up around my waist, guided his hand into my underwear. “That. Yes.” I really was oceanic. “I just want you to see what you’re dealing with here.” It wasn’t going to take much. I could draft off his rhythm, follow him right across the finish line, if he could only keep his blunt fingers from slipping off the right spot. I closed my eyes, licked my lips. One of the dogs began whining. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—”

  “What?”

  “No, don’t stop, oh fuck!”

  I clutched his arm, felt the muscles twitching through the leather jacket as his fingers worked not too inexpertly. I climbed it like a tree and screamed at the top. The whining dog—Vacuum, I think, feeling left out of things there on the floor—barked sharply once. The Feral Detective cradled me as a parent does a child, until I brusquely pushed him off.