by David Pierce
"Let's all wait for Mr. Nu together, gents," I said pleasantly. "Let us do that, just to please an old busybody."
"Hey, man, no sweat," the tall one said. "What is this anyway?"
They weren't bad, for amateurs. With no signal between them that I could see, the one on the driver's side, the side away from me, wrenched the door open and jumped in while the tall one pulled out some kind of popgun (a homemade .22, we found out later) and fired three quick shots at me. Luckily for me he was on the move when he fired; he was jumping for the door on his side, and all he did was (again, I found out later) drill two neat holes in the left leg of my second-favorite cords. I assumed the position—a half crouch, feet planted firmly apart, left hand holding the weapon, the right hand under the wrist of the left hand—and caught the kid in his upper right shoulder just before he got all the way into the cab. The one in the driver's seat revved the motor, and I thought he was going to try to make a run for it, but he left it too long. I put the next two shots into the windshield, shooting high on purpose; he cut the motor and that was that.
Mrs. Morales popped out her back door about then to see what all the commotion was about. I asked her to please call the cops and an ambulance pronto and to keep everyone else inside, all of which she did without going into hysterics or asking any foolish questions. The cops arrived surprisingly quickly. Too late to be of any help, of course, but still quickly, closely followed by an ambulance and then two more cop cars.
I told my story for the first time, but far from the last, to a sergeant from one of the squad cars who seemed only mildly interested, but when he started slipping in the occasional trick question, I realized his uninterested manner was just part of his technique. The ambulance took off with the wounded youth. Two of the squad cars left. One of the remaining cops tried Mr. Nu's back door, but it had locked automatically and hadn't been forced; the boys must have gotten hold of some legitimate keys somehow.
I told my story again in my office, this time for a lieutenant, and produced my firearms license and investigator's permit without being asked. The only lie I told was I said I'd pegged the tall one from just inside my premises, from the doorway. As bizarre as it may seem, I could legally have a weapon at the office or at home or in my car, but not about my person out in the brave, cruel new world. The lieutenant didn't believe me, but he let it pass, given the satisfactory outcome of it all. I made a date with him to go down to the station and make a formal statement; then we went back outside. A cop sealed the back doors of the van and drove it off to the police pound; in all the excitement no one had remembered to get the keys from the driver, who had automatically pocketed them, so someone had to radio in the van's model and year, and finally someone else showed up with a spare set. I wondered vaguely how much of Mr. Nu's merchandise would be left when the van's contents were finally released to him. I wondered how hurt the man I'd shot was. A lot, I hoped. I do not get a thrill out of shooting people, but I get far less of one being shot at. And then, of course, there is the expense: the kind of bullets I use, copper points, cost roughly eighteen bucks for fifty, which works out at about thirty-six cents each (plus tax). I wondered vaguely how late I would be for lunch with Sara.
I locked up and then, ears still ringing and adrenaline still pumping, strolled the few blocks to Sam's Turf 'n' Surf, and found out. Sara was already there, walking impatiently up and down the sidewalk in front.
"You're twenty-two minutes late," she informed me coldly. "Here. My latest report." She held out a sheet of paper. I took it and stuffed it in a back pocket, then calmed her down by telling her why I was twenty-two minutes late and letting her poke her finger through the holes in my slacks. When we were finally settled into a booth across from the charcoal grill and after I'd complimented her on the luggage strap she was wearing as a necklace, I said to her, "Sara, I've got a big favor to ask."
"So ask," she said, handing me a menu. "Better put your glasses on, Prof, the print's kinda fine." In fact, the menu was written in huge letters.
"Maybe I don't have any right to ask," I said, "but I don't know who else to turn to." I bit my lip and looked away.
"Well come on, Prof, out with it." She waved one hand, the one without the glove, wildly in the air to try and get the waitress's attention.
"Better we eat first," I said. "Perhaps I'll feel better with some nourishment in me."
So we ate—me, a reasonable rib steak; her, grilled lobster tails with melted butter—then I got out the violins again. I told her about Billy, about us being kids together and growing up together and what his present predicament was and how I felt that I had to try and help him somehow.
"Natch," she said, wiping most of the butter off her chin with her gloved hand.
"I'm going to need all the help I can get," I said, making a sizable dent in my second bottle of beer. "Benny leaves tonight for a preliminary look around. I figure on going down there in a few days, and I'd like you to come with me. I'll need a skilled assistant there aside from Benny."
"Terrific," she said, giving my arm a couple of friendly punches. "Ready when you are, Prof. You'll have to square it with Mom, though, but she won't be any problem."
"I'll tell you what will be," I said. "You know what the Mexicans are like about punks."
"Yeah," she said proudly. "They hate us, like everyone else, 'cause they're afraid of us."
"Not only that," I said. "They are so blind and intolerant they won't even let you into their country looking like you do. Do you know there have been a lot of cases reported in the papers lately where they've arrested Mexican punks and forcibly shaved their heads and made them put on proper clothes? It's medieval, if you ask me." I shook my head sadly.
"You said it," she said. "What a bunch."
"I absolutely agree," I said fervently. "But here's what it comes down to, Sara. I need your help. But for once you can't help me looking like you do, because I need your help south of the border and south of the border they will not let you go looking like you look. Also, looking like you look can't help me in the first place because for reasons that I will reveal later"—when I've thought of them, I thought—"you'll have to pose as a nice, pretty, conventional American girl, like a secretary type or, say, an airline hostess."
"Yecch," Sara said loudly.
"I know, dear," I said sympathetically, patting the cleaner of her two hands, although there wasn't a lot in it. "So the sacrifice I am asking you to make for me, for Billy, is to pretend you're normal for a while."
She gave me a look, so I hastily went on.
"Now come on, Sara, you know what I mean. What the world thinks of as normal. Hair that's all one color and that doesn't stick up a foot. A dress. Heels. Nylons that aren't riddled with holes. A purse instead of a horse's feed bag. Ah, hell, it's too much to ask, maybe we'd better forget it. To hell with Billy, let him rot. I haven't seen him for twenty years anyway."
"Yeah, to hell with Billy," she said absently, noisily slurping the last of the melted ice from the bottom of her Coke glass. "How long did you say it would be for?"
"A couple of days, a week, I don't know exactly."
I counted out some money for the bill, leaving a generous sixty-cent tip. "But forget it, babe, it's too much to ask. I can probably get someone else. Benny's got a sister someplace."
"Why do you call Willing Boy Willing Boy?" she then asked out of the blue. "He does have a real name."
"I know," I said. "He told me once. Gorgeous George. What's he got to do with the price of apples?"
"Oh, nothing," she said, reddening slightly.
But nothing was what I was not a detective for, and it did not take me long to deduce that (a) young Sara was smitten with Willing Boy and (b) he must have made some passing reference to her bizarre appearance—as in, Why? I almost felt sorry for the airhead, since it seemed that she was getting pressure put on her from both the men in her life, but then I remembered Evonne's theory and realized that Sara was only getting what she secretly wanted,
so what was there to be sorry about?
When we were out on the sidewalk in front of Sam's, I made one more pitch, an unhittable spitball that dropped at least a foot.
"Sara," I said somberly, "I know you. I know you would never change or even bend your principles for anything, let alone a man, whoever that man may be. I figured, though, that there was an outside chance that if some bigger principle was involved—call it what you will, justice, friendship, loyalty—well, I guess I was wrong. Don't feel bad. I'll send you a card and let you know how it all turns out." I gave her ungloved hand a sincere shake and turned to go.
"Know what?" she said. "You're so obvious it's pathetic. You're so full of it it's seeping out through your enlarged pores."
"Sara!" I said. "Language!"
"You didn't have to go through that whole hammy number. What do you think I would have done if you had just said simply, 'I need your help, pal. Go away and come back in two hours looking like Doris Day in Pillow Talk'?"
"You would have come back in two hours looking like Doris Day," I said. "But it wouldn't have been nearly so much fun."
CHAPTER SIX
After lunch I kept my appointment at the East Valley Station and made a formal statement about the morning's attempted robbery. I must say things have really speeded up in places like police stations since the introduction of computer technology; making the deposition, having it typed up, and signing all three copies only took me the whole afternoon. Then I fought my way through the rush hour traffic to Tony's, picked up Mom, reentered the demolition derby, and drove us back to my place. She was in a good mood; Feeb came up to say hello and have a gossip and invite us both downstairs for supper. I pleaded a (nonexistent) former engagement. Feeb mentioned she was cooking her famous clam rissole, never one of my favorites.
As Evonne was busy doing something with one of her girl friends that evening—she'd told me but I'd forgotten what; I think it had something to do with clay—that left me on my own. After watching the boob tube for a while, I donned a clean Hawaiian shirt, made a man-from-Mars face at myself in the mirror, brushed my hair gingerly so as not to dislodge, let alone uproot, any more of my thinning tresses, and betook myself out for a stroll and a bite and mayhap a brandy and ginger or two and certainly a rumination or two. God knows I had plenty to ruminate about.
After a plate of corned beef 'n' cabbage and a wedge of cheesecake at an indifferent local deli, I made my way to one of my favorite spots for ruminating—the rear table at Dave's Corner Bar, the one facing the pool table and next to the pinball machine. I noticed a new sign on the wall behind the bar: "In God we trust. But if you're not the head of MGM, it's cash on the line." While I was reaching for my wallet to pay for the first drink, I found Prickle Head's report. I reproduce it here, as it will tell you far more about her than any poor words of mine could.
Tues. Sept. 22. 5.45 P.M.
CONFIDENTIAL REPORT No 14.
From Agent S. S. to V. D. (Ha-ha)
My poetic musings interrupted by el Cheapo on le phone;
Surprised he didn't call collect.
Later, chez lui, après mucho grumble & moan,
He revealed to me my latest delect-
Able assignment—roller skating for measly bucks
From A to B—I said it sucks.
But what's a girl to do?
This babe needs new shoes too.
Does she ever, I thought. And how about new everything else?
When Willing Boy gave me the eye
To heat him up I flashed some thigh—
From whence comes this wierd sexual power over men?
V. D. leant me his $5.00 Timex, and then
Off we all went on our A to B chore
That could have been done by a simpleton, more
Or less. Mostly less. Then—hang on to your wig,
We trekked from A to B again—can you dig?
Is this any life for a spirit like mine,
Is this the fodder on which my thirsty soul must dine?
Didst Katherine Mansfield skate through the grime . . .
There was more, but enough's enough, especially after corned beef 'n' cabbage. "From whence comes this wierd sexual power over men." She had about as much sexual power over men as Ma Kettle. What a twerp. And in rhyme, suddenly. What happened to the flowing free verse of yesteryear? I must have a serious talk with her someday, like in the next century, about the passé-ness and déjà vu–ness of rhyming couplets that weren't even couplets.
But pondering on Sara's lamentable limitations as a poetess was not what I was ensconced in Dave's Corner Bar for. I was there to ponder over such trifles as how to spring Billy from an unknown Mexican can, what to do with him (and the rest of us) afterward, what to do with Mom while I was away, and what to say to the Silvettis, Sara's parents.
Somewhere between the third and the fourth brandy and ginger ale, I began to get a useful idea or two. Carla, Dave's latest bar girl, a stacked redhead if ever I've seen one (and I have seen one, more than one—further details on request), kindly provided me with a pen and a handful of cocktail napkins to make notes on. All the napkins had illustrated jokes on them; the one I started with depicted an attendant in an insane asylum remarking to another attendant, "There's a lady on the phone wants to know have we had any female patients escape recently." "How come?" says the other attendant. "Because," the first says, "she says someone just ran off with her husband."
The problem was, of course, that there was only so much, or rather so little, I could do from where I was, not having any idea of what we'd be up against down in the Yucatán, land of contrasts, where the old nudges the new, etc. So after covering some three or four napkins with mostly undecipherable scribbles, I gave up and applied myself to a more immediate challenge: beating the pantaloons off Bill the Butcher at Eight Ball. And I would have too, if he hadn't distracted me in the third game when we were one game all; as I was lining up my shot, he took a swig of his Coors, gargled noisely with it, and I scratched off the black.
So I took myself over to the Two-Two-Two for a nightcap and then, like a good boy, went home, looked in on Mom, downed a glass of buttermilk, and curled up in bed with a good book, just the kind I liked, a detective story in which the private op was older than me but still got the girl.
. . .
Bits and pieces were what the next couple of days were. Bits and pieces were what a lot of my days were, since many of my jobs were little more than errands involving one trip somewhere or keeping an eye on someone or something for a few hours. Someday I planned on penning a short but pithy essay on bits and pieces.
On Wednesday, for example, I started off by phoning Lt. L. Carstairs, whom Sneezy had told me had been the arresting officer the last time Peter "Goose" Berry had been picked up for being naughty. But the lady cop on the switchboard down at South Station told me Lt. Carstairs was off sick for a week, and I didn't want to bother him at home, even if he was there and not off being sick shooting craps in Reno. Which meant the case of the beleaguered basketball player would remain in limbo for a while longer.
Then I had a visit from the Nu clan, all of them—the Nus from next door with their grown-up kids, Johnny and Linda, and the diminutive Mr. Nu from next door to them. Mr. Nu was just back from the local police station, where he'd heard the whole story, and he'd come by to thank me for my efforts on his behalf, which he did with great politeness and not a little dignity. The Nus graciously invited me and any other guests I might care to bring to eat with them that evening. I accepted for myself and Evonne politely, with considerable dignity of my own. Mr. Nu pressed a large package on me as an additional thank you; when all had left, I opened it and discovered not what I was secretly fearing, a selection of the latest in adult videos, but a gorgeous brand-new matrix printer to go with my Apple II, something I'd long wanted so badly that although I might not have killed for one, I certainly would have severely wounded for one, as I had done, come to think about it.
I got my comp
uter out of the safe and was fiddling around trying to hook up the printer when Benny called from darkest Yucatán.
"¡Amigo!" he said. "¿Cómo estás?"
"OK, OK," I said. "How about you?"
"Muy bien, compadre," he said. "I'm at the San Carlos, on the top floor near the pool, room 333. Got it?"
I said I had it.
"Just reporting in," he said. "I'll call later with all the news."
"Attaboy, Benny," I said. "Soon as you can. And, Benny, at the risk of pulverizing your feelings, when you do phone with the real McCoy, be careful you don't go through too many strange switchboards."
"That's why I'm calling later," Benny said. "Buenos días, amigo."
"The same to you with bells on," I said.
He hung up. So did I. The phone rang again immediately. It was my nearest and dearest, my favorite blonde in the whole wide world and then some.
"Don't be a smart aleck" was the first thing she said.
"I haven't said a word," I said.
"No, but you will," she said. "So don't."
"Evonne, my little cherry cheesecake," I said, "what are you talking about?"
"You'll find out," she said. I heard a click in my ear, the click that the phone makes when someone hangs up on you.
I shrugged. Ah, the ladies, I mused, not for the first time, and then went back to fiddling with the printer. I had just gotten to the stage where according to the instructions everything was connected properly and there was power everywhere and I had entered all the right instructions but the thing still wouldn't work, when I had to pack everything away and lock up and drive downtown to the courtrooms on top of the old County Sheriff Building and give evidence in a fraud case I'd worked on for Mel the Swell six months ago. What happened was, this sucker bought a small piece of real estate out in the canyon, part of a whole development, on which he was planning to build his dream house, but he found out accidentally almost immediately afterward to his shock, to say nothing of his horror, that the company he purchased the land from did have legitimate title to it, all right, but it did not have planning permission to build dream houses or any other kind.