"Sure. It must have been part of the conversation you had with Dan Jewell last Sunday. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd taped the interview. I thought you'd gone to the studio in person ......"
The blood rushing through Z's veins drowned out whatever Susan said next.
Tape.
Without Z being aware of it, Jewell had taped their conversation. No quotes, the slippery little man had promised. And as Susan had pointed out without realizing what she was saying, Jewell hadn't "quoted" Z. The little bastard had used Z's comments directly!
Z's next thought was of pulling off a Howard Kunkle-style "accident" for the D.J. -- though it didn't matter whether or not Dan, the P.P. Jewell met with a similar fate. The damage had been done, moreover, done all over Kansas City, the radio carrying Z's "running-off-at-the-mouth disease" faster than a rat could spread the plague. The only remaining question was what Jewell had used of their conversation.
Thinking back -- Z apparently more "liquored up" than he'd realized at the time -- Z had trouble remembering what he'd said.
"What was used?" He'd gotten a grip on himself at last, Susan's jabber petering out in the meantime.
"Something about what detectives do for a living."
Good news! Drunk as he was, he hadn't told Jewell the truth about that.
"And about some of your successful cases."
Z's memory was a good bit fuzzier about what he'd said in that regard.
"Let me think." Susan paused. "You said you did divorce cases. And sometimes were a bodyguard, like you were for me." So far, so good. "Something about getting a contractor to honor his agreement. You never told me about that."
"It wasn't much."
"I'll bet!" Susan never liked being left out. "Then you lowered the boom on the police captain."
Lowered the ... boom? "Were any names mentioned?"
"Oh, yes. The captain's name was Scherer. Mr. Jewell said the captain's name a number of times. Like he would ask you a question about Captain Scherer and you would give one of your short answers, but with a lot of force, if you know what I mean."
"Like ... what?"
"Let's see." Susan, thinking. Z trembling. "The D.J. asked you about the captain, and you said he was more interested in his political career than in law enforcement."
"I ... what!?"
"Not in so many words, but that was the idea. And ... Oh, here's something I thought was particularly good. So good, it stuck in my mind. Let's see. The D. J said, 'If he's so bad,' meaning the captain -- 'how does he keep his job?' And you answered, 'Criminals are generally dumber than Scherer.'"
Z had no memory of saying that. At least, not that way.
"Then you said that the captain couldn't find rotten meat with a bloodhound." Susan laughed. "I didn't know you had a sense of humor like that."
Humor.
"And then something about your being smarter than the captain because you tracked down a lady when he couldn't."
As humorous as setting fire to your balls.
"Anyway, I wanted to call and congratulate you. I'm sure you'll be getting a lot more business soon."
Z was also sure he'd be getting "the business."
"I know you're coming over tonight, but with all the hustle and bustle at the seance, I didn't want to forget to tell you I'd heard your interview."
"Right."
"See you, tonight."
"Right."
They hung up.
Z had been had. The liquor. The interview being taped without his knowledge. A little "cut and paste" here, some "out of context there." But nothing like what would happen to him once Scherer heard what Z had blabbed to all of Kansas City.
To say nothing of still having to face the uncertainties of tonight's seance!
And so it was that the afternoon ended like the morning had begun, with a quantity of "goddamn son of a bitches" fired at one file cabinet and an abundance of "hairy-pawed pussy-lickers" hurled at the other.
* * * * *
Chapter 10
By that evening, Z had gotten enough control of himself to feel sheepish about how he'd been acting -- particularly, about sitting around his office, swearing. Since his Mother had been dead set against profanity, he'd not done that much cussing -- wasn't that good at it. While an experienced swearer raised blaspheming to an art, Z was in the minor leagues when compared to the professional cursers of this world -- sailors, drill sergeants, and anti-gay moralists.
Susan had called once more to tell him that the time of the seance was ten o'clock, total darkness necessary for "spiritual manifestations." Spiritual manifestations? Over the phone, Z couldn't tell if Susan had said that tongue-in-cheek or with a straight face. In the one case, he was still talking to the girl he loved; in the other, he had a duty to call for the men in the white coats.
Z had put on his best shirt: the short-sleeved blue one with the white Z monogram on the sleeve, the shirt Susan had given him for his birthday. He had on his black slacks, the ones she liked. Taking a page from Teddy's book, he'd even found a can of mostly dried-up shoe polish at the back of his hall closet to have a go at shining his shoes.
"Ready" at last, he'd cranked up the Cavalier on this mildly hazy summer night and drifted off down 72nd. At the light, he'd turned left on Oak, to be immediately caught up in what appeared to be mostly teenage traffic, Z herded along at twenty miles per hour above the speed limit. High schoolers -- with nowhere to go and nothing to do after they got there -- were always in a hurry. Another of life's mysteries.
Approaching the private access road to the Bircane apartment complex, Z came up on the newly built sex shop in a national chain of soft porn stores. "Sex toys," said a billboard out front. "Party gags."
Z wondered what was meant by "gags." Could mean jokes. Could mean .... But he didn't want to think about that. A flashing light marquee on the red and white facility promised "adult" videos (in Z's day, called stag films.) As for "adult entertainment," from seeing similar movies, Z knew there was nothing "adult" about them. What was "adult" about pointless sex scenes so badly plotted, acted, and filmed they could barely arouse the perpetually horny?
On the other hand, watching staged contests between man and silicone made more sense to Z than the placards carried by religious people who routinely picketed sex shops, the favorite sign of today's Jesus Jumper saying: "Real Men Don't Use Porn." Z wondered if that slogan meant what it seemed to imply: that "real" (meaning religious) men were so overheated they didn't need sex shows to arouse their lust.
Seeing the beat-up old broads who picketed with their oversexed mates, Z couldn't help but feel inferior to the lumpy ladies' husbands. If Z was expected to "make it" with women that ugly, he'd need a crane to get it up.
Past the sex "toys," shop, leaving the traffic by turning right, Z now coasted down a two-lane, blacktop road, then into a country lane that led to the Bircane. A complex of moderate to upscale apartments, the Bircane's wooden structures trimmed with used brick, dark-stained timber, and expensive shake-shingle roofs. Wood and brick duplexes, triplexes, quads -- none with shutters.
"Weather-wise," it was a perfect August night, low clouds, but no threat of rain, a cool, woodsy-scented breeze rustling the trees.
Rolling through the outback parking lot, Z pulled into a slot beside a large, bent-up (but newly painted) green dumpster behind Susan's building. Switched off the engine and killed his lights.
Leaving the lot, he climbed a four-step wood stairway that led to a log bridge spanning a moat.
Going down the other side, Z entered the breeze way bisecting Susan's quad; then hooked left to Susan's front door.
Susan's privacy -- to say nothing of her safety -- was "guarded" by the cheapest possible door, the hollow kind today's builders put on all apartments and most high-priced homes. (High dollar didn't mean high quality like it used to.)
Z had installed a deadbolt for Susan. But if the door itself shattered ...?
He knocked. Two thuds.
Sou
nded ... timid. If you tapped just twice, it seemed like you were afraid to disturb the occupant -- in this case, close to the truth. An aggressive, four-time knock, heralded either a cookie-wielding Girl Scout or two Mormon missionaries. Knocking three times sounded ... just right. Z wondered why.
The door opened, a dark-haired young woman peeking out, a girl he'd never seen before. Did he have the wrong ...?
"Mr. Zapolska?" she ventured timidly, her small face screwed up like a baby with the colic.
"Yeah."
She brightened. "Susan's busy in back. Asked me to answer the door. Come on in." In spite of the impact of Z's looks, she was now able to smile.
Stepping inside the tiny, wallpapered entranceway, Z saw that the woman -- girl, really -- was dressed in what looked like a World War II sailor suit, round canvas gob-hat on the back of her head. She had on a navy blue pea jacket (except in summer-weight material and cut shorter than its seagoing counterpart,) the jacket altered to become an open vest. A white neckerchief was slip-knotted around her throat to support what looked like her high school ring. Dark blue pants, flared at the ankles over white canvas "deck" shoes.
She was wearing perfume. Something ... fruity.
Pretty, but without Susan's figure ... or length of leg. She did have a cute, button nose.
Even though the girl looked brighter than the normal "insurance toiler," she had to be one of the "colleagues" Susan had spoken about inviting.
Another step took them into the living room.
The apartment was the same -- formal, in an ultra-modern way. Blue and black. Steel and glass, Z feeling that Susan had decorated the apartment like this because she associated her former, more comfortable, residence with her maniac husband -- now safely dead.
Closing out that sad period of her life, she'd needed radical change. In living quarters. And, lucky for Z, in men.
Z hoped this cubist phase would eventually wear off, Z longing for the day Susan would go back to restful furniture, to thick rugs before the hearth, to sofas suitable for romance.
Meanwhile, with brief apology, the girl had disappeared, probably to help Susan "in back."
The doorbell buzzed. ....
That's right!
There was a button out front. Somehow, Z had never learned to use it. Had always knocked. ....
Could this be why Susan seemed to know when it was Z at the door?
Feeling a little foolish, Z walked back to the door and opened it to find another woman-girl, this one looking about as scared of him from the outside as the first girl had been from within. Big and ugly did that to people.
"Susan's busy. In back," Z said. "I'm Bob Zapolska."
"Oh, yes. I've ... heard about you. The detective." She managed a wan smile on her thin but pleasant face.
"Come in," Z said, standing aside for her.
Stepping inside, then into the living room, the woman's rapid appraisal of the place told Z this was the first time she'd been invited. "This is ... nice," she said appreciatively. Since Susan was older, had been with the firm longer, Susan no doubt made more money than the girl -- was what she really meant. Not that any of the company serfs were paid a fraction of what the top guys made: executive salaries, plus perks, plus bonuses all "earned" by cheating the little guy.
This young woman was taller than the first one, though shorter than Susan. Slender, more because she was young than because she was exercise-firm. She had straight, semi-long blond hair that curled under at the edges, dark eyes, and an aristocratic -- sometimes called Roman -- nose. Was wearing a pink, boat-neck sweater of summer-fluffy rayon and slim khaki slacks. Inch-and-a-half loops of lacquered brass dangled from her ears, a single serpentine of gold around one wrist.
She smelled like ... girl.
Pretty classy for a secretary.
Z was beginning to think he should get to know more of Susan's friends.
"I see you've met." No longer "in back," breathtaking Susan had slipped into the room. Tonight, she wore a softly draped, gray/green linen dress, with long sleeves cuffed at her slender wrists. Open-throated, convertible collar. Flap, chest pockets ... looking delightfully full. The dress buttoned halfway down to be cinched at the waist with a two-inch belt, its hem cut well above the knee to show off a considerable length of shapely leg.
Giving Susan's outfit an appreciative look, Z concentrated on the real Susan. He loved her hair -- vinyl-shiny black. Shoulder-length. Gently curled in a rumpled sort of way. Her eyes were so deep a blue they could look black at night. Her lips, generous -- in more ways than one. Teeth, not perfectly straight, the kind that spoke of sincerity and making it on your own.
As usual, she looked fit and tanned; tan, her natural color. Susan never tanned.
"We haven't met formally," the second girl said. "I'm June." The girl bravely stuck out her hand.
Z shook, carefully.
"This is Z," Susan said.
"I know."
The first girl now came in from "the back."
"Rachel, this is Z."
While not offering to shake, Rachel did manage a nice smile.
"We might as well sit down," Susan said, encouraging them to do so by sitting herself on one end of the blue, uncomfortably low-backed divan.
Feeling he should do something to help, Z sat on the other end of the sofa -- squatted on, would be more like it, the sofa's iron frame digging him just below the shoulder blades when he tried to lean back.
The other women picked rigidly straight chairs, drawing them up on the other side of the steel and glass coffee table, then perched in them gracefully, as much at home in these anti-human seats as birds on power lines.
Silence.
A silence that gave Z hope. Maybe Jamie would do the decent thing and not show up. If that happened, the four of them now present would spend an hour in pointlessly polite conversation -- like people did who didn't know each other -- after that, the two insurance girls going home.
Leaving Z and Susan unchaperoned!
"Would you like something to drink?" Susan asked nervously. Z shook his head. Though his mouth was as dry as toast, he didn't think he could swallow ... air.
"I had a late supper," June said, also shaking her head.
"You got any gin?" Rachel asked.
"Uh ... No. I don't think so." Like Z, Susan wasn't much of a drinker. "The best I can do is white wine. And, of course, Coke ... Diet Coke," she said, looking apologetically at the women, then grinning down the sofa at Z to remind him she stocked the nasty stuff for him.
"Wine would be great," Rachel said, with a toss of springy curls.
Susan scrambling up to disappear "in back," the other women were trapped with Z in the silence of the room.
Z never knew what to say to women.
Just as clearly, the women didn't know what to say to Z. Did they ask him about his cases? If so, what was the polite way of going about that? He could see thoughts like that whirling behind their eyes.
If the women knew each other, they apparently thought it impolite to talk shop in front of Z, meaning that, without Susan to bridge the gap between her guests, Z and the women would remain, forever, mute.
As Z was considering an poignant comment about the weather, Susan returned, a glass, corkscrew, and magnum-sized wine bottle in one hand, a tray of uncooked vegetables and toy sandwiches in the other -- and Z's diet coke, in a glass, no less -- Susan putting the tray on the coffee table, the women making the proper murmuring noises about the variety of food and how good it all looked.
The wine ceremony took another minute, Susan corkscrewing the stopper, popping out the cork, pouring a full glass, Rachel accepting the medium-sized tumbler to drain the contents in four gulps, handing the glass back so Susan could pour her another drink before Susan sat down. Z's judgment was that, if Jamie didn't get here soon, Rachel might be sleeping over. Under the couch.
Putting the bottle within easy reach of thirsty Rachel, Susan sat down again. "We're all here, but ... the guest of hono
r." Susan tried to smile.
Silence. Except for the sound of Rachel swallowing.
The hostess with the duty of jump-starting the party, Susan tried again. "What did you do at work today?"
"Nothing," Rachel said, reaching for the bottle to fill her "flagon." (Remembering the dated word flagon reminded Z of a bit of silly movie dialogue that went: "The chalice from the palace has the brew that is true, but the flagon with the dragon ....")
"Me, either," June was saying, the girl looking at the ceiling.
Z knew what was wrong. Rachel and June were nervous. And why not? They were about to experience something (the seance) that was completely foreign to them. Attending a seance -- seeming like such fun at work, in the daytime -- now struck them as a little ... frightening. People talked about how much "fun" it was to have "new experiences," but found it more enjoyable to talk about flying to Tahiti, boating in the Everglades, or eating Mongolian "cuisine," than to actually do it. Most people found "new experiences" more frightening than pleasurable.
Z wasn't worried about the seance. Mostly, he had to admit, because on the nights he and Jamie had worked together on the ghost house case, he'd learned that Jamie, girl ghost hunter, thought all that supernatural stuff was bunk! Z's fear was caused by his having no idea what little Jamie had in mind for this evening's "entertainment." Always uncertain about any woman's desires, Z was terrified by what might be the imaginative needs of Jamie Stewart!
The doorbell buzzed.
So much for Z's prayer that the ghost hunter had a change of heart about this evening's torture.
Getting up quickly, Susan crossed the room to enter the "foyer."
An exchange of "Hi" at the door had the two women appearing in the living room, Susan towering over Jamie Stewart.
Jamie. Same short blond hair. Same perky, blue-eyed face. Same "endowed" look on top. And yet ....?
What was different about Jamie was that she was wearing a dress, a slinky, black, long-sleeved dress. V-necked. Plain. The skirt flaring dramatically into princess pleats, the hem swishing just below the knee. (While Jamie's legs were certainly pleasing to ... look at, the girl didn't have Susan's fashion model "gams.")
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