by David Pierce
The front door was open, so I went in. The inside looked marginally more traditional, if you discount the deep rose wall-to-wall carpeting, and after all this was California. There were several of what I took to be confessional booths on either side of the entrance at the back, then the rows of empty pews, with a large statue on either side of the lectern up front. I couldn't see any officials or priests or nuns or cardinals or popes about so I took a seat at the back and tried to remember the last time I'd been in a Catholic church. It would have been at least five years ago out in Venice for the funeral of a friend of me and my brother, actually one of his best friends, old Ed, who had been his mentor, or rabbi, as they say, when he first joined the police. Old Ed had killed himself one Sunday afternoon about three months after his retirement, in his kitchen, but the department let out that it had been accidental to try and make it easier for the widow, to avoid any problems with his pension or insurance and to make it possible for him to have a proper Catholic burial in consecrated ground. Then I thought about Mr Lubinski and gold, then I ran out of things to think about so I just sat there looking down at my big feet.
Finally a priest came into the church from a door up behind the lectern I hadn't noticed and after genuflecting he made his way down the center aisle toward me. I followed him out into the vestibule and found him thumbtacking a piece of paper up on the noticeboard beside the door. When I got closer I saw it was headed 'Sport's news from the All-Catholic Basketball League'.
'Excuse me,' I said, keeping my voice low. 'Have you a minute?'
'I do indeed,' he said loudly, holding out a hand. 'I'm Father Sean.'
'Victor Daniel,' I said. He shook my hand vigorously. He was a young man with a pale, freckled face, in full uniform complete with dog-collar.
'Pardon my ignorance, Father,' I said, 'but are you in charge here?'
'I am not,' he said. 'That would be Father O'Keefe but he's away for the day.'
'Ah,' I said. 'I suppose he's a very busy man.'
'He is indeed,' said the Father with a straight face. 'His golfing duties alone take up three afternoons a week.'
I laughed; we moved more or less by common consent out on to the wide front steps. He looked up at the cloudy January sky, sighed with pleasure, at what I couldn't figure out, then asked me how he could be of help.
I asked him if he knew most of his parishioners. He told me he knew most of the regular churchgoers, certainly. I then told him of my visit from Mrs 'Gillespie' and that I was worried about her and wanted to see her again and as I suspected she was both local and a regular worshipper, wondered if he could help me locate her. When I described her and her recent injuries, he said, 'Oh, dear God, that poor woman. Yes of course I know her. I've talked to her many times and so has Father O'Keefe and it's to our great sorrow we've not been able to help her.'
'Well, maybe I can,' I said.
He gave me a long look.
'Maybe I'm not bound by quite the same restrictions you are,' I said.
'I very much doubt that you are,' he said. He turned and looked up at the front of his church. 'Is beauty entirely in the eye of the beholder?'
I told him I'd never thought about it much.
He turned back to me. 'Mr Daniel, we are obliged to follow, strictly follow, the Catholic pronunciamento on divorce, which is roughly that we are against it in almost all circumstances even if one of the parties involved is from time to time being physically abused by the other party. The wisdom of such a stipulation and the anomalies it often produces are constantly being debated by the appropriate church authorities as well as by us lesser mortals, as obviously no one likes to see needless suffering. However, we are bound to live by church law and to live within it. I would hate to admit publicly that there are times when prayer and faith and charity and love of God and respect for fellow human beings are not enough, but I am also not blind. Perhaps you can do something for her that we can't. Her name is Mary Bridget Donovan, her husband's name is Kevin. They have no children and they live in an apartment building called the Palmettos on Belvedere Drive. I've been there several times but I don't recall the apartment number.'
'Thank you,' I said. We shook hands again.
'God be with you,' he said, and headed briskly back into his church. I headed slowly out to the street and retraced my steps back to Lubinski, Lubinski and Levi, family jewelers for over twenty years. On the way I saw a small brown dog get run over and killed by a large black limo which didn't stop, which was just as well for the driver given how I feel about dogs. And limos. By the time I got to the dog it was already dead. I borrowed a newspaper from a horrified middle-aged lady who bravely accompanied me out into the traffic, wrapped up the poor unidentifiable mutt in it and laid it to rest in a garbage can in front of Arrow Liquors.
'Poor thing,' said the lady.
I could only nod in agreement.
At the jeweler's. The front picture window was crisscrossed by a protective iron grid. The reinforced glass front door was locked; a small sign said 'Ring for entrance'. I did. My client peeped out, saw it was only harmless old me and let me in. I deduced immediately that he was glad to see me because he seized one of my hands in both of his, pressed it warmly, and said, 'Am I glad to see you.' He looked nervously over his shoulder at a man I presumed was his cousin Nate Lubinski, a tall, lugubrious individual who was at the back of the store talking to a customer, then he whispered to me, 'So what's the plan?'
'Can we talk here?' I whispered back.
'Why not?' he said in a more normal voice. 'Just so we shouldn't shout at the top of our lungs. You want to see something from the window, right? So we go to the window.'
So we went to the window and looked for a moment at his window display.
'Schlock for the tourists,' Mr Lubinski said, looking fondly down at his own gold tiepin and adjusting it slightly.
'Tomorrow,' I said. 'When your Italian friend comes, we are going to take his picture and we are also going to get his fingerprints.'
'We are also going to die,' said Mr Lubinski in alarm, 'And as my wife said to me just the other day, I'm too old to die. You think that crook, that mobster is going to smile for the birdie while I take some candid snaps of him for my album? You're looking at a dead man.'
'You are not going to take his picture,' I said. 'My assistant, who will be cleverly disguised as a punk rocker, will take his picture without him knowing a thing about it.'
'A punk?' Mr Lubinski's eyebrows almost disappeared under his hairline. 'What do they know from pictures? What do they know from anything except how to disappoint their hardworking parents?' He waved at a lady who passed in front of the shop. 'Mrs Margolin. She still owes me for her daughter's graduation ring. Twenty-four carat, with the initials in diamond chips.'
'What's the difference between twenty-four carat and, say, eighteen?' I asked him.
'Some copper, a pinch of nickel, and a lot of money,' he said. 'Most jewelry is eighteen because it's the easiest to work.'
'Oh,' I said.
'Oh,' he repeated. 'So what about the fingerprints, who's going to take them from that killer, some other assistant, a Hell's Angel biker maybe?'
'You,' I said.
'I'm a dead man again,' he said. He saw his cousin's client making her way to the front door and politely opened it for her. When she had left, he called back to his partner, 'So what was that, Mr Lubinski?'
'The pearl three-strand, Mr Lubinski,' Cousin Nate called back. Both Mr Lubinskis looked pleased.
'All you do,' I told my Mr Lubinski, 'is show him some gold. You said he wears a lot, right? So you show him some, in a box, in a box you have wiped clean first. And not a velvet box, either, or one with ridges all over it, a plain, smooth box. You say, "With respect, sir, I see you are a lover of fine gold. That chain around your neck is particularly fine. Please have a quick look at this." And you offer him the box, holding it carefully by one end. What is he going to do?'
'Kill me,' said Mr Lubinski gloomily. 'With
his bare hands. Or maybe strangle me with his particularly fine chain, which by the way was a piece of junk.'
'No he won't,' I said patiently. 'You have already disarmed him by telling him as you seem to have no choice and as you're after all a sensible man with a loving wife, you will take his gold, at his price, whenever he says.'
'If I do that, I'm dead again,' said Mr Lubinski, 'only differently. Then what, though believe me I hate to ask?'
'Then,' I said, 'you pack your bags and prepare to head east because if, as I suspect, your Italian turns out really to have serious connections, I'd be happier if you were out of town for a while.'
'You'd be happier,' said Mr Lubinski, rolling his eyes. 'That's a good one. And what do I tell my wife, you're so smart? Say, "Listen, darling, it's just a whim but I suddenly realized I've never seen Philadelphia in January"?'
'What about the truth?'
'What? After thirty-two years of marriage? Then she'd really think something was wrong.'
I grinned at him. ,
'So when are we talking about, all this?' he asked.
'Probably tomorrow night,' I said. 'I'll give you a call. I also think you should put all your good pieces in a bank vault somewhere, make sure your insurance is paid up, and also close up for a couple of weeks, no sense risking anyone else getting hurt.'
'Mr Lubinski!' he called out immediately. 'Take two weeks off starting Monday!'
'Why's that?' Mr Lubinski called back.
'We're closing up! I'm going to Switzerland for a nose job, if anyone asks.' He said to me, 'Speaking of noses, how's yours coming along?'
I told him it was tender but coming along fine, my doctor said I'd look just like John Garfield after the swelling went down.
'A good Jewish boy,' Mr Lubinski said approvingly, letting me out. 'So what time does your punk get here tomorrow?'
'Early,' I said. 'Be nice to her, her feelings are easily hurt.'
'A lady punk?' he said. 'In Lubinski, Lubinski and Levi? Mr Lubinski! Your two weeks, they start tomorrow, not Monday!'
What next? Wade's, maybe, for some kind of camera that could take close-ups of Italian mobsters without getting the photographer annihilated. I strolled back to the office, picked up the car and drove east out to Wade's garage, on Domingo, near the turn-off for the Burbank Airport. It was really Wade's brother and sister-in-law's garage but the kid requisitioned it when he set up in business on his own providing a photo developing service. For once Wade wasn't dozing in the Mexican hammock he'd strung up beside the garage, he was actually in the garage working. His new labrador puppy Shusha was in the hammock instead. I rapped on the door and after a moment it opened a couple of inches and Wade's thin, white, goateed face peered out. It didn't brighten noticeably when he saw who it was.
'Oh,' he said. 'You.'
'Me,' I said. 'You were expecting maybe Karsh of Ottawa?'
'Want some coffee?' he said.
'Always,' I said. We traipsed up the path to the kitchen and went in. A cat that had been waiting patiently on the porch came in with us. While Wade heated up the large enamel coffee pot that was on the stove and gave the cat a handful of some dry munchies, I told him what I needed.
'Can do,' he said.
'By the way, why do you keep that Goddamned scary thing in here?' I asked him. I was referring to an enormous tarantula in a large, enclosed glass case which was hung on the wall right over the kitchen table.
'You mean Maria?' he said. 'Cause it's the warmest room in the house is why.'
; 'Well, why do you keep the Goddamn thing at all?'
'Don't ask me, man,' he said, pouring out the coffee. 'It's Cissy's. Ask her. I only feed it once in a while when she's away.'
'I won't ask you what on,' I said. We took our coffees back to the garage, the cat following us. Wade took a camera case down from a shelf and passed it to me.
'What's this?' he asked me.
I opened up the case and took out a camera about the size of a Leica.
'It's a camera,' I said.
'What does it do?'
'It probably takes pictures,' I said. 'As you know, I have a camera, a Canon, and it takes pictures too.'
'Ah, but what kind of pictures does this one take?' He stroked his wispy beard with inner amusement.
'Give me a break, Wade,' I said. 'I don't have all day, some of us do have work to do.' I took a closer look at the camera.
'Ah ha,' I said. 'Does this one take pictures around corners?'
'It sure do,' he said. 'At right angles, to be precise.' He showed me how it worked; there wasn't much to it. Due to either a mirror or a prism, when you looked through the viewfinder what you actually saw through a second, concealed lens, was the area directly to your left.
'They were quite the thing at one time,' he told me smugly. 'Henri Cartier-Bresson and all that, the decisive moment, take your shot when they're not looking and get out alive. They still make them. I took this in a trade last year.'
'Can I borrow it for a day?'
'Help yourself,' he said. He rummaged around in a drawer that was next to his color developer, came up with a roll of film, loaded it and wound it in in half the time it would have taken me. 'Voilà.'
While I was thanking him, a timer went off which meant he had work to do so I left him to it and drove back to my part of town. I wasn't completely sure if that lamebrain Sara could learn to operate the camera but I had no one else to use. I looked too much like muscle, Willing Boy was a possibility if he could get the time off but he came expensive, the chiseler, and my pal and occasional accomplice Benny wouldn't get up that early on a Saturday morning for a date with Bo Derek on a topless beach.
On the way back home I detoured slightly and parked about a half a block down from the Palmettos where the Donovans lived, just to see what I could see. I gave it a good hour with a break or two to stretch my aching legs, but there was no sign of either one of them.
To hell with it. I had to move Mom over to my brother's so the big showdown with Mr Kevin Lefty Donovan would have to wait. But bloody revenge is that much sweeter when it is postponed, someone said once. I think it was Albert Schweitzer but I'm not positive.
CHAPTER TWELVE
My mother was in her room taking a nap. I couldn't see any signs of packing so I presumed she'd forgotten it was moving day.
I had an agreement with my brother Tony and his wife Gaye which worked pretty well. We each had Mom for three weeks in turn. It was probably hardest on Gaye, Mom didn't like her or, I suspected, think she was good enough for her favorite, her youngest, her special boy Tony. If anything, I thought she was too good for him. But Mom got on well with their two kids, Martine, ten, and Martin, eleven already, and they seemed to like having their old Gran around to spoil them. I tried to keep my mouth shut about the part of the arrangement I didn't like at all, being a true Easterner, which was having to live somewhere reasonably near both Tony and Mom's doctor, i.e., in the land that God either forgot or never knew about in the first place, the San Fernando Valley. Big deal. 'I cried for louder music and I called for stronger wine,' my long-gone pop used to shout to amuse his boys. Or something like that.
When Mom woke up we got her packed, with the usual problems of what to take and what to wear and this and that. She said goodbye to her crony Feeb downstairs who told me, as she always did, to drive extra special as I only had one mom. That I already knew.
So I dropped her off; Tony wasn't home yet but Gaye and the kids were there to settle her in. I kissed her goodbye like she liked me to do and then the kids took her out back to the garden to show her something totally fab and non-gross, I never did find out what it was. Then Gaye politely offered me a drink, as she always did, and I politely took a rain check, as I always did. I suppose that summed up our relationship, a sort of forced politeness. We had no chemistry at all going. I wasn't sure how much she had left with my brother but that was none of my business, thank God, as I had plenty of other things to worry about that were my business
, one of which being how Ricky and Sara had fared. They were both supposed to phone in and let me know so I went back to the office to wait for their calls. I thought about setting up Betsy and doing something constructive but I wound up looking at the wall and musing instead. When the phone finally did ring, it was Evonne asking me for a date.
'Gee, you've got a nerve,' I said, 'calling a popular guy at the last minute like this.'
'Can it,' she said. 'Pick you up in an hour?'
'Oh no,' I said. 'I'll pick you up in an hour. I may be a little late, I'm waiting on a couple of calls. Where are you taking me, dearest, not to the theater again I hope?'
'A party,' she said, 'one of the teachers is retiring. Wish I was.'
'I may not have time to go home and change,' I said.
'With you there's not a lot of difference,' she said. 'See you.' She hung up; I went back to my musing. I mused about blonds who had a strange, illicit passion for summer squashes and wore cherry and raspberry-flavored lipstick and drove like they were blindfolded. Then I looked up my stars in the Herald Examiner – romance beckons, but examine your motives, it said. For once they were dead right.
It was five thirty when Ricky phoned in; he was in a hurry due to some domestic crisis and only had time to tell me all had gone as planned at his end. Sara phoned an hour later.
'Confidential agent X-2, reporting in by telephone from corner of Tangerine and Wilcox,' she said. 'All clear your end?'
'Get on with it,' I said. 'You really are the limit.'
'Mission accomplished,' she whispered. 'Full detailed report will be delivered to you by hand before midnight. Out.'
'Wait a minute, wait a minute. Why don't you deliver your full, detailed report by hand tomorrow morning instead, at, say, eight fifteen, if you can get up that early.'
'Dying to see me in ze flesh, eh, Boss?' she said. 'Startin' to get to you am I?'
'You must be kidding, Junior,' I said. 'I got another task for you, near here, and you have to be there by nine. You'll like this mission, you stand an excellent chance of getting torn apart in very small pieces by a very large Italian who loathes punks.'