by David Pierce
"Likewise," I said. He gave me a mock salute, and took off. Now, I know as well as you do that one often says things like that, especially in Hollywood. "Let's do lunch next week," you say, or "I'll have my secretary give your secretary a call and set something up," or "Let's keep in touch, y'hear?" And of course you never ever see the person again, nor do you intend to. But I did see Phineas again, because he liked a long, cool one after work—and occasionally instead of work—as much as I did. I even took him shooting once, up in the badlands north of the city; he reciprocated, if that's the right word—paid me back is more accurate—by taking me horseback riding. Frankly, I'll stick to surfing without a paddle, thanks. 'Course, I saw him the following week, too, but we'll get to that.
I opened up the office, picked the mail off the carpet, dumped it on the desk, retrieved the phone from the large safe in the small washroom out back where it and everything else of any value whatsoever lived when I was out of the office, and took care of the remaining details re Flora by Phineas. Mel's Garage was in the phone book, so that was easy, so was my calling Phineas's receptionist with its address and that of my beloved. On the card to be enclosed with the roses I requested there be simply written, "From a mystery admirer." That should stump her for a while, all right. P.S.: Being no piker, ol' Phineas sent her two dozen roses, not one, then did the same thing at Christmas. Know what he sent me for Christmas? Nothing, not even a cheap card. But he did send King a six-foot tree, a ficus, according to the label (fig to you), which still adorns my office. Class, I call it—I may not have it but I can spot it every time.
OK. That was done. Then I leafed through the mail. The only item of interest it contained was a note scribbled in pencil on the outside of a used, dirty envelope, from Injun Joe—unless you consider a flier announcing the opening of a new ultra-rapid car wash in the vicinity an item of interest, which I do not.
Injun Joe must have talked to his erstwhile lady friend, because the note read, "Come by. Will come by again Tues. aft," which was then, which was fine by me; the sooner the better, in fact. I unlocked my desk and dug around until I came up with the list of things to do in the matter of V.D. vs. P.C.A.C. Co. "Injun Joe"—that was done, or soon to be so, anyway. "Father Romero"—that was done. "Historian slash museum curator"—that was done, too. "Snips"—done. "Artifact"—hopefully in the smooth, Jergens-lotioned hands of my favorite blonde by far. I then made out a new, revised list, as follows:
V.D. vs. P.C.A.C. Co.
To do:
Retrieve artifact.
Snip fence.
Inter artifact. Disinter & authenticate.
Enlist Injun Joe.
Purchase suitable garb for same.
Set up P.C. for eve in near future.
To contact for P.C. (by telephone):
Reporter(s).
Mel (the Swell).
Benny (the Boy).
Evonne Louise Shirley.
Marvelous Marv.
S. (Saphead) Silvetti.
Father Romero.
Elroy.
Local do-gooder?
(By registered letter): Representative of P.C.A.C. Co.
To do for/by date of Press Conference:
Borrow 6 chairs from Nus next door.
Refreshments? Cocktail weenies?
Let's see . . . say I picked up the stag-foot rattle, or whatever the dickens it was, from Evonne that night, and, much later, snuck out of her warm 'n' cozy cuddles long enough to do the dirty deed with it, then she could get it back to Taffy Chandler on Wednesday. Say one day for him to muck about authenticating and such, then I get it back Friday with the necessary paperwork. But then it's got to be dropped off at Mel's for him to look over, and then he has to do his paperwork, and then back it all comes to me. Now, if I were the owner of the Pussycat Co., and some weirdo phoned me up and invited me to a meeting of parties interested in preventing the expansion of my empire, would I attend, or say a naughty word, then hang up? Who knows? But I would assuredly attend if I'd already been served with a restraining order of some kind, or at least had been notified that such an order was being applied for, and why. Which was a nuisance, is what it was, because it meant even more time elapsing before I could hold the muster.
Let's see . . . even if I got the stuff to Mel Friday sometime, maybe he'd want the weekend off; he is more or less normal, despite his profession. So that brings us up to Monday or Tuesday next week already and then there's the copying and mailing . . . how long does a registered letter take to get across town? Again, who knows? Hell. It looked like the earliest I could get moving would be like a week Friday. Drat.
Right then my machinations were interrupted by the ringing of my phone, and, simultaneously, a sort of scratching noise coming from the door. It was Injun Joe at the door; I beckoned him to enter. It was King on the phone. He panted for a bit, then Evonne's voice said, "Hi, sweetie. That was King."
"What does he want?"
"Just saying hello, like me."
"Darn nice of you both," I said. Joe was hovering uncertainly just inside the door, so I pointed to the spare chair across the desk from me and told him, "Sit. Stay." He sat.
"Oh," she said. "I nearly forgot. You know that bone thing John gave me to give to you? King ate it."
"Ha ha," I said. "Talking about eating, want to cook supper tonight for a veritable dreamboat?"
"Sure," she said promptly. "Know one?" We settled on sevenish, at her place, and rang off.
"That was my dog," I said to Joe. "He says hello."
"Oh yeah?" he said, giving himself a good scratch under one arm. "How do he dial, chief?"
"He gets a friend to do it for him," I said.
"Oh, yeah?" he said. "And how do he dial?"
"A person friend," I said. "Not a dog friend."
"Oh," he said, nodding. "Now I'm wit'cha. So what's up, chief? I got word you was looking for me."
"That I was, Joe," I said. "Listen, want to make some money and have a few laughs at the same time?"
"Chief, who don't," he said. "Doin' what?"
I told him what. During the recital he grinned twice, picked something out of his hair once, and once he took a stone out of a pocket, looked at it, then put it away again.
When I was done, he said, "Yeah, but doing what in particular? Like, as far as I'm concerned with."
"Joe, all you have to do is sit there looking like an Indian," I said. "Noble. Impassive. Serene."
"Sit where?" he said.
"Right there," I said. "Right where you are sitting now."
"Oh," he said. "Do I gotta say anything?"
"No," I said. "You do not gotta. You gotta mouthpiece who will do all the talking for you."
"Oh," he said. "What about noises?"
"What kind of noises?"
"You know", he said. "Indian noises. Like grunts and things. Like they do in the movies. Uuuungh!" he grunted. "Keemumbe!"
"Joe," I said, "forget the noises. Just sit there and get rich. Well, richer, anyway."
"An' look like an Indian," he said. "How'm I gonna do that, chief?" Here he looked at me suspiciously. "I don't gotta sit there naked, do I, all painted red?"
"No, Joe," I said. "You gotta sit there in brand-new Levi's with a Levi jacket and maybe a belt with a fancy buckle and maybe a leather headband or something or maybe even a new Stetson hat."
"Oh," he said. "I got 'cha." There was a pause. Then he said, "How about a pair of new boots? I sure could use 'em."
"No," I said firmly. "Indians wear moccasins, anyway, everyone knows that."
"Oh," he said. "OK, then, moccasins it is, chief." He looked innocently across at me.
"Now what, you chiseler?" I said with a sigh. "You want a tepee too? How about a couple of pinto ponies while you're at it?"
"Ah, come on, chief," he mumbled. "I was just thinkin' maybe a shirt is all."
"One shirt," I said. "And that's it." He looked at me for a minute, then gazed out of the front window, then lifted one filthy bare foot ou
t of its unlaced boot and looked at it for a while. I took a brief look at it myself, then wished I hadn't. "And no socks, either, for God's sake," I said. "Whoever heard of a Mohawk wearing anklets." He sheepishly put his foot away again. "But clean," I said, "is another story. You will have to be clean and a hasty dip in the river will not do, my redskin brother. We're talking hot water here, we are talking a nice long bath at your lady friend's, maybe, we're talking soap and shampoo, kemo sabe."
"Aw, Jeez," he mumbled unhappily.
He left a few minutes later, with ten of my hard-earned dollars in his pocket as a down payment, after solemnly promising to check back with me Monday or Tuesday afternoon in the week to come. All right. That was done. What next?
I called Benny the Boy to see if he'd be available for next week. He was out but he'd get back to me, his machine said. I called Mel the Swell. His machine told me he was in San Diego until Friday morning. I called Elroy, my office landlord, who was also a friend and also a budding mogul in local real estate. He was out jogging, his machine told me. Elroy was the only guy I ever met who could jog and roll a joint at the same time. So I called up Sara the Stupe Silvetti. She was in, her mother said, and she'd get her if I hung on. I hung on. Finally I heard her dulcet tones in my ear.
"Yeah?" she barked.
"Good afternoon, you sweet child you," I said suavely. 'Tis I, the private eye, calling thee, the public nuisance, once again to inject color, life, and adventure into your dreary days."
"What makes my days dreary," she said, "is bald old farts like you pestering me all the time when I'm tryin' to get some work done."
"Work," I scoffed. "You call looking up rhymes for words like yecch and gross and uppers work? Listen, kid, you want to do a real job of work for a change, one that involves imagination, acting ability, guts, toil, and buried treasure, well, ol' V. D.'s got something coming up next week that could be a real fun time for you."
"Yeah, pops, I bet," she said. "How about a real lucrative time, forget the fun."
"Oh, gee, that's right," I said. "You're not into fun anymore, I forgot, and I deeply apologize. Still dressing like a man?"
"None of your business," she said. "So what if I am?"
"Nothing, dear, nothing," I said. "It's just that I've got a bunch of old clothes I was going to give to the Salvation Army, but I thought you might be able to use them."
"Who wants old Hawaiian shirts?" she said. "Not even the Salvation Army, I bet." And that's how little she knows, I thought to myself. Where did she think I got my precious collection from in the first place, Pierre Cardin of Honolulu? Anyway, after a few more insults had been exchanged, she grudgingly admitted that she might be able to find a few spare moments later in the week to at least drop by and hear what the action was, and how much was in it for her, S. Silvetti.
"Anytime," I said warmly. "You know the latchkey is always out for distinguished poetesses chez moi, cherie. It's even out for you." At which she blew me a loud, long raspberry, then hung up. What a twerp. Whatever happened to respecting one's elders and wisers? I always respected my elders and wisers, on those rare occurrences that I stumbled over one. And as for her childish pretense of noninterest every time I offered her some fascinating chore to do for big bucks, well, that wasn't hard to figure out, she did it just to irritate the shit out of me, she should be so lucky.
However, exactly what she did get out of working for me, as she always wound up doing, was another question, because, to be honest, the bucks were never really that big, except for once when the little airhead practically blackmailed it out of me. Maybe I'd ask her sometime. Evonne thought it had something to do with her being an orphan and having been brought up by foster parents, which manifested itself in a need to strive, if only in a small occasional way, for a trace more stability and fairness in the world. I figured it was much more likely the noodlehead went on capers with me because anything was more fun than watching raindrops slide down dirty windowpanes and rhyming zucchini with Puccini, which is about all poets ever did as far as I could see. Fairness and stability—in this world? Don't make me bust a gusset.
Which is exactly what I would have done, if I'd been wearing one, when I arrived home a little later and heard the good news from Feeb. This time she didn't let me escape up the stairs, but escorted me firmly into her living room, sat me down in the recliner, poured me out a glass of milk, put out some Oreo cookies on a plate, patted her (orange this month) hair nervously, then said, "Victor, dear, you remember my sister Marge?"
"I do," I said, munching away. "She came down for your birthday—would it be two years ago now? Afterwards, you and Mom took her to a hockey game, if I remember correctly."
"That's right, dear," she said. "Have another cookie, Victor,"
"I'm already eating one, Feeb," Victor said. "Now come on, darling, out with it. Whatever it is, it can't be the end of the world." I had a thought. "You're not sick, are you, honey?"
"Nothing like that, thank goodness," she said. She took a deep breath. "The thing is, Marge's been after me to move in with her ever since her Charley died, she's got the cutest little bungalow just outside San Mateo."
"That's nice," I said, as chill fingers began inching up the back of my neck. "No steps to climb."
"And now your mother's gone," Feeb said, "my goodness, it's almost two years already."
"Two years this Christmas," I said. "I get it, Feeb. Don't worry about me. You're lonely here and so is Marge up there, so you're thinking of selling out down here and moving up there, it must be a good idea for you both."
"Well, dear," she said, "I'm not so much thinking about it as I've done it. I got a good offer last week and I took it, just like that." Here she looked a little guilty. "I guess I should have asked you first, dear, but you wouldn't want to buy an old dump like this one, would you?"
"Perish the thought," I said. "Let alone the money. And who'd give me a mortgage, anyway? No, you did right, honey." I leaned over and kissed her plump and powdered cheek; she looked relieved. "When's moving day?"
She said she had to give vacant possession by the end of September, which was about five weeks away, would that give me enough time? More than enough, I said. Maybe I might move in with Evonne, she said archly, while I was looking for a place of my own. Maybe indeed, honey, I said. I ate the last cookie, patted her gently on the coif, and went upstairs to my half of the house, although not for much longer, it sadly appeared out of the blue. Shit. That was all I needed. First my office was being inundated by pervert flashers and raincoated wankers, then I get tossed out of my own house, practically without warning, tossed out like yesterday's newspaper into the howling blizzard, and with a puppy yet. Maybe we could do a blind act together on the street. Maybe we could team up with Injun Joe and sleep rough and take freezing baths in the aptly named Tijunga fucking Wash, sharing a sliver of rock-hard, yellow laundry soap that gave up its last sud years ago, if it ever had one to begin with.
Shit.
It was not a happy man who showered, shaved, shampooed, and blow-dried, and then changed into clean leisure wear.
It was not a happy man who locked up, then clomped down the stairs and out to his Nash Metropolitan.
Nor was it a happy man who drove back into Studio City toward his woman and his dog. I didn't know how I was going to break the news to King. Come to think of it, I didn't know how I was going to break the news to one Evonne Louise Shirley, either. Maybe I wouldn't tell 'em right away, I decided. We'd get drunk first. I'd never seen King drunk, I was quite looking forward to it. I just hoped he wouldn't ask for some sissy drink, like a flute of white wine with a slice of cucumber in it.
Chapter Ten
I just know that lop-eared, bandy-legged son of a whiskey drinkin' fool,
I know my viejo compadre is gonna keep the faith with me.
IT TURNED OUT to be a remarkably pleasant evening.
Both beauty and beast were as glad to see me as I was delighted to be reunited with them, and, after a length
y frolic in the backyard with King, the three of us adjourned happily to the kitchen to wine, dine, and giggle. I didn't bother bringing up the subject of my soon-to-be-homeless state, why spoil the mood? Yes, a pleasant evening—right up until the moment I got arrested. But it was V. D., not the LAPD, who had the last laugh.
It happened like this: Supper was over. So was a somewhat censored account of my recent activities. So was my interested examination of Taffy's rattle, which turned out to be a dirty, old, hollowed-out, carved animal foot with a series of holes drilled in it where once, I conjectured, there dangled rattley bits from long-gone lengths of thong or suchlike. Evonne's theory was that originally the end of the hoof had been blocked up with something after a handful of, say, gravel had been inserted, and thus the holes were there to let the sound out. King's theory was that whatever our theories might be, as it was, after all, a bone, it belonged to him.
Anyhow, Evonne and I were entwined on her old sofa watching TV when she propounded another theory—wouldn't it be smarter for me to plant the hoof before we went to bed instead of my having to set the alarm and wake everyone (meaning her) in the middle of the night? As everything in my little mall was shut up tight by ten-thirty or so, why not do it shortly thereafter?
"Why not indeed, my blossom," I said, rubbing the back of her sweet neck the way she liked, eliciting a purr of pleasure in response. "By the way, may I borrow your gorgeous new trowel?"
And so it came to pass that, shortly after eleven, I let King and myself into my office, turned on the desk light only, locked the front door again, and armed with long-handled snips, poked my head out the back door and cased the alley. All was quiet. Five feet to my right the new and highly objectionable fence commenced. Snip-ping! snip-ping! six times in all, up the side of the post, snip-ping! four times along the bottom. All was still quiet. I ducked back inside; King was still in his corner where he'd been told to stay. I had a thought. I took the time to open up the massive safe in the bathroom and stick the cutters in; the safe door I left ajar.