by David Pierce
Chapter Fifteen
Well, we settled out of court, 'cause that's the Mexicali way,
But after that I wasn't what you'd call a man o' means . . .
I DIDN'T GO to the nearest bar after all. I did go to a bar, though, let me reassure you—Jim's place, the Two-Two-Two, a comfortable watering hole not that far from a certain apartment that I was shortly about to be kicked out of, thanks very much. And Evonne Louise Shirley—what was she up to all of a sudden with her fibs and her sags and God knows what else? Ah, women. Who was it who said sometimes I think women are getting dumber as they grow smarter? Mrs. Plato?
After the usual greetings to Jim, I installed myself in my usual quiet corner with a brandy and ginger, and thought. About war, which is a much more calming subject to think about than women. About winning same. About winning same fast, because who knew what other dangerous antics those sore losers might get up to next. They might even try and take it out on my car, heaven forbid.
All right. According to that dulcet-voiced lady on the recording I heard, pussycat lovers, the P.C.A.C. Co. operated four cinemas, one classic, two straight pornos, and one gay. OK. Today was what little was left of Friday. By the middle of next week, latest, I figured I'd have them all shut down, at least temporarily, one way or another. I cadged another drink and a pad and ballpoint from Jim. On the pad I wrote, after some deep ruminating:
Personnel:
Sara?
Phineas?
Benny
Me
Hardware:
Tweezers
2 Mace or equiv., family-size, delayed-release
1 length chain
1 stout padlock
1 sign
1 appropriate I.D.
1 old raincoat
1 bag crack (optional)
Arthropods:
100 Supella longipalpa (or Periplaneta americana) (any size)
That should do to be getting on with, thought I with satisfaction. I tucked the note away and went over to the blackboard to put my name up for a game of pool.
SATURDAY CAME AND went. Late in the morning I picked up King, who seemed fully recovered, and that afternoon we watched Fernando and the Dodgers lose another one. During the shambles, I gave King his exercise and invented a gadget that would make me millions. See, sprawled on the sofa in front of the TV a few months back, I was playing ball with the mutt but the problem was the front room was too small to give him a proper run, so in a flash of brilliance I bestirred myself enough to open the front door and then, back on the couch, if I got the bounce right, I could chuck his ball so it would carom off two walls, and then out the door and then bounce all the way down to the bottom of the stairs, which was more like it. The only problem so far was that when he wanted to signify that he'd had enough, he did so by leaving the ball downstairs, where guess who would have to retrieve it sooner or later, but I was working on that. What I invented was, while I watched those no-hit bums come up short yet again, a way for dogs to exercise themselves outdoors, viz:
And that about took care of Saturday. Oh yes . . . one other trifle. Evonne Louise Shirley phoned to break the more or less understood date we had Saturday nights; seems she was feeling a bit under the weather. I asked her if she wanted me to drop around and hold her hand and make her a hot lemonade with honey in it or whatever, but she said no, she'd just as soon be miserable by herself, thanks, but why didn't I go out and have some fun by myself for a change? Why not indeed, I thought after she rang off. Maybe I'd check out what was playing at the local Pussycat this week, that'd be all sorts of fun. Then there was go-carting—gee, I hadn't done that for a coon's age. I wound up by starting a terrific book by Dick Francis, Proof, which was all about watered-down Scotch whisky and Yugoslavian red wine pretending to be French. I found out that the word proof, when relating to the alcoholic content of booze, means that if you mix a few drops half and half with gunpowder, then light it, and it burns with a blue flame, you have 100 percent proof said booze is at least 50 percent alcohol. I thought this so interesting I immediately went over to Jim's to tell him about it, then I told Dave, at Dave's, then I told a fat guy with a cast on one leg who was on the next stool to me at the Four Aces.
"No shit?" the fat guy said. "And if you mix much more than a few drops half and half, you get proof of something else—Look, ma, no face."
Sunday we went for a drive. Me and King, I mean, not me and the fat guy, or me and E.L. Shirley, or me, the fat guy, King, and E.L. Shirley, just one man and his dog.
Near the turnoff for the Burbank airport there is a short street called Domingo. In the last house on the left on Domingo dwelt my friend Wade, his brother Willy, his sister-in-law Cissy, a black widow spider called María, and any number of cats, dogs, pythons, and other house pets. Wade ran a photo service out of the garage. Willy invented seemingly useless gadgets and games and puzzles and what-have-you, from which he made sizable sums in royalties. It was he who invented the toothpaste tube with a cap on both ends, which was marketed throughout California as "The Marriage Saver," although some might quibble that it would take more than an extra toothpaste cap to save a Californian marriage in these footloose times.
His "Tower of Benares," the adult model of which took 58 billion years to do (not million, I had it wrong before) if you didn't make a silly mistake, was still, after ten years, a steady seller in novelty shops. Cissy did astrological charts, read palms, wove, Taroted, healed, natural child-birthed, took care of the menagerie, and sculpted in glass. A run-of-the-mill, normal, humdrum California household, in other words, complete with Harley-Davidson in the drive and pot plantation out back near the mice cage (for the python).
All of the above but one were home that Sunday morning—Wade's skinny frame in the hammock out front, Cissy's more than ample one in the kitchen, Willy out back unenthusiastically weeding the veggie garden. At my arrival, with a superhuman effort, Wade raised himself a good three inches out of the hammock, looked blearily in my direction, said, "Hey, man," then sank down again. Cissy waved at me through the open kitchen window, called out, "Hey, stranger, you're just in time. I just took my spinach muffins out of the oven," then bustled out to be introduced to and greatly fuss over King. Willy joined us a moment later, his full black beard glistening with perspiration. Aside from the beaver, all he was wearing was a tatty-looking loincloth.
"Ah, drat!" he said, fooling nobody at all. "Wouldn't you know. Just when I was really getting into it, just when I was really warming up, what happens? Along comes some palooka to distract me."
"You hope," Cissy said.
"And not in vain," I said. "Prof, I got a problem. Can we perhaps retire to some shady nook so I can fill you in while the muffins are cooling?"
"Sho' 'nuf," he said amiably. "Yonder is the very nook we seek."
A moment later we were stretched out in two faded deck chairs under the spreading avocado tree, right next to a row of somewhat scraggly-looking runner beans. "Four cinemas," I told him, "is the problem."
"Why?"
I told him why. He looked grim, then reached down and gave King, who was lying at his feet, panting, a good scratch where dogs like to be scratched most, which is almost anywhere. I knew he was thinking of one of his dogs, Susha, a beautiful Golden Labrador some creep had clubbed to death before breaking into Wade's garage a while back. The creep was duly dealt with most satisfactorily, I may say, by a posse of avengers led by none other than Yours Truly. "So where's Rags?" I said then, referring to his other mutt, a huge and ancient sheepdog.
"At the beach with Suze," he said, referring to Wade's girlfriend. "Got any ideas?"
"Some," I said. I told him what they were.
"Hmm," he said. He thought for a moment, then struggled to his feet. "Be right back." He headed up the path toward the house. A few minutes later he returned with two large glasses of fresh lemonade, sweetened with honey, not sugar, and a slim, pocket-sized catalog he tossed in my lap. "Things You Never Knew Existed . . . and others you can'
t POSSIBLY live without!" it said on the cover. It also said, "Johnson Smith Company, Since 1914, 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed, Over 100 New Items!" and "Up to 50% Off Selected Items!".
"Any of your stuff in here?" I said, leafing through it.
"A couple," he said. "The 'Bad Vibe Detector' is mine. So's the 'Executive's Desktop One-Hole Golf.' Comes in attractive cedarwood box complete with key."
"No kidding," I said. Then I said, "Ah, now you're talking," as I got to the section on magic tricks and those things that kids buy to scare their sisters. "Dog mess, King. Fake barf, the old foaming sugar, phony bird mess, X-ray glasses, bloody slashed finger, phony spilled nail polish, giant fake barf, phony cigarette burn . . . ah, yes, Prof, where are the snow jobs of yesteryear?" I lay back, emotionally spent. Willy plucked the catalog from my nerveless fingers and riffled through it.
"That," he said after a minute, "is what we need. Better than Mace, take my word for it. It's one of Howie's, he only lives over the hill. I'll get some concentrate from him, they'll never get it out. And forget the spray can, I got a better idea."
"I'll bet you have," I said.
"The arthropods I like," he said.
"I was thinking Benny for that," I said.
"Perfect," he said, with a grin. "Me and Wade'll do Howie's stuff, if you want, he digs pornos and me, well, I'll keep my eyes closed during the dirty bits."
"Sure you will," I said.
"Got another idea," Willy said, finishing off the the last of his drink. "What do you set to catch a mouse?"
"A cat," I said.
"How about vice versa?" Cissy called us right then from the back door, telling us her muffins were ready. Surprising to state, spinach muffins aren't that bad, really, especially when you load them up with lots of butter and red currant jelly. King liked them au naturel, even.
Sunday evening. I don't recall what I did that Sunday evening but one thing I didn't do for sure was call up any flighty blondes of my acquaintance. Nor did any call me up, it is only fair to say, although what's so fair about it is beyond me. Who did call was Jerry, wanting to know if any progress had been made actually you know, old chap. I confessed to him that I had been temporarily sidetracked from his problem by a personal one of my own, but (a) hoped to have resolved said personal problem instanter, almost, and (b) did have the glimmer of an idea regarding his problem and would be following up on it early in the week.
"Delighted to hear it, old boy," he said. After sending me oodles of amour from Tom, he hung up. It wasn't exactly from Tom that I wanted oodles of amour, I thought, but what the hell, a guy takes what he can get some Sunday nights.
MONDAY MORNING—NEITHER bright nor early, frankly, due to a spot of this and that, otherwise known as the king of all hangovers. You'd think I'd know by now never to mix Cheez-Its with pepperoni Hot-Styx, but there you go. A healthy King was in his corner and I was at the desk leafing through the mail. Ever have one of those days when all your mail starts with lines like, "Civilizations In Other Galaxies Are Waiting To Communicate With You!" and "Don't read any further if you want to stay poor all your life," and " 100s of lonely Asian women are waiting to hear from you!"? One of those. Oh yes. There was one other entry in the mail-you-want-to-read-least stakes, which I reprint in its luckily short totality:
Report No. 44
Sept. 9, 1990
For: V. D. (ha ha). From: Agent S. S.
Haiku for a Horse's Ass
Ancient bones . . .
An empty rattle . . .
A lonely, balding, beanpole's autumn.
Expenses:
$ 4.20
Fee:
30.00
Total:
34.20
(Please pay promptly for once.)
Spare me, I thought. Bring back those other galaxies, please! But at least I knew what a haiku was—a short, insulting, rotten poem. And "expenses, $4.20"—her bus was only a buck each way, max, so what was the rest for, those rubber bands holding back her dingy hair? She'd be lucky. Anyway, I had more important things to do than niggle with her over a few measly bucks, so into the wastepaper basket went the haiku and I got on with them.
I got out the list I'd made Friday evening at Jim's, made a deletion or two, then an addition or two, then pulled the phone closer and started calling. It being ten-thirty or so by then, I figured that everyone I needed should be available. First, with the aid of the phone book, I called all four Pussycat houses, even though they weren't officially open for business yet. Live people responded thrice, a recorded message once. All three live people told me that no, Mr. Gall wasn't on the premises, but he invariably stopped by sometime before the eight o'clock show if I wanted to leave a message. I said I'd rather call him at his office, if possible. All three readily supplied his office number. Good, I thought, after completing the fourth call. Now I knew where to get him during the day, and I also knew what times of day were safe for me and the A-team to operate in without fear of him recognizing one of us.
Next, I looked up, under local governmental services, and then phoned up, the LA Department of Health. After a short hold, complete with Muzak, a lady's voice said, "Department of Health, and how can I help you today?"
"Mel Harrison, Studio City Citizen," I said. "Fastest growing weekly in the valley."
"Oh yeah?" she said warily, fearing no doubt that I was peddling space or subscriptions or whatever. I soon reassured her that I was naught but a humble general reporter seeking a little background for a feature article my editor suggested I do on the mainly unsung work done by her department. Gee, she said. She wasn't sure that she was the right person to talk to, she said, being after all nothin' but a humble receptionist herself. Yes, I said, but who else would know as much about the daily operations of her department as someone like herself, right in the middle of things, and how exactly did she spell her name, anyway?
Well, it took a while, partly due to interruptions while she answered other calls and brief interruptions for me to shout out vaguely city-room phrases to nonexistent confreres like, "Mike, spike whatever it is you're doin' and get over to City Hall fast," and, "Hey, kid, where did ya get this coffee, anyway, the La Brea Tar Pits?" but I finally got some useful tidbits out of Miss Allyson (with a y) William (no s). I found out how many inspectors worked full-time in the city checking weights and measures (pathetically few), how many restaurants and bars (pathetically few), how many street vendors of edible substances (pf) and how many visited places of public convergence, i.e., airports, bus stations, schools, and both train stations and trains themselves.
"Was the work ever dangerous?" I wondered.
"What isn't in this town?" said Miss William. "We got two inspectors out right now."
"No kidding?" I said. "What happened?"
"One got hit on the head with a bottle, one was stabbed," she said.
"Gee whiz," I said. "I'd no idea. I wonder if I could talk to one of them? 'Course I'd never print a word they didn't want and naturally I'd clear it with your boss first."
"Don't see why not," she said. "We could use a little good publicity around here, if you ask me. Why don't 'cha talk to Andy, he's the one got stabbed, he's up at Kaiser till the weekend at least." She spelled me out his full name. I asked her what happened to his caseload if he was going to be out for a bit. Would it be transferred to some other investigator? Not if he's only out for a few days like Andy, she said. It's easier to develop a solid case for the courts if one investigator takes it all the way from start to finish. Really? I said. 'Course, she said, I wouldn't normally be telling just anyone all this, like, if you was just a member of the public and you phoned up to talk to Mr. Rodriguez (Andy) I'm not gonna say no, 'cause he's up at Kaiser with a punctured lung, am I?
" 'Course not, Miss William, you've got more sense than that."
"Yeah, and I got a directive, too," she said, "telling me what to say. 'Mr. Rodrigez is temporarily unavailable; may I pass you on to another agent?' is what I say."
"And qu
ite right, too," I said warmly. I terminated the conversation shortly afterward, promising to send her several copies of my article when it appeared, and suggesting that it was possible that one of the paper's photographers might be getting in touch with her in the near future.
"Let me know in time, will ya?" she said. "So I can get my hair done?" I assured her that I would.
"Virtue triumphs once again," I told King. He wagged his tail. "That makes three or four times already this year, and it's still months before Christmas." Another wag. All I'd been after was some general background to feed to Benny for him to pad his spiel with—in the unlikely event his spiel needed any outside help—and I'd stumbled onto a useful little bonanza.
I called Phineas, by way of Derrone the receptionist.
"Ici Phineas," he caroled.
"Hey, good-looking," I said. "Ici Vic. And how are they hanging these days, and I of course refer to your floral baskets?"
"Swaying merrily," he said. "So what is up with you, caro? Those two freaks aren't out fouling the sidewalks already, I hope, I hope?"
"Perish the thought," I said. "It's about something else." I then proceeded to tell him what the something else was.
"Icky, ickier, ickiest!" he exclaimed. "In the privacy of one's own little waterbed is another thing, but not in public places, please. And also, I've always thought there was something fearsomely tacky about masturbating before Happy Hour, at the very earliest."