by David Pierce
"I can see it all now, Frank. He draws her aside, or mayhap phones her after work. Eh, Mrs. Jones, I hate to bother you, pardon me ever so, but while I was bringing the records up-to-date after lunch today, I came across one or two worrying factors. Really? she exclaims. What could it be? Oh, maybe it's those new abbreviations I've been introducing and forgot to tell you about, I'm sure I can clear it up and the sooner the better, I'm sure you'll agree. Ah. What are we now, Friday (say)? Gee I'm not available tomorrow, darn, because my hubby and I are out of town till Sunday, my daughter's wedding, you know, up in Sausalito—or any other instant but plausible lie she can think up to give her a little time to figure out with hubby what to do. Still, she doesn't want to let too much time go by, so she says, tell you what, John, putting him at ease and all, keep Sunday evening open, we'll go for a drink somewhere nice and all will be revealed. Toodle-oo for now. Call ya Sunday to confirm. All of which is not too shabby, given the shock she's just had."
"Know what?" Frank said then. "I need a drink. I don't want a drink, I need a drink."
"While you're up," I said, handing him my empty glass. "Irish with a water chaser, please." Out went Frank. Back to the interminable blur of a list I went, hoping for some thunderclap of brilliance. I saw instead more letters without meaning, and occasionally some I could decipher, such as POB, followed by a number, as in Post Office Box 64, and c/o, as in care of.
When Frank returned with the booze, I asked him what "CC" stood for.
"Certified check," he said.
I took a satisfying swig of the whiskey. "And what's that little squiggle thing mean?" I pointed to a little squiggle thing after one of the names.
"Well, sort of attention, action required," he said, knocking back a good part of his drink.
I said, "Frank, be specific or I'll put some tonic in that straight vodka you're drinking."
"A secretary opens the mail," he said. "She's got some access to what you're looking at right there but not all. So she enters that squiggle to indicate some action is needed. A change of address. A death. A transfer of a pension to a remaining spouse. The computer by itself, in its wisdom, will put a squiggle in automatically when required, indicating things like pensions that are cost-of-living indexed and need to be readjusted." He was about to go on and tell me more about the life of a squiggle when I held up one hand, asking for silence. Silence fell, and continued to fall as V. (for Victor) Daniel pursued an elusive thought through the windmills of his creaky mind.
"See, Frank," I said a while later, "vehicular homicide is one thing. So is a guy clouting his wife over the head with a gallon bottle of Gallo wine when he's juiced. But for upstanding and decent folks like us, Frank, why do we kill people?"
"Self-defense?" he said.
"How about money?" I said.
"Maybe, if there was enough of it," he said, doubtfully.
"Exactly," I said warmly. "By George, you've got it, Frank. There has to be enough of it or it ain't worth it and I've been dreaming those old paranoid dreams again. Tell me something, Frank. Is this list cross-referenced?"
"Like how?"
"Like, could it pick out everyone who's been drawing a pension for over ten years, say, or who lives in West Hollywood, say?"
"It could if I asked it the right questions," he said. "What are you up to now, Vic?"
"But one last, desperate throw of the bones, old chap."
"OK, shoot," he said.
"Would you kindly ask our friend here to print us out a list of all the names of those drawing pensions that have the following three things in common: POB, CC, and the POB to be located within, say a hundred-mile radius of LA?"
"No sooner said," he said. He switched on a printer that was on the far side of the room, opened it up, checked inside, then came back to where I was and started tapping away. The suspenseful moments dragged on. Once he said a naughty word. Finally I got up and stolled over to the printer, which was just sitting there doing nothing, and gave it a dirty look. I noticed that its connector cable ran straight down from the back to a hole in the floor, and deduced that all the cabling had been cleverly laid under the floor to keep it from getting underfoot, and not having a printer on each desk meant that there was more room on each desk and also you didn't need as many printers. Also you could keep all the paper in one place. Course, you did have the wear and tear on the linoleum continually walking from desk to printer and then back to desk again. And what if two people wanted to use the same printer at the same time? Who had precedence, the computer that had been with the company the longest? Did some printers have a soft spot for certain terminals and sneak them in first? I cleared my head of these highly un-Daniel-like whimsies.
"Frank!" I called across the room. "What's happening, pal? Are you asleep? Any progress?"
"Any second now," he said. And sure enough, almost immediately the printer woke up and back and forth it went, zip, zip, zip! There's something eerie watching a machine that, unlike my old, trusty portable typewriter, can print backwards as well as frontwards; it's almost cheating, if you ask me.
Suddenly it stopped. I opened the lid, tore off the one page it had almost filled along those handy perforations, took it back to Frank, sat, and we both gave it the once-over.
I counted the number of names; there were twenty-seven.
"Frank," I said then, "roughly, for once, not specifically, what's the average pension come to?"
"Well," he said, "give or take, call it $25,000 annually."
"Frank," I said, "what's $25,000 times twenty-seven?"
Without using his fingers, he said, "$675,000," instantly.
"Frank," I said, "how long has Mary been working here; any idea?"
"Absolutely," he said. "Nine years. She's held her present position seven, I believe."
"Frank," I said, "what's $675,000 times seven?"
"$5,325,000," he responded, again instantly. We looked at each other.
"Think that'd be enough money, Frank?" I asked him.
He nodded slowly. "Could well be," he said. "Could well be. Could well be I'm out of a job, too, for letting it happen."
"Now, Frank, we don't know for sure," I said. "Let us not jump the gun. All we have is a list."
"What else do we need, then," he wondered, "aside from a large, cold bottle of Stoly and a weekend to lose?"
"Why, Frank," I said. "I do believe you're not just an accountant, you're human as well. What we need, hombre, is two things: for me to visit the mortuary, which I can do tomorrow, and for me to go for a nice long drive in the country, which I won't be able to do until Saturday."
Chapter Eighteen
I just know that pint-sized, flat-footed son of a woman-chasin' fool,
I know my viejo compadre is gonna keep the faith with me.
THERE.
I typed in the last entry in G. Z. the mogul's combination last report and final bill, then pulled down the appropriate menu, then politely asked my printer to please print me out two (2) copies. It did so without further delay, complaint, or further comment. Then I got my book of receipts out of the drawer and wrote one out for the Lubinskis. Then I got out my checkbook, paid a couple of bills, then, with King, strolled around the corner to the post office and mailed them off. A brief pause at the bank on the way home to deposit the Lubinskis' check, and a couple of useful others. A query elicited the welcome information that Tex's check had cleared. Then back to the office again to wait for Benny the Boy, who putted up not long thereafter in his nondescript old Ford.
Had he remembered to bring a passport-sized photo of himself?
He had.
Had he remembered to attire himself in a manner fitting the occasion?
He had, in neat brown suiting, brown brogues, metal-framed glasses, and center part.
And was he fully prepared and sufficiently psyched up to carry out his part in the master plan?
He assured me he was, despite the earliness of the hour (ten a.m.) and a slight distaste for the methodology i
nvolved.
"Your name," I said, writing it in neatly in his "for amusement purposes only"—but were we not being amusing, after all?—new I.D., "is Andrew Rodriguez, called Andy, and you are now up at Kaiser with a slice out of your lung."
"Am I?" he said. "Just don't bring me grapes, unless they're seedless; the seeds stick in my teeth." He watched as I glued his photo in the upper right-hand corner of the card. Then I asked him if he happened to have an iron on him to seal the laminated sleeve. He confessed that he did not. So, after a moment's thought, with him trailing behind, I stopped in three doors along from me at Mrs. Morales's taco/burger palace, said muy buenas, ordered two coffees to go, and requested a short loan of her waffle iron.
"¿Como no?" she said. "You make your own lonch now, Veec?" I laughed merrily.
Back at the office, I plugged in the waffle iron and when it was well heated up, stuck one edge of the card in, and closed 'er up. Perfect. I did the same with the other edges. Perfect.
"How did the Bard put it?" I wondered aloud to my friend. "There are more ways under the smoggy sun, Horatio, than thou hast ever dreamed of to seal a fake I.D."
"Something like that," Benjamin said.
A few minutes later, off he went, with all his props, to the Riverside Theater, then me and my boy hit the road that Wednesday morning, that Wednesday morning in the San Fernando Valley with the Dodgers still six and a half out.
First stop was chez Wade, Willy, and Cissy. Wade was in his garage-studio developing, the red light over the door informed me. Cissy was out talking to a ladies' group about natural childbirth, Willy told me. He also told me he had all the stuff, so come out back. I went out back, where Wade's common-law live-in cohabitant girlfriend, or whatever you have to call it these days, was combing the tangles out of their old sheepdog, Rags, who was lying with his legs up in the air.
"King, meet Rags and Suze," I said.
"Hi, Vic and King," she said, with a broad smile. Rags rolled over and got up. "What the hell, that's good enough," she said. "Go play." Off went the dogs. Suze headed back to the house. Willy and I headed for his workshop down at the bottom of the garden, saying hello to the mice on the way. Once inside, he gave me a large wooden box with two holes in the lid, a small cardboard box with no holes in the lid, and a cork-stoppered test tube with no holes in the lid, at which I looked dubiously.
"To be used with extreme care," he said. "Got any gloves?"
"Not on me. In fact, not even not on me."
"We'll nick a pair of Cissy's," he said. "Pierce outer capsule before using. Dispose of instantly."
"Got you," I said. "What I have for you is this." I handed him over a slip of paper with the address of the P.C.A.C. Co.'s Sunset Boulevard movie house on it. "Show starts promptly at two o'clock, so don't be late. Rendezvous back at my office anytime after five-thirty and we'll compare notes."
"I'm quite looking forward to it all, I must say," he said.
"Oh, must you?" I said. "Well I must say I thank you, Prof., for everything, and I also must say I must be off."
We went back up the path to the house, collecting the dogs on the way. I hoped we could sneak into the kitchen, nick the gloves, and then get out of there unfed, but no way, Suze was lying in ambush with a freshly brewed pot of herbal tea and a plate of cold slices.
"Ah," I said, as Willy rummaged in a drawer beside the sink, coming up with a pair of rubber washing-up gloves. "Wonder what that could be?"
"Last night's Venezuelan vegetable pie," she said. "Try a piece."
"Sure will," I said. "What's in it?"
"Vegetables," she said.
"I didn't know Venezuela had any," I said, manfully taking a bite. As soon as she turned her back to get the tea, I slipped the rest of the slice to King, under the table. Thankfully, he gulped it down before realizing what it tasted like.
Then it was adios all around, and then the dismally dangerous drive downtown via the decrepit Golden State and Harbor freeways to what I had referred to as the mortuary to Frank the night before but was really the more prosaic old Records Building. My brief visit there proved satisfactory—to me, at least. Then onward, ever onward; the Hollywood freeway, then west on Beverly Boulevard, which leads one to—you guessed it—the fabulous Beverly Hills itself, and have you ever seen the police station there? It looks more like Tara than a clink.
Flora by Phineas was in; out back, as usual, working away furiously, as usual. He gave me an affectionate buss on each cheek to wolf whistles from the girls, then gave King a pat, then snatched up an elaborate bouquet of fleurs, which he presented to me with a deep curtsey.
"In honor," he said.
"Of what?" I said.
"Don't bother me with details!" he said. "And so where's my little pressie?"
I gave him his little pressie, with full instructions delivered sotto voce. His eyebrows almost disappeared up into his hairline.
"Show starts promptly at two, so don't be late," I said. "The theater's on Santa Monica somewhere between Havenhurst and Sweetzer, from the address. Enjoy, enjoy. Rendezvous back at my office from five-thirty on for comparison of notes and mayhap a spot of gloating. Itty-bitty canapés on triangles of limp toast will be served. Ta ta, must run. King! Heel!"
I headed for the door in a comical lope; the girls' giggles followed me out. Once outside, I leashed the dawg and looked at the fleurs. What did I want with fleurs? Who did I have to give fleurs to, anyway? I knew who was on the top of the list of people who weren't going to get them, forget it, and as for the twerp, if I ever gave her posies she'd have a nervous breakdown. So I gave them to the first pretty girl I saw on the way back to where I'd parked who wasn't a blonde.
"In honor," I said, with a slight but effective bow, and then I got out of there before she called the cops and had me arrested for the exposure of that which is both rare and deeply shocking in Beverly Hills—an honest emotion.
The twerp showed up at the office twenty minutes after the time she was supposed to, which was one p.m.; by doing so, no doubt she was endeavoring to show her independence of spirit and poetic license when faced with such trifles as promptness, courtesy, and responsibility. Not being a tiresome dope myself, I'd of course deliberately set our time of meeting a half hour earlier than it had to be to start with. I wonder why people have the need to play such futile games; what distortion of ego could be responsible? Maybe the Shadow knows, but I sure don't.
"So who's in this shitty movie, anyway?" was her opening line, not counting her hello to King.
"The classic we are about to see stars the late, great Jack Benny," I informed her.
"No wonder you dig it," she said, perching herself uninvited on a corner of my desk, "seeing as he's one of your role models and all."
"Also the gorgeous Carole Lombard, and Robert Stack as a boy."
"Yecch," she said.
"If I was you, God forbid," I said, "I'd save my 'yecchs' because you're going to need them. Wait till you see who's going to the flicks with us o'er in Westwood, my cherry blossom. Oh, remind me on the way out to return this waffle iron, will you?"
"What 'cha been doing with that thing?"
"Crimping my hair," I said. "Works pretty good, too, if you get all the butter off first. Now come on, we don't want to miss the Three Stooges, we get them, too."
"Probably your other role models," the twerp said.
IT WAS FIVE minutes to six that Wednesday afternoon, that Wednesday afternoon in the San Fernando Valley, and the Dodgers were still six and a half games out. Present and accounted for in the modest premises of V. (for Victor) Daniel were S. Silvetti, Flora by Phineas, Wade 'n' Willy, noted brother act, and the light-headed (and even lighter-fingered) Benny the Boy. In the chair was Yores Truly. All were in a festive mood, or thereabouts. S. Silvetti had risen (imperceptibly) in my estimation because she'd loved the movie and had been repeating lines from it ever since—"So! They call me Concentration Camp Erhardt, eh?" being for some Freudian reason her particular favorite. As I
'd had the foresight and generosity to stop on the way back from the movie at a booze store, where I'd loaded up with beer and Coke and a selection of those stubby little bottles of already mixed cocktails you can get nowadays, we were proceeding to get even more festive.
Phineas regaled us first with his tale, which was short but satisfyingly sweet.
"Is there anything tackier than Santa Monica Boulevard in the mid-afternoon?" he began. "In fact, is there anything tackier than Santa Monica Boulevard period? If there is, it is the lobby of a gay porno movie house on Santa Monica Boulevard, which must be the ultimate depressant." Easy to tell he's never read any of Sara's poetry, I thought to myself. "But duty called, and, metaphorically, I can assure you, I girded up my loins, purchased mon billet, and, clutching my vial, my test tube of who knew what dangerous and toxic substances, slunk into a seat in the last row. The film began suddenly, without warning, like a tropical deluge, no Movie-Tone News, no cartoon, no trailer even. Suddenly they were all at it, my dears, from all directions. Following instructions, I made my way casually to the gents'. Was there a ladies' room as well? I did not notice. If there was, would the signs that announced their presence have read, ever so cutely, 'Kings' and 'Queens'? We shall never know."
Here he paused to take a delicate sip of his dry martini, after which he shuddered gracefully. "Absolutely horrid," he said. "The bathroom was, fortunately, deserted. On went the loathsome rubber gloves. Out of the vial I extracted one of the two gelatinous capsules, which was approximately the size of one's little finger. I pierced it with a safety pin, and immediately, if not sooner, flushed it down the sink using the hot water tap. Then I did the same in one of the three adjoining stalls, and again flushed, only this time down the toilet. I then returned to my seat, sans gloves."