As She Rides By (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  " 'Sans' means 'without' in Spanish," I whispered to the twerp.

  "Twenty minutes later, I arose and, without a backward glance at the astonishing length and girth of our hero's weapon, departed with a sigh of relief and a twinge of sadness for my fellow human being. Only one question remains in my mind—what the naughty-four-letter-word-that-starts-with-F was I doing?"

  "Yes, what was he doing, Willy?" his somnolent brother roused himself enough to ask.

  "He was putting a type of phosphorus trichloride in the plumbing system," Willy said, grinning through his bushy black beard.

  "Which is not like putting a fluoride in toothpaste," I said to Sara. "Bet you anything."

  "Which substance burns in water," Willy said, "mighty fiercely indeed, especially when warmed by friction or an acid."

  "Or hot water," Sara said.

  "And as most plumbing these days is plastic, not lead and copper anymore, that cinema's whole plumbing system right out to the mains will have more holes in it than Wade's socks by now," Willy said. "Oh. The trichloride part means there's a chlorine base involved, and we all know what that smells like. Remember World War One?"

  "Vic probably does," Sara said.

  "Chlorine gas? Same sort of thing, but I only gave them the merest whiff."

  "Speaking of whiffs," Wade said, "wait'll you hear what we hit the mothers with."

  "I am impatience itself," Phineas said. "Can I have another of these disgusting things?" I got him a refill from the midget fridge out back, and also another beer for Benny and Wade and a third margarita for Willy and a refill of some coconut rubbish for Sara, taking the occasion to top up my own brandy and ginger.

  When I was seated behind my desk once more, Wade said, "Concentrated parfum de dog shit."

  "I beg your pardon?" I said. "Remember there's a lady present, sort of."

  "Friend of Willy's makes it," Wade said. "He lives in a fabulous Frank Lloyd Wright house in Echo Park."

  "He's all chemicals," Willy said from where he was sitting on the floor next to King. "Looks like it, too. Me, I'm strictly mechanical. And philosophical, of course. He makes stuff like instant smoke and shitty-tasting gum and like that, his stuff's all over that catalog I showed you. One of the things he makes is a canned stench spray, sells for four bucks or something like that in an aerosol can. God, is it nasty! So Wade and me drove over and talked him out of some concentrate while we were picking up the phosphorus; you can't imagine what it's like. I picked up two dozen disposable syringes at the drugstore, loaded them up in the garden, for obvious reasons, and off we went."

  "We hit about nine seats each," Wade said from where he was squatting on his heels against the wall, "with a trip to the john in between. The ones we were on, the ones on each side, and the ones in front. From the bottom, of course, and who's gonna notice a pinprick in the bottom of a seat? They're gonna go apeshit tryin' to figure out where the pong is comin' from, hell, they'll probably have to tear out half the seats, easy."

  "Brilliant, boys," I said, "although I expected no less than brilliance from you. How did you get on, Benny?"

  "Smoothly," he said from where he was sitting, on the corner of my desk opposite Sara's corner. He took his fake I.D. out of his wallet and passed it around. "I got downtown just before the cashier was going to open up, presented my credentials, which, as you see, identified me as a pest and vermin controller, and off I went snooping for pests and vermin."

  "Bet you found some," the twerp said, "seeing as it was me that had the icky job of collecting them in the first place, thanks a lot, Vic."

  "To each according to his strength, dear child," I said.

  "As it happened, within mere minutes I had a boxful teeming with about a hundred Supella longipalpa, otherwise known as the brown-banded cockroach. To the cashier I went. With my little tweezers I showed him one. I told him its Latin name even. I consulted my notebook. I told him that as the incidence of roaches per square foot I had discovered on his premises exceeded by a considerable margin the legally permissible, his premises would therefore be immediately placed off-limits to the public and would remain so until a thorough fumigation by an accredited company had taken place. Meaning exactly what? the cashier wanted to know. Be right back, I said, and I will tell you. By the time I got back from my car with the chain, the padlock, and the large, official-looking sign Victor had printed up, which said, 'Closed due to infestation until further notice, Los Angeles Department of Health,' he'd telephoned his boss and asked me to please wait until his boss got there, it'd be about forty-five minutes, something I did not want to do and therefore didn't. I gave him just time enough to shut off the electricity, then I chained and padlocked the front door. I informed him the fumigation process consisted of confining the entire structure within a heavy plastic envelopment, then the releasing of a highly poisonous gas within the envelopment, and then waiting for the gas to lose its potency, which normally took three days. I reminded him of my name, told him that if he or his employer had any further queries, I could be contacted at the department. We shook hands, and I drove sedately away, with the evidence, which I chucked out of the car window on my way back."

  "And one more bites the dust," I said, "leaving but the Westwood Classic, I believe, so may I now present for your delectation and enjoyment the one and only, thank goodness, Miss Sara Silvetti, poetess to the yearning messes."

  "Up yours too," Miss Silvetti said. "They should call you Concentration Camp Daniel; why do I always get all the lousy jobs? First I had to collect all those bugs, then guess what I had in my purse when we went to the movies today? Fuckin' creepy mice, is what."

  "Now, Sara," I said, "I know you're a poet and all, but must you be quite so sensitive? You're talking about a snake's favorite food here; I thought they were cute little things."

  "Sure, sure," she said. "You were more scared of them than I was even." I smiled fondly at her. "Anyway, I let out a couple in the bathroom, then come out holding a dead one by its slimy tail, scream, and toss it onto the front row, while the great white hunter here lets out his lot where he's sittin', which wasn't with me, from a leather tool kit thing he's carrying, then he jumps up holding a live one and shouts somethin' like 'Christ, they're all over the place,' and did that joint empty in a hurry. I never even got to see the end of the movie."

  "The end of the movie," I said, "goes like this. All through, whenever Jack, as Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, starts his 'To be or not to be' speech, this good-looking guy who is Robert Stack as an airman, sitting up front, gets up and noisily excuses himself all down the row to head out back to Jack's wife's dressing room for a cuddle. Robert finally goes home to Kansas or England or somewhere, to Jack's delight. So when he confidently starts, 'To be or not to be' at the end, he is not amused when a good-looking guy in a sailor's outfit this time gets up from the front and starts saying, 'Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,' all down the line."

  "Neat," said the twerp.

  "Now what, Victor?" said Phineas from my one spare chair.

  "What do you think, gang? Think it's time I gave the boss of the once mighty Pussy Gato Adult Cinema Company a tinkle?" I inquired to the assembly. The assembly thought it a jolly good idea. So did I.

  "Care to do the honors, Sara my sweet?" I dug out the number and passed it over. "To use these new phones, you don't have to make all those circles with your finger anymore, you just have to tap the numbers you want."

  She favored me with a look, then tapped.

  "Helloo?" she said, in an affected voice. "Mr. Daniel's private secretary here." That'll be the day, I thought. "He's calling your Mr. Gall, puulese. Yes, I'll hold." She held. "Mr. Gall? I have Mr. Daniel for you, will you hold?" Evidently he held, because he was still there when I wrestled the phone from the noodlehead.

  "Mr. Gall," I said warmly, "V. Daniel here. So how's business these days?" Pause. "Really; fallen off, eh? Sorry to hear that."

  "Yeah, I'll bet you are," he said.

  Then I said, "For w
hat reason? Maybe it's just a temporary slump. Or it could be cyclical. Or it could be mice? Infestations? Acid bombs and stink bombs? I can hardly believe my ears."

  "Yeah, I bet you can't," he said.

  Then I said, "Look, Mr. Gall, you're a businessman, so let us talk business. You know how vulnerable places of public enjoyment are, and I'm not even talking about fire law contraventions and rancid popcorn oil and LSD in the water cooler and illegal importuning of minors in the lavatories and goodness knows what some revengeful citizen might dream up. Also, would you not say that one characteristic of the successful businessman is knowing when to cut his losses? Of course you would. So let's get together on this, Mr. Gall, let's pass the peace pipe, I bet I could borrow one from Joe."

  There I paused while Mr. Gall told me what I could do with Injun Joe's peace pipe, and it didn't involve passing it. He then told me what I could do with Injun Joe, too. Then I reminded him that whatever skirmishes might take place, as long as us principals remained firm, as we would, and the evidence remained secure, as it was, and thus the restraining order remained in force, as it was, he was up against it, was he not? I also reminded him that I had a realtor amigo who was prepared to take the property off his hands toot sweet, for a fair and just price. Pause. Then he said, "Get him to call me." I said I would, and made a "V" for victory sign to the assembly.

  "One more thing," I said, "afore ye go. Kindly send Amos and Andy around one of these days, would you, to take down that fence? No, I don't know how much it cost you, but I bet I spent more on Injun Joe's wardrobe."

  Chapter Nineteen

  So I'm sittin' and I'm sweatin' in a tin bar near the border,

  Sharin' a bottle of cold Carta Blanca with my memories . . .

  THURSDAY MORNING, AT eleven a.m., I went to a funeral. I won't bother you with all the details, but it took place at a funeral home way down on Pico. It was for a kid I knew who had been slain in some crack-related affair, on a friend's lawn a couple of blocks from his own house. His pop—a pal of mine and an ex-cop—"ex" because he'd been shot, too, ironically also in a crack-related affair, only from the other side—hadn't been able to do much with the kid. Nor had my pal's widow, so she asked me and I had a go a couple of times and didn't get very far, either. In fact, I didn't get anywhere, it looked like.

  I sat there, at the back, daydreaming more than listening.

  Daydreaming isn't quite the right term—more like running down the list again of things I might have tried but didn't—although realistically I don't know what more I could have done except maybe swooped down like Batman out of the night and picked him up and deposited him none too gently somewhere like a leper colony in the Congo run by missionaries or a kibbutz up in Galilee where if he didn't make himself useful planting yams or picking bananas he wouldn't get to eat. But how much responsibility can you take for someone else, anyway, when they don't want it taken? If Benny really started losing it via drugs or booze or whatever else, I'd soon swoop down on him like an overlarge avenging angel who lost his golden locks somewhere along the way, but the wayward son of a part-time friend? Where do you draw the line?

  The casket was open; I shuffled along with the other mourners, then took a look at the boy, then wished I hadn't. Then a lad in a white surplice in the choir stepped forward a couple of paces and sang:

  "Christian! Seek not yet repose,

  Hear thy guardian angel say;

  Thou art in the midst of foes—

  Watch and pray."

  Then, feeling in the midst of foes myself not for the first time, I drove back to the office. I don't know why I felt so tired, maybe I was just weary of fighting the same old wars against the same old creeps—the greasy porno merchants and the hired heavies, the scared and the slimes and the amoral. Or maybe there was only one war, the one called us against them.

  As I might have mentioned, I read somewhere—at the dentist's, I think—that for a few grand down it's possible to buy your own island, so maybe that's what I'll do. To hell with Paris by night and Venice by day, you can keep your bullfights in Seville and cherry blossom festivals in Yokohama and carnivals in Rio, one of these fine days I will be but a fading memory, gone, departed, out of here, vamoosed to my isle where the sweet winds blow and the lapping of the gentle tides wash my troubles away and I am young again and lean again and I await for nothing but the monthly visit of the copra boat bringing my my sparse necessities—brownie mix and Stove-Top dressing. And that's a promise, amigos.

  The rest of the day passed, as did Friday. I dealt with what had to be dealt with, including two passing Mormons, and didn't deal with what I didn't have to. Friday evening, as I chanced to be dateless, I had Benny over to the house and made us some supper and then let him beat me at chess for the 1,231st time in a row. I beat him at Chinese checkers, though. We were also watching the ball game on TV—Reds, 6, Dodgers, 2, bottom of the seventh—which was coming from Dodger stadium over in Chavez Ravine. I love going there. Soon as you get near your seat, a peroxide blond, heavy on the lac, minces up in his custom-tailored outfit and says, "Well, hi! Lovely to see you! I'm Kenneth and I'm your usher for the evening."

  During the chess game, I asked Benny if he knew any kids.

  "What kind of kids?" he said.

  "How many kinds are there?" I said. "Kids as in children."

  "What age?"

  "Oh, nine, ten, eleven, in there somewhere."

  "No," he said. "Look out, your queen's in check."

  I moved the queen. "Know anyone who does know any kids?"

  "Yes," he said. "Evonne."

  "Forget it," I said. "Anyone else?"

  "No. Your queen's in check again."

  "Something's always in fucking check," I said, "playing with you. Be right back. And keep your hands off the board while I'm away, please." I crossed to the table with the phone on it and called up the twerp. After some small talk with her pop, she came on the line.

  "Ah, Sara," I said. "Good evening. Staying in tonight, are we, no heavy date?"

  "What's it to you?" she said. "And where are you calling from, one of those shitty bars you like so much?"

  "I happen to be engaged in intellectual pursuits with a close friend of mine," I said. "And in the comfort of my own home."

  "You're watchin' TV," she said. "I can hear it. I guess that's intellectual for you."

  "Some of us can do two things at the same time," I said. "Aside from that, know any kids?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I want to take you and a kid for a drive tomorrow."

  "Why?"

  "Because I want to see where some other folks go when they take a drive on Saturdays."

  "Why?"

  "Tell you tomorrow," I said. "Now, about that kid."

  "I know the kid next door," she said.

  "How old is he?"

  "It's a she," she said. "Her name's Katy and she's in junior high."

  "She bright?"

  "Brighter than you."

  "Kid must be a genius," I said. "Square it with her parents, will you? Think of something. Say I'll contribute ten bucks for Katy's college fund."

  "That'll be a big help," Sara said. I settled the details of where and when with her, all being well, and went back to the ballgame.

  It was eleven-thirty the following morn. Benny's old Ford was parked on Alondra Boulevard, in that part of Los Angeles called Norwalk. Benny was behind the wheel, Sara beside him, and I was in the backseat with King next to me and Katy next to him. Our picnic lunch was in the trunk, along with a six-pack of Corona beer for emergencies. Katy was a very pretty young miss who was wearing shorts, sneakers, a baggy sweatsuit top, and a Giants baseball cap, her only flaw. Benny, too, was in casual attire, as were we all, in fact.

  Sure enough, just as Tom had mentioned the one and only time I'd visited Tex's studio, which was just around the corner up a no-name alley, shortly after twelve Tex's big Merc, with Tex driving, made its appearance. It turned away from us up Alondra, and, with us follow
ing at a discreet distance, headed for the on-ramp of the Santa Ana freeway.

  "And away we go!" I said.

  "Yeah, like where, Vic?" Sara said. "Come on, you promised."

  "Ah yes, Sara, but did someone not once say that promises, like pie crusts, were made to be broken? However, not in this case, I assure you." I took out the list of the twenty-seven names, addresses, and P.O. box numbers Frank had printed up for me and handed it to her. "Here. Cast your peepers on this. Benny, keep your peepers on the road, please."

  "Can I see it too?" Katy asked.

  "Sure." Sara passed it back to her. "What does it mean?"

  "Tell you what I think it means," I said. "I think it means a lady called Mary Jones, with the full knowledge and, indeed, complicity, of her hubby Tex, has been and still is scamming the pension fund of the company she works for out of a whole lot of dinero."

  "No kidding!" Katy said excitedly, squirming in her seat. King, who had his head in her lap, gave her a sour look.

  "No kidding. And we're soon going to find out for sure, kids, and I include you in that, Benny, as you are but a child to me." He grinned at me in the mirror. We were proceeding at just under the legal limit southeast on the Santa Ana freeway, tucked in about six cars behind the Merc, which was easy to keep track of because you don't see that many blue Mercedes coupes on the road and also, for obvious reason, ol' Tex was keeping inside the speed limit.

  "According to this handy Rand McNally I had the foresight to bring along," I said, opening it up, "let's see . . . if we switch off to the Riverside freeway in a few minutes, bet you our first stop will be Atwood, according to the list, I hope, I hope." And, indeed, a few minutes later, the Riverside it was, and a while after that, Atwood it was, and lo and behold—the Atwood post office 'twas! Not that I was afraid it wouldn't be, not that I thought they were really in Atwood visiting a sick aunt.

  As Tex was double-parking outside the post office up ahead of us, Benny, following my suggestion, slowed down enough so that Sara, following my suggestion, could hop out and follow Mrs. Jones, as it turned out, into the building. As she was doing so, we drove on past Tex, me well slouched down in the backseat, but he didn't pay us no nevermind anyway. We pulled in way up the street, and waited. After a minute, out came Sara. Benny gave her a little toot, to catch her attention, and she headed blithely toward us. After another minute out came Mary. Into the Merc got Mary, and off drove Mary and Tex. As soon as the twerp had rejoined us, off we went, heading back to the freeway.