by David Pierce
'That's what I say too. However, ever heard of money? Bread? People will do a lot of foolish things for bread.'
'Well, I haven't got any,' she said. 'They don't give me any. Well, they give me some but I spend it. On clothes, mostly.'
She looked at me carefully; when she saw I wasn't going to rise to the bait, no matter how tempting, she went on. 'My mother will give me some when I find her and I can pay you then.'
I had to laugh. Santa Claus hadn't really forgotten that Red Ryder air rifle I asked for a few decades ago, he was just a little behind on his deliveries.
'OK, OK,' I said. 'Don't break my heart. Let me try it the easy way first. If that doesn't work and you want to go on, we'll try the hard way.'
'Like what?'
'Like injunctions and subpoenas and a lot of money from you or a nice long chat with your adoptive parents, or both. For now, just tell me where and when you were left.'
'On 22 March, outside St Mary's Hospital, Davis, California.'
'Any particular year?'
'Nineteen sixty-six. You ever been to Davis, California?'
'Never,' I said with a shudder. 'Unless I was left there too and Mummy never told me. However, I am going to talk to Davis, California, as soon as you give me your address and phone number.'
She provided me with the information, stood up, stretched, lit another stogie, then offered me one. I took it to clinch the deal and said I'd save it for supper if she didn't mind.
'I don't care if you save it for your next Tupperware party,' she said. 'Can I help?'
'Help what?'
'Help you, whatever you're going to do.'
'No,' I said firmly. 'Go home and write some poetry or tear your clothes or something.'
'Why not?'
I sighed surprisingly gently, considering the provocation.
'There isn't anything for you to do right now, that's why not. There is something for me to do and I'm going to start doing it as soon as you buzz off.'
'Well, why can't I do it?'
'Because you don't even know what it is!' I said. 'Now beat it.'
'You could tell me,' she said, 'then I could do it.'
'By the time I tell you I could do it myself,' I said. 'Go away, will you? I know you want to help, I do get it, but some things are just one-man jobs.'
'If you do get a two-man job, can I help, I mean, if it concerns me?'
'Of course!' I said warmly. 'You'll be the first person I think of, I promise. Now go home and sit by the phone.'
'You big liar,' she said. She took a Walkman out of a shoulder-bag that looked like a WWII ammunition holder, then slouched out. I hate Walkmans, too. Jesus Christ, you know you're getting old when there are more things you hate than like. I picked up her present, took it to the back door and chucked it out for the cat. Then I checked the time – there was plenty of it, as usual. I got through to Information in Davis and Information in Davis didn't know if there was a Davis daily paper but did know that everyone in town took the Sacramento Bee. Shortly thereafter I was talking to a Miss Spencer who worked in the Bee's advertising department. She helped me frame an ad to run daily for three days in their personal columns to the effect that a substantial reward would be paid for any information about a Caucasian baby girl who had been chucked out with the bath water on to the steps of St Mary's all those years ago. Complete confidentiality assured, this is in the child's best interest and at her bequest. Call collect, etc. Miss Spencer also rented me a box number and said the ad would be inserted as soon as they had received my check for $17.50. I said it was practically on its way. She said any mail I received at my new box number would be forwarded to me within twenty-four hours but this service would be discontinued two weeks after the date of the insertion of the first ad. I said I fully understood, wished Miss Spencer a happy day up there in dear old Davis, and rang off. I figured with the cost of the phone call, Miss Lobotomy was already into me for over nineteen big ones but what the hell, you can't always put money first, there is such a thing as altruism, is there not? Still, after making out a check for the Bee and sending it off, I did make out a bill for the peanut-head just in case she ever did get a proper job or maybe her foster parents might even cough up.
Then I had a quick visit from the Nus and their cousin Mr Nu. They just popped in to see if I was all right, they said. I was all right, I said. Mr Nu took in the new wall to wall and made a Vietnamese gesture with one hand that I think meant, mighty classy, but then I'm not exactly an expert on one-handed Vietnamese gestures.
They had no sooner bowed their way out than Mr Amoyan bowed his way in, on more or less the same errand. After he had assured himself that I was still in the land of the living, he too took in the new carpeting and then rolled his eyes heavenwards in what I interpreted as an old Armenian gesture of deep contempt. Mr Amoyan had kindly, as an office warming (ha ha) present, brought me a new calendar to replace the one he'd given me last Christmas. It was from some Armenian garage down on Pico and featured a brightly hued picture of a gypsy-looking lady being serenaded by a gypsy-looking gaucho type in front of a backdrop of gypsy-looking mountains.
I said, thanks very much, it was just what I needed, and then rolled my orbs skyward.
He left.
I finally managed to get out of there before anyone else dropped by, took the truck back to the rental office as it seemed clear my days disguised as a gay house painter were through, caught a cab back home and began looking in the clothes closet for something suitable to wear to a funeral. If there was such a thing. If it made any difference. If anyone was really watching.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mrs Flexner turned out to be correct, there weren't many of us at Timmy's last rites.
The service was held in a small room off the main hall of the Angel Baptist Funeral Home way out on Chandler Boulevard, Reverend Jimmy Barson, Officiant. I was a little late getting there; the other mourners were already seated. Piped organ music coming from somewhere wafted over us. The ceiling was a dark blue with tiny lights scattered in it, giving a cut-rate impression of a starry sky at night. All but the youngest of the kids were there, on their best behavior, the girls wearing white gloves, the boy a dark blue suit. Then there was Mrs Flexner and two of her friends, then there was me.
The usher, a black man in a black suit, handed me a . . . I don't know what you call it, a 'program' sounds like we were at a concert. Anyway, it had four pages, with a picture of Timmy in an oval on the back. A large black lady in a robe sang 'Sleep and Dream', then she sang the Lord's Prayer. Then the Reverend Officiant delivered a short eulogy, which was followed by a reading from the Scripture. Psalms, if anyone's interested. All the kids were crying by then; I was sick and angry.
Then we had a remembrance from Mrs Flexner, then a spirited rendition of 'Goin' Up Yonda' by the singer. A final prayer from the Reverend Jimmy, then something devastating called the Recessional, when those who wanted to filed past the coffin. I passed.
The family left first, then the friends, and then myself. We all met up in the hall outside. Mrs Flexner was sitting on a bench weeping. One of her friends and one of her children were comforting her. I was going to say something but didn't know what, so I left. It seemed particularly incongruous to step outside into the heat and sun and palm trees. A sign on a bar across the street said 'Fri – Sat – Girls'. Dying and going to heaven was a relief and a blessing and a time for joy, the Reverend Jimmy had said. Well, don't believe everything you hear is what I say.
To cheer myself up, on the way home I stopped at Blumen-feld's and let Syd sell me a wastepaper basket that had English hunting scenes painted on it. That did the trick. It cheered me up so much I thought I'd stop at the Two-Two-Two to celebrate. I was still celebrating three hours, seven brandy and gingers and a half a dozen games of pool later. I thought maybe Mae would like to come out and help me celebrate. What a brilliant idea. We could play doubles. We could lick any mixed pool team in the Valley, heck, maybe the world.
&nbs
p; Mae was out. Her obnoxious roommate was in.
'She'll probably be out a lot from now on,' I was informed. 'Especially to some.'
'What does that mean, Charlene?'
'Oh, didn't she tell you? She's engaged. To a terrific guy who sells condos.'
'Sure, sure,' I lied. 'Just called to wish her the best. Just called to see if silver would be appropriate for a wedding present. I don't think you can ever go wrong with a nice piece of silver, do you?'
Charlene wasn't sure. Charlene wasn't even sure if it was the male or the female stork who delivered the babies. Anyway.
I hung up and went back into the bar to continue celebrating. Maybe that was why Mae had been so mad at me the last couple of times we'd talked. Funny, though – she gets engaged, and she's the one who's mad at me. Wouldn't it make more sense the other way around?
I posed this riddle to my ol' pal, my ol' compadre Jim the barman. Good old Jim, he was your original heart of gold, as long as you had the price of a drink and didn't try and put the make too hard on his insanely yummy bar girl Lotus.
'The way I see it,' Jim said thoughtfully, pouring out a few more stale pretzels into the freebie bowl on the bar, 'is like Israel invading Egypt before Egypt invades Israel.'
Ah – the unexpected wisdom of the common man – yet another reason for celebration.
Thursday morning. Bits and pieces. I awoke in my own bed, which was a relief. Alone, another relief, I guess. I didn't seem to be bleeding anywhere, except through the pupils, another relief. My legs were hot and itchy but the doc had said that was good, it meant they were getting better, there was good pain and bad pain, you know. Well, I didn't know. I thought good pain was as unlikely as the Baptists' rosy afterlife – nice work if you can get it.
Anyway, up and at 'em – a busy day ahead in the fascinating life of aging but still mean V. Daniel, Valley private eye. I felt something under my pillow – my God, I thought, the Tooth Fairy – she didn't forget! It turned out to be a large plastic ashtray from the Crow's Nest. On it was a picture of two crows having a cocktail. The male crow was singing to the female crow, 'Come fly with me.' Perfection in schlock.
I cleaned up, drank a quart of loathsome instant coffee, took my pills, sprayed my burns, grabbed the ashtray, snuck out without seeing Feeb, drove with great concentration to the office, and opened up. Mere moments later I had Betsy set up on my new old desk and was getting up to date with the files, a chore I rather liked, it made me seem businesslike, mobile, contemporary. I had the material from John to enter, a new file to enter on Sara, the Orphan of the Storm, and the latest in the thrilling Seburn case to type in. Into the monthly accounts went the deposits from Messrs Seburn and Lowenstein, out of it the payment to Cal Edison. Also out of it debits for the truck rental, furniture, stationery, stamps, telephone, wastepaper basket and Haig's Pinch, a legitimate business expense if ever I saw one. New balance – could be worse.
Bits and pieces. Did I ever mention my life was naught but a shower of assorted bits and pieces that never quite fit? If I didn't, remind me to do so some time as it's a fascinating topic.
Clear screen. I typed in 'Schedule for today, Thursday, 21 May 1984', and up it came in clear, soothing, green print right before my very eyes just as quick as all get out. Good old reliable Betsy. She did everything she was told to immediately, faster than immediately, and you try and find help like that today. 'Schedule for today: buy cat trap, preferably the highly illegal, jagged-tooth, 100-pound spring pressure type. See (at home? Work? Neutral place?) Barbara Herbert, single, 24. Call brother re mother. Call Elroy re insurance. Call Evonne (!) re St Stephen's. Bloody mary at Corner Bar. Afternoon: Lucy Seburn. Evening: frighten the freckles off as yet unselected student at St Stephen's. Later in evening: curl up with good dirty book.'
I was on the phone having a word with brother Tony when the Valley's only pygmy policeman, a stunning vision in heliotrope, strolled in without bothering to knock. I told Tony I'd get back to him, cleared the screen, and said, 'Now what?' to Lieutenant Conyers.
'And a good, good, top o' the morn to you,' he said. 'I was passing by, thought I'd just pop in.'
'Try not to make it a habit,' I said. All in all I preferred the cat.
'Feeling better, are we?' he asked, looking around brightly.
"We are.'
'Busy, are we?'
'We are.'
'Anything interesting?' He wandered out back to snoop some more.
'Nah,' I said. 'Domestic quarrels, insurance claims, same old stuff. How're the Albanian yogurt stirrers?'
'Aren't you the one,' he said. I looked modest. 'How's your old school friend?'
'OK,' I sard. 'How's your son?' He didn't like that one; he stopped by the desk and looked daggers, as they say, at me.
'You know your problem, boyo?'
'Yes,' I said.
'You don't ask the right questions,' he said. 'You're too busy being funny. Why don't you ask me if we found the mysterious fire-bomber who destroyed your elegant office and almost managed to destroy you?'
'And who did manage to destroy Timmy Flexner,' I said. 'By the way, we missed you at the funeral. But, OK, have you caught him?'
'Guess,' he said.
'I guess no,' I said. 'Otherwise you wouldn't be sneaking around here with your trick questions.'
'I do not particularly care for you, Mr Daniel,' he said, picking an almost invisible piece of lint off his padded shoulder.
'Gee, I'm sorry,' I said. 'I could use a few friends right now. Neat shoes.' They were burgundy loafers. 'I admire a classy dresser.' Sara wasn't the only deadpan comic in the world. All right, it was childish, but is there not some of the child left in every man? Also he got on my nerves, I thought his technique was obvious and his wardrobe a disaster in pastels, but who knows what stresses the very small live under?
'And I don't like the insinuation that I don't care if the people responsible aren't caught and strung up by the balls,' I told him. 'A lot of people get killed in this part of the world, in fact in every part of the world, but I rarely know any of them or have been involved with any of them. I live a dull, humdrum life, Lieutenant. Once in a while I follow somebody and maybe take a picture or two. You're the cop, it's your job, not mine. Insurance claims, runaways, stolen pets, bounced checks, that's my job.'
'You know what I hope?' Lieutenant Conyers asked me. 'You know what I hope deeply?'
'Yes,' I said. 'To be born again as tall as me.'
'I hope you need me sometime.'
He walked out on his toes, got into his Dodge, and began to drive away.
'I hope I don't is what I hope,' I called after him. I could just see the top of his head through the rear window and that was with two cushions under his clenched little butt.
It was too early to call Elroy and much too early for John D. so I was forced to call Evonne. Miss Shirley to me, so far, but I can dream, can't I, as Jung used to remark so amusingly.
Miss Shirley was in. How was I? I was fine, but busy. How was she? She was fine, but busy. How was Mr Lowenstein? He was fine. Was he busy too? He was always busy. Did I want to talk to him? No, I wanted to talk to her. So talk.
'Miss Shirley, are you capable of discreetly finding out something for me without asking any questions and then keeping it to yourself afterwards? I know you're capable of it, but will you?'
'How've I done so far, Pablo?'
'Ah,' I said. 'Ah. Are you referring to the other night?'
'If you mean the night Dev and I visited you in the hospital and there you were, helpless and wan, battered and bruised, yes I am. Have I even asked you one question what that was all about, as if I couldn't guess, and by the way, I've got good news for you, they think they can save one of the trees.'
'That is good news,' I said. 'And I mean that sincerely.' For a terrible moment I thought I saw Timmy going by the window but it wasn't him, it didn't even look like him.
'Well, then,' she said. 'Out with it, mister, I got work to do. Have y
ou ever done a payroll for a staff of forty-two?'
'Big deal,' I said. 'The computer does it all. What I want to know is does Dev have any regular dates or appointments or jobs off the school grounds and after school hours Thursday or Friday?'
'Gotcha,' she said. 'Anything else?'
I said no. She said, 'Later,' and hung up. I hung up too, then straightened my new ashtray. Then I straightened the phone. Some girls always bring out the domestic in me.
By then it was a little after ten and I didn't seem to have anything to do for a bit. Mind you I could have found something but the doc had said that walking was good for me so I switched off Betsy and walked. Although it was but midmorning, it was already warming up nicely in the Valley. There was another smog alert but it was only stage two which meant you could see a good hundred yards in all directions except up, which was more than enough for me.
I walked. Strange place, the Valley. Dirty movies and chichi kitchenware stores, movie studios and eerie shopping malls where Valley girls wandered lost and forlorn, wondering whatever happened to their fleeting moment of fame. Car lots and health-food stores, bridle paths along the dried-up Los Angeles River and wide, never-ending boulevards lined with those tall, skinny palms that have all the action at the very top, like Wilt Chamberlain in an afro. Hopeful vendors of tropical fish, second-hand bookstores, foreign car garages and 'For Sale' real-estate signs. Booze stores and orange trees, cut-rate drugs, tans and sirens.
I wound up at Don's Deli, on Ventura, dawdled over some rye toast with cream cheese and a glass of milk, then strolled back to the office. On the way I stopped in at Mendleson's Family Jewelers and bought Mae a sterling silver cake dish and a matching cake knife, to be gift-wrapped and delivered. What the hell. Once a sport, always a sport.
Back at my place of business I gave Elroy a call on my new red phone. He was up, if you call lying on your back in a hammock on a balcony eating granola bars being up. I asked about his insurance; no sweat, my man, he said, keep a list. Then I thanked him effusively for sending me such an eye-catching, let alone affluent, client as Sara Silvetti. He laughed, then choked on his breakfast. Served him right. I tried John D. but he wasn't about yet. Then I broke a rule; I punched up the file on St Stephen's, made a note of a few names, addresses and phone numbers, then packed everything away, got in the car and headed west on the Ventura Freeway towards Manhattan Beach, there was a guy I wanted to talk to about boats, but I never did find him. I didn't try all that hard.