The Shake

by Mel Nicolai

  “Why don’t you turn right on Jackson and just drive for a while. We’ll take the long way home tonight.”

  Chapter 11

  I wanted to give Karla some time to think about what had happened. If she decided to quit, it was better that she do it now. I could cut her loose with a relatively easy mind. I decided not to call her for a week, or so. In the meantime, I could pay a visit to Hamilton Investigations, LLC.

  With Richardson, I had been dealing with a man who had embraced corruption as a way of life, an all-around scum bag, someone practiced at intimidation, using it whenever it served his purposes. Violence, or its threat, was an integral part of his normal business strategy, maybe even a source of amusement. But intimidation isn’t always the shortest path between two points. Hamilton Investigations called for a more discreet approach.

  A few minutes on the Internet followed by a few nights of observation told me that Hamilton Investigations was a one-man operation, run out of the owner’s home. David Hamilton, divorced, lived by himself in a modest house in a nondescript residential neighborhood just off Marconi Avenue. He seemed to spend most of his free time at a local watering hole, a bar called The Intermission.

  It was time to take a closer look. I rode my bike to Hamilton’s house, passing by The Intermission on the way to make sure his car was in the bar’s parking lot. There wasn’t any activity on the street around his house, so I coasted up the driveway, opened the gate to the backyard and rolled my bike inside. The door on the side of the garage was locked, but the handle was old and wobbly. I turned it until it stopped against the lock mechanism, then continued to turn slowly. The lock gave a little as it bent, then snapped. The latch bolt was still in the lock plate, so I got out my knife, slid the tip into the space between the door and frame, and worked the latch bolt free.

  The garage was a mess. I looked around briefly, satisfied that the accumulated junk wasn’t work-related, then tried the door to the house. It wasn’t locked. Unlike the garage, the kitchen was tidy. A few recently washed dishes were stacked in a drainer next to the sink. Across the living room, a hall led to three bedrooms. The front bedroom was Hamilton’s office. An old, beat up seven-drawer desk sat in front of the window. On the right side of the desk, two armchairs took up the remainder of the space along the front wall. On the adjacent wall, a movie poster hung over a coffee table: After the Thin Man, with William Powell and Myrna Loy. Two filing cabinets stood in the corner opposite the armchairs. I opened the top drawer of one of the cabinets and found a lifetime supply of paper clips, ballpoint pens, custom printed stickies, and other office essentials. The paper clips were particularly well stocked; enough to last a vampire’s lifetime.

  I closed the drawer and tried the other filing cabinet. This one held hanging folders labeled with clients’ names. I found the one labeled “Arnaud,” pulled it out and sat down at the desk. There wasn’t much in the file: copies of a few receipts, the invoices Francine had paid, and two pages of yellow binder paper with hand-written notes like: 1st meet: 3/11. Husband killed. Dean Arnaud, cop. Drugs? Innocent? And so on. From what I could glean, it looked like Francine had wanted Hamilton to look into her husband’s death for the purpose clearing him of any drug-related wrongdoing.

  According to Francine, the reason her husband had been in Vacaville had nothing to do with drugs. He was there looking for their missing niece, her older sister’s kid, who had disappeared several months earlier. A photo of the niece—it looked like a high school yearbook portrait—was clipped to the folder, “Miriam Moore” printed on the back. That much of what Richardson had told me was apparently true. From Hamilton’s notes, it looked like Francine didn’t know why her husband’s search had taken him to Vacaville on the day of his murder.

  Nothing in the file suggested any progress toward explaining Arnaud’s death. There were a few other entries consisting of sentence fragments ending in one or more question marks. At the bottom of the second page, Hamilton had printed “Ron Richardson?” followed by “North CA drugs. Major Player?” Then some time later, with a different pen, he’d added the word “Bloodsucker,” the same thing Francine had written on the photo I’d found in her closet. I wondered which of the two, Hamilton or Francine, had first used the word to refer to Richardson.

  Coincidences have a way of proliferating themselves, compounding themselves, attracting more coincidence, like a spider building a web, until an interrelatedness becomes visible and tangible. This is really just a convenient way to think about it. The webs of interrelatedness are there all the time. We don’t notice them because connections are mostly hidden in an overabundance of details, like the fibers hidden inside a rope. The only way to see the individual threads is to unravel the rope. Humans are generally too busy with the rope to be bothered with the threads. People have things to do, lives to live, responsibilities to attend to. Their very survival depends on their ability to filter out most of the inconsequential details and focus on their priorities. Life is short, so people attend to what they can. The rest becomes background noise.

  Hamilton’s priorities required him to do the opposite: unravel the rope to see where the threads went. But apparently he hadn’t gotten very far. Conspicuously absent from his case notes was any mention of Danny Weiss. Which meant, I suppose, either Hamilton hadn’t made the connection to Weiss, or that Hamilton didn’t keep good notes.

  I put everything back in the folder and returned it to the file cabinet. I went through the other drawers, but didn’t find anything of interest. It looked like most of Hamilton’s work was marital related surveillance. On my way out, I peeked through the living room curtains. The street looked quiet, so instead of leaving the way I’d come in, I walked casually out the front door, retrieved my bike and rode away.

  Chapter 12

  Karla sent me an email the next evening.

  Shake,

  Ever use iChat?

  KL

  I was pleased to see that whatever conflicts may have arisen over the events in Sloughhouse, she was apparently able to resolve them in favor of keeping her job.

  I wrote back:

  Karla

  Occasionally. My screen name is ‘darkMatter.’ Since I’m writing, I’d like you to pick me up at the footbridge on Thursday evening at 9:00 p.m. There’s a movie playing at the Tower Theater I’d like to see. If you’re not interested in watching the film, you can drop me off at the theater and pick me up when it’s over. If you’d like to see it, you’re welcome to accompany me. It’s a Jarmusch film, Broken Flowers.

  Shake

  Thursday night was cold, with a light, steady drizzle. Karla was waiting when I got to the footbridge. I shook the water off my umbrella, closed it and placed it on the floor in front of the seat before getting in. I could feel her watching me. When I looked, she was smiling.

  “Hello, Karla.”

  “Hello, Shake.”

  “Is something amusing?” I asked.

  She put the car in gear and pulled away. “I was just noticing how tidy you are.”

  “Tidy? Is that a euphemism for something?”

  My question seemed to fluster her. “No, I didn’t mean anything by it. I guess I’m just trying to figure you out.”

  “Making any headway?” I asked.

  The expression on her face suggested she’d given it some serious thought. “None at all.”

  “Aitken Roshi says the point isn’t to clear up the mystery, but to make the mystery clear.”

  “What’s an aching roshi?” she asked.

  “Roshi means old teacher. It’s a term of respect used in certain Zen sects. Aitken is the man’s name. Robert Aitken.”

  Her attention was taken up with driving as she accelerated onto the freeway heading downtown. After we’d merged into the flow of traffic, she returned to the conversation. “Are you a Zen Buddhist?”

  “I’m more interested in the art than the religion.”

  “You could be, though. A Zen person, I mean. However you say that. I
think that’s kind of what I meant by tidy. Zen tidy, not like, I don’t know... not anal-retentive tidy.”

  “Not to change the subject, but are you going to drop me off or come in and watch the film?”

  “Come in, if that’s all right.”

  “Good choice,” I said. “Have you seen any of Jarmusch’s films?”

  “No, but after I got your email, I went online and read a review of Broken Flowers. And a little about Jim Jarmusch, too.”

  “I’ve been a fan of his since Stranger Than Paradise, one of his early movies, back in ’84, I think. A bit before your time.”

  The Tower Theater and the Crest Theater on J Street were the only two remaining pre-mall-era theaters in Sacramento. They were the only two theaters that screened independent alternatives to the big studio productions. Developers had been scheming for years to tear the Tower down. But so far, community resistance had held off the wrecking ball. I didn’t particularly like the theater itself. It was old and musty, though not entirely without charm. The staff, to their credit, hadn’t been completely homogenized by a corporate image. They looked a bit fringe, leaning toward the gothic or grunge or something along those lines, which meant my own somewhat funereal pallor didn’t raise eyebrows at the ticket counter.

  It was the last show on a Thursday night, so there wasn’t much of a crowd. I didn’t mind crowds so much, but people sometimes unconsciously sensed danger in my proximity. It was probably something coded in their genes. Most of the time, they didn’t even know it was happening, but their reactions were always tangible to me, like a very mild electric current in the air. I liked it, but it made me hungry, so it wasn’t always expedient.

  “Do you have expense money with you?” I asked Karla.

  She was dressed in black, including black leather boots with heels that made her taller than me, and she’d done something spiky with her hair, which made her look taller, still. “Two thousand,” she said, giving me a look intended to make it clear how unnecessary the question was.

  “Would you mind paying for my ticket?” I asked.

  “Okay, but if you want popcorn, you’re on your own.”

  •

  Afterwards, I suggested we go to a 24-hour restaurant. On the way, we talked a little about the film.

  “I really enjoyed it,” Karla said.

  “I like Jarmusch’s sense of humor.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “Like the next door neighbor, Winston. What a crackup.”

  “The way he handled the letter mystery was very amusing.”

  “Yeah, the Bill Murray character, Johnston, acted like he couldn’t be bothered, like he wasn’t interested. But he really wanted to know who wrote the letter.”

  “The more I think about Johnston, the more complex he seems to me.”

  A slight smile pulled at the corner of Karla’s mouth. “I know she only had a few seconds of screen time, but I thought Tilda Swinton was incredible. She’s such an amazing actress. At first, I didn’t even recognize her.”

  “Do you think she was the one who wrote the letter?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about that. Probably, she did. But we don’t really know, for sure. I like that, too. Not knowing for sure. The movie’s better that way, I think.”

  “I agree. Penny, the Swinton character, seems like a good candidate for the letter writer. But there are little details here and there to raise your doubts.”

  Karla was quiet for a minute. “You know, I was a little nervous about going to a movie with you.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “I was afraid you were going to be one of those intellectual types who wants to, what do they call it, deconstruct it afterward.”

  I wasn’t surprised to hear that she’d been nervous, but I was amused to hear the reason why. “I’ve watched a lot of movies,” I said. “I don’t expect to learn much from them, beyond perhaps something about the art of film making, which I’m not especially interested in. I go to the movies for the pleasure of the story, of watching it unfold. There are a few actors and directors I like, because I can usually depend on them to provide that pleasure. Beyond that, I leave the criticism to the people who get paid for their opinions.”

  “In that case,” she said, after giving it some thought, “you can ask me to take you to the movies any time you want.”

  •

  At the restaurant, we sat in a booth by the window facing J Street. I encouraged Karla to eat if she was hungry. She ordered a salad and I ordered a bottle of Perrier.

  “Is that all you’re having?” she asked.

  “I have to be careful about eating in restaurants,” I explained. “I have some bad allergies. Even in good restaurants the cook may not know what’s in the food. In places like this, they don’t even want to know.”

  “Is that why I’ve never seen you eat?”

  “Partly. Why?”

  “Nothing, really,” she said, shrugging. “It’s just, you know, nice to see people enjoy themselves.”

  “By watching them eat?”

  “That’s one way.”

  I was pretty sure Karla would not find watching me eat an endearing activity.

  “You should be a politician,” she said.

  I waited for her to elaborate.

  “You’re good at sidestepping topics you don’t want to discuss,” she explained. “When a politician doesn’t want to talk, it means he has something to hide.”

  “When a politician wants to talk,” I responded, “it also means he has something to hide.”

  “So is your diet something you need to hide?”

  The waitress stopped by the table and asked if we needed anything. Karla had her coffee topped off. I was still eyeballing my Perrier. Contrary to myth, vampires can and do drink water. Compared to blood, however, it’s almost unbearably insipid.

  “How about you, honey?” the waitress asked me. “You sure you don’t want something to eat?”

  “Not tonight, thanks.”

  Karla had a curious expression on her face as she watched the waitress. When the woman walked away, I asked what she’d been looking at.

  “Her smile is a little bit like yours.”

  Again, I waited for an explanation.

  “It’s a nice smile,” she said. “You just don’t, you know, open your mouth. You don’t show your teeth. Are your teeth crooked, or something?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “In fact, they’re perfect.”

  For some reason, this seemed to be of genuine interest to Karla. “Perfect? Really? Can I see?”

  “No offense, Karla, but examining one another’s orifices is somewhat outside the scope of our relationship.”

  She stopped chewing and glared at me. It seemed like a good time to change the subject.

  “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” I said.

  She started chewing again, but slowly.

  “About a year ago, an off-duty Sacramento cop got killed in a motel down in Vacaville. You may not have heard about it. A guy named Dean Arnaud was shot in the head, executed. There were some unanswered questions about what he was doing at the motel. It looked like he was involved in something drug related, but it's possible he was looking for his missing niece. Either way, the police never caught the killer.”

  “Sorry,” she said, “I don’t pay much attention to the news.”

  “Anyway,” I continued, “the guy’s wife, Francine, was sure her husband was not involved in anything illegal. I guess she couldn’t convince anyone else of his innocence. She eventually hired a private detective to try to clear Dean’s name. Apparently, that didn’t pan out, either, and the matter seems to have died there.”

  I put my index finger in the Perrier glass and stirred the ice around, then licked the water off my finger. Water, by any other name...

  “So, what does all this have to do with anything?” Karla asked.

  “I’d like to find out if the P.I. knew anything about why Dean was in
that motel in Vacaville.”

  “Why don’t you ask the wife?”

  “I would, but she isn’t talking.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “Is she scared?”

  “It’s more intractable than that,” I explained. “She’s dead. She killed herself a few weeks ago.”

  “Shit! Was she, like, a friend of yours, or something?”

  “No, I barely knew her. But I have some reasons of my own for wanting to know why her husband was killed.”

  Karla sipped her coffee and thought about it. “Couldn’t you talk to the private eye?”

  “I could, but I doubt if he’d tell me much. You know, client confidentiality, that sort of thing.”

  “So,” she asked, anticipating where the conversation was leading, “is that where I come in?”

  “If you’re willing.”

  “What makes you think he’ll talk to me?”

  “He may not,” I said. “On the other hand, he’s male, divorced, probably lonely.”

  Karla grinned impishly, a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “You could break into his office and read his files.”

  “I already did that,” I said flatly.

  Her grin widened. “You broke into his office? Really?”

  “His house, actually. He has an office in a spare bedroom.”

  Karla stared, her smile still spread across her face. She leaned forward, as if suddenly our conversation required more privacy. “You really did? You really broke into his house?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  She sat back, crossed her arms and looked at me, her head cocked quizzically. “I hope you don’t expect me to jump in the sack with this guy?”

  I was weighing how to answer her when she apparently decided for herself that either I wasn’t asking her to do that, or if I was asking, she was willing.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Go to this bar he frequents. Make yourself available for a little friendly conversation. If he obliges, see if you can get him to talk about the Arnauds. Maybe he’ll tell you something that wasn’t in his files.”