I shrugged, taking it all in.
“Do you like baseball?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon,” I stammered. “Do you like baseball?”
“I’m from Boston. Of course I like baseball. Are you daft?” Her look was serious.
“No, I used to play, and I like a gal who likes baseball,” I said.
“Let me guess: by the way you are drinking your coffee, I would say you are left-handed. You are well over six feet, so you are too big, too clumsy, and too slow to play shortstop or the hot corner. My guess is you are a one-bagger, probably a switch hitter.” She had a calm poker face with no smile.
I acted with mock displeasure. “It takes a great deal of talent to play first base.”
“With a glove the size of garbage-can lid, how can you miss?”
I leaned over the table and gave her a serious look.
“Let’s get down to it, shall we?”
“Let’s,” she eagerly responded.
“Oaks or Seals?” I asked.
“Seals, they are much closer. However, I hold it against them for selling off DiMaggio. He went to those thieving Yankees. Imagine if he had gone to a good team in the bigs like the Red Sox. His career might have a chance. His little brother Dominic might be smarter and play for Boston.” She took a drink of coffee and winked at me.
“Sure, then the Red Sox can sell him for boatload of cash to the Yankees, just like the Bambino,” I said nonchalantly.
It was a surefire score for points. It was a major hit for points with that comment. The corners of her mouth formed an ever-so-slight smile. She took a drink of coffee and smiled.
“My, we are a wee bit of a smartass, aren’t we?” she said.
“I attempt to provide thoughtful social commentary where needed.”
“Like I said, a wee bit of a smartass.”
“We do our best. Maybe we should catch a game soon.”
“I’d love to,” Kaitlin said. “I’ll explain what all the different positions on the field do. Plus, I’ll teach you how to keep score properly.” She laughed.
“And you called me a wee bit of a smartass. Well, then, after our first real date and then a baseball game, we ought to get married. Don’t you think?”
She fell quiet.
“I’m being serious here, Sean. I’m afraid. I haven’t been out on a date in four years. The men I have met have all been with were disasters. I am not kidding; my parents are a handful. Not to put it all on them: I have a terrible temper and it gets the best of me sometimes. I feel sometimes that my parents peddle me like a product. They are constantly trying to get me to go to charity events, church affairs, and dances. It is never to have fun; it’s to marry me off. It’s depressing.” She looked out the window.
I cleared my throat.
“When my mother was alive, she was constantly trying to find the right woman for me. In her mind any woman, regardless of looks, smarts, or disposition was eligible, just so long as she was fertile. Every date brought on the inquisition. What was she like, do we know her parents, and is she seeing anyone, does she want children? My father referred to it as the O’Farrell Captive Breeding Program. You are cordially invited to marry our son Sean and deliver unto us grandbabies. I know exactly where you are coming from. What do you like to be called?”
“My family and my friends call me Katie.”
“That’s great, but what do you want to be called?”
“Kaitlin was my late grandmother’s name, I have always fancied it,” she said with a sense of pride.
“From now, on you will be Kaitlin to me,” I said.
She blushed, and it was a wonderful blush.
“Thank you.”
“My mother named me Sean Patrick O’Farrell, and when she was on the warpath I heard all three names. It was my cue to hide in another country.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry, I feel like this is a job interview and I am pumping you for information. But, do you go to church?” Her expression was one of hope.
“Born and raised Catholic. I go to St. Peter and Paul’s in Columbus Circle. I am a member of the Knights of Columbus. I go to confession and everything,” I said.
She let out a little breath of relief.
“From the sound of letting out a breath of relief, I would venture to guess that you are too?” I said.
She nodded. It was clear she was greatly relieved.
“Well, I’ll bet you don’t want me to meet your parents in the future and tell them I my parents are looking forward to our wedding in the synagogue.”
That got a real laugh out of her.
“You don’t talk about yourself much, do you?”
“No, I am saving myself for your parents. I am sure you don’t want to hear all the salient facts twice.”
The waitress came. Kaitlin ordered eggs and toast, and I ordered oatmeal and toast.
“I have one more question, and I am sorry for being nosy,” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“I’m sorry, but are you married?” She looked at the bottom of her coffee cup.
“No,” I fired back quickly.
“Have you ever been married?”
“Yes,” I said tersely.
“Divorce?” She was looking at me now.
“No, Kaitlin, I’m widowed. I’ll tell you all about it one day, but not now.” It was my time to look away and out the window.
Our order came and we ate in silence.
“Sean, when you were at the library, I noticed you were wearing a shoulder holster. Are you a policeman?”
“Gees, you don’t miss much, do you, young lady? No, I’m a private detective.”
“My mom won’t like that. It sounds dangerous.”
“Life is full of risks. I don’t generally take risks that put me and others in danger. I try not to be afraid of what the future will bring. Except meeting your parents, of course.”
“Most cops and private eyes I have met don’t have your vocabulary or know who Hemingway is, or check out books by Mark Twain.”
“I really don’t read any of that stuff. The words are too big for me. I just did that to impress you. I mostly ready comic books and the funny papers.”
“I have one final question, and it’s an important one. It is what they call a deal breaker as far as I am concerned.”
“Go ahead, you are on a roll.”
“You have to tell me the truth here. You said you lived in New York. Are you a New York Yankees fan?”
I smiled broadly. Wow. Single, sexy, smart, educated, funny, Catholic, and she talks baseball. My dream girl!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I drove to Pacific Avenue in Pacific Beach. It wasn’t Knob Hill, but there were views that you couldn’t beat. The Morehouse residence was your run-of-the-mill Georgian mansion, with a cramped seven-car garage that was four times the size of my house. It was a masterpiece of Classic architecture, with all the bells and whistles: grand crown moldings, pilasters, entablature, massive windows, and a front door big enough to drive a car through. Speaking of cars, in the circular driveway was a 1938 Cadillac LaSalle. Momma, what a car: a two-door convertible, canary yellow with red interior. The top was down and covered with a Tonneau. The LaSalle had two trumpet horns on the sides of the hood that were three feet long. It had a large V8 and everything about this car said, “I’m rich, and don’t you think otherwise.”
I rapped my knuckles on an oak door so heavy that it looked like it would take three guys to open it. Connie Morehouse answered the door in a skimpy white tennis outfit and white sneakers. Her hair was pulled back, but she still looked rather fetching. I had to keep my mind on the game.
“Good morning, Mr. O’Farrell. Won’t you come in?”
She led me up the stairs to a large glass-enclosed family room. A pair of French doors led to a patio. In
the back yard was a pool and expansive patio with a table, umbrella and chairs. They looked comfy. She sat down and crossed those fabulous legs.
“What have you learned, Mr. O’Farrell?”
I filled her in on my trip. “It also looks like he owes a lowlife in Sacramento a lot of money, gambling debts,” I concluded. “There may be others. There usually are.” I lit a smoke and tossed the used match in the ashtray.
“That’s great. Randall never could handle liquor. As far as I know, he can’t play cards either. “
“Oh, he knows how, all right. He just doesn’t appear to know how to win.”
She looked a little stunned by that statement. The Doctor had a pretty good poker face but she was showing signs of stress in her face. She composed herself.
“I want you to do two things. One, keep digging on the women angle. I know he has a girlfriend. Second, please find out who he owes money to. If I am going to bail him out and pay off his debts before it comes back to ruin us, I need to know who to pay. I don’t know if our marriage is going to survive this, but I will give him every chance to set things straight. It’s time for him to straighten himself out and start being a man. If I set him adrift, I will at least have tried to help him out. I am getting sick and tired of being married to a screw-up.” She forced another smile. “Jesus, I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”
She went to a serving cart near the door and brought over a tray. It had all the fixings for a martini. She asked me if I wanted one. I nodded. After all, the sun was over the yardarm. I was ready.
She went to work. She poured the gin out of the bottle and into a jigger, watching every drop. She emptied the booze into the jumbo-sized shaker and measured out the vermouth. With silver tongs she added the ice cubes one by one. She closed up the shaker and then, well, she started shaking. Both the shaker and her body. Every move was like watching a ballerina glide across a stage. She had it all: grace, movement, flow, and sex. Lots of sex. She was wearing a bra, but her breasts were pretty actively bouncing. Needless to say, she had my undivided attention.
She poured the shaker into a slender glass pitcher and stirred it with a long glass spoon. She then filled each martini glass, and lightly tossed in an olive and a pearl onion on a sword toothpick. She handed me one. It was the best I ever had. The moment it hit my mouth it ran straight to my brain and hit it like a hammer to a nail. Dr. Morehouse took her olive and ran it around the rim of her glass, then took a drink and giggled. She then expertly pushed the olive into her mouth and smiled. As she refilled our glasses she had a look that said making perfect martinis was not her only skill. She then said she would be right back, and stepped through a set of French doors that did not lead to the living room.
“Take your time Dr. Morehouse,” I said.
“Please, call me Connie.”
For ten minutes, I watched the pool like an idiot. It was a beautiful afternoon and I kept telling myself that this was work, that I was reporting to a client. I wandered around and came to a table with pictures on it. Pictures of Connie, with her husband. Them sailing together, her holding a cute little baby and smiling.
I kept checking my pockets for my lighter, I must have left it in the car. I opened an end table drawer looking for a book of matches. It was crammed full of lipsticks, compacts, and all kinds of lighters. I borrowed one, lite a butt and put the back where I found it and closed the drawer.
Then it occurred to me that my heart and mind were racing, I dragged on the smoke hard. My mind wondered I started wondering who the Seals were going to pitch on Saturday when the Oaks came over from Oakland. I was hoping that the Seals would start Jumbo Carlson. Jumbo was a huge-shouldered kid they found in the logging country of Oregon. The kid could throw four pitches for strikes. He featured a nasty fastball, but he could also throw an Uncle Charlie at any time in the count for a strike, plus he could mix in his other two pitches…
The French doors opened, and I just about passed out.
The good doctor was wearing a white bustier, with sexy white nylons and a floor-length sheer white robe. Her hair was down. There was a string of oyster fruit around her neck, and she was wearing white high-heel slippers. She was the best-looking croaker I croaker I had ever seen. There was little left to the imagination, and I have an excellent imagination. She strolled over to the table and refilled her glass; she then bent over close to me and re-filled mine as well. I got a good look, point blank, at Connie Morehouse’s assets. Trust me, this broad had absolutely no liabilities. I was lightheaded. She retook her chair and smiled.
“Doctor Morehouse,” I said hoarsely. “I don’t sleep with clients, and I really do not sleep with the married clients.”
“Really” was all she said. She gave me that look that said liar. She worked on her drink and stared at me.
A moment later, she got up from the table and announced she was going to take a shower, and would I like to come along and scrub her back and other places. She started toward the French doors, sliding the robe off her shoulders. I watched as it cascaded to the patio deck. She walked that walk into her bedroom, and left the French doors open as an invitation.
I have always said that flexibility is key to being a good private eye. I crushed out my smoke, downed the rest of my drink and started to manufacture another pitcher full of martinis, but my hands were trembling as I fumbled with the pitcher. I poured two fresh ones and headed for the French doors.
Then it hit me like a sledgehammer. Three quick thoughts ran through my feeble brain.
First it was Marty’s words that came back to me. “That dame is no good. She may look all sugar and spice, but that broad is all about calculation and manipulation, I know the type, Sean. You be careful, kid.” I could hear the words echoing in my head, over and over. “That dame is no good.” Marty was too good a judge of character to be wrong.
Secondly, I live by a set of rules, personally and professionally. And one of those rules is never sleep with a client. And Dr. Constance Morehouse was not only a client, she was a married client. And her husband was in trouble. I’m supposed to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. I wasn’t going to be the last straw that pushed this gee over the edge. With all his troubles, the poor schmuck doesn’t need another guy using his wife like a party favor.
The third thing hit me harder than anything. I had a lump in my throat. How could I ever go out with Kaitlin O’Doherty and look her straight in the eye?
I put the martinis on the serving cart, took it on the heel and toe, and faded. A few minutes later, I was hitting all eight as I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge to get my head on straight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I got back home about eight. I was never clearer in my mind that walking away from Connie Morehouse’s bedroom was the best move I ever made. All that hard thinking had made me hungry. I had stopped at Molinari’s Deli and got the last couple fresh sourdough rolls and some genoa ham. At home, I raided the ice box for provolone, lettuce, olives, and some sweet Italian mustard. There was a little pasta salad left from yesterday, and I made a meal of it with an ice-cold Coke. I’d had enough booze for this day. Hell, this month.
I walked over to the bookshelf and grabbed the first book that my mitt touched. It turned out to be The Scarlet Letter. I shoved that back where it came from. My next grab was Two Years Before the Mast, by Richard Henry Dana, Jr. Okay this would work for tonight. I read for two hours and was out like a light.
In the morning I decided to watch the lovebirds until I had to head to Chinatown and meet Mr. Wang. I grabbed sourdough toast with peanut butter and drove the Ford over to the campus. Young Wang had an eight a.m. class. I ate my toast and waited.
When the lovebirds arrived at seven twenty, it was not the same old. There was some heavy-duty action. They both got to the engineering building and the show was on. They were fighting like two cats in a bag. There was loads of finger-pointi
ng, yelling, and foot-stomping. I couldn’t hear much of it, but I heard the girl scream, “When will be the right time to tell them?” It ended with Wang entering the building, and her sitting on the steps and crying. After a while she blew her nose, got a determined look, and started walking off campus. I left the Ford in the parking lot and started on foot after the girl.
She grabbed a cable car. I hopped on as well. She held onto a leather strap and stared out the window all the way to the ferry terminal at the Embarcadero. She paid her fare and got on the Eureka, headed for Sausalito. The nice thing about shadowing someone on a ferry is you don’t have to keep sight of them. You just have to let them get off first, and you easily pick up the tail.
I went to the second-deck coffee stand and got a cup of Joe. They didn’t have cream, only milk. That is absolutely barbaric in my book. I bought the morning paper and pulled up a seat. I had to be careful, because the ferry was almost empty. All the traffic would be coming into San Francisco, not leaving it. I didn’t want the girl to get a good look at me.
She came in ten minutes later and got hot tea. She sat directly behind me with her back to me. The best thing I could do was sit still. I heard her sniffling and shuffling her feet.
When the ferry docked, she hightailed it to the ramp. She was the first off the boat, moving at a pretty good clip. I’m tall and take large strides, but this girl was almost running. She went through the small town and along the walkway near the water, fifty paces ahead of me. I was keeping up, barely. Abruptly, she crossed the street and climbed a set of concrete stairs. At the top was a large home overlooking the water, a Queen Anne Victorian with a large turret. From across the street, I saw the girl ring the door. A man and woman came out and started hugging her. They talked for about a minute. Let me rephrase that: the girl talked a mile a minute and her parents—I assume—did the listening. The girl broke down and collapsed in her mother’s arms. The older woman dragged her into the house and the father hugged them both, then bolted. It looked like he was late for work. I wrote down the street address and watched the father head for the ferry. My guess is that the kid would not be coming back out anytime soon. The father was probably a better lead. I followed him to the ferry and we both got onboard.
The Halfway to Hell Club Page 6
