by Don Passman
“Why do you think?”
“Because I was screwing up whatever line you were on?”
“Right. You have to make people comfortable before you interrogate them. Start with nonthreatening questions. Get them in a talking mode. You kept cutting to the chase. Like when you asked about her father early on. We knew that was a touchy subject from the e-mails. Did you see how he reacted?”
“Yeah.”
She said, “It’s like, when you first meet a girl. Five minutes later you don’t say ‘Let’s hop in bed.’”
“You don’t?”
Hannah punched me. Ow.
We got off the 405 and onto the 101.
Hannah looked at the road. “Do you think I look like a cop?”
“Huh?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
I grinned. “Yeah. You could be on Law and Order.”
“I’m serious. Three people asked me that today.”
I shook my head. “Nah. You were just all business suited-up on the Boardwalk. May as well wear a sandwich board that says UPTIGHT.”
Her head snapped toward me. “You think I’m uptight?”
“Course not.”
Compared to, say, the Pope.
* * *
As we neared the Laurel Canyon exit, Hannah said, “Do you mind stopping at my apartment for a minute?”
“No problem.” I’d love to see you in your natural habitat. “Why?”
“We’re running late. I’ve got to change clothes.”
I shifted in the seat. “Like for a date?”
“Something like that.”
I looked over at her. She was staring straight ahead.
I said, “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Get off on the 134, then turn left on Cahuenga.”
* * *
Hannah lived in a three-story apartment building on Cahuenga, just north of Riverside Drive. It was an old Spanish building that was pretty well kept-up, if you ignored the six-foot-long cracks in the stucco. Her living room had overstuffed red furniture with toothpick legs, sitting around a kidney-shaped glass coffee table. Real fifties vibe. In a corner of the living room was a blond-wood desk stacked with piles of papers. I looked away from that area. Don’t want her getting any ideas about my organizing that shit.
Hannah went into the bedroom and shut the door. I wandered over to her bookshelf. Top row was a bunch of law books, some with yellow used stickers on them. Contracts. Civil Procedure. Torts, whatever those are. I opened the torts book to a random page. Lisa shifted on my shoulder, as though she were reading along with me. Some legal case about fireworks in a subway station.
Below the law books were a bunch of thin paperbacks, all titled Double Crostics. I put back the torts book and pulled out one of the paperbacks. Tricky kind of crossword puzzles. Next to that were books with logic problems. I opened one called Figure This Out.
“If a caterpillar crawls to a leafy bush at a speed of nine inches per hour, eats until it is full, then returns over the same distance at only three inches per hour, what’s its average speed for the full trip (not counting the eating time)?”
Hmm. Gotta be … nine plus three, divided by two, equals six. I flipped to the back. Huh? The answer is four and a half. How?
I heard the bedroom door open, jammed the book back on the shelf, and spun around so quickly that Lisa flapped her wings to keep her balance. From the dark bedroom, Hannah’s voice said, “What are you doing?”
I looked over, but I couldn’t see her. “Just looking at your bookshelf.”
“If you were a dog with that expression, I’d be checking the rugs.”
“The rugs are fine. But I did take a dump on your sofa.”
Maybe I heard a chuckle. At least she’s too far away to hit me.
Hannah came through the door, wearing a tight-fitting black dress, a pearl necklace, and dangling pearl earrings. Her face was smoothed with makeup.
“You look … wow.”
She checked her watch. “Let’s go.”
* * *
When she got in the car, I could smell her vanilla perfume.
As we drove back to her office, I said, “So where are you going tonight?”
“Dinner.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know.”
She turned on the radio.
When we got near to her office, I said, “You want me to walk you in?”
“So you can see my mysterious date?”
“No, so I can make sure you’re okay.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Then how will I see your mysterious date?”
I drove into her parking lot and saw a silver Mercedes parked diagonally across two spaces, puffing out neat white clouds of exhaust. I stopped a few car-lengths away.
Hannah opened the door. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Certainly, madame. Will that be all for the evening?”
“That will be it, asshole.” She climbed out and shut the door.
I sat there, watching her walk away. Lisa seemed to be staring, too. The driver’s door of the Mercedes opened. Out stepped a man who looked maybe ten years older than Hannah. He wore a dark suit and had perfectly combed hair. What kind of guy takes the time to put every hair in place? He probably smells like a cologne factory. The man pecked Hannah on the cheek, then walked around and opened the passenger door. Hannah got inside without looking back at me.
I turned the key in the ignition and heard a screeching grind. Shit. The motor was already running. I threw the car in gear, jammed the wheel all the way to the left, and U-turned out of the parking lot.
* * *
When I got home, I took Mrs. Fisher’s food bag out of the trunk, went into my apartment, and set the food on the kitchen counter. My stomach rumbled.
With Lisa still on my shoulder, I took out the cookies, which were wrapped in Saran. They were soft enough to indent where I touched them. Excellent. I gently placed them on the counter.
I reached into the grocery bag and lifted out a huge Tupperware container of chili. Whoa. This could feed a family of six for a month. I peeled off the top, spooned some into a cereal bowl, put it in the microwave, and hit the timer. After giving the cookies one last glance, I went to the living room and turned on the TV.
Another Saturday night with my bird and the television. Wonder how Hannah’s enjoying her escargot with her Mr. Perfect Hair? I’m sure he’s very attentive when he’s not studying his own reflection in a crystal wineglass.
I plopped on the couch with an exhale, grabbed the remote, and channel-surfed.
Some guy fishing.
Click.
Soap opera in Spanish.
Click.
Big-band singer.
Click.
How can there be nothing on two hundred channels?
Lisa shifted on my shoulder.
Maybe I should call Carly. I’m pretty sure she wanted to see me again. What’s the worst that happens if I call? She turns me down. What’s a little humiliation if you might be going to jail for the rest of your life?
I leaned over for my phone on the end table, stretching my arm so far that I felt my shoulder socket strain. My fingers were just a few inches away.… No way I was getting up. I wriggled my fingers, leaned farther. Yes! I hooked the cord and pulled it toward me. The phone crashed onto the floor. Lisa flapped her wings as if to say, What the hell?
I pulled the cord, reeling in the phone. It started screeching at me. In the other room, the microwave beeped.
I hung up the phone, went to the kitchen, and took out the steaming bowl of chili. Man, those spices smell good. I took a spoon from the drawer and scooped a bite. My mouth watered as I slid it in.
As I chewed, my eyes involuntarily closed. Oh … My … God. This is the best-tasting food I’ve had in a year. Maybe ever …
I opened my eyes and slurped in another mouthful. Then another, and another. Is it okay to just drink it? My spoon scraped the bowl. I’m a
lready finished? Are the sides of the bowl too steep to lick?
I grabbed the Tupperware, refilled the bowl, and stuck it back in the microwave. C’mon. Hurry up. I eyed the cookies. You’re next, boys.
While waiting for the chili, I went back to the living room, fell on the couch, and called Carly’s cell.
She answered right away.
I said, “Hi. It’s Harvey.”
“I hoped you’d call.”
“You did?”
“I enjoyed our coffee.”
I sat up on the couch. “I enjoyed it, too.” Boy, I can really dish out the clever lines.
I stood up, pushing the phone hard against my ear. “Well … actually, my plans tonight just fell through. I’m sure you’re busy, but I thought…”
“My plans got cancelled, too.”
The microwave beeped in the kitchen.
I started pacing with the phone. “I heard about this new movie, Heather’s Last Love. It’s supposed to be a three-hankie chick flick.”
She laughed. “Actually, I prefer action movies.”
A girl who likes action films? I said, “Terrific. How about the new Will Smith film in Century City?”
“Perfect.”
“I already had dinner, but I’m happy to get you something at the food court.” Fast food is about all I can squeeze out of my current budget.
“I already ate.”
I’m in love.…
I hung up, smiling.
I took the chili out of the microwave and poured it back into the Tupperware container. The cookies seemed to be calling my name, so I unwrapped them and took a bite. Just the right consistency of squishy and crunchy. Wow. I wonder if Mrs. Fisher would like to adopt a magician.
I started to put the cookies away.
Maybe just one more bite …
After finishing the cookies, I jumped in the shower, closed my eyes, and let the powerful spray shoot needles at my face. I turned up the hot water and took a deep breath of the steam.
Wow. Going from alone to a date in sixty seconds.
I opened my eyes.
Almost too easy …
How come?
Wait a minute.…
Is Carly only seeing me because she wants to convert me to her antiabortion cause?
I turned around and let the shower hit my neck.
Is she the front for some cult? Do they want to Svengali me into firebombing abortion clinics?
I turned back to face the water spray.
What the hell. Everybody’s got some kind of agenda.
Including me.
I’ve been celibate so long that my sweat smells like semen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
During the action flick, we gasped, laughed, and cheered at the same scenes. I managed to touch elbows a few times, but not much more. Maybe we should’ve seen the chick flick.
As we walked out of the theater, Carly said, “I live nearby. You want to come over?”
Lemme think that over for two or three seconds. “I’d love to.”
I followed her black Dodge Neon to a large apartment building on Malcolm Avenue in Westwood. After I parked on the street, she met me at the front door, and we went to her apartment on the second floor.
When she opened the door, I half-expected to see pictures of dead fetuses hanging on the walls. Whew. Over the couch was a framed print of a nighttime street with a daytime sky. Next to that was a pen-and-ink drawing of lizards climbing in and out of a piece of paper. Magritte and Escher. Two of my favorites.
Carly dropped her purse on the coffee table. “You want something to drink?”
“Water?”
“Have a seat.”
I sat on the couch and watched her go into the kitchen. She took a plastic bottle of water from the refrigerator and unscrewed the top with a snap.
Carly came back to the living room and handed me the water. Am I leaving fingerprints on the water bottle?
She kept standing. Her mouth formed a little smile as she said, “You want to smoke some grass?”
Well, well.
I hadn’t smoked since high school. Can’t say I loved it. Made the top of my scalp feel like it was under anesthetic. On the other hand, it seemed awfully rude to turn her down. Especially if it got her all … relaxed.
Is it smart to get stoned while I’m under investigation by the cops?
Carly raised her eyebrows in a question. She bit her lip with that sexy overbite. Her eyes twinkled.
I didn’t see any cops following me here.…
I cleared my throat. “Sure.”
She smiled and went back into the kitchen. I got up and followed along. She opened the freezer and took out a package of frozen spinach. Carly opened one end, pulled out a pouch of icy spinach, then stuck her hand all the way into the box. She came out with a rolled-up Baggie of marijuana and held it out to me. “You want to roll the joint?”
Not unless you want it to look like a pregnant worm. “Go ahead.”
She opened a kitchen drawer and took out a packet of cigarette papers. Carly pulled one out, folded it in a V shape, dropped in the grass by sifting it with her thumb and forefingers, then rolled it into a joint. She looked at me as she slowly ran her tongue along the glue.
“C’mon.” She motioned with her head for me to follow her back to the living room.
As we walked, she said, “My folks were really into sixties music. You mind if we listen to some?”
“I love the sixties. My mom’s from that era, too.”
“Yeah? I’m named after Carly Simon.”
“You did better than me. I’m named after a great-uncle who was a school janitor until he won five hundred grand in the lottery. I suspect my folks were hoping for a few bucks out of the deal. All we got was a name that made me the butt of every grammar-school kid’s joke.”
She giggled. “What sixties music do you like?”
“Pretty much all of it.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
Is this a test? To see if I really know the sixties? “Buffalo Springfield. Jimi Hendrix. The Doors. Joni Mitchell. Jefferson Airplane.”
“Good ones. Let’s go with Joni. Ladies of the Canyon?”
“Cool. I mean, groovy.”
Carly got up and put on the music. She lit a large amber candle on the coffee table, turned off the lights, and sat next to me on the couch. Our legs were almost touching.
She put the tip of the joint against her lips, like she was going to light it, but instead slid the whole thing into her mouth, then pulled it out slowly through her lips. It hung from her mouth, all shiny-wet.
I settled back into the couch. Carly took a wooden match from a holder on the coffee table and struck it against the table leg. As the match flared, it lit her face in a yellow glow. She touched the flame to the tip of the joint and sucked in smoke. I watched her chest expand. Were her nipples standing up when we came in?
Carly kept the smoke in her lungs and handed me the joint. I reached for it. How do you hold this thing? Thumb and … forefinger, right? I forced a smile. Took the joint.
Put it in my mouth.
Sucked in a little toke.
Ow! That burns. Don’t cough. Don’t—
I hacked out a raspy cough, spraying smoke.
Carly laughed. “Been a while, huh?”
I tried to stop coughing. “That obvious, huh?”
She took the joint, held it against my lips, and said, “Gently. Just take in a little.”
I took a small breath through my mouth.
Did I get any? If I ask, I’ll lose the smoke.
Whatever.
Most important thing is to get her relaxed. Right?
After a few more tries, I could definitely feel something. The top of my head was tingling. Is that, like, normal? No way I’m gonna ask.
The music sounds awfully good. Do the notes always feel like they’re vibrating your cells?
Carly said, “How long have you worked for a criminal
lawyer?”
I shifted around on the couch so I could face her. “Just a few weeks. My real gig is magic.”
Carly turned toward me and curled her legs up under her. How do women do that?
She said, “Magic?”
“Yeah. I’m a magician.”
“Like, a professional?” She sucked on the joint and handed it to me.
I waved away the joint. Since I’m already floating a couple of feet above the couch, I’m probably good.
She put it in the ashtray. Whew.
Carly said, “Where do you do magic?”
“Oh, shows here and there. I’m a member of the Magic Castle. You heard of that?”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”
“It’s a private club for magicians. I perform there sometimes. My goal is to work in Vegas. That’s the big time for magicians, you know.”
“Show me a trick.”
“Thanks to your weed, I’m not sure I could even touch my nose.”
She plumped her lips into a pout. “C’mon. I really want to see one.”
“Carly…”
She raised her eyebrows, turned down the corners of her mouth. “Please…”
I let out a sigh. What the hell. If she’s as high as I am, it shouldn’t be too hard to amaze her. “You got a deck of cards?”
She jumped off the couch, quick-stepped to her desk, opened a couple of drawers, rummaged through, and came back with a pack of cards.
I took it from her. Aaargh. It was poker size, not bridge. I opened the flap and took out the ratty deck. The cards were bent, the edges worn. Forget double lifts. The design on the back is a bunch of flowers that won’t look the same upside down.
Carly climbed back on the couch, curled her legs under her, and leaned toward me. I couldn’t help looking down her blouse. Couldn’t see much in the low light. The lower part of my body was doing just fine with the available information.
I pretended to shuffle the deck, while in fact I was arranging the cards. Then I gave it a few false shuffles that kept them in order. The cards felt like they were sticking to my fingers.
I fanned through the deck and said, “Pick a card.” She took the one I forced on her. “Don’t show it to me.” I looked away, through the open door to her bedroom. She had a bed without a headboard, covered with a paisley bedspread. On the wall behind it was a black-light poster, a vibrantly colored drawing of a motorcycle rider flying toward you. Awesome picture. If I was any more stoned, I’d be ducking. I haven’t seen a black-light poster since Mom put her collection in the garage about ten years ago. Guess Carly is a legitimate sixties throwback.
