by Smith, Julie
So I agreed to stay awhile, and Esperanza went to bed happy. Tiffany, it developed, lived across the street and didn’t have to be taken home. In seconds, Julio and I were alone. He’d been on a date, I was pretty sure— his sheepish look more or less confirmed it. But it couldn’t have been much of one because he was home early. And anyway, we had the damn agreement.
The reason we had it was that we both recognized neither one of us could leave the place where we lived— I practiced law in the city, which was like lifeblood to me anyhow; and Julio was a marine biologist at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. How much future did such a relationship have? So he had a right to date and I had a right to date because we were both adults and we recognized these things.
Ftah.
That was the way I felt, but I kept my mouth shut.
He got me some wine and said the same stuff Esperanza had said: Was I all right? Why was I there?
“I just wanted to see you. I guess I’m depressed.”
“About Chris?”
It would have been a perfect time to say: No! I’m depressed because this time next week I’ll have no breasts and this time next year I’ll be dead. Or similar calm words.
Instead, I said, “I guess so.” Which was partly true. “I mean, not about her being investigated— I can deal with that. About having to reassess my relationship with her.”
“You know what? I get the feeling it’s not that simple.”
“That’s not complicated enough?”
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation Friday. I realize a lot of your beliefs are being called into question.”
“My beliefs? Wait a minute, Chris is—”
He held up a hand. “Hold it, hold it. Let me explain. You think everything can be explained in rational terms, right?”
I was puzzled. “Of course.”
“And this thing of Chris’s— I mean, having the nerve to be psychic when everybody knows there’s no such thing— it just can’t be explained that way. So to believe it, you have to uproot everything you ever thought.”
“No, I don’t. Psychic could be scientific. I mean, what if our brains emit waves, like radio waves…”
“Sure, sure, sure. It could be science, but science doesn’t recognize it. And nothing in this culture’s worth a dime if science doesn’t recognize it.”
“Well, you’re a scientist. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with that is it’s bullshit.”
The room spun around me, exactly as if I was about to lose consciousness. If Chris’s defection from the world of reason had been a blow, what was this?
Et tu, Julio? Tell me I’m not alone out here.
He said, “Have you ever met someone and disliked him or her on sight? Even down to a prickling at the back of your neck?”
“You think that’s psychic?”
“I think you’re taking in information in a nonrational way. Call it vibes or energy.…”
I mimed gagging.
“Oh, don’t be so closed-minded.” Which was more or less what Chris had said. “What’s so great about the intellect, anyway?”
“What?” Had he gone mad? Had the world?
“I mean, what’s it done for us? It hasn’t kept us from making a hole in the ozone; turning the air to poison; destroying the rain forests.”
I might have said something about antibiotics and plumbing, but I was too astonished.
I said, “What would you put above the intellect?”
“Nothing. But there are sure as hell some things I’d give equal weight to. The heart, for instance— how we feel.”
That part made me go weak in the knees— Rob Burns would never have said a thing like that.
“And the body. In a lot of ways it knows as much as the mind. The intuition— that’s what Chris is using. Why has it lost caché in this culture? Why isn’t it important?”
“Because it’s not reliable, and you know it.”
“Oh, come on. Modern medicine is ‘scientific,’ right? Certainly rational. Remember how it used to be healthy to eat steak, and now it’ll kill you? They used to bleed you and use leeches on you, and then all that stuff was primitive, and now they’re doing it again. You want reliable, don’t depend on science.”
“Julio, this is crazy! You sound like somebody who lives in Berkeley.”
“Well, I’m somebody who spends a lot of my time underwater, and let me tell you, it’ll make a believer out of you, Babe.”
“A believer in what? God? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Not the bearded dude on the mountain. I mean, I guess I’m a Catholic, I don’t even know. But not that. Something else. Something primal. Something about nature itself.”
“Nature?” I don’t know why I was so surprised— I was talking to a man whose career was fish. “Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it, Julio. You’re not from Berkeley, you’re straight out of Robert Bly. Next you’re going to tell me you came to this realization by painting your face and beating a drum out in the woods.”
He gave me a smile that could have made him a zillion dollars in Hollywood. “What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s stupid, that’s what’s wrong with it.”
“What’s stupid about it?”
“Stupid people do it. Airheads.”
“You mean people who don’t think ‘rational’ is synonymous with pure and decent.”
“Like I said, stupid people.” I think I should say here that there was an element of joking in this— I was getting punchy by this time— but there was also a big part of me that truly believed this, and Julio knew it. “Well, that’s me, then.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I mean it.”
“Are you telling me you’d go on a men’s weekend? That I’d like to see.” (Actually, I would have liked to see him naked except for a few feathers, his face and body painted— when I thought of it that way, my heart speeded up.)
“I’m telling you I’ve been.”
“What?” I said again.
“Hang on to your hat. That’s not the end of it. I’m a member of a men’s drumming circle. That’s where I’ve been tonight— want me to prove it? I left my drum in the car.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yes, we of the men’s movement feel that way. If it’s of the earth, it’s holy, shit included.”
“Julio, not you. I can’t take it.” I was holding my face in my hands, rocking back and forth.
He was laughing like a loon. “Rebecca, you are the silliest woman I ever met, you know that?”
I don’t know how I knew— perhaps by one of those nonrational methods of Julio’s— but I was suddenly aware of a deep trust between the two of us that I hadn’t had a clue about. He’d told me his deepest secret, and even as I was telling him I couldn’t take it, I was aware how much I loved him for it— for telling me and knowing it wouldn’t make a particle of difference to me. Because I was just realizing it didn’t— the same way Chris’s confession didn’t change the way I felt about her.
Julio had called it a few minutes ago— what was changing was the way I viewed the world. The downside was, it was against my will, my better judgment, probably nature, and undoubtedly the law.
I said, “Has everybody in the world got some fucking horrible skeleton in the closet?”
He was falling on the floor laughing.
“Oh, can it. I’m not that cute when I’m mad.”
“Yes, you are.”
Chapter Nine
I stayed the night and got up early to drive back— no problem since Kruzick had canceled all my appointments. And as I was saying good-bye to Julio, having climbed into my Jeep so that I towered above him, he stood on tiptoe and got me to bend toward him so he could whisper something. “I was just kidding last night. I’m not really in a drumming circle.”
I was outraged. “You shit!”
“Or maybe I’m kidding now.”
So if he didn’t hav
e a secret before, he had one now— I had no idea if he was or wasn’t in the men’s movement. And I still had my secret. I hadn’t even slightly felt like bringing up such a downer as the big C, but at least he’d distracted me from it.
At the moment I was deeply in love with him. We’d made love after he’d mocked me to his heart’s content (and convinced me I deserved it), and in the afterglow I thought back to what he said about the body being as important as the mind, and said to him that surely there couldn’t be a higher truth than this. As further proof (if any is needed) that men are less sentimental than women, he’d just laughed and said that was the sort of thinking that got people into trouble. At first I was pissed that he wasn’t as carried away by the moment as I was, but I knew he was right. It was the proper blend of truths that we strove for and could never get right. Damn him for being so alert at such a moment.
Yet, what a man. Rob seemed so distant and cold compared to him. So obsessed with the trivia of being a star reporter while Julio was a virtual merman, swimming with the fish and seals, exploring the ocean, flowing with nature. It was such a terribly romantic concept. Yet what would my life be in Monterey? And in San Francisco he’d have no life at all. It was like the movie Splash— interspecies love.
Rob was sitting in my office when I got there, obsessed as usual, annoyed that I was an hour late, and hot to get going. Chris, said Kruzick, was in court. Afterward, she was going to go over to the Chron and read some more clips.
Rob said, “Could we get going, Rebecca? We’ve got an appointment with Tommy La Barre in half an hour.”
“You actually made an appointment with him?”
“Sure. Saturday night.”
I realized I was so sure he was the killer I hadn’t thought of confronting him directly.
We saw him at Dante’s, a marvel of high-tech black- and-white sophistication that managed to convey— I can’t think how— that this was the very zenith of Italian high-tech sophistication. And that it had cost roughly three smidgens more than the Giotto doors in Florence. He was drinking Pellegrino at the black marble bar, under a light fixture of cutting-edge simplicity. The sleeves of his white starched shirt were rolled to exactly the same spot on both arms, as if arranged by a well-trained robot. He was just under six feet, about five-ten I’d guess, and thick, a heavy man, so that he looked shorter than he was. He was a blond, and slightly ruddy, his haircut procured, no doubt, at the same place the light fixture had come from— I couldn’t have said why, but I had no doubt it had been designed within the last twenty-four hours by the top hairdresser in Milan. It was a wet-look kind of thing, combed off the face, and it would have been a great deal more attractive on a teenage musician. Tommy looked like the sort who said, “What’s shakin’, Babe?” when he met a new woman.
But he said it was nice to meet me like anyone else and accompanied the sentiment with a smile that rose to his eyes, not one of those frozen half-face facsimiles so many of my colleagues affected. “Man, I’m in lousy shape,” he said. “I miss that guy like a bastard. I loved that crazy dude.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Hell, I called him up. I said I liked his stuff and why didn’t he come in and have dinner on me. He said he couldn’t do that, something about newspaper ethics. I didn’t get it, but that’s what he said. But one day he dropped by for lunch and introduced himself and we hit it off.” He shrugged. “The rest is history, as they say.”
I would have loved to know the details of that history. Had Tommy given him a little tour of the place, including the infamous private dining rooms? Had one thing led to another until Jason knew way too much for a member of the press?
“He came back again and I sent something over— maybe champagne, I can’t remember— and then he kept coming, and I always sent something special for his lady friends. Man, he had a lot of them.”
“Did you know his assistant, Adrienne?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Guy had a different woman every week.”
“How about Sarah Byers?”
“Good-looking redhead?”
“No. A plain-looking woman; a little on the frumpy side.”
“No way. That wasn’t Jase’s style at all. Now, me, I don’t go for flash.” He gave me a very sincere look, as if to say, You’d do just fine, which made me hate him. I’ve never been one for left-handed compliments. “Jeez, I miss that guy!”
“Why?” I said.
“Why? He was my friend.”
“I mean, what did you like about him?”
“He was so damn funny. He was just so damn quick, he could have you on the floor in thirty seconds. And he was generous. Best friend you could ever have. Stood by me through”— he got a faraway look— “everything.”
“Well, look, you knew him better than just about anyone, right?”
He looked surprised. “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t know who his other friends were. I mean, except for everybody in town.”
“Still, you must have an opinion on what happened. Who’d want to kill a guy like that?”
It was obviously the question he’d been waiting to answer. He sat up perfectly straight and gave Rob a steely gaze— this was man talk. “Know what I think? Know what I really think? I think it was some babe.”
“Ah.”
“Guy just had too many of ’em for something not to go wrong. Know what I mean?” He kept staring at Rob. “Know what I mean?”
“Just playing the odds,” said Rob.
“Yeah. Yeah! Just playing the odds. Some babe did him.” He finished off his Pellegrino in one draught. “Did you ever see Play Misty for Me? Something like that could have happened. Jason was a public figure; women got crushes on him. I’ve seen it happen myself.” He swept an arm around the room. “Here. Waitresses. Women having dinner, sending him drinks and things. Maybe one of ’em was nuts, maybe she imagined a romance that wasn’t there.…”
“You know, a funny thing,” I said. “We’ve talked to some of his girlfriends. They say he wasn’t sexually involved with them.”
“You mean he wasn’t sleepin’ with ’em? Shit, I’m glad to hear it. I was thinkin’ maybe he was Superman or something.” He got the faraway look again. “There was a lady in here one night— regular customer— and she sent him her card. She wrote something on it, I never knew what, the waiter didn’t look, and he asked me about her. Wanted to know what I thought of her.”
I didn’t see the relevance. “Did he go out with her?”
“That’s not the point. Point is, she was a pro. I’m tellin’ you this because, why’d a guy like Jason need a pro? You have to ask yourself. Maybe there’s something there for you. That’s why I'm tellin’ you.” He had such a sheepish look on his face that I could only imagine he was speaking so sharply against his better judgment he could hardly get the words out— either that, or it was what we were supposed to think.
“I know this babe. She’s in here a lot. I can spot a pro when I see one.”
That I believed.
“We could talk to her,” said Rob and shrugged, as if it was an awful imposition. But he’d do it for his pal, Tommy. “You know how to reach her?”
He got up off his bar stool and lumbered behind the bar. “Sure. I’ve got her card somewhere.”
He rummaged and gave it to Rob, who glanced at it, thanked him, and slipped it in his pocket. Thinking of Rob’s performance in retrospect makes me want to take a vow never to trust anyone, no matter how sincere they seem. It was one of the best acting jobs I’ve ever seen. Because there was no way in hell to begin to guess how Rob inwardly exulted when he saw the name on that card.
He stayed cool, nattering on about one thing and another, until we got to the car, and then he passed the card to me without a word or a blink.
I let out a shriek, but he already had his ears covered.
The name on the card was that of Elena Mooney, a dear friend of mine. Tommy had been right about one thing, or sort of right— Elena was a pro of sorts. She
didn’t turn tricks anymore, but she was the classiest madame in town. I’d met her when I was the lawyer for HYENA, the hookers’ union, which was now defunct, but Elena and I still had lunch occasionally. For some reason, we’d hit it off.
I phoned to make sure she was up, but someone had beat us to it. “Tommy just called and said you were on your way. Can’t wait to see you, Babe. Listen, I’m starving— could you pick up something for lunch? I’ll make it, I’ll pay for it. All you have to do is get it.”
“Sure.”
“Oh, Rob’s with you, isn’t he? Not pasta puttanesca, okay? I know the man’s sense of humor.”
Since we figured she’d be more in a breakfast mood than otherwise, we got bagels and lox and found we’d guessed right. She was pouring her second cup of coffee when we got there. She sat down at the round table, looking a little bleary with no makeup. She had on short black leggings, pedal-pusher length, and a white T-shirt with whales and dolphins swimming in a blue circle on the front. Her feet were bare, her hair pinned up carelessly, her nails red daggers, as always.
Elena lived in a genuine bordello, with red-flocked walls, bead curtains, the whole schmeer, but the kitchen was like anyone else’s, and I knew it almost as well as my own. So I toasted bagels while she talked.
“Tommy’s an asshole, isn’t he? God! This business you meet people make your skin crawl.”
“You’re talking like an Elmore Leonard character.”
“Lose half my words before breakfast. Blood sugar’s down— bagel’ll fix me up.”
“He says you sent Jason McKendrick your card one night in the restaurant.”
“Oh, sure. Like I’ve got nothing better to do than hang out in that inferno of his. You ever know me to solicit, Rebecca? I ask you! The man offends my dignity.”
“Tommy.”
“Tommy. Of course. I never even met Jason. He called up, asked if I had anybody for a friend of his. She had to call him, he was shy. Well, no problem— ’nother hundred bucks, that’s all. Rob, off the record? You know that, right?”
