by David Pierce
"Did my baby miss me?" she said in some sort of cloying accent as she passed my bed without even looking at me. I gritted my teeth and pulled the sheet up right over my head.
"Let me give my poor baby a big kiss. There! That'll make it well in no time." Please avoid mentioning any gory details, eh, Benny? Not strong, your little wifie, eh?
"And who's your new roomie, honey?" she said after a while. "You haven't introduced us, you bad boy."
He introduced us, in his croak.
"Martha, Mr. Victor Daniel. Mr. Daniel, Mrs. Martha C. Clam."
"Charmed, I'm sure," she said, coming over to my bed and pulling one corner of the sheet down. She tucked something under my pillow while I muttered some sort of greeting. Then, mercifully, she went back to pester her poor baby. She held his hand. She wiped his face with a tissue. She held up the glass of water with the bent glass straw in it so he could take a sip. She wanted to know if he wanted her to read to him. Did he want a telly yet, or how about a radio? Everything was fine back home, she'd telephoned Daddy and he'd driven past their house to see that everything was all right. Bobby was fine and behaving himself, he only made a mess once and that was in the kitchen. On and on she went. Did he need anything. Did he want anything, any little thing. Then she made her one mistake, she asked me if I needed anything from the great outdoors. Did I ever.
"One pastrami on rye," I said. "One chicken liver on white."
"Wait till I get a pencil," she squealed. "OK."
"One order potato salad. One tub pickles. One plain cheesecake. Two honey donuts. Two ginger ales."
"That all?" she said sarcastically.
"Maybe a butterscotch sundae, two scoops." I said. I gave her the name and address of the deli that was printed on the cup of chicken soup Evonne had brought me. "If you don't mind getting my wallet for me, it's in my bag under the table there, I don't know if I can bend over that far. It's my back, you see. Sort of fell on it."
"Oh you poor thing," she said. "Henry put his back out once, didn't you, dear. He was taking things out of the dryer and it went, just like that."
"Tsk, tsk," I said.
"Back in a jiffy, dear," she said. "Sure you don't need anything? Maybe a little surprise from your honey?"
He shook his head weakly.
She said, "Toodle-oo, then," and flitted to the door and out. Swish. I retrieved what she had hidden under my pillow. It was a large envelope. Inside was the following poetical masterpiece:
April 13, 1988.
Confidential Report No. 18.
From: Special Agent SS.
To: V.D. (Ha-ha)
i feel like a punctured condom
laying on a shopping mall floor
used once discarded with a greasy plop
trampled on by adenoidal valley girls
i see stars
it is only my neighbor a milky way candy bar wrapper
cuddled up for comfort gainst a lipsticked kleenex
CANTATA THE FIRST EXPENDITURES
To have to
Catch a bus
.75
To
Catch a bus
.75
To
Catch a bus
6.50
Is bad enough
When loving arms await at t'other end,
But when 'tis user hostile LAX
I tell ya, Tex,
It's tough on this delicate bit o'
Fluff.
But when needs must,
Watch my dust.
So: Born Again lives again—
In Ma's old dress 'n' Granny shoes,
Dewy cheeks scrubbed and shining,
Eyes a-burning with that Inner Light
So annoying to others of lower wattage—
I wonder Y?
Is it fear of X,
The unknown? Or fear of what could B
For me, could also B
For thee?
Did my job. Smiled and smiled and distributed posies,
5.00
Skulked and spyed out this boyo who looked suss.
TOTAL
$13.00
"Excuse me, Mr. Clam," I said, "but how do you spell spied? But Mr. Clam was asleep again.
EXPENDITURE TOTAL
Telephoned V.D. (chuckle)
In S.F
$13.00
Went home
.75
You know how.
8.00
Soup 'n' steak sandies for supper.
The phone rang once. It was the Speaking Clock,
Wanting to know what time it was.
CANTATA THE SECOND
O
Canada,
EXPENDITURE TOTAL
See what you done to me.
It's Tits McGurk
1 toque $9.95 Can.
& George the Jerk
Under a spreading maple tree.
CANTATA THE THIRD
So Benny sez to me sez he,
In the highly unlikely event
That anyone calls your numero
And asks for a certain Mrs. Clam,
You are she. You are married to me.
We dwell in Chippewa Falls,
And our doggy's name is Bob.
Other revolting details followed.
Alerted parents. Yestermorn
When I was yet abed, to my surprise
A call did come. It was de Law.
My hubby shot! Not once but twice!!
What could I do, plead the vapors,
Say I had a more important engagement,
I just had to get my nails done, I couldn't possibly
Be seen in public the way they were?
I had to show up in Sac prontissimo like a good
Little loyal wifie-poo
Is what I had to do . . .
. . . and what I done.
And what I will have to go on doing
Until we get Benny outa here!
Stuck in Sac! I'd rather be stuck in
Shit right up to my (newly) plucked eyebrows.
By the by the by, flew up here with Evonne,
Case she never mentioned it, ha-ha-ha-ha.
Yesterday before she left we rendezvoused
As per arranged, which is how I knew
You and Henry C. Clam were but strangers
In the night,
Exchanging meaningful glances.
TOTAL AND MORE TO COME
$391.65
i feel like a bruised peach
in a skid row supermarket
the kind with barred windows
and saggin tin door
fingered too often by unwashed hands
the deadly softness spreads
wasps gather
"Wasps gather"—spare me! Nurse! I'm sinking fast! I'm making medical history, I'm going to be the first person in the world ever to die of acute doggerelitis, except maybe Rod McKuen's editor. And she flew up with Precious, did she, in case Precious never mentioned it. She knew perfectly well Precious never mentioned it, but rest assured I was going to mention it to Precious the next time I saw her. Very funny, girls. I'm practically dying and they're preparing amusing surprises for me. And that so-called expense account. First of all, she probably made money with those posies, she never mentioned that; people in airports who hand you posies ask for donations, don't they. And I noticed she included that $9.95 Canadian in the ludicrous total without converting it into U.S. currency; what a piker. You'd have thought that love might have mellowed her attitude toward money just a trifle but no such luck. Speaking of love, I wondered briefly how her big affair with Willing Boy was going . . . I reminded myself to ask her discreetly when she got back with my repast, if she ever did.
She did, finally. I devoured the chopped chicken liver on white while Benny was out of the room being X-rayed; the orderly who wheeled him out told me he had to be X-rayed daily to make sure no fluids were accumulating in the damaged lung. The twerp exited with them and did not reappear until the following morni
ng, to my intense relief. I spent what was left of that miserable day not moving and reading the basketball magazine Precious had brought me. There was an article in it comparing the relative merits of Larry Bird, Michael Jordon, and Magic Johnson and what they meant to their team, which were, respectively, the Boston somethings, the Chicago nothing, and the World Champion Los Angeles Lakers. I laughed despite the pain.
Two days later I was discharged, and betook myself, corset and all, palely loitering, out into the real world again. It didn't look like it had changed all that much while I was away. It was late in the afternoon and I didn't feel like flying home that night so I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to some not-too-expensive motel preferably on the way out to Sacramento's airport, which he proceeded to do instantly and without a lot of chatter, either. I knew the name of the birdbrain's motel, as she had mentioned it to her "hubby"; you can believe I made sure the cabby did not by some fluke drop me off at the same one. This was not solely from a desire to avoid the twerp's company, there was an outside chance Lt. Potato Eater had someone keeping an eye on me although I hadn't spotted anyone along the way. All we needed was for some busybody to overhear me call Mrs. Clam Sara or nerd or whatever, then, bingo, she's not Mrs. Martha C. Clam, maybe Mr. Henry C. Clam isn't Henry C. Clam, either.
Anyway. The Take-Off Motel had a room for me. After checking in I made a reservation for a flight back to L.A. at two the following afternoon, then went on the prowl for a friendly estaminet, i.e., a bar that would let me in. The motel didn't have one but they directed me to something called the Bunkhouse, a mere fifty yards or so up the road heading west toward the airport.
Toward the Bunkhouse I strolled, along the verge. On the verge, too, of slaking a three-day thirst. On the way I wondered in passing if my putting off my return trip was in any way connected with a reluctance to face up to the immediate future. F-u-t-u-r-e—spelled Miss Ruth Snake-in-the-grass Braukis, for one. And the death of Solomon, for another. And Cookie's history, for another. And my own ineptness, if you want yet another.
The only thing remotely special about the Bunkhouse was that it contained two dart boards, and both were in use when I entered. The jukebox was playing, "Only two thangs money can't buy, that's true love 'n' home-grown tomatoes." I slid onto a vacant stool at the long wooden bar, leaving a one stool gap between me and an angry-looking middle-aged lady in an orange jumpsuit whose blond hair was done up in an elaborate beehive, shades of yesteryear. A motherly looking lady who introduced herself as Sal took my order for a brandy and ginger. When she'd served it up I took a long, satisfying swallow, and said, "Ahhhh."
"Sounds like you needed that," said Sal.
"Needed is right," I said. "I've just spent three days in a hospital drinking stale water, ice-cold tomato soup, and once, Hawaiian punch."
"That'd drive anyone to drink," observed Mrs. Beehive. "Speaking of which, Sal." Mrs. Beehive had chubby cheeks, which made her look something like an amiable chipmunk.
Sal obliged with another vodka on the rocks for the lady. A Mrs. Goode. Well, we got to talking, as often happens in bars, and by the time I was making a dent in my third libation, I was Vic to her and she was Katy to me and my back wasn't hurting at all and nor was my front. She asked me what I did. I told her. She said, "Really?"
I said, "Cross my heart." I asked her what she did. She said she ran the mobile home park right down there, see? She pointed out the side window. I looked where she pointed and sure enough, a mobile home park, all prettily lit up, is what I saw. It turned out, what she was angry about was she'd had another robbery over at her place, which made it umpteen million in three months would you possibly believe it, which was why she was so interested in anyone in my line of work.
"Am I to assume the police have not made a lot of progress up until now?" I ventured around a mouthful of microwaved pepperoni pizza Sal had just deposited in front of me.
"They show up right away, in carloads," Katy said. "They're polite, they look around diligently, they say all the right things, they make notes, they spray that powder stuff around, they put it all in some computer, but." She shrugged. "You know."
"How well I do know," I said. "Those guys in robbery, they do their best but they've got huge case loads and for anything under five or ten grands' worth, they just don't have the time."
"How about you, Vic?" Katy said, sucking the end of her swizzle stick. "You got the time to spend if I've got the money to spend?"
"I got till two o'clock tomorrow," I said.
"So come on down," she said. "Senate Mobile Estate. I'm the first home on the left inside the gates, it says 'manager' on it. It's got yellow roses all up one wall. And a doghouse out on the porch."
Given that wealth of detail," I said, "I should probably be able to find it without getting totally lost." She smiled, then touched the top of her hair carefully to see if it was all still there. It was. How I wish I could say the same.
We had a nightcap, me and Katy and Sal and a huge tattooed truck driver called George and his tiny wife Doreen, then I gingerly eased myself off the stool, made my farewells, and wound my way back to the motel and, a few moments later, to dreamland. On my back, Doc, too. Was I glad to get that fool corset off. Was I glad I wasn't a lady living in Victorian times when the wasp waist was de rigeur, my dear. I was glad I wasn't a lady living in any times, come to think about it. Imagine having to kiss some jerk good night on your doorstep after he's just taken you for a meal of fish curry. No, thank you. Imagine having to stifle yawns while some Romeo is taking twenty minutes to figure out how to undo your Cross-Your-Heart bra. No, thank you. Imagine having to take some Lusting Lothario's word for it when he swears he had a vasectomy two years ago this Wednesday. Imagine . . . I fell asleep imagining.
19
It was nine-thirty the following A.M. when I knocked on the door of Katy's mobile home, using for the purpose a brass knocker shaped like a horse's head. Knock knock knock. The door opened; Katy greeted me and bade me enter. She was wearing a floor-length satin-looking house robe and her hair was as immaculately coiffed as it had been the night before.
"I wasn't sure you'd show," she said. "But I made some coffee just in case. Coffee?" She led the way into the living room.
"You bet your boots." I said. Just inside the door, on the wall, was a notice board that had pinned to it among other things, a calendar of the estate's events for the month.
"Sit yourself down," she said. "Back in a jiff."
"Thank you," I said, lowering myself with some trepidation into a wing chair by the front window after removing a bag of knitting from the seat first. Katy came back from the kitchen carrying a tray on which were a Pyrex coffee maker, full to the brim, two mugs, creamless cream, sugarless sugar, and a half a Sarah Lee coffee cake.
"Nice place," I said politely as she poured out the coffee. Actually, it wasn't bad if you like living in a converted DC-10. And on top of nubbed carpets.
"It's your standard single," she said, cutting me a piece of the coffeecake. "Twelve feet wide, 56 long, expandable, naturally. Runs upward of fifteen thou, thirty-five for the double. Your lot rent here about one seven five. This here is an older model, the siding's aluminum, the panels plywood. In the newer ones, and I'll show you one if you like, you've got all wood siding and your Sheetrock insulation, of course."
"Of course," I said.
"Ten percent down is customary," she said. "The rest we can finance for you over twenty years. If you're at all interested, I've got a realtor's license, as a sideline, like, I could give you a really good deal on one.'
"I am a detective, madam," I said. "I did realize what your sideline was when you were three words into your spiel."
She grinned.
"Caught in the act again," she said, without sounding overremorseful.
"The robberies," I said. "I want all the details you have—when, where, how, from who, what was taken, everything and anything."
"Back in a jiff," she said. I know she t
ook longer than a jiff because while she was gone I had time to leaf through a copy of Sacramento Single Souls that chanced to be on the cocktail table right beside me. I skipped past "My Most Creative Date," also "Make-over of the Month," but deeply perused the following female ad: "I am the woman your mother warned you about!! My dream is to participate in a mutually beneficial relationship with an exceptionally sexy and intellectually stimulating male. His often exotic behavior and cosmopolitan view of life only helps to support his desire to change and grow." Me—to the very tee!! "He is adult both emotionally and financially and he is particularly attracted to brilliant, positive women who are in touch with their own physicality." Right on again!! "Age?" (Oh-oh) "Old enough to know better, young enough to walk barefoot in the rain." Damn—tripped at the final hurdle.
I was glancing at an ad tor sensual boudoir portraiture (a thrilling memento he will long remember) when Katy returned with a bulky green cardboard folder, which she plunked down on the table beside the tray.
