“Go ahead and hazard.”
“You’re getting in touch with your mortality.”
“Please.”
“No, I mean it. A few nights ago you were nearly shot. That kind of thing happens, you start to think, another few inches and I could have died.”
She frowned. “I have to admit, I had a few of those thoughts while I was up north, in the hotel room, all by myself.”
I waited for more.
“I started to think, if I died now, who would care? God, this sounds so feeble. Like a fucking midlife crisis or something.”
“Makes sense. You’re in midlife.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Unless you’re planning on living past ninety-five, you are.”
“You know who I came up with? Who would care about me? Two people. You and my mother.”
“Gi, there’s lots of—”
“My mother would say I died because I didn’t pray to the Virgin enough. She’d probably love it. She could be a martyr. So that leaves you.”
“I would care a lot if something happened to you. When I saw you on the ground with the blood, I—”
“Don’t say it. You don’t need to say it. But you’re just one person.”
She sat on the bed, picked at a thread coming loose from the spread. “The kid just showed up when I was vulnerable. That’s all. I was caught up in the meaning of life and there she was and some hormone turned on. I’m pre-menopausal, probably. I’ll get over it. I’m almost over it already.”
“Are you?”
“You’re right. She’s not our responsibility. We did our—what does your dad call it?”
“A mitzvah.”
“Right. We did our mitzvah by rescuing her from the bad guys and feeding her and giving her a place to sleep for a night.”
“Not to mention the thirty bucks.”
“That too.” She sighed, looked around the bedroom, stood up. “I’ll get cleaned up and make us some breakfast.” She came over, gave me a kiss, headed for the bathroom. I heard water running.
The doorbell rang. Gina yelled, “That’s probably Rosa.” Her cleaning woman. “Could you get it?”
“Sure.”
I pulled my pants on, went to the door, opened it. It wasn’t Rosa. It was Aricela, carrying a brown paper bag, which she held up to me. “I got bagels,” she said.
I Can’t Reach You
Noah’s was the closest bagel place, just a block up and one over on Santa Monica Boulevard. But what they call bagels are puffy lumps of dough. Aricela, showing her street smarts, found the Brooklyn Bagel another block west. She got us a baker’s dozen with a tub of cream cheese. I unloaded the bag while Gina proved that she wasn’t over it after all. You would have thought the kid was hers, the way she reacted when she saw her.
When Aricela managed to break loose she went to the junk drawer, pulled it open, and solemnly put several bills and some change in. She slid it shut, looked at us, opened it again. Took out two dollars and put it in her pocket. “Delivery charge,” she said.
I cut up a few bagels, put aside a couple to take home, plastic-bagged some and put them in the freezer. Gina set out plates and utensils, and we sat around eating breakfast like a nice little family. Rosa showed up and got to work. When we were done she and Aricela argued over who would clear the table. Aricela won. Rosa retreated into the bathroom.
When Aricela finished in the kitchen she looked at us like she was expecting praise, so we gave her some. She went into the living room, turned on the TV, and sat down to watch Channel 6’s morning show, where “entertainment reporter” Timmy Gold was filling us in on Russell Crowe’s latest debacle.
Gina and I went into the bedroom. I told her it was time to call Family Services. She said, just another day, okay? I said if it were her kid, would she want whoever had her to hold onto her an extra day before calling? She said, no, she guessed not.
I got out the phone book and found the number for L.A. County’s Children and Family Services Department. I called and got the voice mail system. I pressed a bunch of numbers and pound signs and stars, sat through two for-better-service-we-may-be-monitoring-this-call messages, took a side trip along Español Boulevard, finally got to All Representatives Are Busy Land. Where I sat. And sat. And sat some more. Then there was a click. I thought someone was coming on. Instead I got a dial tone.
I tried again. Different route, same results. I put down the phone and said, “I hate voice mail.”
“Couldn’t get through?”
“Not to a human being. Maybe we should take her down there.”
“Where are they?”
“Near downtown.”
“Pretty far.”
“Yeah. Maybe we should try again in a little while.”
“Yeah,” she said. “In a little while.”
I killed a few minutes looking at the Times, while Gina went in the living room and watched TV with Aricela. Nine o’clock came and went. They switched to Regis and Kelly. Dennis Quaid was on, talking about his new movie, about some guy who always wanted to be a major league pitcher and became one at thirty-five. Kelly said something about following your dreams. She was an improvement on Kathie Lee. Talk about damning with faint praise.
I tossed the paper aside and joined them in the living room. “I’m going to get head out.” I said.
“Where you going?” Aricela said.
“Home.”
“Can I go with you?”
Gina and I said “uh” several times each. Then she said, “It’s probably better if you stay with me.”
“Why?” Aricela said.
“Because.”
“Why because?”
“Just because.”
“That’s what they always say.”
“Who?” I said. “Your parents?”
“I told you. My parents are dead. It’s what adults always say when they want me to do something but don’t have a reason. It’s okay, Gina. I’ll stay with you.”
“Good,” Gina said. She looked at me, smiled, said, “How are you getting to your truck?”
Right. It was still over at Squig and Woz’s. “I’ll take the bus.”
“Dumb. We’ll drive you.”
Twenty minutes later we pulled up next to my truck. I got out and checked it over. No bullet holes that I could see. Woz’s house was quiet. The VW’s corpse was gone.
I squatted by Gina’s door. “Don’t forget that call.”
“I won’t.” She craned her neck to kiss me. “Now get going. Us girls have stuff to do.”
I stood up straight and the Volvo drove away. I eyed Woz’s house again. Decided nothing good could come of knocking on his door. I fired up the truck and drove home.
There was a note on the door from Theta, attached by a little sticker with a picture of a flower. She’d accepted a UPS package for me. I plucked the note off and went inside. I took the fabric sample full of bullets from my pocket and shoved it under a pile of socks in my dresser. I was still half-convinced they could blow up at any time.
I checked the machine. No calls from Elaine or anyone else. I fed the canaries and talked to them awhile. I don’t know why I habitually did this. They never talked back. It just seemed healthier than talking to myself.
I took a shower and went out back to air-dry. I got an idea. I’d turn the tables on Theta. I went in and threw on some shorts, assembled a few cinder blocks, climbed up on them to say, “Hey!”
She was sunbathing. Nude. It seemed fair. She’d seen me that way. But I was one up on the other woman soaking up rays, an early-twenties blond who looked like a Playboy centerfold, right down to the dark pubic hair.
Theta spotted me. “Hey, neighbor.”
“Hey.”
The other one shrieked and grabbed a towel to cover up. “Theta! You said no one would see.”
“Guess I was wrong. Life in the big city. Joe, this is my cousin Ronnie. From Arkansas. Ronnie, Joe.”
“Hey,” I said.
Ronnie wrapped the towel tighter and wiggled a couple of fingers. “Hey.”
I looked at Theta but didn’t say anything.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“Um …”
“Oh, I get it.” She casually picked up a towel and draped it over her chest and crotch. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks. You have a package for me?”
“Sure do.” She and her towel got up and went into the house. Ronnie and her towel followed. Theta came back out with a brown cardboard box a foot square and a couple of inches thick.
I took it, thanked her, and said, “Tell the kid not to worry about it.”
“Shit, no. I’m gonna give her a hard time. Teach her to go around naked.” I stepped down. I stood there a minute with lust in my heart, then went inside and looked over my package. It was from someone named Frank de Vinci in New Jersey. I hesitated. Residual anthrax anxiety. Then I got the box cutter from my junk drawer and slit the packing tape. Inside, nestled among a bunch of biodegradable noodles, was something a little bigger than one of my eight-by-tens, half an inch thick, wrapped in the New York Post. The headline screamed IT’S CHANDRA. They’d discovered the unfortunate Ms. Levy’s body a week or so back.
I removed my prize, laid it on the dining room table, went back outside and dumped the noodles on the lawn, so next time I watered they’d melt into the ground. I was sustaining the suspense. When I’d sustained it all I could I went in and ripped off the newspaper.
It was an autographed eight-by-ten of Pete Townshend, in a dime-store frame. From the early seventies by the look of it, windmilling a guitar to death. Incredibly cool.
There was a sheet of paper taped to the back. I scanned it. Somebody’d bought the photo on eBay—the price was cut off—and gave my house for the shipping address. Somebody whose ID was WHDesigner. WH for West Hollywood. Scrawled at the bottom was a note from Frank da Vinci himself. “Lady who bought this said to tell you it’s for inspiration. Hope you like it. Rock on.”
What Kind of People Are They?
I took Frank da Vinci’s advice. I was in the bedroom beating “Pinball Wizard” to a pulp when the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hey, Portugal. Burns here.”
“Hi, Burns. How’s the leg?”
“Better. I’m curious. You there last night?”
“There, where?”
“The big shootout in Hollywood.”
“Oh, that. I heard about it on TV this morning.”
She heard the hitch in my voice. “You were, weren’t you?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Come on, Joe, don’t play games.”
It was only the second time she’d called me by my first name. “Yeah. I was there. Sort of got caught in the crossfire.”
“But you got away before my esteemed colleagues got there.”
“Yeah. Why’d you think I was there?”
“I saw this Wozniak character on the news last night.”
“Oh.”
“Standing in front of your truck. The shot-up Volkswagen … I don’t suppose you know who put the holes in it.”
“I didn’t see it happen.”
“I see.” She waited long enough for me to create a whole future where I told her Woz did it, he went to prison on firearms charges, and however many years later got out, tracked me down, and cut my balls off.
I didn’t get a chance to squeal. “I got your info,” Burns said.
“Great.”
“First this Deanna Knox woman. One minor pot bust in ’76. Got probation. Been clean since.”
“That’s it?”
“Did you think there’d be more?”
“I don’t know what I thought. What about Woz?”
“Let me save him for last. First the missing Mr. Bonner.”
“What have you got?”
“Not much there either.”
“This dinner I’m buying you’s starting to sound like a ripoff.”
“Some drug stuff for him too, back in the early seventies. Heroin. But he cleaned up his act and was a good little boy after that.”
“What about his disappearance?”
“There’s nothing.”
“There must be.”
“Portugal, it’s not like he was living with a wife and seven kids and went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back.”
“I suppose not.”
“No one’s ever asked the department to look for him.”
“What if I asked now?”
“Don’t push it.”
“Yeah, okay. What about Woz?”
“Small stuff. Pot, disturbing the peace. Oh, and a DUI. Never spent more than a night in jail. A model citizen.”
“That it?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
“No reason.”
“There is one thing more.”
“What?”
“His father has a record.”
“So does mine. It doesn’t make him a bad person.”
“Him, the father, or him, your friend?”
“Either one.”
“His father knew your father.”
“He did? How’d you find that out?”
“One of the guys I work with goes way back.”
“How’d they know each other?”
“Seems they did some jobs together back then. Wozniak Senior, full name Herbert no middle name Wozniak, was into the same small-time stuff as your father. Truck hijackings, things like that.”
“Was he there the night my father got arrested?”
“If he was, he got away before the police arrived.”
“Has he been in prison?”
“Yes. Not long after your father, he got busted for breaking and entering. Went to San Quentin.”
“Same place my father was.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you think they—”
“Portugal.”
“What?”
“Go to the source.”
“The source doesn’t like to talk about that stuff.”
“Okay, then. That’s all I have. I’ll be going now.”
“You think I should ask him.”
“Up to you.”
“But if it were you, you would.”
“Yes.”
“Though what it would have to do with anything, I couldn’t guess. I mean, his father, my father. It doesn’t really have any bearing on anything that’s going on now.”
“Some detective you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, don’t you think it’s an awfully big coincidence you and your friend ending up at the same runaway rescue operation, given that your fathers worked together?
“That’s in the files?”
“Enough of it was.”
“That’s probably all it is. A coincidence.”
“I don’t think so, and neither do you.”
“I don’t?”
“Talk to your father. You might find out something useful. Look, I’ve got to go. My sister’s coming to take me to the doctor.”
“Okay. Thanks. For all of it.”
“You’re welcome. When I get back home I’m getting out my Zagat Guide. Find us a nice expensive place. See you.” She was gone.
I put the phone down. It rang again. “Hello?”
“You pussy.”
“Enough with the pussy already. What’s up?”
“We got to talk.”
“What about?”
“All this shit that’s going down.”
“Fine. Let’s talk.”
“Not on the phone.”
“You getting paranoid?”
“Café of 1000 Dances. At six.”
“That place on Melrose?”
“Yeah. Later, man.”
Five minutes later the phone went off yet again. “Grand Central Station.”
“Joe?”
“That’s me.”
“It’s Deanna.”
“Hi.”
“Let’s get started.”
“I suppose we ought to.”
“Can we get together tonight? We can figure out a plan.”
“I’m not sure. My social calendar’s filling up. Let me check.” I took a beat. “Your place or mine?”
“I’ve been over there. Your turn. Eight?”
“Sure.”
“Got a pencil?”
“Yeah.”
She gave me an address on Yucca in Hollywood. A lousy part of town.
“One more thing,” she said. “Mott’s back.”
“Congratulations, I guess.”
“Gee, thanks.” Click.
I dialed the phone before someone else had a chance to call me.
“Hello?”
“Catherine?”
“Yes?”
“Joe.”
“Long time, no see.”
Catherine was one of my father’s housemates. In her sixties, a widow who resembled my mother more than a little, and a nice Catholic girl to balance out my father and their other roomie Leonard.
“I’ve been kind of busy,” I said.
“You and my daughter.”
“Your daughter lives in Alaska. Kind of tough for her to drop by.”
“They have airports up there. Hang on, I’ll get your father on the phone.”
Half a minute went by. Somebody started up a jackhammer next door at Theta’s. The noise stopped, replaced by a howl of pain.
“Joseph?”
“No, Dad, it’s five other guys.”
“Last time it was six.”
“One of them joined the Marines. How you doing?”
“I’m doing good. I got a hot date tonight.”
“That’s fantastic. Who with?”
“A girl from the senior center. A shikse.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mary Elizabeth.”
“A good shikse name. Think you’ll get lucky?”
“I should be so lucky as to get lucky. What’s up?”
“I need to ask you about something.”
“So ask.”
“I want to ask in person.”
“You’re going to make time to visit your father?”
“Dad, I’m sorry, I’ve been—”
“Yes, yes, busy, I know. Joseph, it’s all right. You have your life.”
“You doing anything this afternoon? Say around four?”
“That would be good. Come then. We’ll have a nice man-to-man talk.”
One Last Hit (Joe Portugal Mysteries) Page 14
