“Are you open for business?” he said, as Raymond literally backed into him. “Because the door was open—”
“No. Eight A.M.” Raymond righted himself and went inside.
Doc came my way but didn't look at me. The suit was small for him, tight in the shoulders and short in the sleeves. As he moved past me he touched my elbow in a “follow me” gesture. Pant cuffs dangled a full four inches above his paper slippers.
I turned and followed, pulling at a piece of plastic that emerged from the suit jacket. A receipt clung to it.
“Good work,” he said in a low voice, taking the plastic. “Let's go.”
“Car keys,” I said, and ran into the doughnut shop. I grabbed the keys and then, for good measure, the half page of the Times Doc had been reading, the one he'd torn apart.
When I reached the car, he was in the driver's seat.
I got in and handed him the keys.
chapter six
We hurtled out of the parking lot so fast that the ferret was thrown against Doc. He tossed her gently into the back, which didn't seem to bother her.
“You stole that suit,” I said.
“I did. It was this or a Confederate soldier. The soldier might have been less conspicuous.” He looked down at the ruffled tuxedo shirt, bright yellow and open to the waist, lacking the little studs they use instead of buttons.
“Do you plan to return it? Because it could be someone's wedding suit.”
“A dwarf's?”
“I'm not sure they call themselves dwarfs anymore. I've heard—”
“I'll return it. If it makes you feel better.”
“Dry-cleaned?”
He smiled. “Don't push it.”
In the gym bag, a phone rang. Doc frowned. “That can't be mine, it's new—no one has the number.”
“Well, it can't be mine; I don't have one.” I was about to add that I couldn't afford one, but I didn't want to appear judgmental about his spending choices. I unzipped the gym bag and found the phone amid shaving gear, books, and underwear, and handed it over. His bag looked like my junk drawer.
“Hello . . . Yeah?” His voice dropped an octave. “What do you want?”
I itched to explore the gym bag. A pack of cigarettes nestled against some sort of calculator. Marlboro Reds, not even low tar. Number ten, I thought, No Smoking. And what books was he reading? I moved aside a sock to see the spine of a paperback. Mortal Splendor. Oh, dear. Romance? Religion? Pornography?
“I don't have your stash.” There was an edge to his voice, an animosity that startled me. I zipped up the gym bag and folded my hands in my lap.
“No,” he said. “I'm saying I didn't want the information, not then, not now.” Violence played across his face, and was gone. “That's bullshit. I've been in a lot of places this week, that's the point of life on the outside. Just so you capisce, the body count goes higher, I go to the cops.”
That ended the call. He gripped the phone like a soda can he was about to crush. I felt queasy. Doc knew something about the murder, and I should find out what. If the investigation came around to P.B., I could use information to bargain with the cops.
“Close friend?” I said.
He looked straight ahead. “Never met the guy. Long story.”
“It's a long drive.”
His expression softened, but he shook his head. This wasn't going to be easy. “Tell me one thing,” I said. “Tell me you weren't involved in that man's death.”
He looked at me, then back to the road. “I didn't shoot him, I've never shot anyone, I'm sorry he's dead.”
“Okay, fine, relax. No need to get defensive. Have a cigarette.”
He almost smiled, but said nothing. I stayed quiet too, for about thirty seconds, then said, “So you were in jail?”
His head snapped toward me. “Why do you say that?”
“You talked about ‘life on the outside.' Which implies an inside. Like jail. Or, I suppose, the CIA, FBI, cults, monasteries, the military, higher education—”
“But prison sounds the most likely?” The dry-cleaning receipt was stuck to his sleeve; he gave it a glance, then crumpled it and tossed it back to Margaret.
“No offense, Doc,” I said.
“No problem, Wollie. Wollie, as in Wally Cleaver?”
“Pronounced that way, but spelled with an ‘o.' As in Wollstonecraft.”
“As in Mary Wollstonecraft? Vindication of the Rights of Woman?”
I stared. “Pretty esoteric stuff for a criminal. Okay, then, you're CIA. Or some monastic order—”
“I don't think monks concern themselves with eighteenth-century feminism. I'm fairly sure spies don't. So, Mary Wollstonecraft—”
“Actually, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. That's my full name.”
He smiled. “Quite a handle. This, from the mother who claimed you were allergic to fur? Or is your father to blame?”
“My mother. She's always been . . . whimsical. My brother had it even worse, since—” The mention of P.B. put me on dangerous ground. I said quickly, “How about you, what's your name?”
He glanced at me, then away. “I'd rather not say.”
“After I just bared my soul? Come on, how bad can it be?”
After a long pause, he said, “You tell me. What do you think of Gomez?”
“As a last name?” I said hopefully.
“Both.”
I gaped at him. “Gomez Gomez?”
He met my look. “You got a problem with that?”
Seven miles later, I was still fixated on it. Back during the Persian Gulf War, when CNN was always quoting Boutros Boutros-Ghali, Fredreeq had said, “Double names are never correct.” You could see her point. Try coming up with a double name that has real dignity. Marky Mark. Circus Circus. Rin Tin Tin.
Sirhan Sirhan.
“If you don't mind,” I said, “I think I'll keep calling you Doc.”
“Call me whatever you like.” He crossed six traffic lanes in five seconds.
When horns stopped honking and my stomach returned to its rightful position, I asked, “Are you trying to lose whoever might be following us?”
“That's the idea.” The Rabbit slowed and the exit ramp's centrifugal force sucked us into the darkness of Coldwater Canyon.
“What are they driving?” I asked.
“Not a clue.”
“Who are they?”
“Not sure,” he said.
“Why are they after you?”
He charged a yellow light and turned right. My body was thrown toward his, and I let it linger there for a little longer than was strictly necessary. He made a left, and leaned my way. “Half the trouble I'm in, it's because someone felt compelled to spill his guts to me.”
“And the other half?” I said softly. “What accounts for that?”
He straightened up. “Bad attitude. Bad judgment. Bad luck.”
“What were you in jail for?”
He fished around under his seat and brought Margaret onto his lap, to pet her. I imagined him locked in a place of concrete and metal, hard surfaces, with nothing soft or furry to touch. Margaret stood on her back legs to look out his window, a big white tube sock with paws. “Prison, not jail,” Doc said. “Sentenced to a year and a day, served half. Minor felony.”
“Contempt of court? A journalist protecting a source, something like that?”
“Nothing like that,” he said. “What do you do for a living?”
“I'm sorry, is it bad etiquette to ask about a person's crime?”
“Yeah, let's move on,” he said. “What do you do?”
“I'm in business.”
He looked at me. “You're not a businesswoman. You're not the type.”
I blinked. “I better be the type, I have small business loans from four—”
“All right, that's your day job. What else do you do?”
“As it happens, I also design greeting cards, but—”
“There you go,” he said. “What were you doing
at the hospital tonight?”
“Long story. What do you do for a living?”
He smiled, a flash of white teeth in the dark. “Unemployed.”
Of course. Number five, Has Job. “Just tell me one thing,” I said. “Your minor felony wasn't of a sexual nature, was it?” I had pedophilia on the brain.
He gave me a look so long I thought we'd drive off the road. “Ms. Shelley,” he said, “I haven't been this close to a woman in six months. Do you really want to bring sex into the conversation right now?”
HE PARKED At Vons, a twenty-four-hour grocery chain that eschewed apostrophes in its title, in a strip mall on the corner of Laurel Canyon and Ventura Boulevard. The other stores were dark and gated except for Kinko's, the all-night copy shop. Neither Vons nor Kinko's appeared to be doing a thriving after-midnight business, judging from the paucity of parked cars. A lone woman wobbled on high heels, weaving her cheerful way around lampposts, clutching a plastic bag like a trophy.
Doc reached across me for the gym bag and stopped, an inch from my face.
“What?” I said. The buttonless shirt was open. He had a lot of chest hair.
“God. You're really pretty, aren't you?”
“I—no, no, no, that's an exit line. You can't dump me, not yet, not in front of Vons, I have things to ask you—”
“I'm not dumping you.” He reached for the ferret. “You're dumping me.”
I caught his dangling French cuff. “Wait. I've got my own stake in this. I need to know what you know about that dead body, I need to—”
“You need to remain blissfully ignorant.” He put his hand on mine and squeezed it before extricating his cuff. Then he was out of the car.
I climbed over the console to the driver's seat. “Look, I won't go to the cops, I promise, and if the cops come to me—”
“Hey.” He leaned down, his face framed in the open window, eyes so dark I couldn't see the pupils. “Tell them the truth. I had a gun, you were scared, you found out I was a criminal, you did what you did to stay alive.”
“You had a gun?”
The eyes half closed and for one wild moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Then he reached through the window, locked my door, and slapped the side of the car like it was a horse he was sending on its way.
“Doc!” I said, as he headed toward Kinko's.
“Doc!” cried the weaving woman, like a backup singer.
Pulse racing, I put the Rabbit in drive and took off after him. An inner voice screeched, “Don't let him get away,” drowning out years of cultural conditioning and weeks of actual training in how to be a girl, lady, woman, date. Dr. Cookie's face popped up like a greeting card, appalled by my naked pursuit of a man. “Number eleven,” she reminded me. “No Guns.”
I'm doing this for my brother, I told her. I passed Doc, pulled around, and hit the brakes, blocking his progress. “At least give me your number.”
“You go, girl!” the woman called out, toasting me with her plastic bag.
Doc threw a look her way and then changed directions, walking toward the back of the car. I shifted into reverse, but I gave it too much gas.
The Rabbit backed up with a lurch and hit him.
“Jesus,” he yelled, “you've run over me!”
I jumped out of the car and grabbed Margaret's leash, as he held his thigh in his hands, massaging it through the tuxedo pants. The edge of his paper slipper was caught under the Rabbit's rear tire. It was true. I'd run over him.
He eased his foot out of the slipper and took a slow step forward. “One dead body wasn't enough for you?”
“I'm so sorry. You know how, when you're in reverse, you confuse the brake and the accelator, because you're facing backward? What—does it hurt?”
He was staring off, over my shoulder. “How long has that car been there?”
I followed his gaze. A middle-of-the-night mist had settled in, making things hazy in the floodlights. It took a moment to see headlights at the other end of the two-block-long parking lot.
Doc grabbed Margaret and his gym bag. “Lock up your car. Fast.”
I did it, then followed him up concrete steps. We passed Kinko's and Baskin-Robbins, and moved into the shadows in front of a movie poster store.
“Is it whoever's after you?” My heart was pounding.
“We're about to find out. With luck, they haven't spotted us yet. Get down.”
“Can't we go inside Kinko's and—”
“No. Get down.”
I squatted. The building jutted out, blocking our view of the car, and its view of us. Doc leaned forward to sneak a look and I had to restrain myself from pulling him back. I felt exposed here and hoped anyone looking our way would take us for a couple smoking crack, or whatever it is people do in doorways at two in the morning. My new best friend, the inebriated woman, had disappeared.
I said, “Where are you parked? I vote we go into Kinko's and sneak out the front entrance, get to your car, and worry about the Rabbit later.”
“I don't have a car.”
“What do you mean—what are we doing here?”
He nodded across the street. “The bus stop.”
“You take the bus?” Number four, I thought, Has Car.
“I have to get back to the hospital; I'm trying to spring someone.” He set Margaret on the ground. She reached the end of her leash, and he reeled her back.
“You're saying you got to Rio Pescado today by bus?” I asked.
“You think buses exist just to annoy cars?” He looked across the lot again.
“No, listen—you're right, you do need my car. I'll give you a ride, I have to go back to the hospital tomorrow—today, actu-ally.”
He turned. “You can't go there. You'll be a police flyer by tomorrow, as a kidnap victim.”
I stared at him. “My God. But I have to—I mean, how am I going to—?”
He held up a hand.
The car came into view.
It traveled with the speed of a funeral cortege. It passed under a floodlight, revealing itself as a sporty little thing with a canvas top. It reached the smattering of cars in front of Vons and slowed further, as though taking down license plates.
“What is that, an Alfa Romeo?” Doc asked. The car made a forty-five-degree turn, and headed toward us like a heat-seeking missile.
I flattened myself against the brick. “I don't know. I'm not a car person.”
“There's a surprise.” He put a reassuring hand on my knee. “It's dark; they won't see us.”
The slow, inexorable approach was excruciating. I was reminded of tanks in World War II movies. My legs shook and I abandoned my squatting position to sit, feeling the cold cement seep through my cotton flannel skirt. “Look,” I said, “if I can't go back to the hospital, you can't either.”
“I'm in different clothes.” He kept his attention on the car. “I'll shave, I'll speak Spanish, they won't know it's me.”
“Well, I can change too, disguise my—”
“No, you can't. There's only one of you. How many six-foot blondes—”
“Five eleven and seven-eighths,” I said. If I slouched. He had a point, though. Already he was a far cry, visually, from the doctor in the scrub suit. It wasn't just the tuxedo; he had a chameleon quality that I lacked.
The Alfa Romeo passed under lights again, showing two passengers, of indeterminate age and gender. “Good,” Doc said. “Come on, come on . . . Let's see your license number.”
Let's not, I thought. I did not enjoy hide-and-seek with sinister sports cars. My intrepid friend Joey would consider this a good time, but not me. And what would we do with a license? Call the police, report slow driving?
The Alfa Romeo made a sharp right and I let out a breath. The thought of police led me back to my brother. P.B. would be okay without me; he had his aluminum foil, more vital to his peace of mind than my presence. I just had to figure out how to keep him away from the murder investigation. Maybe I could arrange for him to visit Uncle The
o for a few days and—
The Alfa Romeo stopped. Five parking spaces away from the Rabbit.
“What are they doing?” I whispered.
“Wondering where we are. My guess is, they were too far away to see you run me over, but they recognize your car. I lost them for a minute on the exit ramp, then they got lucky.”
My poor, defenseless Rabbit. “For the record,” I said, “rather than ‘spring' someone from Rio Pescado, you might try going through channels; the staff is surprisingly human. But say you do it your way: What then? Wait for the getaway bus? Hide in the woods, live on leaves? If you're determined to break the law, you really will need my car.”
“You're right,” he said, surprising me. “But that will require some doing.”
“Like most things in life.” A dark suspicion crossed my mind. “Only it's not my turn to create a diversion.”
He turned the full force of his dimples on me. “But you do it so well.”
chapter seven
Eight minutes later, I walked to the Rabbit with as much naturalness as I could muster, sensing the scrutiny of three men. That one of them was Doc did not help. I felt I was on a high wire without a net, a sensation furthered by the fact I was shoeless; I'd given Doc my Converse All Stars.
What would Ruta do, in my socks? “Pretend it's wartime,” she said. “Only they don't know what side you're on yet, so they're not going to shoot you.” I wasn't sure about the analogy, but it didn't seem that my death was in anyone's best interest.
Careful not to look at the Alfa Romeo, I got into my car and reparked it properly, despite shaking limbs. From the hatchback I grabbed a large piece of cardboard in the shape of sunglasses, which I positioned on the Rabbit's dashboard, as though the sun were overhead rather than across the world, shining down on Europe. I made a show of checking door handles, and prayed the Alfa Romeo was too far away to see that the driver's side was in fact left open.
My key was under the front seat.
I clutched my purse and turned toward Kinko's. A voice stopped me.
“Who's sorry now?” sang a gravelly soprano. The high-heeled woman wobbled out from behind a set of blue Dumpsters. I speeded up, but she wobbled faster, serenading me. Catching up, she offered her Vons bag. I waved her off.
Dating Dead Men Page 5
