“Reasons beyond what we've talked about?”
“Yes. I'm afraid of the dark.”
“Leave a light on,” he said. “Are your doors locked?”
The door was right behind me, now that I'd moved the daybed. I reached up and touched it, not that there was any doubt in my mind. “Yes,” I said.
“Good. Do you drink?”
“Do I what?”
“Pour yourself a shot of something. Unless you're an alcoholic, in which case, heat up some milk. Then turn off the phone. Then go to sleep.”
Hot milk. I could see Ruta nodding with approval, but I shoved the image aside. What good was hot milk when I had a brain full of questions about prisons and merchandise and whether people still carried around guns from the Spanish Civil War, and whether those guns still worked, and if so, whether they shoot nine-milllimeter bullets?
“You're going to be all right,” he said. “I can hear that brain working, but it's time to shut it down. Don't worry anymore tonight, I'll take over. You can start in again tomorrow.”
He hung up and I realized I was still clueless about what to feed Margaret. I held on to the phone, both hands wrapped around it as if it were his wrist. I held it against my face and pretended it was him and that he was lying there next to me and that I trusted him. I kept it there until the computerized operator voice came over the line and told me to hang up.
chapter thirteen
It was still dark when Margaret woke me, around 6 A.M. Maybe she'd been restless all night and I'd slept through it, but now I was startled enough to jerk upright, disoriented to find myself in bed with a furred being, disoriented to be viewing the apartment from a different angle, my back against the door.
It took everything I had to return the heavy daybed to its place at the end of the apartment's long, skinny room. My adrenaline must've been working when I moved it the night before. Pieces of Margaret's previous meals littered the floor, along with, disturbingly, a chewed rubber glove. I grabbed the ferret, her leash, old socks, a cardigan sweater, and went outside.
There is a purity about early morning darkness, and I experienced something akin to serenity, watching the ferret stumble around in the grass. I sat down to put on my socks. Finishing her biological errands, Margaret lifted her nose, sniffed the air, then ambled past me to the length of her leash, into the shadows of a eucalyptus tree. A man stepped forward.
“Hey.” He stood there, hands in pockets. Short black hair. Clean-shaven, tanned face. White T-shirt. Black jeans.
My red sneakers.
I sat on the ground, transfixed, looking up at him. He was a different man altogether from the guy in the scrub suit, or the one in the tuxedo, and likely to be more trouble than either, judging from the effect on my pulse rate. “Hey, Doc,” I said.
He smiled. “Nice pj's.” He bent down to pick up Margaret. “New leash.”
I stood, aware of my pink cardigan and how it didn't go with the earth tones of my signs of the zodiac pajamas. I didn't even want to know what my hair was doing.
“I can't stay,” he said. He was petting Margaret, who closed her eyes, and would've, if she could've, purred. “You'll be okay now, it's daylight. If you need your car, I can—”
“Keep the car. Just tell me what's going on, who these people are, populating my life, why they're—have you been here all night?”
“Since two A.M.”
“Why didn't you come up? Why didn't you ring the doorbell and—”
“—give you a panic attack?” He looked at Margaret. “Hey, you—” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and withdrew a large box of raisins. The ferret reacted like he'd produced the winning lottery ticket. Doc fed her a handful, then handed me the box. “This should tide her over until I come back. She also eats Cheerios. Okay, here's the story. Last week I was in Tehachapi State Prison, working the infirmary, waiting for my release. A kid came in, bad shape, stabbed with a shank, and—”
“A what?”
“Shank. Homemade knife. Prison art. Don't interrupt, I don't have much time. This kid gave me some information on his deathbed, information I didn't want and didn't use, but now I'm having trouble convincing people of that.”
“What was his name?”
He blinked. “Whose?”
“The kid on his deathbed. It seems cold, to think of him as ‘the dead kid.'”
“You don't need to think about him at all.” He held up a hand. “Okay, his name was Shebby, he had a Cupid tattoo and a speech impediment. Happy? What he told me about was a hiding place.”
“Having to do with this merchandise?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Leave it at that for now. If I thought it would help you to know more, I'd tell you more.”
“You haven't told me anything! What, you drove all this way and now you're driving all the way back, just to drop off raisins?”
One eyebrow went up. The corners of his mouth twitched. He handed Margaret to me, then reached out and buttoned a button on my pajama top. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Raisins.”
IVY AT THE Shore was a cheerful restaurant, a kitschy-chic beach shack. If there was an official uniform for the Sunday-brunch crowd, it was baseball hats and flip-flops, but I was attired appropriately enough, in a Tiffanie's Trousseau floral sundress delivered that morning by a messenger who took back with him the unworn Saturday night spandex number. Tiffanie's prided itself on coordinating date attire with date location, whenever location could be determined in advance. My dress almost matched the high chintz-covered stools at the bamboo bar.
Rex Stetson wore a white polo shirt and khakis. He was six four or five, with a rangy build, thick brown hair, and startlingly green eyes. He lived in Houston, he told me, waiting at the bar for our table, but was moving to L.A. to take over a division of CBS.
“Grab the eighteen-to-twenty-four demographic,” he said. “Kids like you.”
“Ha,” I said. It was hard not to like him. Everyone seemed to, from his CBS driver to other women at the bar. He was as approachable as a bowl of peanuts, which emboldened me to admit, halfway through my mimosa, “I've forgotten your actual name. My friends have been calling you Rex Stetson.”
“Why?” he asked.
“You remind them of the character Rock Hudson played in Pillow Talk, the guy who pretends to be a Texan, to seduce Doris Day.”
“Then I guess that makes you Doris Day.” He smiled.
I smiled back. “So what's your real name, Rex?”
“Not so fast, this is turning me on. Would you put your hair in a French twist?” He tried to leer, but he was too clean-cut to pull it off.
I laughed. “It takes a big man to admit to liking Doris Day.”
“Oh, hell,” he said, “I'll even admit to liking Rock Hudson.”
I found this so engaging, I asked the question that had been on my mind all morning. “What's a catch like you doing finding dates out of the classified ads?”
He looked blank for a moment, then smiled once more. “Just a fetish, I guess. Will you excuse me, darlin'? Gotta make a phone call.”
John, the Romanian bartender, brought me a second mimosa without being asked. A song from the forties wafted through the air, and I realized, looking around, how attractive everyone was, and why people dated even when they weren't getting paid for it. I decided I loved this restaurant, with its pink walls, seashell-studded furniture, and woven straw ceiling, decided that nothing dangerous could happen to me in such a charming place. I started thinking about Doc, which made me smile, even as I considered how maddeningly enigmatic he was. I smiled at a passing plate of huevos rancheros, smiled at Robin, the hostess, smiled at the woman next to me who waited for her date to return, a messed-up Sunday Times spread out next to her. “Help yourself,” she said, seeing me eye the paper.
We'd made the California section, front page. “Pleasant Valley Murder.”
The victim remained unidentified. Investigators were seeking a man, medium height, in his thirties or
forties, armed and considered dangerous. A female Caucasian, a possible kidnap victim, was also being sought. She was described as tall and blond.
ABDUL, THE CBS driver, steered the limo toward Hollywood and the two thousand stars in the Hollywood Walk of Fame he thought Rex should see. We took Sunset, the scenic route, wild and green near the ocean. We wound our way through middle-class neighborhoods that gave way to streets where a million dollars wouldn't buy you the garage. Rex took in every little thing. I tried to keep up my end of conversation, as I'd done all the way through crab Benedict, but inside I'd gone from Doris Day to Bonnie Parker, and was feeling pretty frayed around the edges.
Around UCLA, Rex drew my attention to the back window. “We get some interesting vehicles in Houston,” he said, “but we don't see a lot of those. What would you call the color on that Hummer? Turquoise?”
I froze, then turned. I had trouble finding my voice. “Robin's-egg blue.”
“Remember the ad campaign on those? ‘SUV on steroids.'” Rex chuckled.
The Hummer was several cars behind us, too far back to see its driver. It was a sinister-looking thing, like an insect from a grade B horror movie. What did this mean? I'd been followed two days in a row by this overgrown Jeep, while in different cars, different company. Clearly, he—or she—knew where I worked and, probably, lived. What did he/she want? What did any of them want—the Alfa Romeo of Friday night, the limo on Saturday? They must be connected, part of an organized surveillance job, but why were their methods so sloppy? Wasn't the point of surveillance invisibility? Maybe not. Maybe the point was harassment. Or worse. Maybe it was terror.
It took some discipline to keep from turning around to watch the Hummer, but I limited myself to one glance, in Beverly Hills. Later, as we neared the Chinese Theater formerly known as Grauman's, Abdul said, “Look at that, boss. I think this guy's following us.” He turned right on Hollywood Boulevard.
Rex laughed. “Maybe it's NBC, looking to squeeze me for the fall schedule. Or maybe it's the INS after you, Abdul.” He turned to me. “How about you, Doris Day? Got any angry ex-husbands?”
I gave what I hoped was a carefree sort of chortle.
“Want me to lose him, boss?”
“Abdul,” Rex said, “I'm from Texas. I want you to catch him.”
Abdul nodded. Before I could register a vote, not that anyone was asking, the car turned north on Nichols Canyon. After a few miles on the winding road, Abdul swerved left toward a small side street and turned it into a tire-screeching U-turn, endangering the digestion of my crab Benedict. Rex put a hand on my arm to steady me, not knowing how close he was to being thrown up on. We drove slowly back down the canyon road.
Opposing traffic was heavy, and when we rounded a corner, there was the Hummer, facing us, at a dead stop. I stared at the man behind the wheel. Sun glinted off mirrored sunglasses. A baseball cap covered half his head. He could have been Mickey Rooney, for all I knew. He could've been Mickey Mouse. Whoever it was, he took a look at us, then dropped out of sight, coming back up with a gun. A big gun. A shotgun or a rifle, one of those guns.
I think I screamed. I did hear Rex shout to Abdul, who was rolling up windows before Rex pushed me unceremoniously down until I was face to face with the very clean gray carpeted floor of the car. When I came back up, we were on Hollywood Boulevard once more, heading east.
Abdul spoke rapidly, mostly in Arabic, with occasional lapses into English, variations on “Holy Almighty God in His Heaven,” with accompanying hand gestures. He recounted the incident again and again, like some crazed sports announcer, as though Rex and I hadn't been there and seen it along with him.
I concentrated on slowing down my breath and keeping down my brunch. Rex checked the back window, the current favorite gesture of everyone I knew.
“You want I should call the cops, boss?” Abdul asked, his eyes wide and agitated in the rearview mirror.
“No! No cops,” I said, too loudly. I could feel Rex's stare. Abdul's eyes in the mirror shifted from his boss to me. “I mean, why?” I said. “This is L.A., people have guns, it happens. I'm sure cops have bigger things to investigate. Murders and such.”
Abdul took issue with this. “It is L.A., yes, but it is not Beirut—for this reason I left Beirut. Boss, I tell you, whatever you see on TV, for L.A. this is not normal, for a man to simply—”
“Yes, Abdul, but you've got to calm down. Do you want me to fix you a drink from the bar back here?” Rex had an almost eerie control. “If the lady doesn't want cops, it would be bad manners to insist. Let's get her home.” He took some bottled water from the bar setup, poured it into a glass, added ice, and handed it to me. He did the same for Abdul. His hands were as steady as a surgeon's.
When we reached the shop, he said, “What kind of security system do you have?”
“I don't.”
“You what?”
“I can't afford one,” I said. “And I can't use a metal gate at night, because the Welcome! corporation doesn't like the look of bars covering their logo; they find it unwelcoming. But I'm meticulous about locking up.”
“What about your place?”
“My place?” I was momentarily confused. “Oh, my apartment. No, I'm very vigilant about that. Not that there's anything worth stealing.”
“Well, lady, there's you, isn't there?” He studied me, no longer the affable cowboy. There was also Margaret, I realized, probably up there stuffing herself with raisins, waffles, and Cheerios. I made a move to get out of the car, but he stopped me. “Look, I don't know who the hell that was back there and maybe you don't either. But it doesn't take a native to see this neighborhood is not Bel Air, and since you don't want cops, I'll feel a whole lot better if I take a look at your locks.”
Rex had worked his way through college as a locksmith, he explained as he inspected my apartment building. This, he determined, could be picked by a tree toad. The shop's three entrances were somewhat better protected. Apparently Aldwyn, my predecessor, had sprung for brand-new locks—although not dead bolts—prior to hanging himself.
Next, he checked the shop windows in a businesslike silence, to Fredreeq's delight. On her way to assist a customer in Easter baskets, she slipped me a Post-it. The customer, I noticed, was the man who'd been in yesterday, in the beautiful blue cashmere sweater. Today he wore a blue leather jacket. I looked down at Fredreeq's note. “Rex: VGL, huh?” VGL was the standard Personals ad abbreviation for “very good looking.”
“Well, you're a puzzle,” Rex said, strolling over to me. “You have your friends check out your dates down to their socks, but meanwhile, you got yourself a store and an apartment that's open house to any crack fiend with a credit card.” He took a business card from the bronze frog holder near the register and pocketed it. “You make a man want to watch out for you.”
I said nothing. His security assessment alarmed me, and his concern evoked a kind of confusion. It was the second time today someone had displayed protectiveness, and I didn't know how to respond.
“Hey, Fredreeq,” Rex called across the shop. “Tell Joey I'll be back in two weeks with my Lamborghini and I owe her a ride.” He kissed me on the cheek. His eyes, the color of sage, looked into mine. “Thank you for brunch.”
He didn't mention a second date. I watched through the shop window as Abdul opened the car door for him. A sense of melancholy, tinged with fear, came over me.
IF REX HAD been unexpectedly charismatic, Cliff, my second Sunday date, was merely inoffensive. Not that that was cause for complaint, in these trying times. Cliff owned a picture framing shop, so we spoke about small business concerns while driving downtown to a museum exhibit on the Jain religion of pre-Christian India.
“When Fredreeq told me you had an interest in spiritual traditions,” Cliff said, “I knew you'd go wild for this. Can't believe you didn't see the Jain show at LACMA; I'll never forget it. I only hope this one measures up.”
The Museum of Crafts and Culture, in downtown L.A., was the
size of my shop. After a twenty-minute black-and-white introductory film strip, itself somewhat ancient, Cliff steered us eagerly toward the exhibit. This consisted of photographs of artifacts of the long-gone Jains, with accompanying text. Cliff could not restrain himself from reading aloud the entire section on the Digambara group, a Jain subset that practiced asceticism by going nude. “What's your feeling on that?” he said, when he'd finished.
“To be honest,” I said, “I was thinking about a guy who pleaded guilty to a conspiracy charge last year, and whether there are court transcripts of things like that, and if so, how I'd get access to them.”
Cliff nodded, as though this were a normal response to nudism in the sixth century B.C. “Doing an employee check? U.S. District Court. Blue pages of the phone book.”
It was late when we got back from dinner at Marie Callender's, a restaurant best known for its pies. I gave Cliff a tour of my shop, grabbing the opportunity to check the premises for lurkers while I had a nice-sized male in tow. Cliff was impressed with the decor, especially the lemon grove mural, and asked me for a second date in front of Engagements/Weddings, Aisle 5. Recalling Dr. Cookie's new research deadline, I told him to call back in a month, which he agreed to without questions. “Curiously incurious,” I wrote in my Dating Project journal, “about events of the last 2,600 years.”
There was no sign of Doc or my car around the apartment building when I took Margaret out for her nighttime ablutions. Nor had I been able to reach him on his phone all day. Would he show up tonight? The thought made me tingle with anticipation, that he might be here in the dark while I slept. That I might see him when I woke.
Back upstairs, Margaret watched me move the daybed in front of the door again. I threw my flannel pajamas into the laundry basket and went to bed in a black silk negligee.
MARGARET AND I slept in Monday morning. If Doc had spent the night on the street, he was gone by the time we got there.
Dating Dead Men Page 10
