Dating Dead Men

by Harley Jane Kozak

  “Come on, a low-paying job on a sinking ship? Design cards. That's what you do, isn't it?”

  “Not lately,” I said. “No time. And anyway, I can't make a living that way.”

  “Have you tried? Full-time?”

  “There's not just me to consider,” I said, exasperated. “There's P.B., and Uncle Theo—he's seventy, he can't hang wallpaper forever. And then there's Fredreeq, she's saving for her kids' college funds, and then the Wednesday night poets need—” I stopped, feeling myself start to hyperventilate. “I just want one place in the world we can count on, that's ours, that we can't be thrown out of.”

  “You won't find it in corporate America. You're not the type. And look what it's costing you, trying to fit in—this ‘moonlighting,' as you so euphemistically put it. How long do you think you can pull that off?”

  Now was the moment to enlighten Doc about the Dating Project, but I was oddly reluctant. Since childhood I'd been an A student, one of life's hall monitors, observing signs, avoiding cracks in the sidewalk, reading all instructions before starting the test. Only in art did I color outside the lines. Doc considered me capable of prostitution, and now that my shock had worn off, this intrigued me.

  And I liked that it disturbed him. He disturbed me, with his black hair and deep eyes, his sinewy forearms and articulate hands on the wheel of my Volkswagen, steering us around the slow cars. Who was he to judge me, anyway, this—

  Something on the side of the road caught my attention.

  Doc saw it too. He slammed on the brakes. I was out of the car before it stopped.

  P.B. lay on his stomach, in the ditch alongside San Fernando Road. The right side of his face was in the dirt. His eyes were closed.

  I slowed my approach, aware of the morning traffic and birds singing and a second and third slam of car doors behind me. Most of all I was aware of dread. I moved slowly because if there was something terrible to be discovered, I wanted to prolong this moment, before darkness closed in.

  I reached him. I stood over him. I saw the rise and fall of his back. Relief fell upon me like a warm spring shower, making my knees wobble as I sank down into the ditch. “P.B., it's Wollie,” I said. “You can open your eyes.”

  He didn't respond, although his nose wrinkled. In the breeze, a lock of limp blond hair traveled across his forehead, stopping at his nose. I reached over and put it back. Then I rested my hand on his shirt, gingerly, as though my palm might leave an imprint. The shirt was hot from the sun, a pastel plaid button-down, fragile with wear, a Christmas present from a former decade. I marveled that he still had it.

  “I'm glad I found you,” I said. I settled next to him in the dirt, arranging myself on my side. A truck passed and I felt its vibrations in the earth beneath us.

  P.B. moved again, turning his face away from me. He seemed engaged in some sort of ear-to-the-ground exercise, alternating ears. I leaned over and said, “I'd like you to come home with me. I'll make you a grilled cheese sandwich. You can watch TV. Uncle Theo can come over. I've really missed you.”

  There was no response to this.

  After a time a shadow fell on us, and I looked up to see Doc. He was blocking the sun, and I couldn't tell what his face was doing. It occurred to me that this was as naked as he was likely to see me, lying in the dirt with my brother at 9:47 on a Thursday morning.

  “P.B.,” Doc said, “I'm a friend of your sister's, and I'll take you to Venice if you want. I'm sorry about your friend Steve.”

  P.B. sat up and scratched his scalp with both hands, vigorously, like there had been lice in the dirt. “Sand conducts sound,” he said. “Without sand, I can't hear him.”

  I sat up too. “Hear who?”

  “Stevie.”

  Nobody spoke for a minute. Ruby, who'd been behind her father, holding Margaret's crate, stepped in closer.

  “Then let's go find sand,” Doc said.

  chapter twenty-five

  “Sit down,” Doc said, pulling me back to the sand without looking up from his reading. Margaret lay in his lap, shaded by newspaper. “You're at the beach. Relax.”

  The sand in Venice was the ordinary variety, suitable for beach volleyball, surfing, sun-worshiping. It was also the living room carpet of a certain percentage of southern California's homeless, more welcoming than the sand of Santa Monica and Malibu to the north, and this was important. The locals here were colorful enough that my brother, spread-eagle thirty feet from the shore, was not especially noteworthy.

  But he was vulnerable. I felt this acutely, and glanced around from my own spot on the beach, some twenty feet inland. If someone had a mind to, someone on the boardwalk, for instance, they could hit him with one shot, probably. If they had a mind to. If they knew what he knew. It was driving me to drink, watching and waiting.

  “I can't relax,” I said. “He's out there receiving directives from his dead friend Stevie. I'm going for sunscreen. Look how white he and Ruby are.”

  Ruby sat near P.B., gazing at him as if he were TV. She'd taken a distinct liking to him, even holding his hand in the car the last miles to Venice.

  “Look at this instead,” Doc said, handing me the paper. “The synagogue story.”

  It was an article on a break-in at a Westside synagogue, the second in a week. The most recent one included acts of defilement. “Yes?” I said, scanning it.

  “That's where the Weasel stashed the goods.”

  I looked at him, startled.

  He nodded. “According to Shebby, when the Weasel was out on bail before starting his sentence, he hid his stuff in this synagogue.”

  “Tifereth Israel?” I said. “Where, exactly?”

  “Shebby said a storeroom, in a box labeled ‘Häagen-Dazs.'”

  “The Weasel stuck his diamond in a carton of ice cream?”

  “No,” he said. “In a cardboard box with ‘Häagen-Dazs' written on it.”

  “Is ice cream stored in boxes? Is Häagen-Dazs even kosher?” I stopped. “Why are you telling me this? Yesterday it was a big secret.”

  “Yesterday I was trying to keep you out of it. Today I'm just trying to keep you alive. It's time to go the police.”

  “What are you talking about? They'll arrest you. They'll arrest me. They'll—”

  “Two reasons,” he said, as if I hadn't spoken. “One, we can give them the guy who did this—” He indicated the newspaper article.

  “Who, the Weasel? Do you have some kind of proof? Because it's not clear to me why he's crashing synagogues since he thinks the diamond's with us.”

  “The first break-in was the day he got out of prison. It was after that he decided I stole the diamond. As for evidence, if there is any—if he left fingerprints, for instance—the cops'll be all over it. They have their own reasons for wanting the Weasel off the street; if they can get him on breaking and entering, they'll do it.”

  “And what if he forgot to leave any evidence? And how does any of this keep you out of jail for Stevie's murder?”

  “It doesn't.” Doc gave me a steady look. “But P.B. can identify the Swedes as the ones who shot Stevie.”

  “No, he can't!” I yelled. “He was so far away he didn't even recognize Stevie.”

  “But from what he told us in the car—look. He saw them somewhere on the grounds, on his way back from breakfast. Olof and Tor. He heard them say on a cell phone they were prepared to shoot some guy if the guy didn't cooperate. Then, later, from his window, he sees a guy get shot. All he has to do is tell the cops what he told us, and—”

  “He also told us that Olof and Tor are from an interplanetary alliance, posing as Swedish Secret Service. Do you see the cops running out to arrest extraterrestrials? And this assumes P.B. will even talk to the cops, which he won't, he'll get all hostile and then they'll—no. No, no, no.” I was worked up to full volume, even though Doc was right in front of me. “And if by some chance he did talk, and they believed him and acted on the information, then what? He testifies in court against the mob? His
life won't be worth a dime.”

  Doc squinted at me, then pulled his T-shirt up to wipe his face, giving me a glimpse of taut abdominal muscles. “We can't do this alone, Wollie. Until someone finds that diamond, none of our lives is worth a dime. What'll it do to your brother if something happens to you?”

  “I'll risk it,” I said.

  “I won't.”

  We were in each other's faces now. His was turning tan right before my eyes. He'd be sunburnt, I decided, before I backed down. Abruptly, he pulled out his cell phone. “All right, we'll go at it from another angle. Let's see if my DMV connection came through with an address for Olof and Tor. Not that the sheriff in Ventura is going to race down with a search warrant, not for an anonymous phone tip.” He looked out to the ocean. “Maybe there's a way to get the Swedes on the move. If the Beretta you saw is the murder weapon, and if they got pulled over while carrying a concealed—”

  “Well, hey, why not just arrange to catch them in the act of shooting someone?”

  “Why not?” he said dryly. “Any suggestions on how?”

  “No. You're the convicted felon.”

  He gave me a speculative look, the kind that probably made his high school students quake. “I may have to drown you in a minute. What's making you so irascible? That I won't let you go home and sell greeting cards? Forget the shop. Your brother's safe. Count your blessings.”

  If there is anything more maddening than being told to count blessings, it's being told what someone won't let you do. I stood. “If it weren't for my brother out there communing with the dead, I'd be long gone. I don't like the beach. I'm an indoor person. I'm going to get sunscreen.” I started off toward the boardwalk.

  “Call Joey,” he yelled. “Tell her to lock up that goddamn shop and go home.”

  Much as I hated the idea, that's exactly what I did, at a pay phone outside a sunglasses shop. The words were barely out of my mouth, however, when Joey interrupted. “You're in Venice? Perfect. Meet me at the Rose Café in forty minutes.”

  “But—”

  “You won't regret it. And Wollie—come alone.”

  chapter twenty-six

  The Rose Café & Market was a neighborhood landmark, pink on the outside, white cinder block on the inside, with enormous, erotic roses painted on the walls. Folk-rock music blared and preservative-free food abounded in one long display case, and for a moment, walking through, I remembered being twenty-three and carefree. My first published greeting card—a family of horses and ducks lighting Shabbat candles—had been carried in the Rose Café's gift shop. I still recalled the feeling of spotting it amid eye pillows, aprons, and blown-glass oil lamps.

  It took two trips through the establishment before I found Joey, at an outdoor table obscured by shrubbery. Across from her was a man I'd never met.

  He was dressed in a black suit and a plaid tie. His carrot-colored hairline was receding, but his face was that of an eternal juvenile, the kind that would be carded in bars until retirement age. For no reason, I was gripped with paranoia.

  “Wollie!” Joey pushed aside a shrub to wave me over.

  She'd unbraided her own red hair and put on makeup, rendering her scar invisible. Her lips were lined in plum, her eyes in charcoal, and on the table were eight-by-ten photos of herself. Autographed. “Wollie, meet Gerome,” she said, gesturing to the man, who pulled up a third chair. “He's a friend of my cousin Stewart from Virginia. They went through their training together. Remember cousin Stewart?”

  I cast my mind through Joey's enormous Irish family and came up blank.

  “FBI,” Joey said, and winked. “Anyhow, I called Stewart this morning with our question and he thought Gerome might help us with our research project.”

  “Ah,” I said, only marginally less confused. I sat.

  Gerome sat too, and cleared his throat. “I don't know how helpful it'll be, but I'll tell you what I can. This isn't classified. In fact, there's an article coming out in the New Yorker next month on the Minardi family, and I'm pretty sure Ronzare's mentioned in it, but Joey said you need information now.” He turned to Joey with an enchanted smile. “And anything for Gun Girl.”

  “Gun Girl appreciates it, Gerome,” Joey said. “We'll take anything you've got.”

  Gerome cleared his throat again, and downed a glass of water in a series of gulps. He pushed aside a turkey sandwich and leaned over the table. “Ron ‘the Weasel' Ronzare came to our attention a couple years back, when his sister married Edoardo Minardi and he started doing work for the family out here on the coast. Nothing too strenuous, the kind of stuff you're given when your brother-in-law's the boss. Then last year, we were working a case, totally unrelated, infiltrating a neo-Nazi organization. Our guy on the inside got friendly with a couple of skinheads just off the boat, and he happened to be there one day when they got a call from the Weasel, wanting them to do a job for Big Eddie Minardi. Now, that was kind of intriguing, because these skinheads worked for the Terranova family out of Vegas. Minardis and Terranovas are like Letterman and Leno, you say yes to one, you piss off the other, and these two were friends with the Terranova kid, Luigi, went to boarding school with him in Europe. The deal was, Big Eddie planned to whack a couple of cops, and by using these boys, implicate the Terranovas. On a surveillance tape, we picked up a conversation where he arranged to deliver the fee, in full, in advance, to the skinheads. LAPD got wind of it, got to the meeting place first, and busted the Weasel.”

  “But not the skinheads?” I asked.

  Gerome smiled. “They got away. LAPD wasn't happy about that, but it suited our purposes. The rest you may know. There was enough on the surveillance tapes to get a guilty plea out of the Weasel on a watered-down charge. I'm not convinced it would have held up in court, but—whatever. You still find these guys once in a while, old school, who see getting caught as the cost of doing business, and not wanting to bring attention to the family with a trial.” He picked up his sandwich and took a healthy bite, leaving a dot of mustard on his upper lip. He chewed for a moment, then coughed.

  Joey pushed her water glass across the table toward him, and then inched her plate toward me, an offering of fruit tart. “No thanks,” I said. “So what happened to the payment, the fee that the Weasel was supposed to deliver?”

  He held up a finger and drank Joey's water down to the ice, then said, “The Weasel claimed he gave it to the skinheads before the bust, but that's not likely. The hit never happened. If our boys had accepted payment, they would've done the job.”

  “So the Weasel kept it?” I asked.

  Gerome shrugged. “He didn't have anything on him when they arrested him, no suitcase full of unmarked bills. Or at least,” he said, smiling, “nothing that made it into the police report. Of course, it may not have been money. Maybe it was rare stamps. Lifetime tickets to the Vienna opera, something he dropped in a gutter and picked up later when he made bail. Or had a friend pick up. I always figured it was something more compelling than cash, to make our guys sell out Terranova. Excuse me.” He stood, apparently in need of water.

  “Wait,” I said. “These guys, the neo-Nazis—”

  “Uh-uh.” Gerome shook his head. “Can't go there.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But the L.A. Times mentioned two Swedish men, Olof and—”

  “I really can't talk about that.” He looked irritated and no longer boyish. Empty water glass in hand, he went in search of a waitress. I turned to Joey, wide-eyed.

  Green eyes sparkled back. “You think Olof and Tor are the skinheads?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But do they have skinheads in Sweden? Wasn't Sweden neutral in World War Two?”

  “Maybe that's why they came to America, they were lonely.” She picked at her pastry crust. “You know, we picture a nation of Ingrid Bergmans and Bjorn Borgs, but I'm remembering this guy I went to high school with, Todd Johnson, totally normal, math club guy; one day he changed his name to Gerhardt Knut, moved to Germany, and came back three years later totally Teut
onic. Recruiter for something called Aryan America. My point is, you never know who's gonna hear the call and pick up the phone.”

  “Well, it sure doesn't sound like the FBI is going to rush in and arrest these guys.”

  “No,” she said, “but that doesn't mean the local cops wouldn't, given a good reason. You think the diamond was the skinheads' fee?”

  “Except you don't think of guys in their twenties getting excited about jewelry.” I took her fork and captured a kiwi. “And it's hard to imagine the Weasel stealing from his own brother-in-law, a Mafia don, no less, and thinking he'll get away with it.”

  “Ego,” Joey said. “And maybe he didn't get away with it. Trust me, it's not always possible to murder your spouse's family, just because it's your heart's desire. Maybe Mrs. Big Eddie wants proof before she lets her husband put cement shoes on her brother; maybe Olof and Tor were hired to get evidence. Or maybe they just want the diamond.”

  The words “brother” and “cement shoes” in the same sentence turned my bite of kiwi to sawdust. “Did you lock up the shop?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Joey said, picking up the fork. “Fredreeq says that no skinny-ass white-boy mob thug is gonna deprive her of her Thursday shift. I told her about the burglary and the yucko message and she said it sounds a lot less sinister than what she goes home to every day east of Normandie—says she's more worried about your next date being a Virgo.”

  “Joey, we have to get back there this minute, Fredreeq could be—”

  “Wollie, relax.” She stabbed pastry crust crumbs. “I left her my gun.”

  WE FOUND THE others eating corn dogs on the boardwalk at our rendezvous point. P.B. and Ruby were both less pale and more animated than I'd yet seen them. And Margaret sported an ID tag on her harness, an engraved red plastic heart. There was nothing you couldn't get on the Venice boardwalk.

  P.B. handed me a corn dog, pleased with the results of his séance-in-the-sand. “Stevie's buried in Westwood,” he said. “He's too close to Frank Zappa. He can't sleep. We're digging him up.”