by Sue Grafton
William, age eighty-nine and senior to Henry by one year, had relocated to Santa Teresa four years before and had subsequently married my friend Rosie, who owns the neighborhood tavern where I hang out. As for Lewis and Charlie, still living at home, they were entirely capable of taking care of themselves. It was Nell, the temporary invalid, they’d find difficult to accept. All the boys deferred to her, giving her full command over their lives and well-being. If she was out of commission, even briefly, Lewis and Charlie would be lost.
“What time’s your flight?”
“Six thirty. Means getting up at four thirty, but I can sleep on the plane.”
“Is William going with you?”
“I talked him out of it. He’s been complaining about his stomach, and the news of Nell’s fall threw him into a tizzy. If he went, I’d end up with two patients on my hands.”
William was a born-again hypochondriac and couldn’t be trusted around the sick or infirm. Henry had told me that in the months before Nell’s hysterectomy, William suffered from monthly cramps, which were later diagnosed as irritable bowel syndrome.
“I’ll be happy to take you to the airport,” I said.
“Perfect. That way I won’t have to leave my car in the long-term parking lot.” He put the oven on preheat and fixed a blue-eyed gaze on me. “You have dinner plans?”
“Forget it. I don’t want you worrying about me. Have you packed?”
“Not yet, but I still have to eat. After supper I’ll haul out a suitcase. I have a load in the dryer so I can’t do much anyway until it’s done. Chardonnay’s in the fridge.”
I poured myself some white wine and then took out an old-fashioned glass and filled it with ice. He keeps his Black Jack in a cabinet near the sink, so I added three fingers. I looked at him and he said, “And this much water.” He held his thumb and index finger close together to specify the amount.
I added tap water and passed him the drink, which he sipped while he continued dinner preparations.
I set the table. Henry pulled four homemade dinner rolls from the freezer and put them on a baking sheet. As soon as the oven peeped, he slid the pan in and set the timer. Henry’s a retired commercial baker who even now produces a steady stream of breads, rolls, cookies, cakes, and cinnamon buns so tasty they make me whimper.
I sat down at the table, catching sight of a list of items he needed to handle before he left town. He’d already canceled the newspaper, picked up his cleaning, and rescheduled a dental appointment. He’d drawn a happy face on that line. Henry hates dentists and postpones his visits for as long as he can. He’d crossed out a reminder to himself to roll out the garbage bins for Monday pickup. He’d also put his interior lights on timers and shut down the water valve to the washer so the machine wouldn’t suffer a mishap in his absence. He intended to ask me to water his plants as needed and cruise through his place every two days to make sure things were okay. I checked that item off the list myself. By then the salad had been made and Henry was ladling soup into bowls. We snarfed down our food with the usual dispatch, competing for the land speed record. So far I was ahead.
After supper I helped him with the dishes and then went back to my place, toting a brown paper bag full of perishables he’d passed along to me.
In the morning, I woke at 5:00, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and pulled a knit cap over my mop of hair, which was mashed flat on one side and stood straight up everywhere else. Since it was Saturday, I wouldn’t be doing my usual three-mile jog, but I stepped into sweats and running shoes for simplicity’s sake. Henry was waiting on the back patio when I emerged. He looked adorable, of course: chinos and a white dress shirt with a blue cashmere sweater worn over it. His white hair, still damp from the shower, was neatly brushed to one side. I could picture “widder” women in the airport waiting room, angling for the chance to sit next to him.
We chitchatted on the twenty-minute drive to the airport, which allowed me to repress the feelings of melancholy I experienced the minute I dropped him at the gate. I made sure his flight was on time and then I waved once and took off, swallowing the lump in my throat. For a hard-assed private eye, I’m a wienie when it comes to saying good-bye. Home again, I pulled off my shoes, stripped my sweats, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin. The Plexiglas skylight above my bed was streaked with the pink-and-blue streamers of a burgeoning dawn when I finally closed my eyes and sank into the warmth.
I woke again at 8:00, showered, dressed in my habitual jeans, turtleneck, and boots, and watched a segment of the news while I finished my cereal and washed my bowl. Neither the newspaper nor the local television station made reference to the shoplifting episode, not even as a tiny two-line report on an inside page. I would have appreciated learning the woman’s name and age, along with some hint of what had happened to her. Was she arrested and charged, or kicked out of the store and told never to return? Policy varied from one retail establishment to the next and ranged from warn-and-release to criminal prosecution—the alternative I’d vote for if it were up to me.
I don’t know why I thought the disturbance would warrant a news story. Crimes take place daily that don’t generate a smidge of interest in the public at large. Minor matters of burglary and theft are relegated to the back page, breakins reported by neighborhood with a cursory list of items stolen. Vandalism might be elevated to a one-inch squib. Depending on the political climate, taggers might or might not be accorded column space. White-collar crime—especially fraud and embezzlement of public funds—are more likely than murder to inspire irate letters to the editor and the denunciation of corporate greed. My shoplifter and her coconspirator were probably long gone, my bruised shin the only testimony that remained, painful witness to their skullduggery. For the foreseeable future, I’d be scanning pedestrians, alert to the presence of any black Mercedes sedan, all in hopes of spotting one or the other of the two women. Mentally, I sharpened the metal toes of my boots.
In the meantime, I loaded my car with cleaning equipment in anticipation of my Saturday chores. I was at the office by 9:00, happy to find a parking place out front. There was a period of time when I’d hired a service, the Mini-Maids, to clean my office once a week. There were usually four of them, though never the same four twice. They wore matching T-shirts and arrived toting mops, dust cloths, vacuums, and assorted janitorial products. The first time they cleaned for me they took an hour, their efforts thorough and conscientious. I’d been thrilled to pay the fifty bucks because the windows shone, all the surfaces gleamed, and the carpet was as clean as I’d ever seen it. Every visit thereafter, they accelerated the process until they became so efficient, they were in and out again in fifteen minutes, dashing off to the next job as though their very lives depended on it. Even then, much of their time on the premises was spent chatting among themselves. Once they departed, I’d find a dead fly on the windowsill, spider silk trailing from the ceiling, and coffee grounds (or were those ants?) littering the counter in my kitchenette. I figured fifty bucks for fifteen minutes (fraught with giggles and gossip) was the equivalent of two hundred bucks an hour, which was four times more than I earned myself. I fired them with a giddy sense of piety and thrift. Now I made a point of going in at intervals to do the job myself.
It wasn’t until I hauled my vacuum cleaner from the trunk of my car that I noticed the fellow sitting on my steps, smoking a cigarette. His blue jeans had faded to white at the knee and his brown boots were scuffed. He had wide shoulders, and his shirt was a royal blue satin, unbuttoned to the waist, the sleeves rolled up above his biceps. The name Dodie was scrawled in cursive along his right forearm. For a moment I drew a blank, and then his name popped to mind.
He grinned, gold incisors flashing in his weathered face. “You don’t recognize me,” he remarked as I came up the walk.
“I do too. You’re Pinky Ford. Last I heard, you were in jail.”
“I’ve been a free man since last May. I admit I was picked up Friday on a DUI, but I g
ot sprung. That’s what friends are for is how I look at it. Anyways, I had business over at the jail this morning and seeing’s how I was in the neighborhood, I decided to stop by and see how you were doing. How you been?” His voice was raspy from a lifetime of smoking.
“Fine, thanks. And you?”
“Good enough,” he said. He didn’t seem to register the Hoover upright and I didn’t explain. It wasn’t any of his business if I was working as a part-time char. He flipped his cigarette onto the walkway and stood up, brushing off his jeans. He was my height, five six, wiry, bowlegged, and brown from too much sun. His arms and chest were muscular, veins running across like piping. He’d been a jockey in his youth until he got tossed one time too many and decided he’d better find another line of work. He’d started smoking when he was ten and continued the habit as an adult because it was the only way to keep his weight including tack under the 126 pounds required for the Kentucky Derby, which he’d ridden in twice. This was long before his personal fortunes had gone into reverse. He’d kept on smoking for much the same reason any habitual criminal does, to break up the time while he was in the joint.
I put down my vacuum cleaner and unlocked the door, talking to him over my shoulder. “You’re lucky you caught me. I don’t usually come in on Saturdays.”
I ushered him into the office ahead of me, noting that his limp was pronounced. I knew how he felt. Pinky was in his sixties, coal black hair, black brows, and deep lines around his mouth. He sported the ghost of a mustache and the shadow of a goatee. There was a band of white on his left wrist where he’d shed a watch.
“I’m about to put on a pot of coffee if you’d like a cup.”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
After his passion for racing was squelched, his second calling was a long, inglorious career as a nonresidential burglar. I did hear he’d eventually taken to burgling houses, but I hadn’t had that confirmed. He was the man who’d given me a set of key picks in a leather case years before, essential tools on those occasions when a locked door stands between me and something I want.
He’d hired me during one of his stints in prison when he’d been worried about his wife, the aforementioned Dodie, convinced she was dallying with the guy next door. She was actually being faithful (as far as I could tell), which I’d reported after sitting surveillance off and on for a month. He gave me the picks in lieu of payment, since his cash reserves were all illegally acquired and had to be returned.
“Why burglary?” I’d asked once.
He’d flashed me a modest smile. “I’m a natural. You know, because I’m a skinny guy and agile as a cat. I can squeeze in through places lot of other fellows can’t. Job’s more physical than you’d think. I can do a hundred one-arm push-ups, fifty either side.”
“Good for you,” I’d said.
“There’s actually a trick to it, something a fellow taught me up in Soledad.”
“You’ll have to show me sometime.”
I put on a pot of coffee and went to my desk, where I sat down in my swivel chair and propped my feet on the edge. Meanwhile, Pinky remained standing, scanning my office with an eye to where the valuables might be kept.
He shook his head. “This is a comedown. Last I saw, you had an office over on State Street. Nice location. Very nice. This—I don’t know so much. I guess I’m used to seeing you in classier digs.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I remarked. With Pinky, there wasn’t any point in taking offense. He might be a repeat offender but he was never guilty of subterfuge.
When the coffee was done I filled two mugs and handed him one before I returned to my swivel chair. Pinky finally settled into one of my two visitor’s chairs, sucking in hot coffee with a series of slurping sounds. “This is good. I like it strong.”
“Thanks. How’s Dodie?”
“Good. She’s great. She’s gone into direct sales, like an entrepreneur.”
“Selling what?”
“Nothing door-to-door. She’s a personal beauty consultant for a big national company, Glorious Womanhood. You probably heard of it.”
“Don’t think so,” I said.
“Well, it’s bigger than Mary Kay. It’s Christian-based. She sets up these home parties for bunches of women. Not our place but someone else’s, where they serve food. Then she’ll do makeovers, demonstrating products you can order on the spot. Last month, she edged out the regional manager for top sales.”
“Sounds like she’s doing well. I’m impressed.”
“Me too. I guess the regional manager was fit to be tied. Nobody ever beat her out before, but Dodie’s purpose-driven when she puts her mind to it. Used to be when I was gone, she’d get all mopey and depressed. I’d be doing hard time and she’d be laying around watching TV and eating fatty snacks. We’d talk on the phone and I’d try to get her motivated—you know, building up her self-esteem—but it never did much good. Then she hears about this business opportunity, similar to a franchise or something like that. I didn’t think much of it at the time because she never stuck to anything until this came along. This past year, she’s earned enough to buy a Cadillac and qualify for a free vacation cruise.”
“Where to?”
“The Caribbean … St. Thomas … and around in there. A flight to Fort Lauderdale and then onto the ship.”
“You going with her?”
“Sure. If I can get myself set. Two of us have never been on a vacation together. It’s tough to make plans when we never know if I’ll be in jail or out. Something like this, I don’t want to be dependent on her moneywise. The trip is all-expenses-paid, but there’s incidentals—on-shore excursions and the casino when you’re out at sea. Two of the six nights formal wear’s required so I’ll have to rent me a tux. Can you picture it? I always swore I’d have to be dead before you caught me in one, but she’s all excited about the dress she had made. Not that she’d show me. She says it’d be bad luck, like seeing a bride decked out in her wedding finery before you get to the church. It’s a knockoff of a gown Debbie Reynolds wore one year to the Academy Awards. There’s even a good possibility she’ll be crowned Glorious Woman of the Year.”
“Wouldn’t that be something,” I said. I let him go on telling the story his way. I knew he had a problem—why else would he be here?—but the faster I pushed him, the sooner I’d be in the bathroom, scrubbing the toilet bowl. I figured that could wait.
“Anyways, I’m giving you the background.”
“I assumed as much.”
“Thing is, my wife’s got this engagement ring. One-point-five-carat diamond set in platinum, worth three grand easy. I know, because I had it appraised two days after it came into my possession. This was in Texas some time ago. She hasn’t been wearing it because she says it’s too loose and bothers her every time she goes to wash her hands.”
“I can’t wait to see where you’re going with this.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the other thing. She’s lost a lot of weight. She looks like a runway model only bigger in the tush. You probably don’t remember, but she used to be … I won’t say fat, but on the far side of plump. The past fifteen months, she’s taken off sixty pounds. I came home, I didn’t recognize her. That’s how good she looks.”
“Wow. I love success stories. How’d she manage it?”
“Diet supplement, an over-the-counter upper that’s not FDA regulated because, technically speaking, it’s not a drug. She’s so buzzed all the time, she forgets to eat. She has to be on the go every minute or she gets whacked out from too much nervous energy. As a side benefit, the house’s never looked so good. Drop of a hat, she’ll do all the windows, inside and out. Anyways, she tossed the ring in her jewelry box six months back and she hasn’t touched it since. Now she wants to have it sized so she can wear it on the cruise. She’s all stressed out because she can’t find it anywhere, so I said I’d look.”
“You hocked it.”
“Pretty much. I want to do right by her, but I’m low on funds and
it’s tough to find work. I don’t like taking handouts from the woman I love. Problem is, the skills I have aren’t exactly in demand. What happened was, I put together a stake using the ring as collateral on a four-month loan. This was way last spring after I got out of Soledad. I went down to Santa Anita to play the ponies. I don’t get to the track every couple of months, I tend to brood. I’m a moody guy to begin with and the nags take my mind off.”
“Let me guess. You lost your shirt and now you need to get the ring back before she figures out what you did.”
“There you have it. I couldn’t come up with the principal so I paid the interest and rolled it over for another four months. Now that’s up and the ten-day grace runs out Tuesday of next week. I don’t pay, that’s the last I see of it, which would break my poor heart. Hers, too, if she found out.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred.”
“That’s all you got for a ring worth three grand?”
“Sad, but true. The guy lowballed me on the deal, but it’s not like I had any choice. I can’t borrow from a bank. I mean, picture the loan docs, me wanting two hundred dollars for a hundred and twenty days. Can’t be done. So now I owe the two in cash plus another twenty-five in interest. Be honest about it, I might not get the money back to you right away. I mean, eventually, sure.”
I stared at him while I considered his request. I had cash in my wallet so I wasn’t worried about that. The key picks he’d given me had served me well, as had the tutorial he’d provided before he got sent up. Also counting in his favor was the fact that I liked the man. Profession aside, he was a good-hearted soul. Even a burglar suffers the occasional financial woes. Finally, I said, “How about this? I won’t give you the cash, but I’ll go with you to the pawnshop and pay the guy myself.”
