“Jewish American Princesses,” Susan was saying, “particularly those with advanced academic degrees, do not babysit dogs.”
I looked at Hawk.
“That is even more true,” he said, “of African American Princes.”
The three mongrels, tethered by clothesline, sat in their pre-ordered circle, tongues lolling, eyes fixed on each morsel of croissant as it made its trip from paper plate to palate.
“Can you imagine them tearing around my place,” Susan said, “with all the geegaws and froufrous I have in there, getting hair, yuk, on my white rug?”
I was silent, drinking my coffee carefully from the large paper cup, holding it in both hands. Hawk broke off a piece of croissant, divided it into three morsels and gave one each to the dogs. They took it delicately, in each case, from his fingers and stayed in place, eyes alert, after a quick swallow, and a fast muzzle lick, tongues once again lolling.
“Put ’em in a kennel,” Hawk said. “Till my friend in Bridgewater gets back.”
I looked at the three dogs. They gazed back at us, their eyes hazel with big dark pupils and full of more meaning than there probably was. They weren’t young dogs, and there was a stillness in them, perhaps of change and strangeness, that had been in place since I got them.
“I don’t think they should go in a kennel,” Susan said. “They’ve had some pretty bad disruptions in the last few days already.”
Hawk shrugged. He looked at the dogs again.
“Huey, Dewey, and Louie,” he said.
We all sat in silence, drinking coffee, eating our croissants. A blond woman wearing exercise clothes under a fur coat passed us, carrying a tray with two muffins on it. The dogs all craned their heads over nearly backwards sniffing the muffins as they went by, and when the scent moved out of range they returned their stare to us.
“Well,” Susan said, “I could come over to your place and stay with them at night. But during the day, I have patients.”
I nodded. We both looked at Hawk.
Hawk looked at the dogs.
They stared back at him.
“What happens during the day?” Hawk said.
“They need to be walked.”
“How often?”
“Three, four times,” I said.
“Every day?”
“Yuh.”
Hawk looked at me. He looked at Susan and then back at the dogs.
“Shit,” he said.
“That’s a part of it,” I said.
“I meant shit, as in oh shit!” Hawk said.
“You and Susan can work it out in detail between you,” I said. “My plane leaves in an hour.”
Hawk was looking at me with a gaze that one less optimistic than I might interpret as hatred. I patted the dogs. Susan stood and we hugged and I kissed her. Hawk was still gazing at me. I put my hand out, palm up. He slapped it lightly.
“Thanks, bro,” I said.
“Honkies suck,” he said.
I took a cab to the airport. The plane took off on time, and I flew high above the fruited plain for six hours, cheered by the image of Hawk walking the three dogs.
36
DEL Rio had her in a hotel on Sunset in West Hollywood, a big one with a great view of the L.A. Basin. She was in one bedroom of a two-bedroom suite. The Indian in the Italian suit who had first taken me to see del Rio was in there, in the living room, reading the L.A. Times with his feet up on the coffee table. He had on a white cotton pullover today, and I could see the outline of a gun stuck in the waistband of his tight pocketless gray slacks. He glanced up once when Chollo brought me in, then went back to the paper.
“Vic in with her?” Chollo said.
The Indian nodded. Chollo nodded at one of the chairs.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat. The room was large and square with the wall of picture windows facing south and the brownish haze above the basin, slightly below eye level, stretching to some higher ground in the distant south. To the left I could see the black towers of downtown poking up above the smog and to the right the coastline, fusing with the smog line in a sort of indiscriminate variation. The room itself was aggressively modern with bars of primary color painted on various portions of it and round-edged chrome structured furniture. The air-conditioning was silent but effective. The room was nearly cold. Chollo leaned on the wall near one of the bedroom doors and gazed at nothing. His lips were pursed as if he were whistling silently to himself. His arms were folded comfortably across his chest. He was wearing a blue blazer over a white polo shirt. The collar of the shirt was turned up. I crossed one leg over the other and watched my toe bob. When I got bored I could cross my legs the other way.
I stared at the view.
After about ten minutes del Rio came out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He looked at me and nodded once. Then he looked at the Indian.
“Bobby, wait outside.”
The Indian got up, folded the newspaper over, and went out of the hotel suite. He closed the door behind him. Del Rio went to the bar in one corner of the room. There were three stools at the bar. He sat on one of them. Chollo peeled off the wall and went past him and behind the bar. He mixed a tall scotch and soda, added ice, and handed it to del Rio. Del Rio looked at me and gestured with the glass.
“Sure,” I said. “Same thing. Lots of ice.”
Chollo made me a drink, and then poured out a short one and tossed it off himself, put the glass back on the bar, leaned back against the mirrored wall behind the bar, and waited. Del Rio sampled his drink, smiled.
“It’s blended,” he said.
“Want I should call down for a single malt?” Chollo said.
Del Rio shook his head. “Won’t be here that long, I hope.”
I tasted my drink. I couldn’t tell, not with the soda and ice. Del Rio took another sip.
“Nice to see you again, Spenser.”
“Sure,” I said. “When do I see Jill?”
“Pretty soon. I think we better talk first.”
I waited. Chollo refolded his arms behind the bar and his gaze fixed on something in the middle distance. Del Rio was in black today, a black silk suit, double breasted, with a white silk shirt, and a narrow black scarf at the open neck. He wore black cowboy boots with silver inlays. Del Rio tasted his drink again.
“She showed up here yesterday morning in a state. Barely functional. She doesn’t know where I live, but she came to one of the, ah, offices I use in East L.A. and told the guy there that she had to see me.”
“Guy know who she was?” I said.
“Yes. But he is discreet. So he called the house and Bobby Horse went down and got her and brought her here. I keep a suite here, anyhow.”
“Of course,” I said. “Anyone would.”
“Chollo and I met her here, and she and I talked for a long while.”
“She offer to ball you?” I said.
“Of course,” del Rio said.
“And you declined,” I said.
“Perhaps that is not your business,” del Rio said.
“Perhaps you called me,” I said.
Del Rio nodded. “She said that I was the only one who could help her. That no one else would help her and that He was going to get her.
“I asked her who He was. She said she didn’t know. I asked her how she knew He was trying to get her. She said He’d called her again, the night she took off.”
“You know when that was?”
“Yes. It made the papers. Especially here,” del Rio said. “This is a company town.” He sipped his scotch, looking at the glass. “Times when there’s nothing better,” he said. I nodded and rattled the ice around in my glass a little and took a small sip.
“I asked her what He said to
her. She said He said awful things.”
“That’s our Jill,” I said. “Full of hard information.”
“She said you wouldn’t protect her, that some guy named Hawk wouldn’t protect her, that the studio didn’t give a shit, and that I was all she had left. She said I had to help her.”
“What are you supposed to do?” I said.
“Make Him leave her alone.”
“But she doesn’t know who Him is.”
“This is true,” del Rio said.
“So what do you want me to do?” I said.
“Get her the fuck out of here,” del Rio said. “I don’t want her around.”
“Has she threatened to reveal all?” I said.
“She knows better,” del Rio said. “But she’s such a mess that I’m afraid she may cause trouble without meaning to, and I don’t want to have to dump her to prevent it.”
“What a softie,” I said.
“Don’t make that mistake,” del Rio said. “You want to talk with her?”
“In a minute,” I said. “What do you think?”
“About her?”
“Yeah.”
“I think she needs a shrink.”
I nodded. “How about the mysterious He?”
“I think it’s in her head,” del Rio said.
“Who killed Babe Loftus?” I said.
Del Rio shrugged, turned his palms up. “Hey, I’m a simple Mexican,” he said. “That’s your line of work.”
“And I’m doing it grand,” I said.
“Grand,” del Rio said.
“What about the harassment?” I said. “The hanged doll—that stuff?”
“I think she did it herself,” del Rio said. “She’s trying to get people’s attention.”
“It’s working,” I said.
A dark cloud had drifted up from the basin and some big raindrops splattered occasionally on the picture window. We all sat in silence.
“She drinking?” I said.
“If she cut back, she’d be drinking,” del Rio said. “You want a refill?”
I shook my head.
“Let’s talk with her,” I said.
Del Rio nodded, and Chollo went around the bar and opened the door to the bedroom. He said something I couldn’t hear and, in a moment, Jill came out. You could see that she’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy. The eyeliner was gone, or most of it was. Her nose was red. Her hair was uncombed and looked as if she’d been running her fingers through it. She was soused to the lip line and it showed in the unsteadiness of her walk.
“Well, damn,” she said when she saw me. “The big dick from Boston.” She went to the bar and put her glass out on it. Chollo went around without comment and fixed her a new drink, scotch, water, ice. She stopped his hand after he’d added only a splash of water.
“What you doing out here, Big Dick?”
Behind the bar Chollo had no expression. Del Rio put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair as if to give me my turn, see what I could do.
“Why’d you run off?” I said.
“He called.”
“The night you left?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t know who he is?”
“No.”
“What’d he say?”
She shook her head.
“Did he threaten you?”
She nodded.
“What did he threaten you with?”
She shook her head again.
“Why won’t you say?”
She drank most of her drink before she answered.
“Don’t be so fucking nosy,” she said.
“How in hell am I going to help you if I don’t know what I’m trying to help you with?”
“Maybe if you’d get off your ass and catch him,” she said, “and put him away where he belongs . . . that might help, you know?”
She finished her drink, held the glass out, and Chollo replenished it. Del Rio’s dark compassionless eyes watched her carefully.
“Anything else happen that night?” I said.
She shrugged.
“Hawk make a pass at you?”
“How’d you know?” she said. She got a crafty look on her face.
“He said there was some talk of, ah, hanky-panky, but it didn’t, if you’ll pardon the expression, come to anything.”
“You bet your ass,” she said. “I’m not fucking some coon.”
“So you turned him down,” I said.
“Sure, limp dick motherfucker. He’s a tighter ass than you.”
“And that’s why you turned him down.”
“You bet your buns. Lotta men give up a year of their life to fuck me. But you goddamned pansies.” She tossed her chin at del Rio. “Him too.”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand you brushed him off tonight too.”
She nodded righteously and drank more scotch.
“When He called, the bad guy, the man who threatened you, how did he get through?” I said.
“Huh?”
“How did he reach you?”
“He just called up,” she said. “I answered the phone.”
“This was after Hawk left you,” I said. “After eleven?”
“Sure.”
“Are you telling me that anyone, without even giving a name, could call up the Charles Hotel at, say, eleven-thirty at night and be put right through to your room, no questions asked?”
The crafty look got a little fogged over; her brows furrowed. She wasn’t a deep thinker sober, and she was a long distance past sober. She opened her mouth once, and closed it again. She looked at del Rio. She drank some scotch. I waited.
“Leave me alone,” she said.
“Jill,” I said, “the only way anyone can call your room is to be on a call list, and identify themselves. You know that. I know that. I’m on the list. Otherwise half the city of Boston would call you up every day. You’re a star.”
“You’re goddamned right I am,” Jill said. “And you better, goddamn it, start treating me like one.”
Her breath seemed short. Her face was reddening.
“Somebody better,” she said.
She let her head drop and took hold of her drink with both hands and then her shoulders sagged forward.
“Somebody better,” she said again and started to cry. The crying was hysterical and had the promise of duration. I looked at del Rio. He looked at me. Chollo looked at whatever he looked at. We waited. After a while she stopped sobbing long enough to get a cigarette going and sip some scotch.
“Why won’t anyone take care of me,” she said in a gasping voice and started to cry again. Through the picture window I could see that the dark cloud had moved directly over us. The occasional raindrops that had spattered on the window intensified. They came now in a steady rattle.
Del Rio said, “Would you like to see your mother, Jill?” There was no kindness in his voice, but no cruelty either.
“God, no,” Jill said, still crying, her face buried in her hands, the cigarette drifting smoke from her right hand.
“Maybe your father,” I said. “Would you like to talk with your father?”
She sat suddenly upright. “My father’s dead,” she said and continued to cry, sitting up, facing us, occasionally swigging in a gulp of scotch or dragging in a lungful of smoke, between sobs. I turned that over in my mind a little.
“Your father’s not dead, Jill. He’s here in Los Angeles.”
“He’s dead,” she said.
“I’ve talked with him,” I said. “Only a week or so ago.”
“He’s dead,” she screamed at me. “Goddamn it, my father is dead. He died when I was little and he left m
e with my mother.”
She drank off the rest of her drink as the echoes of her scream were rattling around the hotel room, and then she pitched suddenly forward and passed out, facedown on the floor. I reached down and took the burning cigarette from her hand and put it out in an ashtray. Chollo came around the bar, and he and I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. We put her on her back, on her bed. I put the spread over her and we left her there and came back out into the living room.
“Lushes,” Chollo said. “Lushes are crazy.”
Del Rio was where we had left him, sitting still with his hands clasped behind his head.
“Know anything about her father?” I said.
“She told me he left when she was a kid. Coulda meant he died. I took it to mean he just left,” del Rio said. “Who’s this guy you talked to?”
“Guy named Bill Zabriskie, her agent put me onto him.”
“She sure threw a wingding when you said he was alive,” del Rio said.
“Yeah,” I said. “You got someone to run an errand?”
Del Rio nodded.
“Chollo,” he said, “tell Bobby Horse to come in here.”
37
WHEN Jill woke up it was late, nearly midnight. She must have felt like someone’s leftover meal when she stumbled out of the bedroom. Chollo had black coffee and a carafe of orange juice sent up. Jill drank both and smoked a cigarette before she said a word. Her face was pale, and her hair was matted from sleeping on it, and there was a wrinkle grooved into her cheek by a fold in the pillow cover.
“Got some brandy?” she said. Chollo came around the bar and poured some into her coffee. She sipped it.
“Ahh,” she said. “Hair of the dog that bit you.”
Del Rio was still there, and so was I. Chollo was in place behind the bar.
“Want something to eat?” del Rio said in his clear voice.
Jill shivered.
“God, no,” she said. She looked at her reflection in the now-dark window. “Jesus,” she said. “Am I a mess.”
“Somebody here to see you,” I said.
“Like this?” Jill said. Her hand shook as she lifted her coffee cup, and she slopped a little of the brandy-laced coffee onto her lap. She brushed absently at it with her free hand.
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