The Old Dick

by L. A. Morse

  I did laugh. God, I felt good. I knew Sal’s problem still remained, but I couldn’t help it. The adrenalin continued to surge. I had done it. I had fucking well done it. I had showed them—whoever they were—that Jake Spanner could still cut the mustard. That he was good for something more than sitting in a park, absorbing sunlight. Dammit! he had planned an investigation, and run if, and brought it off. The old dick was still around. Just ask Tony New.

  I felt better than I could remember feeling for twenty years. Not since I’d gotten the goods on that bent congressman who’d done his best to put me out of business once I started to get too close, and damn near succeeded, permanently.

  I called up O’Bee and gave him the news. He said, “You’re kidding,” burst into laughter, and then said he never doubted that I’d do it. Another vote of confidence. I asked if he wanted to go out and celebrate, but he said he wasn’t feeling very good. Maybe just as well. Dinner with someone who thought an omelet was exotic was not my idea of a fun evening. I said I’d see him soon.

  I tried to read but couldn’t sit still. I was too full of energy. I kept jumping up and pacing through the house with long strides, my cheeks getting sore from smiling continually.

  Finally I decided I had to do something. I had a shower and got dressed in some of my best clothes. They dated from a previous decade, but the classic elegance of tropical linen never went out of style. Well, perhaps it did, but I didn’t mind. All I needed was a panama hat and I’d look like I stepped out from some colonial epic on the two a.m. movie. Jake Spanner, rubber planter. Pretty snappy.

  After checking the phone book to make sure she was still there, I drove to the nice Westwood apartment building where Phyllis Bliss lived. Phyl and I went back to the days when she was turning tricks in a fancy Hollywood watering hole right after the war. At some point our respective businesses overlapped, and we got to know each other. At first all I knew about her was that she was a hell of a hooker. With a name like Bliss, she said, she didn’t have much choice. Then I found out she was also a pretty fine woman. We became friends, and soon something more than friends. It was never a big deal with us, certainly never a romance. Though we made love, we were never lovers. We did, however, like and enjoy each other, and our relationship was a kind of compensation for all the things we’d both chosen to do without. If it didn’t fill the emptiness, it softened it a little.

  Phyl was a really intelligent woman and knew how to look after herself, but she’d picked a high-risk occupation. What with crooked vice cops, pimps, sleazy managers of hotels and bars, nut-case clients, and other assorted urban birds of prey, things sometimes got tight. Mostly, she handled it by herself but a few times she swallowed her pride and-came to me. I was always glad to help. In fact, I would’ve liked her to let me help more. I got her out of a few nasty situations, including a frame-up for murder involving an agent and an actor who turned out to be worth more dead than alive.

  We both retired at about the same time. As I said, she was smart, and had put away a big chunk of her considerable tax-free income. She took a degree in business at UCLA and then opened something called a plant boutique, which soon expanded to a small chain. We kept in touch, but with decreasing frequency as her life got busier and mine got slower. I hadn’t seen her for a long time, but this seemed like the perfect occasion to change that.

  I knocked on the door of the penthouse. It was opened by a young woman in jeans and a loose-fitting man’s workshirt. Her straight dark hair was parted in the middle and hung softly to just above her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing any make-up. She didn’t need it

  “Is Phyllis here?” I said.

  “No. She’s back East for a few weeks.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I started to go, then paused. “Are you Miranda?”

  The girl nodded. She looked at me with large brown eyes that suddenly lit up. “You must be Jake.”

  I agreed that I must be, and she took two quick steps and threw her arms around me. I discovered that she was not as slender as she looked under that too-large shirt. Quite a day. I pull a job, and I’m hugged by a beautiful woman.

  “What was that for?” I asked when she let me go.

  “Mother’s told me all about you. I know exactly how much we owe you.”

  I made a face and waved that off. Miranda pulled me into the apartment. It was simply but well furnished, with several large good canvases on the walls.

  “Uncle Jake. Mother’s told me so many stories about you. You were my hero when I was little.” She studied me, her intelligent eyes showing pleasure and amusement. “You look just the way I pictured you.”

  “Then you’ve got a diseased imagination, young lady.”

  “No, you’re great. Like you’ve got Sidney Greenstreet waiting in the car downstairs. I love it.”

  She looked me straight in the eye and then winked. We both laughed. Miranda had her mother’s open honesty. I liked her right away.

  Phyllis hadn’t thought her life was a very good one for raising a kid, and so had sent her daughter away to good schools, first here, then abroad. She’d visit Miranda frequently, though, and had always been proud of her. I could see why.

  “Are you still up at Berkeley?” I said.

  “Yeah. Just finishing my thesis. The only reason I’m here is that Mother asked me to look after the place while she was away.”

  “How is Phyl?”

  “Thriving. Probably working way too hard. But then” —she smiled—”I understand she always believed in doing a job right.”

  I coughed. “Oh, yes. She was a real professional.”

  Miranda grinned. “Don’t be embarrassed, Jake. I’ve known about Mother’s life since I was eight. It never bothered her and it never bothered me. If anything, it made me a celebrity at school, among all the daughters of dermatologists and plastics manufacturers. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

  “I’m sorry I missed her. I wanted to take her out to dinner. Kind of a celebration.”

  “Will I do? You want to celebrate with me?”

  “You really want to? With someone who just left Sidney Greenstreet?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Where shall we go?”

  “You like Thai?”

  “Never had it.”

  “Then that’s where we’ll go. If you’re up to it.”

  “Oh, I’m up to it.”

  “That’s what I thought. Give me a minute to change.”

  It didn’t take much more than that before she came out of the bedroom looking absolutely sensational in a clingy silk sundress.

  “I tried to find something more in your period, but this is as close as I could get.”

  “Oh, it’s just fine,” I said, trying to keep from drooling down her bare back. Was it ever.

  The Krung Thep Garden was on Sunset, but far enough from the Strip to be pleasant. From the front it looked like the building might have once housed a pet store.

  I parked a block away. As we walked back, Miranda took my arm in both her hands. Heads, mostly belonging to young dudes, turned to follow us.

  “All those guys are wondering what it is I’ve got.”

  “You’ve got me,” Miranda said. She winked.

  Inside, the place was dark and displayed the over-ornate decoration a lot of Asians seem so fond of. Whatever parts of the walls were not covered with paintings or posters or scrolls, all elaborately framed, were filled with gold mosaic tiles, plastic fruit, and colored glass balls. Turquoise green light from two large fish tanks provided most of the illumination.

  “Tasteful,” I said.

  “You’re not here to eat the decorations.”

  “That’s true.”

  We ordered about a dozen dishes. That was way more than we could eat, but it all sounded so good that I wanted to try everything. After all, this was a celebration. Soon, the table was covered with little plates filled with different kinds of curries, stir-fried squid and shrimp, crisp rice noodles, sliced raw marinated beef, s
picy pork and peanuts on slices of pineapple, sour salads, all smelling of cilantro and mint, garlic and ginger, chiles and lemon grass and lime. It was the best meal I’d had for years, so good I was a little pissed off that it had taken me so long to discover this kind of cooking.

  Our dinner lasted for hours. We’d eat a little, then talk, then eat a little more. Miranda was like her mother in that she loved food, and it was a pleasure to see her enthusiasm for all the good stuff. I’ve always liked women who had good appetites. My wife, on the other hand, seemed to think there was something vaguely embarrassing, if not distasteful, about having to eat. She used to gobble up little bits of things when no one was looking, like a secret drinker who has bottles hidden all over the house.

  Not only did I eat more than I could remember doing, I also talked more. Like O’Brien a few days before, when I finally had a listener, it all just poured out, anecdotes, reminiscences, stories, all kinds of shit I hadn’t thought of for years. And Miranda seemed to enjoy it, not out of politeness but with real interest. At least I hoped so. If not, I was being one hell of a boring old fart.

  We finally staggered out of the restaurant when they were closing up, leaving surprisingly little food behind us. I lit up a huge, fat, delicious Cuban cigar that a friend’s kid had brought back from Canada. He’d given me a few, and I’d been saving them for a special occasion. This certainly seemed an appropriate time.

  After we walked around a little, I took Miranda back to the apartment. She offered me a drink, which I refused. She asked if I wanted to smoke some grass and I nodded. I was feeling so good, I didn’t want it to end.

  “You’re something else, Jake Spanner.”

  “Yeah, but what?”

  When all the edges had gone pleasantly blurry I leaned back on the couch and sighed. “This has been one of the best days I’ve ever had.”

  Miranda moved over next to me. “That’s good. Shall I make you feel even better?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want to make love to you.”

  “Come on. Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not. I really mean it.”

  “Well, forget it.”

  “Why? Don’t you want to?”

  “Miranda, that isn’t the point. Don’t you think the idea is kind of grotesque?”

  She looked puzzled. “You mean, because you’re old? So what? It doesn’t bother me. I like you and we had a good time tonight. That’s what I see, what’s important. Besides, I know all that you did for my mother and me. Don’t be such a shit. Let someone do something nice for you for a change.”

  I sighed. “Believe me, I’d like to oblige, but I’m way past it. It’s been five years.” Indeed, the last time had been with her mother. We tried a few times after but it hadn’t worked, and I’d given up. “Whatever you may think, I am too old.”

  “You’re never too old.”

  “What makes you the expert?”

  “You forget who my mother is. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just out of practice. As they say, use it or lose it, Jake Spanner.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve tried, but it died.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She took my hand and placed it on her breast. I could feel the nipple beneath the fabric. She moved her shoulders. The thin straps slipped down her arms and the front of her dress fell away. Her breasts were beautiful and the brown nipples were hard. My mouth felt dry. I brought my other hand up and felt the yielding firmness. Oh God, let me die now.

  She unbuttoned my shirt. I felt her cool strong fingers moving lightly on my chest, stomach. I started to say something but she put a finger on my lips.

  “Don’t talk. Just relax. You don’t have to do anything, prove anything. Just let me make you feel good.” She smiled. “Some mothers teach their daughters to cook. Phyllis couldn’t boil water, but she told me some other stuff. Let’s see.”

  Well, why not?

  She leaned over. Her lips caressed my chest. I felt her tongue. Oh God, now. Please.

  Her hand was at my waist. Going lower. She moved from the couch and knelt on the floor in front of me.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, feeling the dope, feeling Miranda.

  After a while I heard a little-girl voice say with amusement, “Why, Uncle Jake.” Uncle Jake, indeed. Move over, Al Tracker.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I staggered home at about the same time the sky was lightening to gray. It had been a long time since I’d seen five a.m. moving in this direction.

  I was beat to shit, could hardly hold my head up or shuffle my feet. Muscles I hadn’t thought I had any longer were sore and aching. I felt wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

  Tired as I was, I couldn’t stop grinning, like some pimply adolescent who all of a sudden feels he’s master of the universe. I didn’t pose much of a threat to Warren Beatty, but all things considered, I had made a pretty good accounting of myself. One might say that the old dick had risen to the occasion.

  Oh, Spanner, cut it out. Jesus.

  But I was awfully pleased with myself, feeling really human for the first time in years. Spanner, I thought, my grin growing even wider, you might yet turn into an absolutely filthy old man. Mentally, I rubbed my hands and made obscene noises.

  I got into my tatty old pajamas, then smoked another small bowl of dope. Usually I sought sleep as an escape from the day’s monotony, the easiest way to fill a few hours, but this was one day I didn’t want to end. I felt too good to waste it by going to sleep. Soon, though, I couldn’t put it off any longer and I reluctantly crawled into bed.

  * * *

  I was cavorting with a bunch of sylphic maidens, running through a sunny glade, when suddenly the sky darkened. A dead tree turned into a sinister forest demon and grabbed at me with clawlike branches. Though I tried to move away, I was poked and prodded with hard, cold fingers. Had to get away. Get away...

  I opened my eyes and looked down the barrel of a sleek blue-black pistol. A Beretta, I thought pointlessly. The 9mm circle looked as large and inviting as the Hell mouth. It jabbed me in the cheek, not at all softly. The fingernails of the hand holding the gun were chewed and slightly dirty. I changed my focus. Behind the gun and the dirty fingernails was Tony Novallo, looking considerably less friendly than the forest demon.

  One of his pea-brained palookas stood on the other side of the bed; the second was at the foot. Just in case I tried to make a break, I supposed.

  I glanced at the bedside clock. It was nine-twenty. Tony New had started work early. He poked me again with the gun.

  “Unh,” I said brightly.

  “Hand it over,” he squeaked.

  “Look—”

  “No, you look, fuckhead.” He moved the gun up to about an inch from my eyeball. “You can either say good-bye to your head or you can tell me where the dough is.”

  Hmm. Nice choice. Being in pajamas, in one’s own bed, surrounded by two hulking morons and a demented midget with a gun, having had five hours’ too little sleep, and not having a clue what was happening, did tend to put one at a slight disadvantage. If I hadn’t felt so sluggish, I would’ve been scared shitless.

  “You know where it is,” I said. “I gave it back to the guy you took it from.”

  Apparently, that was not the correct answer. The kid’s face turned dead white, then a scary shade of maroon. The hand holding the gun started to jerk and twitch. His eyeballs rolled back and his cheeks puffed up. He made a guttural exploding sound and I was sprayed with spittle.

  No question, I had a genuine flaming psycho here. I’d have to be very careful if I wanted to get out of my bed again.

  “Take it easy,” I said. “Look, I can understand that you’re sore. You had a nice little play going. You thought you were clear, then it fell through. I know how you feel. After all, you did the same thing to us. But it didn’t work, and now it’s over. You’re not really out anything, so why don’t you just leave it alone?”

  Wonderful, Spanner.
That was like saying, “Come on, old chap, let’s be sporting” to Attila the Hun.

  The kid seemed quieter. “Where’s the dough?” Quieter, yeah, but as hard and as cold as the gun he was holding. His snake’s eyes were the color of asphalt.

  “I told you. I gave it back to Sal Piccolo. It’s probably back in the bank now.”

  The kid exploded again. The different colors, the saliva, the whole routine. I wondered if he was going to fling himself, writhing, to the floor, but one of the bruisers sort of held onto him. The other bruiser stared down at me, looking as though he was trying to decide on what technique he’d use to crush my esophagus.

  The kid eventually regained his slippery grip on coherency. “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to pull, you stinking bag of bones, but it don’t wash. Tear it apart.”

  Something that might well have been a smile creased the Neanderthals’ faces, and they nodded.

  “That’s not necessary. I told you that—” I started to protest, but the look Tony New gave me cut it short. So did the gun barrel being pushed against my Adam’s apple.

  My place was pretty small, but even so, it took them surprisingly little time to empty every drawer and cupboard and overturn all the furniture. My only consolation was that the insurance would cover any damage, until I remembered I had cancelled it a year ago to save on the premiums. Anyway, the policy had probably excluded depredations by lunatics.

  “Nuthin’,” one of the goons said, when they returned to the bedroom. It sounded like he had a sock on his tongue.

  “Ah, but did you check the toothpaste?” I said.

  The kid’s eyes narrowed, then he motioned with his head. One of his boys left, then came back and handed him the tube. Tony New took off the cap. He smiled without opening his lips. He squeezed off a line across my forehead. Then one from the top of my head, over my nose, and down to my chin. Then a couple more on each side. Tony New giggled. His boys dutifully joined in, sounding like barking seals.

  The kid put a soft little hand up to my face and smeared the paste around. Of all the ways I liked to begin my days, a facial with mint-flavored Crest was not near the top, but I seemed to have little say in the matter. For sixty years people had been telling me it didn’t pay to be a wise guy. Maybe I was finally beginning to understand.