Angels in Heaven (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  I threw mine over a shoulder and called my pet.

  "Guess who," I said when she picked up the phone at her end.

  "I guess my heartthrob, V. Daniel," she said. "Where are you, honey?"

  "Just got home," I said. "Guess what I found—no Mom."

  "I know," she said. "She called me."

  "Weird," I said. "I feel weird without a mom."

  " 'Course you do, dear. It must be pretty strange for her too."

  "Yeah, sure. Feeb's taking me out to visit her, then I've got to sleep for a couple of hours, then can I drop by? I've got the chic-est little surprise for you."

  "I'll be counting the minutes, precious," she said. She blew me a kiss and hung up.

  When I got back downstairs, Feeb was ready and waiting, a scarf tied around her blue rinse and an angora sweater draped over her shoulders. Following her directions, I took the Ventura Freeway all the way east till it intersected with the Foothill Freeway, then headed north and then northwest on it, exiting at Berkshire, then doubled back into the hills for half a mile until I found a sign by the road that read Hilldale—Drive Slo.

  I turned in, driving slo. The joint looked respectable enough, I had to admit. The drive wound a leisurely way through well-kept lawns dotted with flowerbeds, in one of which an elderly gentleman in a floppy hat was working. Two equally elderly joggers, taking it steady, gave us a wave as we passed them. We parked in front of the central building of a group of three. An elaborately made-up lady of a certain age and then some, with bandaged legs, who was sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of the main building said "Hello, dear" to me as we passed her. "Want a date for the dance tonight?"

  "OK, but no jitterbugging," I said. "I don't think I could keep up with you."

  She grinned. We passed inside, and Feeb led me up to the reception desk.

  "Thought you might like a word with Doctor Don first," Feeb said, "if he's free."

  He wasn't free right then, the lady at the desk informed us, but he should be in a few minutes; so I took a pew while Feeb took herself off to visit a spell with Shirl's father. A few minutes later in bustled Doctor Don. He had a quick word with the receptionist, who pointed in my direction, and he trotted over to me, hand outstretched.

  I arose. "Victor Daniel, Mrs. Daniel's little boy," I said.

  "Don Fishbein, Mrs. Fishbein's trial of strength," he said, and we gave each other a manly shake. Doctor Don was a man of some six foot nothing, dressed in a baggy maroon and pink sweatsuit. He sported a full brown beard, round tortoiseshell glasses, expensive Adidas, and one discreet gold earring. Energy poured out of him like he was plugged into an electricity generator at the base of Niagara Falls. He whisked me off to his office, a small, unpretentious, cluttered room behind the receptionist's desk, threw himself into an old leather swivel chair, and waved me into its equally battered mate.

  "You must have a question or two," he said, "so fire when ready, Gridley."

  "How's Mom?"

  "Mrs. Daniel is somewhere between as well as can be expected and better than can be expected and not as well as can be expected," he said, "depending."

  "On what?"

  "I only wish I knew," he said. "No one seems to know why patients switch so suddenly from normal to aberrant behavior, what connections get cut. There are theories, but that's all they are as far as I'm concerned." He pawed through a pile of disorganized-looking files, found the one he wanted, looked pleased, then opened it. "You and your brother have been taking care of her for five or six years now, that right?"

  "About that," I said, "ever since she was diagnosed. She would have been sixty-eight then."

  "Young, young." Doctor Don sighed. "Sometimes it happens even earlier, again no one seems to know why. Hell, it can even strike in the forties. Black, white, rich, poor, smart, dumb, anyone. Mrs. Daniel told me you were out of the country when she moved in, what do you think of her being here?"

  "Hell, I don't know, Doc," I said. "I don't know how I feel about it. Mixed up. Awful. Surprised. Guilty. Relieved enough to feel guilty about that too."

  "What else is new?" he said, dismissing my whole confused emotional state with one contemptuous wave. "That's only normal, that is. That you can live with, to be frank, given the brutal alternative. You know the symptoms by now of Alzheimer's as well as I do. It is incurable and progressive, and the patient usually dies within three to eight years more or less, often from something like pneumonia. Your mother knows this. We have seen over and over what a devastating effect watching a loved one die of Alzheimer's has on the immediate family. While the patient is still sane, he or she worries about their effect on the family. Later, the patient often gets paranoid and has delusions of persecution by his or her family. Try living with that. Try living with a mother who doesn't even recognize you anymore."

  "Yeah, yeah," I said. "It's already started."

  "It's better she's here, for everyone involved. At least she's in an environment where she's continually monitored in case of accident. Wait till you see her flat. Obviously there's a medical staff always available—and a pretty good one too. I oughta know, I chose them. She's got company when she wants it and can handle it. And there's a million things to do here if she wants to. We got a terrific place—the food's even edible if you don't want to cook for yourself. Look around. OK, it's not Club Med, but a swimming pool we got, horses we got, tennis, squash, volleyball, bridge, canasta, poker we got. Nature rambles we got. Bingo. Dancing. Lawn bowling." He glanced at the wall clock. "Anything else? I don't want to rush you, but I got a croquet game to referee in five minutes."

  "I didn't even know croquet had referees," I said. "OK. I might as well come out with it. There is one thing. I feel like a shit talking about my mother and money in the same breath, but what's it all cost?"

  He scanned down one page in my mom's folder.

  "It's all paid," he said. "Two years in advance."

  "It can't be," I said. "So who paid, my brother?"

  "Mrs. Daniel," he said. "Now if you want to see her, at this time of day she's usually playing pool with that little hustler Erwin, so tell her from me to look out."

  "Are you sure we're talking about the same mom?" I said. "Mine doesn't have a Mexican dollar, and as far as I know, she's never had a pool cue in her hand in her life."

  "See for yourself," he said, "pool hall's one building over, next to the card room." He stood up, so did I.

  "What can I say?" I said. "I could start with thanks, I guess."

  He waved it away and ushered me out.

  "That way," he said, pointing. "Gloria!" he shouted at the receptionist as he strode past her desk. "Hold all calls! I'm in a vitally important conference over at the croquet court." He stopped outside the front door to gaze down at the lady in the rocking chair and say sternly, "Mrs. Lily Putnam, why do you rock your life away when the sun shines and the gardens beckon? Arise and walk and see and touch and smell, or you will waltz alone tonight. I have spoken." He helped the old lady to her feet and gave her a gentle push toward the ramp leading from the porch down to the gardens.

  I located the building next door without too much trouble, went in, passed through the card room, which was empty except for a lady in a shawl who was laying out some complicated-looking solitaire, and went on in to the poolroom where that gray-haired mother of mine was standing by one of the two tables chalking her cue professionally and pursing her lips as she surveyed her next shot.

  "Four ball in the side," she said. The tiny geezer she was playing with, most elegantly attired in a tight-fitting tan suit and a narrow-brimmed brown fedora, looked my way and slipped me a wink.

  "Hi, Mom," I said. She glanced my way briefly.

  "Hold it down in the peanut gallery," she said. She bent over, lined up her shot, and then missed it by a mile.

  "Damn!" she said. "I can never make those damn cuts."

  "There's a trick to it," I said, taking a seat at the side of the room. "I'll show you sometime."

 
Erwin polished off his last three balls smoothly, then turned to Mom and said, "That makes it a cool eighty-five cents you owe me, babe."

  "Try and get it," Mom said, racking up her cue. She came over to me and we gave each other a kiss. "When did you get back, dear?"

  "Just now," I said. "Is there someplace we can go and have a word?"

  "Sure," she said. "Erwin, same time tomorrow and I'll give you another lesson. My boy's going to buy me a drink in the cafeteria."

  "Anytime, toots," said Erwin.

  "Lead the way, toots," I said.

  She led the way briskly back outside and then into the central building and through a lounge into the snack bar–cafeteria. When I had gotten her a decaf and me an orange pop and we were sitting at a table for two in one corner, she gave one of my hands a pat and said, "Now, Vic, it's done and it's going to stay done and I'm glad for everyone I did it."

  "Mom, you're something else," I said. "I like Doctor Don."

  "What's not to like?" she said.

  "How's your room? Do I get to see it?"

  "If I don't get tired," she said. "And it is a self-contained flat, not a room. That makes it sound like I'm living in a cheap fleabag somewhere. It's like our place but smaller. Tiny kitchenette but big enough. Tiny bedroom but big enough. Nice colors. Nice curtains. Rails to hold onto everywhere. Bath a lot easier to get in and out of than ours. Buttons to push every two feet in case of emergency. We can bring in any of our own furniture, within reason. That reminds me—next time you come, I'd like a few things. I'll give you a list. You look tired, Victor."

  "I am tired, Mom, is why," I said. "How about you?"

  "Ah, you know," she said. "Comes and goes, darn it."

  "Mom," I said, "it may be none of my business, but where'd you get the money, hustling pool?"

  "Very funny," she said. "Give me a couple of weeks, that's all. I got two thousand five hundred dollars in insurance from your father's union when he died. After paying the funeral expenses there was just under two thousand left, so I put it in a savings account for a rainy day. I never did have to touch it, what with what I made working, and then thanks to you and Tony and Gaye."

  I tried to figure out just how much two thousand smackers in a deposit account would accrue in thirty years but soon gave up. Mom stopped talking the middle of her next sentence, as she was more and more wont to do, and sat there, hands folded neatly on the table in front of her. Then she shouted something and swept her plastic coffee cup off the table. When she'd come back from wherever it was she went, I delivered her to a nurse at the reception desk who walked her to and then into the elevator. The last thing I said to her was, "Move your bridge hand closer to the cue ball, Mom. That way you'll get a smoother stroke."

  "You got it, hotshot," she said, from which I deduced that Erwin had been teaching her some outdated slang along with how to shoot Eight Ball.

  All right.

  None too emotional a parting, but we were never a demonstrative family, the Daniels. It didn't mean we didn't love each other—hell, I even almost loved Tony sometimes occasionally.

  I was hunting about for Feeb outside when Doctor Don intercepted me.

  "How's the big match going?" I said.

  "They're knocking the hell out of those balls, and each other once in a while too," he said. "I dunno why croquet is considered a sissy game. Listen, I saw on Mrs. Daniel's file you're a private investigator?"

  "That I am," I said. "Why, got a problem?"

  "That I have," he said. "Got a minute to take a small stroll 'crost the sward?"

  I allowed I did, and so we strolled 'crost the sward, Doctor Dan not only stopping to have words with every patient, nurse, gardener, and visitor he passed, but also pausing to exchange greetings with a mangy black cat he called Fred, who was sitting under a tree pretending it had no interest at all in the slightest, perish the thought, with the family of squirrels who were frolicking overhead.

  After a while we parked ourselves on a newly painted green bench and I said, "What's up, Doc?"

  "Petty pilfering is what's up," he said, rubbing his beard vigorously. "A dollar here, a dollar there, never a lot, but it is annoying."

  "From the patients' rooms?"

  "Yep."

  "Do they have locks on them?"

  "Nope, in case we have to get in quickly. What they all have is a sliding thing that says 'I'm in but please do not disturb,' or 'I'm in and please do disturb.'"

  "Do your patients sometimes keep real money or valuable valuables in their rooms, or do you keep them locked up in a safe somewhere?"

  "Both," he said. "But like I said, nothing's ever been taken but a few bucks cash."

  "Hmm," I said. "Let me reflect awhile."

  I sat in the sun and reflected. Doctor Don closed his eyes and stretched out his legs and once sighed deeply with pleasure.

  "I don't think it's staff," I said after several peaceful minutes had ticked past. "I can't see a staff member who's already making good money risking his job for a few measly greenbacks, although I must admit it's been known to happen. A lot of petty pilfering and shoplifting is motivated by needs other than financial ones."

  "Boredom," the doc said without opening his eyes.

  "Like boredom, like wanting to shock a spouse or a parent out of his or her real or imagined neglect—same as a very mild suicide attempt. There is something cheap and easy—and cheap and easy is what I have founded my reputation on—that you might try. What you do is buy an ink pad and a stack of filing cards at the stationer, and then you dream up some reason—I don't know what, some new law, a new requirement for old age pensioners, some new red tape, maybe even a game—for having to fingerprint all the mobile patients and maybe lesser staff, like any cleaners who have access to the patients' rooms. I don't expect the thief to go all white and break down sobbing and confess when you try to print him or, more likely, her, nor do I expect the thief to make a big deal of standing on his rights and refusing to let you take his prints, which would be a little obvious. But most civilians place great trust and belief in the power of fingerprinting, unlike most pros, who rarely find them useful for anything but identification purposes. Chances are your amateur crook will be scared stiff, thinking you're already closing in for the kill, and will lay low. If that doesn't work—and I can think of a lot of good reasons why it might not, so spare me—give us a call and I'll see what else easy and cheap I can come up with."

  "Worth a try," said the doc, getting to his feet. He walked me back to my car, my '58 pink and blue Nash Metropolitan beauty. Feeb hoisted herself out of the rocking chair and came down to join us.

  "Take care of Mom," I said.

  "What else?" he said. He watched us drive away.

  I drove back to our part of town, Studio City, thanked Feeb for all she had done, went upstairs to the empty apartment, showered, then went into my bedroom for a snooze. I realized I had a spare room now. Maybe I could use it as an office and save on my office rent. Or rent it to someone else's mom. Or get a large dog or start growing mushrooms at home—the possibilities were endless. I could move to a smaller place. Or move to another town even. Jesus, there was an idea, another state even. There was nothing keeping me in the San Fernando Valley anymore, yippee. I could visit Mom every other weekend, say, from anywhere almost. Paris, Venice, Rome in spring, Bangkok anytime . . . suddenly the world beckoned. Of course there was my business, such as it was. And there was Evonne, such as she was, which was sensational. Plus a pal or two or three. Sara I could probably just live without. Fancy old Mom having all that money all that time, amazing. The last thing I did before visiting the Land of Nod was to blow a loud vulgar raspberry in the general direction of downtown L.A. and in the specific direction of Mel The Swell's ex-employer. V. Daniel, of the Davenport Daniels—no forelock-tugging, servile, flunky, door opening yes-man he.

  At least not yet, amigos.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  $4,752.15.

  That tidy sum, my computer had jus
t informed me, was the cost of that imbecilic paperweight adorning my desk—and that only to date. Still to come were whatever millions of pesos Benny and Doris squandered on riotous living back on Isla Mujeres, where they were headed when we parted company, plus doctor bills for her, no doubt, and probably plastic surgery for her later at the Mayo Clinic.

  It was latish Monday morning, and I was in my office sorting through the pile of mail that had accumulated and also sorting through the pile of memories I had recently accumulated, with the accent on the particularly aggravating ones, i.e., those in which a large outlay of funds was involved. I sent a silent message to a certain switchboard operator south of the border telling him not to hold his breath while he waited for the rest of his dinero.

  I was somewhat soothed to find a couple of checks in the mail: one was for the successful tracing of a missing person, a husband, whom I'd found living with a dental technician three blocks away from his former home; and the other was a final payment for a surveillance I'd carried out for a local bank on one of its employees who was about to be promoted. There was also a note from J. J. saying he'd called a couple of times getting no answer and what was going down, was I making any progress? No, was the answer. The fall catalogue from Remington & Co. I put away for later, the latest junk mail from Reader's Digest I chucked out immediately, figuring my word power didn't need increasing all that much and even if it did, Reader's Digest wasn't going to help.

  When I was halfway done with the mail, I thought I'd better put a modicum of energy into assisting J. J. with his predicament, so I gave his hotel a ring, but he was out. I left a message saying V. Daniel had called and was expecting positive results any day now. Then I tried Lt. Carstairs again, down at South Station, and he was out too, but if I left a number, he'd call back. I left a number. I checked on my three long-term security clients, John D. (Valley Bowl), Arnie (Arnie's New & Used Cars), and Mrs. Beloni (Star Family Grocery); all were pleased to hear from me, but none had any problems for once.