Julia Roberts, was she? If she could be Julia Roberts, I could be Mel Gibson. I put my arm around her and pulled her tight and I kissed her. I expected her to resist. I was wrong.
It was a lovely kiss, nearly a perfect kiss. Earlier, her lips had looked cool and refreshing. They were refreshing all right, but warm, very nicely warm. They were soft, too, and pressed up against mine sweetly, at first tentative and then with more insistence. The quickest brush of tongues, and suddenly it was over.
Somewhere in there she’d gotten her hand entangled in my hair. She gently pulled my head back and looked quizzically at me. “Oh, my,” she said.
“Oh, yours indeed.”
We stared at each other for a moment, then turned simultaneously and began to walk toward the exit. I slipped my arm around her shoulders. There’s a delicious feeling of anticipation that goes with putting your arm around a woman for the first time. Will she, in turn, place hers around your waist? Or will she decline to do so, leaving your limb lying there like a dead fish, until you can find some excuse to remove it without feeling like too much of an idiot?
The question was answered quickly. After only two or three seconds of suspense, she slid her hand across the small of my back and snapped it into place against the waistband of my Dockers. I leaned over and kissed her hair and escorted her off the pier. I threw a perfunctory look over my shoulder, in case the cop should be following, but when I didn’t see him I let him disappear from my mind.
As we turned south on Ocean I felt a chill. Probably that darned Catalina eddy. I drew my arm a bit tighter around Amanda. Ten minutes later we came to the Datsun. “That’s my truck,” I said.
“Really? You don’t seem the pickup type.” She giggled and disengaged herself from me. She went to the truck and peeked in the window.
“Its kind of dirty,” I said.
“So I see.” She inspected the truck bed, ran a finger along the side, stood by the cabin. “I want to sit in it,” she said.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
I unlocked the door and held it for her and she got in. She inspected the interior wonderingly, as if she were in some mansion instead of the cab of a ’72 Datsun, touching the gearshift and the steering wheel and the sun visor, looking very much like a woman who’d never been in a pickup truck before.
She rolled down the window and smiled out at me. “I’ve never been in a pickup truck before,” she said, then patted the seat on the driver’s side and added, “You come sit too.”
I went around and got in next to her. She smiled again and took both my hands in hers and gazed into my eyes. “Take me back to your place,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be sure?”
“I wouldn’t want us to do anything we shouldn’t.”
“We won’t, Joe.”
That was good enough for me. I started the engine and pulled out into the waning Saturday night traffic.
19
HER LOVEMAKING WAS ACCOMPLISHED WITH QUICK, PRE-cise movements, as if what she was taking in would soon be gone. Our rhythms didn’t mesh, but it didn’t matter because we were both so in need that the whole thing was over in a minute or two. Afterward we lay there watching each other’s eyes in the flickering light from the candles I’d lit beforehand. She began to cry, not the huge, racking sobs I’d pictured at the funeral, but a tiny flow of tears, slipping off her face onto the pillowcase. I reached out a hand to comfort her and she smiled. “I’m so silly,” she said, and I felt wetness in my own eyes. When the first drop trickled out she kissed it away. Her lips drifted down to mine and lingered.
I wrapped my arms around her, and she rolled over on top of me. This time around we had the luxury of getting in sync with each other. We tried this and sampled that until there was nothing left to try, no treat unsampled.
When we were done we lay there, head to toe, sweating and out of breath. I offered to go out to the garage for the fan. She said that was sweet but she’d be fine.
I snuggled my head on her thigh, traced the curve of her stomach with a fingertip. She smiled and took my hand. “Do you want to hear something odd?” she said.
“What?”
“At the hotel, right after the funeral, right after I met you. I imagined this might happen. Isn’t that strange? Here my sister had just been buried and I was thinking about sex.”
“I had the same thought. Only I had it at the funeral. Remember that Woody Allen movie, Love and Deaths.”
“No.”
“The point is, love and death, they sort of go together.”
“Joe?”
“Yes?”
“We’re not dealing with love here, are we?”
“No.” I sat up, lay back down with my head next to hers. “When I had my fantasy I pictured you pulling out a cigarette afterward. We would smoke a toast to Brenda.”
“I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life.”
“Me neither. Not tobacco, anyway.”
“You mean you’ve smoked… other things?”
“I used to light up a joint now and then.”
“I’ve never tried marijuana.” Several seconds later: “Do you have any?”
I should have just said no. “There’s some in the freezer. I haven’t touched it in two or three years. I don’t even know if it’s still good.”
“I’d like to try it.”
I got up on an elbow, looked down at what I could make out in the candlelight. “No, you don’t.”
“I do. I’ve already witnessed a heathen burial ceremony and engaged in casual sex. Why don’t I just get this other new experience out of the way?”
“Not to mention riding in a pickup. Wait. You’ve never engaged in casual sex before?”
“No. I suppose you do this kind of thing every day.”
“If you consider a couple of times a decade every day. Anyway this isn’t exactly casual.”
“Oh? What would you call it?”
I thought it over. All things considered, on the casual scale of one to ten, it was about an eight. “Okay, you win on that one. You really want to smoke some grass?”
“Ido.”
“I’ll go get it.”
Twenty years before, on a particularly dope-addled evening, I’d painstakingly taken a jar of Spice Islands marjoram and cut and pasted letters from other jars until it said MARIJUANA. Now I hopped out of bed and retrieved my handiwork from the freezer. I unscrewed the top and slipped a joint out. I lit it, took a hit, and passed it over to Amanda. “Don’t take too much the first time. Just draw a little into your lungs, hold it as long as you can, let it out.”
I heard her suck it in, saw the end glow, let the sweet scent bring random memories. After ten seconds or so she said through clenched lips, “Is it all right to let it out yet?”
I told her it was and she did. “Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” I asked. “You’re supposed to be gasping and wheezing.”
“I swear.” She passed the joint back over. I took another hit and sent it back. She inhaled again, held it, let it out. “When do I start to see planets?”
“That’s LSD.”
“You don’t have any of that, do you?”
“Not for about the last quarter century. How do you feel?”
“Fine?”
“You don’t feel anything strange?”
“No.”
“Take some more.” She did, and I did, and she did and I did. I lay there obsessing on her failure to cough. Maybe she’d done this before and wasn’t admitting it. A fib. Perhaps one in a long line of fibs. Everything she’d said was a lie. She was lying to cover up the fact that she’d killed Brenda. Some sibling rivalry going back three decades. Brenda had dissected her Barbie or something. This did nothing to explain Dick getting knocked off, but that could have been a smokescreen. Amanda had killed Dick to make it appear there was some succulent connection. How ruthless. How insidious.
How lud
icrous. Amanda making Spartacus out of Dick McAfee? “I’m Spartacus,” I said.
“Excúseme?”
“Oh. It’s from a play I did. Called Bleacher Bums. All these Cubs fans are out in the bleachers, and one of them does something bad, throws a hot dog at the center fielder or something, and when the guard comes to throw him out, everyone claims they did it, to protect him, and they all stand up and say, ‘I’m Spartacus,’ like in the movie.”
“What movie?”
“Spartacus.”
“Oh. I never saw it.”
“It was a double bill with Love and Death. Oh, God, I’m babbling. I guess the dope is still good.”
“I think it must be.”
“Why?”
“Just a second ago I thought of Brenda’s funeral, and that strange tomb, and it made me think of my parents’ vault back in Eau Claire, and how odd it was that they were buried together even though they were divorced, and then I was thinking of my father and how he always put a little note in my lunchbox when I went to school and how he always signed it, SWAK, Dad. Sealed with a kiss. And when I was done I realized this whole thought process had taken only a second or two.” She giggled, a nice girlish titter.
“Time compression,” I said. “You’re high, all right. Next thing you’ll be wanting a bag of Cheetos. Hey. Maybe in your altered state you can think of something that might help with the investigation. Some little tidbit about Brenda from your childhood that bubbles up and makes the whole thing clear. So lie there and think.”
“I’m lying. I’m thinking. Give me some more marijuana, please.”
The joint had gone out. I dug a roach clip out of my jar and lit it. “Here.”
“Thank you kindly.” She drew it in, held it, flushed it out. “Here’s something. Brenda really liked Mr. Ed.”
“The horse or the program?”
“Both. She used to watch religiously. She kept a list of episodes in her diary and—”
“She kept a diary?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe she still keeps one. Kept one. Maybe I can find it and—” She clapped a hand over my mouth. “Ow.”
“Sorry. No, she stopped doing that after college. She didn’t want any incriminating evidence.”
“Too bad. Some incriminating evidence is what we need right now. Anyway, I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere with the Mr. Ed connection. What else?”
“Did you seduce me so you could interrogate me?”
“No. Its an added benefit.”
“Hmm. It’s so hard because our relationship was so distant. I used to send her birthday presents, for instance, but she seemed uncomfortable even with that, so I stopped.”
“Uncomfortable?”
“She didn’t like to receive gifts.”
I nodded. “Yeah, she was a little odd about presents. I bought her a couple of things, nothing very significant, and she got all weird. Almost angry that I’d given her something without warning her so she’d be able to have something to give back. It was such a hassle I never did it again.”
“Probably my mothers influence. She was rather a strange woman. Oh, dear, I probably wouldn’t have said that if it weren’t for the marijuana. I’m hungry, by the way.”
“A well-known effect of dope smoking.”
“Are there others?”
“It’s supposed to enhance sex.”
“Is it now?” Suddenly she was on top of me again, her face looming above my own, her hair hanging down and tickling my cheeks. “Show me,” she said.
So I did—show her, that is—and she showed me a thing or two she’d left out the first couple of times. When we were done making up for lost time, I slipped off into a dreamless sleep.
I awoke to the sound of a toothbrush. I jumped out of bed, grabbed the condom wrappers, and tossed them in the wastebasket, wondering a bit after the fact if the golden oldies I’d dug up in my nightstand had been up to their job. I pushed the bathroom door aside, and found Amanda brushing away, with strong, precise strokes, like she did everything else. Her breasts gently echoed the up-and-down motion of her hand. I watched them. She watched me watch them.
When she’d done enough brushing she searched around the sink. “I use my hand,” I said.
The expression on her face was so pained I ran into the kitchen for a glass. When she was done I put my arms around her, hugged her tight, enjoying the soft press of her flesh against mine. “I had the worst taste in my mouth,” she said.
“Munga mouth. The downside to marijuana.”
“I found the toothbrush under the sink. I hope you don’t mind that I opened it.”
“Of course not.” I let her go. “Do you want to leave while I use the toilet?”
“Oh. Yes, I think that would be best.”
When I returned to the bedroom she was already half dressed. I went to hug her again, trying to give her a big romantic kiss. She hardly responded. I drew my head back. “I was going to take a shower,” I said. “I thought you might want to join me, but you seem to have your clothes on already. Something wrong?”
She pulled away and gave me a wan smile. “Only that I’m getting on an airplane today and I’ll never see you again. So I need to separate myself.”
“How do you know you’ll never see me again?”
She picked up her blouse, pulled it on, did a button. “Let’s not kid ourselves. What happened last night had nothing to do with you and me. It had to do with Brenda.”
It didn’t seem worthwhile to pursue it. It never does. “Okay. I’m still going to get a shower.”
“I’ll shower at the hotel.” She finished with her blouse. “I’d better go back as soon as you’re finished. My plane’s at three, and I haven’t packed.”
“It’s only”—I glanced at the clock—“a quarter to nine. Plenty of time.”
“Please, Joe, don’t make this any harder.”
I watched her for a few seconds and nodded. “Okay.”
I showered quickly and dressed and was ready to leave in fifteen minutes. When I opened the front door, Casillas was standing there.
“Now what?” I said.
“How interesting,” he said. “The old boyfriend and the sister.”
“That’s none of your business. What do you want from me now?”
“Henry Farber called and said you were giving him a hard time.”
“I was giving him a hard time? He pushed me off his goddamned boat.”
“He says it was self-defense.”
“Self-defense, my ass. If you’re looking for murder suspects, Hector, that’s where you ought to be looking. Have you checked out his alibi?”
“Yeah, that Maria girl, she’ll vouch for him and—Hey, who’s asking the questions around here?”
“He’s got that Maria girl wrapped around his slimy little finger. I’d look a bit more closely if I were you.”
“Which you’re not, thank God. You’re not a cop, Portugal, and I wish to hell you’d stop trying to act like one.”
“How’s this? You stop accusing me of killing Brenda, and I’ll stop trying to figure out who really did.”
“No can do.”
“Then neither can I.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“How about this? At least stop having that guy follow me.”
His eyes flitted skyward for assistance with the idiot in front of him. “I told you before, we don’t have anyone following you.”
I stared at him and thought, he really is good at this. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was telling the truth. “If you’ll excuse us,” I said, “Ms. Belinski here has a plane to catch.”
He glared. He fumed. He thought bad thoughts about me and turned and went back out to his el cheapo Chevy.
I ushered Amanda into the truck and we got going. We briefly discussed Casillas. Uncomfortable silence followed until, as we turned right onto Pacific, she said, “Your friend Gina. Was that like Brenda?”
“What do you mean
?”
“Is she an old lover too?”
It took me a minute to answer. With Gina, sometimes I think I imagined it. “Yes. But that was a long, long time ago. She’s a friend now, nothing more. Like Brenda was.”
Ten minutes later we stood in the Loews lobby. “Do you want me to walk you up?”
“No. I’m fine.” She held out a hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Portugal.”
I stuck out my own and took hers. “And you, Ms. Belinski.” We stared at each other for a couple of long seconds. She pulled herself closer, gave me a fierce squeeze, a quick, soft kiss, and drew away. She walked a half dozen paces and turned. “Find the bastard,” she said, and disappeared from my life.
20
I MADE IT A FEW STEPS OUT THE DOOR, REVERSED FIELD, and found a pay phone. I dialed Gina’s assortment of numbers, but she didn’t answer at any of them. I wondered if she’d gotten lucky too and she and Carlos were waiting for the phone to stop ringing to continue their lovemaking. Or maybe she’d just gone out to buy a paper.
Austin was next. I called and told him I was on my way up to get the books. On the way I could stop at Gladstone’s and see if they were still holding my sandwich.
I sat in the phone booth wondering why I’d let Amanda go so easily. Yeah, it probably wouldn’t have worked out. Long distance relationships seldom do. Not to mention that we didn’t have a thing in common. But I could have at least made the effort. I could have volunteered to visit her in Bow Springs, see if we could stand each other for more than an evening.
I forced her out of my mind. If I suddenly woke up in a week with an irresistible urge to see her again, I knew where to find her.
I got to Austin and Vicki’s around ten-fifteen. They were out back, soaking up sun, reading the paper, listening to the Grateful Dead with their two impossibly hip teenagers. Vicki was my age, with long wavy red hair, blue eyes, pale skin, fine features. I’d always found her incredibly attractive and always felt guilty about it.
Austin had the books waiting for me. He’d brought out Rauh’s Madagascar volumes too. I said I already had them. He said, “Far out, man.”
The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) Page 16
