"The Way We Were >>
"What?"
"Butch and Sundance?"
"Huh?"
"The movie. You musta seen it on TV?"
"Oh, sure," she said.
"Robert Redford was Sundance."
"Oh yeah, I like old movie stars."
"You'll notice a lotta movie allusions in my speech," he warned. "I'm a professional actor as well as a cop."
"Yeah?"
"Uh huh," he said, "I've been in two feature films. Not speaking roles, but I was in them."
"Would I know them?"
"I don't think so. You didn't know Robert Redford."
"After you said, sure, I know who he is."
The waiter put the drinks down while Fin was deciding that the generation gap was insurmountable. So maybe he should talk about something boring like police work. He said, "The two truck drivers might very well be involved in the theft at your warehouse. We learned that the hazardous waste from North Island as well as some worse stuff from an agriculture supply house were dumped in T. J. And two little kids got poisoned. One's dead."
"Oh, no!" she said. Her brow knitted and two little creases formed between her eyebrows, the only two lines on her sweet young face. He hated making her sad.
"The other one's gonna be okay, we hope. Do you know anything about Pepe Palmera?"
"Who's that?"
"I better start from the beginning," he said, "or you're gonna be more confused than General Motors."
He never got headaches, at least not stress headaches, but he suspected that stress was causing the pounding over his left eye. Jules lay across his bed with the TV tuned to local news, but with the sound turned so low he couldn't hear the news readers.
Now there was a death -- not the death of a truck thief whose demise on the bumper of a Greyhound bus might be considered good ecology -- but the death of a kid. Mexican or not, jurisdictional problem or not, Jules realized that Willis Ross was right. At this time in history, during the debates over the NAFTA agreement, it could be disastrous for Green Earth Hauling and Disposal, and more important, for himself.
Jules thought he'd given Willis Ross a worst-case scenario: that two cretinous truck drivers had dumped hazardous waste for reasons unknown. Now he found himself being forced to consider every possibility, such as the notion that his drivers had certain plans that went all the way back to the North Island warehouse.
This made him begin thinking about the navy detective and the stolen shoes. Could those morons have stolen the shoes and delivered them to Tijuana? But if they had, why would they dump the waste? Why not just abandon the van and come back with their bullshit story about the truck being stolen? Or, if they felt they had to dump the waste, why didn't they dump it on the U. S. side? Why in a residential zone in Tijuana?
They must've had a hard time getting it over the border into Mexico, so why smuggle it down there just to dump it? The American authorities would presume that a Mexican truck thief would dump the load on the U. S. side and then drive the empty van to T. J. So if Abel Durazo and Shelby Pate truly dumped that load of waste in Mexico, they picked the goddamndest most baffling way to do it that Jules could imagine!
That this should be happening to him was an outrage, now when everything was going so right. Even this afternoon's stroke of luck boded well, getting close to a user-friendly old rich babe. All of it could be jeopardized by those truckers. It was more than a man should bear.
Jules sat up in bed. He had to stop this anguish. This was not like Jules Temple. This was what ordinary people did. He ordered events, and controlled them. What Jules's father had deplored in his son -- his ability to live for the present and not stew over future consequences -- was, in Jules's opinion, the key to successful living. If people truly were slaves to conscience they were handicapped and doomed to fail, that's what Jules believed. He'd seize the moment. He'd deal with those two if and when he had to.
Now he had other tasks, such as giving a recital tonight, an important one. Before showering, Jules laid out his deodorant, his after-shave, his cologne and hair gel. He decided to wear blue silk briefs for Lou Ross, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.
After she got home that afternoon, Nell had a glass of vegetable juice and a bath. While she was watching the evening news she fell asleep on the sofa, and the short nap revived her. She looked at her watch and thought about Fin and that dinner invitation.
Nell had to admit she kind of liked the guy. Despite his horrendous marital history he was the sort she'd always liked: cute and not one to launch a sexual panzer attack. He'd opened doors for her and probably would've lit her cigarette if she was dumb enough to smoke. And he was semi-amusing, that was the thing she liked most.
And even if he was an emotional mess she thought he'd be pretty good in bed because he didn't take himself too seriously, except for the acting which nobody else could take seriously. All in all, he was the most promising guy to come her way in quite a while, if she disregarded any possibility of a long-term relationship.
He'd written his home number on the back of his business card, so Nell got her purse, retrieved the card, and picked up the phone. Then she decided it was humiliating. After all, she'd already turned him down, and anyway, he might not even be home.
A moment later, Nell picked up the phone, punched three numbers, then hung up. She poured herself a glass of wine, took a sip, and picked up the phone again.
She could say, "I was wondering if you might need some salad to go with the pasta?"
No, that was lame. She could say, "There is another angle about the stolen truck that's bothering me."
But what angle? Hadn't they explored every possibility?
She could say . . . oh, the hell with it! She dialed his number and got his answering machine.
Fin's theatrical voice said, "Hello, this is Fin Finnegan. If your call has to do with police or personal business, please leave a message after the beep. If it has to do with the performing arts, you may wish to call Orson Ellis Talent Unlimited, or leave me a message and I shall get back to you."
She hung up. Performing arts! Such a neurotic!
Nell opened a can of split-pea soup and read the latest issue of Vogue, cover to cover. The soup was more nourishing.
The valet-parking attendant took his Miata the instant he parked in the porte cochere of the twenty-seven-floor Meridian building on Front Street. A doorman directed him inside and a concierge met him at a counter in the lobby.
"Jules Temple," he said to the concierge. "Mrs. Ross is expecting me."
It wasn't until Jules was on the elevator that he thought how extraordinary it was that she lived on the thirteenth floor. He wasn't a superstitious person, but this was a residential high rise. He was still thinking about it when he rang her door chime.
He forgot about it momentarily when she opened the door. Her hair looked like an Eva Gabor wig with highlights that weren't there in the afternoon. She was wearing a short red velvet dress with spaghetti straps and a deep neckline. It looked ridiculous on a woman her age.
"You look wonderful/" Jules said, pecking her on the cheek.
"I hope you like Szechwan," she said. "It's being delivered from my favorite Chinese restaurant in Horton Plaza."
"If it's hot enough," he said. "I like it hot."
"I never doubted that for a moment," she said, and Jules could see that she had an insurmountable cocktail lead.
The condo was tasteless enough to've been decorated by a Mafia wife. All it needed was a couple of candelabras, and a harp next to the pink marble fireplace.
While she was mixing him a vodka on the rocks, it came to him again, that worrisome moment on the elevator.
When she gave him the drink she pressed close and kissed him on the mouth.
"Mmmmm," he said. "You taste like gin. Sweet."
She smiled and said, "Take off your jacket?"
"In a bit," he said, "but tell me something."
"Sure, if it has nothing to do with age or money."
"This is the thirteenth floor."
She smiled and said, "We're not superstitious in this building. We have a thirteenth floor and I choose to live on it. Are you superstitious?"
"I didn't think I was," Jules said. "I'm usually too secure to worry about such things, but there're some bizarre goings-on in my life these days."
"Such as?"
"Things in my business that I don't understand. Inexplicable things're happening and I feel I'm losing control right when everything seemed to be crystallizing for me."
"Well, catch up with the drinks and you'll forget all about boring business problems. Come over here."
Jules followed Lou Ross to the view window. She took his hand and they clinked glasses. "See that?"
"Beautiful," he said, not taking his eyes off her.
She loved it. "The view, I meant. The glorious harbor view."
"That too," he said.
"One question from me and then we'll drop the topic of business," she said. "What are you gonna to do when your escrow closes?"
"I have an investment idea," he said, "if I can scrape up a few partners."
"Willis told me you've had problems in the past. That investors've lost money with you."
"I lost more than they did. Hard times. It won't happen again. I've learned about plunging in too deeply."
"Sometimes plunging in deeply pays off," she said.
He grinned wryly, and said, "I'll remember that"
"If our friendship . . . blossoms as I hope it will, I might consider investing in your next project, Jules."
He leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder, saying, "You wouldn't be sorry." Thinking, she could use some fade cream for that liver spot.
"Don't try to con me, pretty boy," Lou Ross said. "I'm not a fool."
"Do I look like a con man?"
"That's part of your charm," she said. "I think we can be good for each other, but if I ever hear that you're involved in anything shady or remotely illegal, well. . . you won't be having any more Chinese suppers on the thirteenth floor. Nor will I entrust you with a dime of my money. Okay?"
Jules didn't like this at all. Losing control to a woman? An older woman? The kind he'd always been able to manipulate with ease? Her brown eyes didn't blink as they stared into his. She wore contacts, and up close, mood lighting or not, he decided she was at least sixty years old. Losing control to a goddamn senior citizen!
"Whatever you say, Lou," he said, trying to smile earnestly. "I've had feelings for you since the first time we met."
"I love a rogue," she said, kissing him again, touching his lower lip with her gin-flavored tongue, "as long as he's not too much of a rogue."
There it was again, the nagging little thought. He turned away for an instant and looked at the street below. "It doesn't bother you? Living on the thirteenth floor?"
"What's the matter, Jules?" she asked. "Are you afraid of omens?"
"Only lately," he said.
"Something strange is happening."
"Is it mysterious?"
"Yeah, mysterious."
"Do you love mysteries?"
"I've always hated them."
"We can eat later," she said. "I wanna show you the master bedroom."
It was a nest of apple green and orange satin. The tufted chaise was covered in it, ditto for the king-sized bed, including the headboard. The drapes were done in canary taffeta, and there were some lovely Lalique pieces scattered about, but a nice alabaster lamp was lost in the mess of colors. When they stepped inside the dressing area she kicked off her pumps.
Jules did not perform well that evening. He couldn't stop thinking about the thirteenth floor. Was it an omen? Finally though, he blamed it on all the goddamn satin and the clash of vulgar tropical colors. It was like being trapped inside a coffin in Haiti.
Chapter 20
Fin and Bobbie were having an amazed conversation by the time their third drinks arrived, and he was as amazed as she.
"Wait'll I tell Nell Salter tomorrow," he said. "Nell talked to Jules Temple on the phone, and we both talked to the truckers, but nobody told us about you!"
"It's obvious they didn't want us to get together," Bobbie said.
"The truckers I can understand," he said. "Your instinct could be right. They might be your shoe thieves, but what about Jules Temple? Why didn't he tell Nell about you? I'd say it was relevant that two different investigators were interested in Green Earth for two different reasons tied together by the same employees."
"Pretty weird stuff," she said, slurring the s.
"Wanna have dinner, long as we're here?"
"Super," she said, slurring again.
"My treat?"
"Dutch treat."
'Til flip you for it afterward."
"Okay."
The restaurant was about half filled by then, and Fin signaled for menus. Bobbie was still wearing the blazer over her pink cotton shell. While reading the menu she started to take off the jacket, then remembered her sidearm and kept it on.
"I can take the gun to the car for you," he said, "if you're too warm in the jacket."
"It's okay," she said.
"A forty-five?"
"Yeah."
"Guess the navy and marines won't abandon the forty-five till they get Star Wars lasers."
"It's a pretty good gun though, the nineteen eleven model."
"Awfully big gun for ..."
"Don't say a little girl, okay?"
"Why?"
"I don't want people to think a me like that. Do you know when you ordered the last drink you said, 'Ready for another, kid?' That's what you said."
"Did I?"
"I'll be thirty in a few years and I'm a good investigator. I don't have your experience but my forty-five's loaded and I got two extra magazines in my purse and I'm not a kid or a little girl."
Fin knew she was too polite and much too "navy" to have said that without a belly full of booze, but he was touched. "No, you're not a kid," was all he could say, and zing went the strings of his heart!
Then she grinned sheepishly and said, "But we're not allowed to carry it with a round in the chamber so I couldn't win a quick-draw contest with anybody."
After the waiter took their identical orders of sea bass, Fin decided that he might give an arm or maybe a leg to be ten years younger. Well, a toe maybe, the little one with fungus on it. If he was still forty he wouldn't feel that this infatuation was so preposterous. But of course the more he drank the less preposterous it seemed to be.
When she went to the rest room, he looked her over from the rear. She was a lot shorter than Nell Salter and maybe wore one size larger. Or did height have something to do with dress sizes? But she walked like a little athlete, and he was certain she had a very firm body. He wanted to be ashamed of himself.
The food came while Bobbie was gone, and he slipped his credit card to the waiter so she couldn't argue about paying. When she got back he stood up until she was seated. He could see that he scored big with that move.
"The fish is real good here," she said. "Not too much junk on it."
"I'm glad we came."
"Me too," she said, "except I always eat too much sourdough bread."
"Just be glad they still got the kinda joints that serve sourdough bread. My third ex-wife used to drag me to places where they sold you smoked-duck pizza topped with papaya, or ahi dunked in raspberry mango sauce. Anyway, you're too young to worry about calories."
"There you go again," she said.
"Sorry." Then to the waiter, "Bring us a nice bottle of white wine. Not Chardonnay. You pick it." Turning to Bobbie he said, "Okay?"
"Okay," she said.
"Chardonnay also reminds me of porcini mushrooms, tofu and blue-corn tortillas. And my third ex-wife who almost wrecked my health by smoking like Tallulah Bankhead."
"Who?"
"If I said Bette Davis would it make any difference?"
"Who's she?"
"Never mind," he sai
d.
When the waiter brought the wine and a wine bucket, Fin said, "Let the lady taste it."
She smiled self-consciously, but performed the ritual she'd learned from her former boyfriend. She examined the cork and sniffed the bouquet.
"Real good," she told the waiter. "I think."
Fin was surprised at how much wine she could put away. She guzzled it.
When it was time for dessert Bobbie pointed to one on the menu and said, "You know what this is?"
He read it and said, "Creme brulee. Yeah, that's outta style now, so let's have it. All it is, it's your mom's egg custard with burnt sugar on top."
"I got a theory about Jules Temple," she said after he ordered two of the desserts.
"What's your theory?"
"That he didn't wanna tell you guys about me because . . ."
"Because what?"
"Don't laugh."
"Okay."
"Because he's in cahoots with those two truckers. Maybe he planned the job."
Fin laughed.
"So much for promises," Bobbie said.
"I'm sorry, Bobbie," he said, "but I don't think somebody with a business as big as his would risk it for some shoes."
"Two thousand pairs. They're worth a lotta money."
"I know, but ..."
"Okay, you're the old pro," she said. "You tell me."
"I can't," he said. "There're pieces here that just don't make sense, no matter how I figure it."
"The truckers stole the shoes, that much we know."
"That much we think we know."
"Same thing."
"Not exactly."
"Anyway," she said, "they stole the shoes and drove them to T. J. That's what we think now, right?"
"That's what I think I think," Fin said.
When the desserts came, she wolfed hers, forgetting about truckers and shoes. When she was finished there was a creamy little globule of custard clinging to her upper Up. It was so cute and she was so young that he didn't hesitate to reach across the table with his napkin and dab it off.
"Oops," she said. "I'm such a doofus when I eat stuff like . . . What's this called again?"
"Creme brulee. My third ex-wife was a fad-food type. Used to drag me to a Vietnamese deli. In America they're called pet shops. I think I ate Rin Tin Tin a couple of times."
Finnegan's Week (1993) Page 18
