by Smith, Julie
“You’re telling me, you schmuck!”
“The starter isn’t missing, after all.”
“What?”
“I knew I could get your attention. Still mad?”
“As fifty hatters. State your business, please.”
“Rebecca, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
I didn’t answer. Not because I was trying to be mean; I just couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“Okay,” said Rob. “Later, maybe. I just thought you’d want to know the company moved the starter. Fail-Safe, I mean. The manager called from home this morning.”
“Could you go a little slower, please?”
“That’s how journalism can backfire on you, see? I mean, we saw with our own four eyes that the starter wasn’t there, so of course there was no need to confirm it. But you know what? We should have realized the burglar couldn’t have gotten it—he was empty-handed, remember?”
“Rob, could you get to the point?”
“Well, once the Fail-Safe folks discovered the first starter’d been taken, they naturally checked on the second one, and it was perfectly fine. But plenty of employees and other people knew there was a second warehouse and that’s where it was bound to be. They figured anybody could have found that out, and sure enough, we did, and so did the burglar. So they took the precaution of secretly moving the second starter back to the original vault.”
“I see.”
“Listen, could we talk? How about lunch?”
“Thanks very much for calling.” I hung up. I was glad to know about the starter, but so mad at Rob I had to question his motives for telling me. Maybe he was telling me because he wanted to be nice and wanted me to know, but maybe he was using the information as a bribe, to get back in my good graces. The point was, I didn’t want to talk to him, and when you got right down to it, I couldn’t.
I put on a brick-red dress—the closest thing I had to a spring outfit—and drove the old gray Volvo to the office, looking forward to a comforting chat with Chris. Instead, I got “Jailhouse Rock.”
I kid you not. When I opened the door to my office and walked in that fine Friday morning, I heard Elvis crooning his lungs out.
Kruzick was sitting at his desk, hands folded angelically, smile beatific, eyes Mephistophelian. “You’ve had two phone calls,” he said. “One from the United Prisoners Union and one—”
“Alan, you’re dead! You are marked, you are condemned, your days are numbered, do you understand? I made some very nasty contacts in that jail, and I am now going to walk into my office and pick up the phone and arrange the contract you’ve been asking for ever since I’ve known you.”
“What’s the matter, don’t you like The King? Hey, I made this tape especially for you.” He did something to the little black box on his desk that caused Johnny Cash to start describing conditions in Folsom Prison.
In the old days, women fought off their attackers with their purses. Now we are professionals, and we carry the same weapons as men. I raised my briefcase.
Alan raised his arms, looking hurt. “Hey, listen Rebecca, jail’s a learning experience, you know? Gives you time to contemplate your navel.” He did something else to the tape and Sam Cooke shared with me what his navel had yielded: something about sound effects on a chain gang.
I slammed my office door on “gang” and deeply regretted leaving the paper at home—I wanted to scan the classifieds for a new secretary.
No appointments were scheduled that morning, as I hadn’t been sure how long the divorce case was going to take to argue. As it happened, we’d wrapped it up the day before and it was under submission—in other words, we lawyers had done our parts and now it was up to the judge. So I had the morning free, unless you counted writs I ought to write, suits I ought to file, and clients I ought to reassure. But all that could wait till afternoon—I had a free morning, and my office felt like a prison (I ought to know) and it was a nice day, and I was going to go to I. Magnin and buy myself a pink outfit for spring. One cup of Alan’s hideous coffee and I’d hit the trail.
But the phone rang. “Darling, how are you feeling?”
“Fine, Mom. You can hardly see my bruise.”
“You should see a doctor about it.”
“Do you know any single ones?” I meant it as a joke, to get her mind off the bruise, but it was a big mistake.
“Darling, I’m so glad you feel that way. That Rob is nothing but trouble.”
“I was just kidding, Mom.”
But she’d got her mind on what she’d got her mind on, and she couldn’t hear me. “Your father and I have never felt he was good enough for our Rebecca, and I’m just sorry it took your getting chucked in jail like a street thug to make you open your eyes.”
“Mom, just because he’s only half-Jewish is no reason to condemn him.”
What a thing to say to a Marin County liberal. “Rebecca, how can you hurt me like that! After the way you’ve been raised, how could you think a thing like that could possibly enter into my feelings?”
“I don’t know, Mom. It just crossed my mind there for a second.”
“Well, I think you should apologize.” She was crying.
“Oh, I do! Listen, I’m really sorry, Mom. Don’t cry, okay? I didn’t mean anything.”
“Rebecca, how could you say that to me?”
“I didn’t mean to, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“You practically called me a bigot.”
“Well, Mom, I don’t think I really did, but, like I said, I’m really sorry.”
“What would make you say a thing like that?”
“Mom, I really don’t know. It was just one of those things.”
“Maybe you should see a shrink.”
“Good idea, Mom. I’ve got to go now—have to make the appointment.”
“I just don’t see how you could do a thing like that.”
“I’m not myself, Mom. I think I have raging hormones. Oops—Alan says I’ve got another call.”
“Give Alan my love.”
I really did have another call. It was Dad. “Darling, I’ve got your case all worked out. Jones won’t press charges against you if you won’t press any against him.”
“Dad, he hit me. And he fired at Rob.”
“Now, darling, don’t get all upset. No way is the DA going to drop the gun charge. But the other thing is like any other misdemeanor assault with no witnesses. You say one thing and Jones says another—it’s not worth pursuing.”
“But, Daddy, I’m the one with the bruise.”
“Sometimes we just have to compromise.”
I sighed. It wasn’t the compromise I minded so much—it was the feeling of losing control of my life. I was nearly thirty years old, and here I was saddled with a problem secretary chosen by my mom, who was now trying to choose my boyfriends for me, and furthermore, my dad was fighting my battles. But I am nothing if not a good daughter. I resigned myself to my fate and put it out of my mind—I was going to go out and buy something pink for spring and think about it tomorrow. Like Scarlett O’Hara.
I said, “Okay, Dad. Whatever you say.”
“It’s really for the best, darling. Sometimes these things just happen.”
“I know, Dad. I said okay. I want you to know I’m very grateful for what you’ve done for me.”
“You don’t sound very grateful.”
“I’m grateful, Dad. Really.”
“Beck, you got a bad blow on the head last night. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“I’ll think about it. Dad. A shrink, maybe. Right now, I’ve got to get some coffee.”
“Coffee really isn’t the answer, you know.”
The top of my head was going to fly off if I didn’t get off the phone, but I couldn’t hang up on my own father. I started counting to ten, silently.
“Beck, are you still there?”
“I’m thinking about what you said, Dad.”
“That’s my girl. I wish we could talk some more,
but I’ve got a client.”
“Gee, I wish we could, too, Dad. ’Bye now.”
’Bye and whew! Now for that coffee and then I. Magnin. But Kruzick came in with a long white box from Podesta-Baldocchi. “Roses are red and so are Commies; stay out of bed and you won’t be a mommy.”
“Alan, you shouldn’t have.”
“Boss, oh, boss, with bruise so fine, won’t you be my valentine?”
I looked at my watch, which tells the date as well as the time. It really was Valentine’s Day, and I’d forgotten all about it. “Not,” I said, “in a million years.” And I took the box and opened it.
It contained a dozen long-stemmed white roses. “Somebody thinks you’re dead,” said Alan. The card said, Couldn’t find a white flag. How about these? It was signed, R.
I was about to dump the whole schmeer in the circular file, but Alan was too fast for me. He took back the box and said, “I suppose you’d think it demeanin’ to my masculinity to ask me to find a vase for them, but I knows my duty, Miz Boss. I sho’ly do.” I think he felt guilty about the tape.
I picked up my cup and started to walk toward the coffeepot, which was in the minuscule reception area, when the door opened for Inspectors Martinez and Curry.
“Morning, Miss Schwartz. Heard you got in a little trouble last night.”
“How sweet of you to drop by. I had a nice tour of the sixth floor, thanks. I should have let you know I was coming. You could have baked a cake with a file in it.”
Curry looked blank. Martinez said, “We heard you stopped a burglary in progress.”
“Oh, Inspector, I should have realized—you’ve come to give me a medal.”
“Could you just tell us what you saw, please?”
“A guy trying to break in the back window.”
“You’re sure it was a guy?”
“No question about it.”
“Race?”
I shook my head. “Never got close enough to see.”
“Height and weight?”
“Tall. Maybe a hundred eighty pounds.”
“About what time was this?”
“About nine o’clock, I guess.”
“Nine o’clock.” He paused. “We didn’t get the call from Jones until nine-forty-five.”
I shrugged. “I meant nine, give or take.”
“What happened between nine and nine-forty-five?”
“The moon came up, I think. Some mothers put their kids to bed, and others helped with the homework. One or two guys scored in singles bars, and, oh, I guess a lot of folks watched ‘Simon and Simon.’ ”
Curry smiled, but Martinez quashed him with a look. “This is homicide, Miss Schwartz.”
“You mean Larson died? I just beat him up a teeny-tiny little bit.”
“Miss Schwartz, I’m trying to investigate a homicide and you are interfering with my investigation.”
I thought of saying, “I’m trying to have a cup of coffee and go buy a pink dress, so I can forget I ever heard the word homicide, and you are interfering with my desire to repress just about everything I ever heard of.” But I was afraid he’d tell me to go see a shrink. So I started the count-to-ten routine again. Chris came in from court before I’d made it to three.
“Rebecca, baby, let’s see your poor face.” She came and examined my bruise. “Oh, you pitiful, pitiful peach blossom. It’s going to turn green, I think. Maybe a little Erace.”
“Chris, you remember Inspectors Martinez and Curry.”
“Of course I do.” She gave them her warmest smile. “Coffee, gentlemen?”
Martinez fixed me with an icepick eye. “We’ll be going. See you on the sixth floor, Miss Schwartz.”
Now that hurt my feelings. I guess I must have shown it, because Chris sat me down as soon as they’d left and got coffee for me. “Hard morning?”
“A living hell.”
“Tell Auntie.”
“Boyfriends. Parents. Secretaries. Cops. I’m going to see my shrink. Maybe you should see one, too. One minute you hate Robert Tosi and next thing, he’s your valentine.”
“Valentine. That’s where the roses came from.” Alan had stuffed them all into a vase that would have looked nice with three of them in it.
“You’ve made up with Pigball, then.”
“No. And quit trying to change the subject.”
“I wasn’t. Robert Tosi is certainly not my valentine. He’s a loathsome sort from the nineteenth century. He asked me out for a drink, and I thought it might be educational. That’s all.”
“And was it?”
“Quite. He told me all about his marriage to Diddly-bop.”
“Sally.”
Chris nodded. “It seems the poor fool thought she was happy staying at home and knitting. Then she started working in his bakery and he thought she was happy doing that. It came as a complete surprise that she was cheating on him.”
“With Peter?”
“Yes. Naturally, I asked how they’d been getting along and whether she’d ever mentioned any changes she wanted in the marriage—maybe she thought he was working too hard and they didn’t have enough time together, any little things like that. He said, ‘Sure, but I didn’t think it meant anything.’ ”
“Being liberated women who wouldn’t judge a person on race, sex, or previous condition of servitude, we will not say, ‘Just like a man,’ will we?”
“Certainly we will. Anyhow, he found out she was cheating on him with Peter, and Bob suddenly remembered how she used to flirt with him at parties—he’d thought she was just being nice because Peter was his friend. Can you beat that?”
“He sounds a little on the out-to-lunch side. Why did he tell us Peter wasn’t the type to get involved in a triangle?”
“He doesn’t seem to count that one. He says Sally forced herself on Peter. Also, he still claims Peter dumped her. He just can’t let her have anything. She left him for another man, but he won’t even admit the guy found her attractive—she has to be a whore who stalked Peter and got her just desserts. And that’s not all. He said lots of other awful things about her.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, that she’s a liar and you can’t believe a word she says. Nothing specific—just lots of vitriol and machismo.”
“I’m glad you had such a great time.”
She made a face.
“What time did you go out, anyway?”
“Late. About ten. Why?”
“The burglary was around nine. When did he call you?”
“About nine-thirty.”
“That’s about the time Rob and I would have finished giving the burglar the scenic tour.”
“So he could have been Bob.” She thought a moment and then pounded the desk with her fist. “He was, dammit! He was! He was using me for an alibi.”
“Maybe not. He probably just thinks you’re cute.”
She bronx-cheered, but the unseemly noise was drowned by the worse one of a ringing telephone. I answered before I thought.
“Peace?” said Rob.
“I need to be left alone for a while.”
“No, you don’t. You’ve been through a lot and you need plenty of garlic and basil to steady your nerves.”
That caught me off guard. It sounded so exactly right I had to keep quiet for fear of saying something friendly.
“Also white wine and sourdough. Which reminds me. You know the second starter? The one we thought was stolen last night, only it turned out it really wasn’t stolen?”
“Rob, get to the point.”
“It’s been stolen.”
Chapter Fourteen
We met at the Little City in North Beach, where you can get whole roasted bulbs of garlic, which you spread like anchovy paste on your sourdough, and where the pesto is not confined to the pasta. You can get it all over your salad and your antipasto and probably your hands and face if you want it there.
It was the right place for nerve-steadying herbs, but I still wasn’t sure I wanted to break
bread—even garlic-spread bread—with Rob. I was the first one there, and I sat at the bar instead of a table, so as not to commit myself. He came in and kissed me on the cheek. I didn’t turn the other. “So,” I said, “the second starter’s been stolen.”
Rob nodded. “By a sinister scoundrel who snuck away scot-free.”
“Don’t be cute. I’m not in the mood.”
“Or perhaps a sly slut speeding scurrilously sinward.”
I slipped off my bar stool. “I’m going home.”
He took hold of an elbow. “You can’t. You’re my valentine.”
“Your ex-valentine.”
“Okay then. You have to give back the present I gave you last year.”
He had given me a little heart-shaped ceramic box that now sat on my glass-topped coffee table in lieu of the thing that used to sit there—a heavy sculpture I’d given to Rob. It had been used as a murder weapon, and I couldn’t stand to have it around anymore.
Somehow, thinking about the little heart-shaped box reminded me again of how I’d met Rob and how nice he’d been to me when I was involved in a murder case—I mean, another murder case—and how much in love with him I used to be. I guessed I still was. I sat back down.
“A carafe of the house white,” Rob said to the bartender. I said, “So how did he or she do it?”
“Who?”
“The scoundrel or the slut.”
“Oh. Nobody knows. It’s like the last time—nobody’d even know the starter was missing if it hadn’t been for the foiled attempt at the other warehouse, which prompted a check.”
“Do you think our burglar did it—the one we stopped?”
Rob shrugged. “Who knows? Shall we move to a table?”
“No. Let’s talk about last night.”
“I said I’m sorry.” He turned his blue eyes on me and rubbed a knuckle across my cheek. “Pussycat. You could have been hurt.”
I looked around to see if anyone had heard the pet name. At least, he hadn’t said Rosa Sharon, which he sometimes called me—I wasn’t sure if he thought I was the Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley, or if I reminded him of the Okie girl in the Grapes of Wrath. Nobody’d heard “pussycat,” so I felt free to answer to it: “I could have been hurt! You nearly got shot.”
“And my brave girlfriend saved me. I owe my life to you, baby, and don’t think I’ll be forgetting it. I thought, for openers, maybe I could buy you lunch.”
