by Sue Grafton
Galishoff gave me his number again and I jotted it down with no real intention of contacting him. I’d just picked up a new job and I was on my way to the Mojave Desert. I didn’t take the threat seriously until someone ran my VW off the road and into a ditch. I ended up in the hospital and that’s when I called Dietz. He agreed to escort me back to Santa Teresa. In that same phone call, he told me the judge had been gunned down in front of his own home despite the presence of the police.
Dietz showed up in my hospital room and drove me home in his little red Porsche. Once the jeopardy passed and life returned to normal, if Dietz and I ended up in the sack, that was really nobody’s business. What followed was a three-month live-in relationship, at which point Dietz took off for Germany, where he was under contract to the military to conduct antiterrorist training. I was miffed by his departure, but what choice did I have?
He’d said, “I can’t stay.”
I’d said, “I know. I want you to go. I just don’t want you to leave me.”
We connected again in January of 1986 after an absence of two years, four months, and ten days. That visit bled over into March, a period during which he had knee-replacement surgery and I agreed to drive him back to Nevada. By the time we parted company, I’d spent two weeks at his place in Carson City playing nursemaid, a role in which I have never been known to shine. I’d driven a rental car from there to Nota Lake, picking up an investigation that would have been his to handle if he hadn’t been laid low. I hadn’t seen him since.
I’m not an on-again, off-again kind of girl, and Dietz wasn’t good at staying put, so emotionally we were always at odds. To be fair about it, neither one of us was suited for a long-term commitment. Dietz was afflicted with wanderlust and I was chronically self-protective, having been married and divorced twice.
Here’s how it seems to work in my life: Usually when you say good-bye to a friend, it’s a casual matter because it doesn’t occur to you that you might not see that certain someone again. It’s an à bientôt kind of thing . . . a term I remember from my high school French class. These are the few phrases I committed to memory even though I never got better than a C on a test.
À bientôt . . . see you soon.
À plus tard . . . see you later.
À demain . . . see you tomorrow.
À tout à l’heure . . . see you in a while.
When it comes to partings, the French are ever the optimists. My outlook is bleak. While my attention is fixed on the totally wrenching boo-hoo of an impending separation, the French language conveys hope and expectation, the happy assumption that in a short period of time, they’ll be bonjouring each other all over again. My lifelong “good-bye” experiences lean toward finality and pain. My parents died. My aunt died. My first husband died. I’m dead set (as it were . . .) against having a pet because the risk of loss would soar into the stratosphere and I’ve got troubles enough as it is.
After our last parting, I’d set Dietz out on the curb, metaphorically speaking, in hopes the alley fairies would come along and cart him away. It’s not that I never thought of him, but by and large, people in my life knew better than to mention his name. Now here he was again and I couldn’t figure out what was going on.
I pulled up in front of my studio apartment at 4:25. I grabbed my shoulder bag and duffel, locked my car, and made my way through the squeaky gate and around to my front door. I left my Smith-Corona in the trunk of my car, intending to take it into the office with me first thing Monday morning. There was no sign of Henry, but the backyard smelled of pot roast and freshly baked bread, both of which he does to perfection. I let myself in and carried my duffel up the spiral stairs to the loft. I’d been telling myself Dietz’s arrival didn’t matter one way or the other, but I postponed my official appearance at Henry’s door until I’d slipped into a change of clothes. I stuck to my standard outfit: black turtleneck, blue jeans, and boots. I didn’t want it to look like I was trying too hard. I skipped the makeup, which I seldom wore in any event. I did floss and brush my teeth, and then stared at myself in the bathroom mirror.
In novels, the protagonist is forever doing this because it affords the author an opportunity to describe the character’s physical traits. That ploy won’t work here because I always look exactly like myself. This can be discouraging. Sometimes when I’m standing in a supermarket checkout line, I’ll spot the cover of a tabloid magazine plastered with candid photos of well-known actresses the paparazzi have caught off guard. What a shock it is to see legendary beauties looking washed-out and furtive, with matted hair, puffy lids, and splotchy complexions; flaws made all the more alarming for the images we carry of them, creamy-skinned and doe-eyed with tresses artfully tousled and sprayed to a hard shine. My looks fall somewhere between the two extremes, but closer to the puffy end. To my credit, I don’t misrepresent my basic attributes with a lot of gunk. Anyone who’s startled to see me looking splotchy hasn’t been paying attention.
It was 4:55 when I knocked on Henry’s back door. I was feeling more curious about Dietz than uneasy, which shows you what a moron I am. Dietz wasn’t due for an hour and I was grateful for a brief interlude alone with Henry so I could fill him in on my trip to Bakersfield.
Henry let me in. He’d already opened a bottle of Chardonnay, resting now in a cooler on the kitchen counter. I grant you it was a teeny tiny bit early for a glass of wine, but how could I refuse the half a glass when he handed it to me? He poured himself a tot of Black Jack over ice and we sat down at the kitchen table.
One of Henry’s many endearing qualities is his interest in matters that are of interest to me. He has remarkable recall of my past attitudes and behaviors, and he doesn’t hesitate to bring inconsistencies to my attention. He’s also free with his opinions even if they don’t coincide with mine, which is an irritating trait but one that I’ve come to appreciate.
He had two freshly baked loaves of bread sitting on a towel on his kitchen counter, and his oven was exuding enough mild heat and roasting aromas to make the room feel cozy. I knew he’d serve a salad and something simple for dessert. Of particular interest on this occasion was the presence of the cat, who had apparently taken possession of Henry and everything related to him. Ed had been in residence only briefly when I’d taken off for Bakersfield. I could still hardly believe I’d been there so short a time when it felt like I’d been gone for so long.
I said, “Tell me about Felix. How’s he doing?”
Henry waggled his outstretched hand in a gesture that indicated not so good. “After supper, we can go over to St. Terry’s, if you like. He’s unconscious, so you can’t actually visit but you could look in on him. The nurses are kind, but I don’t like being underfoot. As one nurse put it, ICU doesn’t lend itself to looky-loos.”
“No improvement at all?”
“They’ve been pumping him with antibiotics, which I gather hasn’t done much good. In a situation like this, things tend to go from bad to worse. I don’t mean to sound so pessimistic, but there’s no point in mincing words.”
“How’s Pearl holding up?”
“She’s currently off on a bender from what I hear. Your friend Dandy as well.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, yes. I was at the hospital last night and Pearl was conspicuously absent. She’d been at his bedside, as faithful as a hound, whenever she was allowed. Suddenly, no sign of her, so I stopped by the shelter as soon as I left the hospital. I couldn’t get a word out of Ken, the guy at the desk, but one of the residents heard me ask about her and he took me aside, which is when others chimed in.”
“Are they holed up someplace?”
“Someone suggested a sports bar in the area. I don’t know the name.”
“Dandy mentioned the place. They play darts there on weekends if they’re sober enough.”
“I doubt they’re playing darts. I’d have looked for them myself, but I don’t have the patience.”
Throughout this exchange, Ed was sit
ting in Henry’s rocking chair, following the conversation solemnly with his oval eyes, the one blue, the other green. He was short-haired and white, with a patch of black over the right side of his face and touches of black and caramel on the left. His ears stood straight up, triangles lined with pink and edged in black. His stub of a tail looked like a black-and-tan powder puff. Henry regarded him with a doting expression, which the cat seemed to think was entirely his due.
I nodded at the cat. “How’s he been? Looks like he’s settled in and made himself at home.”
“He’s a very good boy. He’s caught everything from mice to moles. Two lizards yesterday and one today.”
“I hope no birds or bunnies.”
“Of course not. We had a chat about that and I explained his limitations. He comes when he’s called and doesn’t play in the street.”
“I thought Japanese bobtails were supposed to be talkative. He hasn’t uttered a peep.”
“He only speaks up when he has something to say.”
“Is it okay if we discuss him like this when he’s sitting right there?”
“He likes being the center of attention. He’s even taught me a trick. Watch this.” Henry picked up a wad of yarn the size of a golf ball. Ed was instantly interested, and when Henry tossed it across the kitchen, Ed streaked after it, brought it back, and dropped it at Henry’s feet. Both Henry and Ed seemed extremely pleased with themselves. Ed watched Henry for a bit to see if they’d play again.
I said, “This is weird. Like you just had a baby and all we’re going to do from here on out is sit and stare at the little tyke and admire everything he does.”
“Don’t be churlish,” he said. “Tell me about your trip.”
This I did while I set the table and Henry put together a rustic apple tart, rolling out a round of pie dough that he covered with pared apple slices, butter, sugar, and cinnamon. He seemed to recognize that I was still trying to settle on an attitude about my newly discovered cousins, so we didn’t pursue the subject beyond the basic information. Meanwhile, Ed curled up in the rocker and closed his eyes, though his ears continued to twitch like rotating antennae.
“So what’s with Dietz? I can’t believe he called after all this time.”
“He put in a fair amount of effort looking for you. He said he tried you at your office and tried you at home. He left messages both places, but when he didn’t hear back he called me, asking if I knew where you were. I said Bakersfield, but you’d be back this afternoon. He said he was on his way and then he hung up.”
“No explanation?”
“He doesn’t strike me as a man who explains himself.”
“Good point.”
Henry opened the refrigerator door and took a bag of fresh salad mix from the crisper drawer. “I wonder if you’d give these a rinse. The package says ‘ready to eat’ but that’s a relative term. Lettuce spinner’s in there.”
He indicated the corner cabinet that was outfitted with a lazy Susan so that cooking items could be stored in otherwise dead space. I opened the cabinet and removed the spinner, took out the perforated inner bowl, dumped the loose lettuces in, and ran water over the greens. I popped the bowl back into the spinner and pulled the cord, which made the inner bowl rotate at high speed, excess water flung off by the centrifugal force. The rapidly retracting cord snapped back and caught me in the hand. Wow, shit, hurt, ow.
I was happy for the distraction. Henry had mentioned an estimated 6:00 arrival time for Dietz, whom I knew to be punctual. I stole a quick glance at my watch. It was only 5:20, so I figured I was still in the safety zone. I couldn’t imagine why a job referral would warrant a trip to Santa Teresa. Maybe he meant to refer me for a job. I knew I hadn’t sent any business his way. When the knock came at Henry’s aluminum screen door, the sound barely registered, so I was startled when Henry opened the door and I heard Dietz’s voice.
In the first glimpse I had of him, I knew something major had gone down in his life. As usual his hair was shorn close, but the medium gray had now turned almost entirely white. Something in the change suggested he’d been hit with an emotional blast, like a flash fire that leaves singed hair where your eyebrows had once been. I blinked and saw him restored to himself, looking as he always had. The white was the natural progression of a graying process already under way. His nose was long and sharp, humped at the bridge where a fan of lines ran upward intersecting the horizontal lines that traced his forehead. It was the gray eyes and the deep tan that made his face arresting, along with the occasional lopsided smile.
He wasn’t a big man, maybe five foot ten. He was light-framed, narrow through the shoulders, with a wiry strength as opposed to brawn. In the past, he’d worked out with weights and he’d run six miles a day, except for the stretch when his bad knee proved too painful. He’d apparently recovered from the knee surgery with no lingering effects. At least he had no limp that I could see. He looked tired, but then maybe we all look tired as the years mount up. He wore the same boots, faded blue jeans, and the same tweed jacket I’d first seen him in, complete with a black turtleneck. I put a self-conscious hand to my own black turtleneck, wondering if anyone would notice the match.
He’d taken me in with a glance. I was the same as I’d always been, but I wondered if he saw a difference. I caught Henry’s gaze flicking from me to Dietz and back. He seemed to hold himself in suspension, removing his personhood while Dietz and I sorted ourselves out.
I said, “How was the trip?”
“Good. Fast. Can’t believe I didn’t get a ticket.” His tone was pleasant, but he didn’t meet my eyes. What was that about?
“You still have the Porsche? I expected to hear your car rumbling from half a block away.”
“Still here. I thought about a new one, but mine’s only ten years old.”
Henry said, “How about a drink? Black Jack on the rocks?”
Dietz smiled. “Good memory.”
“Have a seat,” Henry said.
“Just let me freshen up.”
“Sure thing. Bathroom’s that way.”
Dietz left. Henry and I exchanged a look, wondering what had prompted the nine-hour drive. There wasn’t time to discuss the matter, so we went about our business, leaving it up to Dietz to explain himself. His usual style was to jump right in.
By the time he emerged from the bathroom, a scant four minutes had passed. Henry had dropped ice cubes into a highball glass and poured whiskey neat. “Water?”
“Perfect as is. Thanks.”
Dietz sat down. As though coaxed, Ed jumped down from the rocker and jumped up into Dietz’s lap. He did this without appearing to crouch and spring. He seemed to levitate. Four paws on the floor . . . airborne, straight up . . . four paws in Dietz’s lap, as neat as you please. Ed studied Dietz at close range, the two eye to eye. Dietz ran an idle hand along the cat’s head and the cat arched against his palm. Dietz scratched behind one ear. Daintily, Ed curled up in his lap, prepared to nap with his head on his paws. Henry took note of Ed’s vote of approval. I had to suppress the urge to roll my eyes. A conspiracy of men and Ed was leading the charge. What had I ever done to him?
We chatted while we ate, skipping from topic to topic, avoiding anything significant. The longer this went on, the more tense I felt. I didn’t know if Dietz was delaying so he could talk to me alone or if he was setting the stage for a showdown. I thought it was better to have Henry on hand while I heard him out. I felt guilty, but I didn’t know what I’d done. Dessert out of the way, Henry inquired whether either of us wanted coffee. I declined and Dietz shook his head in the negative as well.
I looked at Dietz. “So what’s up?”
The smile he turned on me was set and I could see now how angry he was. Not a hot anger, but the cold flat kind that’s all the more dangerous because it’s been driven underground.
“I was hoping you’d tell me,” he said. “You recommended me to a guy who turned out to be a deadbeat. I did the work and submitted a report. That
was June 15. No response. I billed again July and he called, which was nice of him. He claimed the client was a slow pay and if he didn’t get the money that week, he’d pay me himself and collect from the client after the fact. Sounded good to me, so I waited. Still nothing. I bill again in August and the mail bounces back. Big block letters: ‘Return to Sender.’ I try calling and the number’s a disconnect. I can’t get through to you, so here I am.”
He stared at me and I stared back.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
“Wolinsky. Pete. The PI.”
“Well, it’s no wonder you never heard from him. He’s dead.”
“Since when?”
“August 25. He was shot during a robbery attempt and died at the scene.”
“Would’ve been nice if you’d let me know.”
I squinted. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you gave him my name and he subbed out a job to me.”
“I didn’t give Pete your name.”
“Yes, you did. That was the first thing he said.”
“He said I sent you? When was this?”
“May. A week before Memorial Day. He said he ran into you downtown and asked if you knew a Nevada PI. You suggested me.”
“I haven’t talked to Pete in years. I’d never give him your name or number for any reason at all. The man’s a scumbag.”
“He said he worked with you at Byrd-Shine.”
“He did not! He never worked at Byrd-Shine. I had nothing to do with giving him your number.”
“Well, if you didn’t send him, who did?”
“How would I know?”
“I only agreed because of you. I wouldn’t have taken the job otherwise.”
“Have you been listening to anything I said? He might have claimed I referred him, but that doesn’t make it true.”
“How’d he hear about me, then?”
“Maybe another PI in town.”
“You’re the only one I know.”
I lowered my voice, feigning calm. “I have not talked to Pete since Morley Shine died and that was five years ago. I ran into him at the funeral, where he was trolling for business.” In the midst of my protest, I felt a spark of recall and held up a hand. “Uh-oh. Wait.”
