Susan and I clinked glasses and drank.
“That’s a very good martini,” Susan said.
“Spenser,” I said, “the martini king.”
“What time do you leave tomorrow?” Susan said.
“Nine A.M.,” I said. “American flight 11. First class.”
“You deserve no less,” Susan said.
“Mindy,” I said, “the production coordinator. She looked at me and said clearly I don’t fit well in coach. She said everyone else travels first class at Zenith Meridien.”
“Nonstop?” Susan said.
“To L.A.,” I said. “I’ll drive down from there. Nothing nonstop from Boston to San Diego.”
“I’ll miss you,” Susan said.
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t like to leave you.”
The logs had begun to catch in the fireplace, and the fire got deeper and richer and both of us stared into it in silence.
“You ever wonder why people stare into fires?” I said.
“Yes,” Susan said. She had shifted on the couch and now sat with her head on my shoulder. She held her martini in both hands and drank it in very sparing sips.
“You ever figure out why?”
“No.”
“You’re a shrink,” I said. “You’re supposed to know stuff like that.”
“Oh,” Susan said. “That’s right. Well, it’s probably a somatic impulse rooted in neonatal adaptivity. People will gaze at clothes in a dryer, too.”
“I liked your previous answer better,” I said.
“Me too,” Susan said.
We looked at the fire some more. As the logs became fully involved in the fire they settled in upon each other and burned stronger. Susan finished her martini.
“What’s for chow?” she said.
“Duck breast sliced on the diagonal and served rare, onion marmalade, brown rice, broccoli tossed with a spoonful of sesame tahini.”
“Sounds toothsome,” Susan said.
“You have several options in relationship to dinner and other matters,” I said.
“Un huh?”
“You may make love with me before or after dinner,” I said. “That’s one option.”
“Un huh.”
“You may make love with me here on the couch, or you and I may retire to the bedroom.”
“Un huh.”
“You make take the time to disrobe, or you may enjoy me in whatever disarray we create with our spontaneity.”
Susan ticked off the various choices thoughtfully on the fingers of her left hand.
“Are there any other choices?” she said.
“You may shower if you wish,” I said.
Susan turned her face toward me with that look of adult play in her eyes that I’d never seen anyone emulate.
“I showered before I came to your office,” she said.
“Am I to take that to imply that you intended to, ah, boff me even before you arrived?”
“You’re the detective,” Susan said. “You figure it out. I opt for now, here, in disarray.”
And she put her arms around my neck and pressed her mouth against mine.
“Good choice,” I murmured.
21
THE drive down the San Diego Freeway from LAX takes about two and a half hours and seems like a week. Once you get below the reaches of L.A.’s industrial sprawl, the landscape is sere and unfriendly. The names of the beach towns come up and flash past and recede: Huntington Beach, Newport Beach, Laguna, San Clemente. But you can’t see them from the freeway. Just the signs and the roads curving off through the brownish hills.
Mindy had gotten me a hotel room at the Hyatt Islandia in Mission Bay, and I pulled in there around 3:30 in the afternoon with the temperature at eighty-six and the sky cloudless. They assigned me a room in one of the pseudo-rustic cabanas that ran along the bay, as a kind of meandering wing to the tall central hotel building. I stashed my bag, got my list of addresses and my city map, and headed back out to work.
San Diego, like San Francisco, and like Seattle, seems defined by its embrace of the sea. The presence of the Pacific Ocean is assertive even when the ocean itself is out of sight. There is a different ambient brightness where the steady sunshine hits the water and diffuses. The bay, the Navy, the bridge to Coronado seemed always there, even when you couldn’t see them.
Of my three Zabriskies, two lived downtown; the third was up the coast a little in Esmeralda. The first one was a Chief Petty Officer who was at sea on a carrier. His wife said he didn’t have any sisters, that his mother was in Aiken, South Carolina, and that she herself never watched television. The second was a Polish émigré who had arrived from Gdansk fourteen months ago. It took me into the evening to find that out. I had supper in a place near the hotel, on the bay, that advertised fresh salmon broiled over alder logs. I went in and ate some with a couple of bottles of Corona beer (hold the lime). It wasn’t as good as I had hoped it would be; it still tasted like fish. After supper I strolled back to the hotel along the bayfront, past the charter boat shanties and the seafood take-out stands that sold ice and soda. Across the expressway, gleaming with light in the murmuring subtropical evening, the tower of Sea World rose above the lowland where the bay had been created. It was maybe 9:30 on the coast, and half past midnight on my eastern time sensor. Susan would be asleep at home, the snow drifting harmlessly outside her window. She would sleep nearly motionless, waking in the same position as she’d gone to sleep. She rarely moved in the night. Jill Joyce would have gone to sleep drunk, by now; and she would wake up clear-eyed and innocent-looking in the morning to go in front of the camera and charm the hearts of America. Babe Loftus wouldn’t.
In my cabana I undressed and hung my clothes up carefully. There was nothing on the tube worth watching. I turned out the light and lay quietly, three thousand miles from home, and listened to the waters of the bay murmur across from my window, and smelled the water, a mild placid smell in the warm, faraway night.
22
ESMERALDA is in a canyon on the north edge of San Diego. It nestles against the Pacific Ocean with the hills rising behind it to cut off the rest of California as if it didn’t exist. Esmeralda was full of trees and gardens and flowers. The downtown lounged along the coastline, a highlight of stucco and Spanish tile and plate glass and polished brass clustered near Esmeralda cove. One would never starve in Esmeralda. Every third building along the main drag was a restaurant. The other ones sold jewelry and antiques and designer fashions. The pink stucco hotel in the middle of the main drag had a big canopied patio out front and a discreet sign that said CASA DEL PONIENTE. Three valet carhops stood alertly outside in black vests and white shirts waiting to do anything you told them to do. I nosed in and parked in front of a bookstore across the street from the hotel. According to my map, Polton’s Lane ran behind the stores that fronted Main Street. I left the car and walked back to the corner and turned left on Juniper Avenue. The street was lined with eucalyptus trees that sagged heavily, their branches nearly touching the ground in some places. There was a luggage shop, the window display a single suitcase with a fuchsia silk scarf draped over it. The suitcase and scarf sat on a black velvet background under a small spotlight. Beyond the luggage store was a discreet real estate office done in pale gray and plum, with color pictures, well mounted, of oceanfront property displayed in the window. Between the two buildings was Polton’s Lane. The name was too grand. It was an alley. Behind the stores, cartons and trash barrels were piled, overflowing in some cases. Two cats, a yellow tom with tattered ears, and something that had once been mostly white, scuttled out of sight, their tails pointed straight out as they hurried away.
The alley widened into a small vacant lot encircled by the back doors of affluence. In the lot were several small frame shacks, probably one room apiece, with low board
porches across the front. To each had been attached a lean-to which probably was a bathroom. The yard in front of the one nearest to me was bare dirt. The rest of the lot was weeds. The rusting hulk of a car that might once have been a Volvo stood doorless and wheelless among the weeds, and beyond it someone had discarded a hot water heater. A line of utility poles preceded me down the alley, and wires swung lax between the poles and each house. I stood staring at this odd community of hovels, built perhaps before the town had acquired a main street; built maybe by the workers who built the main street. Here and there among the weeds were automobile tires and beer cans, and at least one mattress with the stuffing spilled out.
My address was number three. Once, a long time ago, someone had tried to make a front path of concrete squares set into the ground. Now they were barely visible among the weed overgrowth. From the house came the sound of a television set blaring a talk show. On the front porch a couple of green plastic bags had torn open, and the contents spilled out onto the porch floor. It didn’t look as if it had happened recently. It was hot in the backside of Esmeralda, and in the heat the rank smell of the weeds mixed with whatever had rotted in the trash bags. I maneuvered around the trash and knocked on the screen door that hung loose in its hinges from a badly warped doorjamb. Nothing happened. I knocked again. Through the screen, which was, it seemed, the only door, I could see a steel-framed cot, with a mattress and a pink quilt and a pillow with no pillowcase. Next to it was a soapstone sink, and in front of both was a metal table that had once been coated with white enamel. To the right of the door I could see the back of what might have been a rocking chair. It moved a little and then a woman appeared in the doorway. The smell of booze came with her, overpowering the smell of the weeds and the hot barren earth.
“Yuh,” she said.
She was an angular woman with white hair through which faded streaks of blond still showed. The hair hung straight down around her face without any hint of a comb. She had on a T-shirt that advertised beer, and a pair of miracle fiber slacks that had probably started out yellow. Her feet were bare. In her right hand she was carrying a bottle of Southern Comfort, her skinny, blue-veined hand clamped around its neck.
“Spenser,” I said. “City Services. Open up.”
The door was hooked shut, although the screening in front of it was torn and I could have reached in and unhooked it myself.
She nodded slowly, staring at me through the door. Her face had not seen makeup, or sun, for a long time. It sagged along her jawline, and puckered at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were darkly circled and pouchy. In the hand that didn’t hold the Southern Comfort was a cigarette, and she brought it up slowly, as if trying to remember the way, and took a big suck on it.
“Vera Zabriskie?” I said. I made it sound officious and impatient. Women like Vera Zabriskie were used to civil servants snapping at them. It was what they endured in return for the welfare check that kept them alive. She looked at me, still frowning, as she let the smoke drift out of her mouth. Then she took a slug of Southern Comfort from the bottle and swallowed.
“Yuh,” she said.
“You’re Vera?” I said.
She nodded.
“Well, then, damn it, let me in. You think I got all day?”
She thought about what I’d said, turned it around a little in her head, got a look at it, and figured out, slowly, what it meant. Still holding the cigarette between the first two fingers, she raised a hand and fumbled the hook out of the door. She stepped back. I pushed it open and went in. The place smelled bad, a scent compounded of garbage, sweat, booze, cigarette smoke, and loss. A huge color television set was blatting at me from the corner. On top of the television set, framed in one of those cardboard holders that school pictures come in, was a color picture of Jill Joyce on the cover of TV Guide. The picture didn’t fit the frame right, and it had been adjusted with Scotch tape here and there. Can this be a clue I see before me?
Vera Zabriskie went back to her rocking chair and sat in it and took a pull on the Southern Comfort bottle, and stared at the tube. It stared back with about the same level of comprehension. She dropped her burning cigarette on the floor and stamped aimlessly at it and half squashed it. The crushed butt continued to smolder. The floor around her chair was littered with sniped cigarettes and burn marks in the unfinished plywood.
I went around and turned off the television. She showed no reaction. She continued to look at the blank screen.
I said, “Who’s the woman in the picture?”
Her head turned slowly toward me. She squinted a little. She raised her left hand and realized there was no cigarette and stopped, put the bottle of Southern Comfort on the floor, picked up a pack of Camels from the floor and got another cigarette burning. She inhaled deeply, put down the pack, picked up the jug, and stared at me again.
“Who’s the woman in the picture?” I said.
“Jillian.”
“Jillian who?” I said. I still had my official tone.
“Jillian Zabriskie,” she said with no inflection. “I seen the name on a TV show.”
“She related to you?”
“Daughter,” she said. There was a sound in her voice that I hadn’t heard before. It was weak but it might have been pride. I looked around the one-room shack where Vera Zabriskie lived. She saw me look around. I saw her see me. We stared for a moment at each other, like two actual humans. For a moment a real person lurked inside the mask of alcohol and defeat, and peered out at me through the rheumy blue eyes. For a moment I wasn’t a guy pumping her for information.
“You’re not close with your daughter,” I said.
Vera suddenly heaved herself up out of the rocker. She put the cigarette in her mouth and put the bottle on the chipped enamel table. She opened the drawer in the table and rummaged with both hands, and came out with another picture.
It was framed in cardboard, like the picture of Jill, only this one was a school picture. Vera handed it to me. It was a picture of a little girl, maybe ten. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and a clear resemblance to Jill Joyce.
“Who’s this?” I said.
“Granddaughter,” she said.
“Jillian’s daughter?” I said.
“Yuh.”
I looked at the picture again. In the indefinable way that pictures speak, this one was telling me it wasn’t recent.
“How old is she now?” I said.
“Jillian?”
“No, your granddaughter.”
The burst of humanity had drained her. She was back in the rocker, with her bottle. She shrugged. Her gaze was fixed on the blank picture tube. I slipped the picture out of its holder and put it inside my shirt. Then I folded the cardboard and put it back in the drawer.
“You see her much?”
She shook her head.
“She live around here?”
She shook her head again. She drank a little Southern Comfort from the bottle.
“Far away?”
She nodded.
“Where?”
“L.A.,” Vera said. Her voice was flatter than a tin shingle.
“She with her dad?” I said. Sincere, interested in Vera’s family. You’re in good hands with Spenser.
Vera shrugged.
“What’s her dad’s name?”
“Greaser,” Vera said clearly.
“Odd name,” I said.
“Told her stay away from that greaser. Took my granddaughter.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Spic name.”
“Un huh,” I said helpfully.
“Told her not.”
“What’s his name?” The helpful smile stretched across my face like oil on water. I could feel the tension behind my shoulders as I tried to squeeze blood from this stone.
/> “Victor,” she said. “Victor del Rio.”
“And he lives in L.A.”
“Yuh.”
“You know where?”
She shook her head.
“You ever see your granddaughter?”
She shook her head again. She was frowning at the blank television, as if the fact of its gray silence had just begun to penetrate. She leaned forward in the rocker and turned it on. Then, exhausted by the effort of concentration, she leaned back in the rocker and took a long pull of her Southern Comfort. The talk show had given way to a game show; photogenic contestants frantic to win the money, a faintly patronizing host, amused by their greed.
I stood silently beside the seated woman lost in her television and her booze. She was inert in her chair, occasionally dragging on the cigarette, occasionally pulling on the bottle. She seemed to have forgotten I was there. I had other questions, but I couldn’t stand to ask them. I couldn’t stand being there anymore. I turned and went to the door and stopped and looked back at her. She sat motionless, oblivious, her back to me, her face to the television.
I opened my mouth and couldn’t think what to say and closed it, and went out into the putrid weed smell and walked back out Polton’s Lane, trying not to breathe deeply.
23
FROM the Hyatt in Mission Bay, I called Mindy at the Zenith Meridien production office in Boston.
“The trail,” I said, “leads to L.A., sweetheart.”
“Are you doing Cary Grant?” she said.
“You got some smart mouth, sweetheart. No wonder you’re not an executive.”
“It’s not a smart mouth that gets a girl ahead in this business, big guy.”
“Cynicism will age you,” I said.
“So will you. You want a hotel in L.A.?”
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