Lifeblood

by Penny Rudolph

  “Yes,” Rachel said, feeling grubbier by the minute. “I won’t be eating…dining. I’m just here to see E.J.”

  She assumed E.J. was in fact El Jefe. But El Jefe in a French restaurant? Mexican maybe, or Spanish. Indian. Moorish. American steak house. But French?

  The waiter turned to look at the woman in blue and some signal passed between them. He turned back to Rachel. “It will be a few minutes. Would you like a glass of wine while you wait? We have a very good Cabernet.”

  “No, thanks. The water’s fine.”

  The waiter dipped his pointed chin. “Good.” He swept up the other three napkins on the table and disappeared into a hall opposite the door. Apparently, even if one wasn’t going to dine, the table must be properly adorned.

  Making a mental note never to eat there, Rachel examined the mural on the wall—a copy of Monet’s painting of his garden in Giverny. She remembered it from her art history class at Stanford. In those days, she didn’t exactly hunt out snobby restaurants, but when she found herself in one, she didn’t feel like a peasant at a grand banquet.

  Wondering if paintings were protected by something like a copyright or whether anyone could copy at whim brought her to the realization that if El Jefe owned this place, copied paintings, even if illegal, would be the least of it.

  What was she doing here? Was she that desperate?

  She was.

  If she didn’t get a loan with a decent interest rate soon…. Well, she didn’t want to think about that.

  The waiter reappeared. “You will come with me.”

  No more Madame. Wondering what that subtle change meant, Rachel got up and followed him past the other diners, past the entrance, into a short hall where an elevator stood open.

  An elevator? The waiter entered the car with her and the door closed.

  Rachel pushed down sudden panic. Where was he taking her in an elevator in a one-story building? If she went missing, how long it would it be before someone noticed?

  There was only one button on the panel. He touched it. The car descended, slid to a silent stop and opened its doors without another move from the waiter. He gestured for her to leave the elevator and the doors closed behind her.

  The room was long, with ceiling and brick walls painted white; the floor was chalky white stone tile. There were no windows but all the white made the space seem airy.

  A hulking figure sat at a large desk at the end of the room. There were low flood lights in the corners that made it hard to see anything but a silhouette, and Rachel remembered El Jefe’s penchant for that kind of lighting.

  An arm motioned. A raspy voice, not exactly menacing, but clearly as much in charge as any storm trooper ever was, “Come. Sit.”

  It seemed like a long walk to the desk. She perched gingerly on the edge of the large padded white leather chair that faced it. The desk was bare. A computer, on a matching teak credenza behind the desk, looked pristine, little if ever used.

  El Jefe leaned forward. “And how is your papa?”

  Rachel cleared her throat. “He’s okay. He’s fine.”

  “He tells me that you need some money.”

  “A loan,” Rachel said quickly. “I have collateral.”

  “A parking garage,” El Jefe said solemnly. “How much? The borrowing. How much?”

  She took a deep breath. “I guess about fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “For what do you need this money?”

  Rachel brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. Apparently Marty had left the explanation to her. She swallowed. “I was arrested for something I didn’t do. I need the money to pay the bail bondsman and to help with the attorney’s fees. I had to put up the deed to the garage and…and….”

  “You are not happy with that.”

  “No. I don’t really understand how it works and I don’t trust this guy. The bondsman.”

  “What is his name?”

  She told him.

  El Jefe nodded three times, pausing to eye her steadily each time he brought his chin up. A look passed over his face. “You let me know if he does anything he should not.”

  The look was not unlike that of a junkyard dog. Rachel didn’t know whether to be comforted or threatened. Or both.

  He took a pad of paper from a drawer, wrote something on it, tore off the page, folded it into quarters and handed it to her. “You do not need an appointment. He expects you this afternoon, after three, before six.”

  “Thank you.”

  “De nada. Is nothing. Poquito. Your papa was very kind to Emilio. My son is now wanting to become an abogado. A lawyer. Your papa give Emilio back the money he win from him. He let Emilio have his face. In that way, he maybe even save his life.”

  Did he mean he might have killed his son for taking his college money and playing poker? Rachel decided she didn’t want to know the answer. She rose from her chair.

  “No,” the big man said. “Sit.”

  She obeyed, like a well trained spaniel, and hoped he would not command her to fetch something or roll over.

  “Almuerzo?”

  “I’m sorry…?”

  “Did you eat?”

  She shook her head, hoping the failure to eat was not a punishable offense.

  He punched a button on the phone and barked into it, “Coq au vin. Dos,” then said to Rachel, “I do not like eating alone. The coq au vin is very good. It is Provence.” His French accent seemed better than his English one.

  The waiter appeared almost immediately, as if by magic. Had he been waiting in the closed elevator?

  He opened a nearly invisible door in the white wall and withdrew a handsome wooden folding table, which he set up in front of Rachel, then disappeared. This time she heard the faint whirring of the elevator.

  “This is very kind of you.” Her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the words.

  El Jefe’s eyes were on her face. He said nothing, but his eyes softened.

  “Could I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” he said, seeming to almost smile.

  “Why a French restaurant?”

  “Because French is the food of importancia. Of importante people. And who would expect to find such as I am here?” Now he did smile. A broad smile that flashed even white teeth.

  Charmed against her will, Rachel ventured another question: “Why do you need an elevator to go only one floor?”

  “Because an elevator can be stopped.”

  Suddenly she understood the degree to which he controlled entry and exit. Among other things, he probably didn’t have to worry about hidden microphones.

  When they finished eating she said, “That was the best meal I’ve had in years, maybe ever.”

  He beamed.

  The waiter cleared the table and again disappeared.

  She rose to go. “I have to be somewhere between three and six.”

  “Yes.” El Jefe nodded. “You tell Abe to treat you good.”

  The elevator doors opened and she realized he must have a control at the desk.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Rachel didn’t open the paper he had given her until she got back to her car. It was white with blue lines. On it was written Abraham Junipera, followed by Senior Vice President, and the name of a large, well-known bank. The address was on Hill Street, downtown.

  She got there at four. She had gone back to her apartment, changed clothes and taken a cab. Parking in that area was impossible.

  A receptionist with hair blond to the point of white and wearing a dress as tight as it was short showed her to an office, then disappeared.

  Abraham Junipera was a tall thin man, probably fifty-something, but already one could see how he would look at eighty. Eyes that seemed to have been gouged into his face darted from Rachel to somewhere behind her, as if he expected someone else to join them, or was afraid someone might.

  He spoke her name in a deep, sonorous voice. When she agreed the name was hers, he picked up his phone and murmured somethi
ng into it she couldn’t hear, then suggested she close the door.

  Rachel pushed the knob a little too hard and it slammed.

  Junipera’s eyes widened with something that almost looked like fear. He gestured to two chairs that resembled the leather seats in a Bentley or Rolls Royce.

  She chose one and sat. Her eyes took in the huge window behind him. “Nice view,” she said to break the silence, although she sensed he was as nervous as she. What favor could a man like this owe El Jefe?

  He brushed his broad pale blue tie as if feeling for stray cookie crumbs.

  Rachel decided to just wade in. “I assume you know why I’m here?”

  “Of course.” He sat up very straight and handed her a piece of paper. It was a check, complete with stub, made out to her, for twenty-five thousand dollars.

  She stared at it, then looked up. Junipera was rising from his chair. She hastened to rise from hers. “This is more than I need.”

  “You can’t be sure of that. It’s best if you don’t have to come back.”

  “Don’t you want me to sign something?”

  “That isn’t necessary. You have a guarantor.”

  “Oh. I guess I do.”

  He moved toward the door as if he were leaving instead of she.

  “But what are the terms? And where do I send the payments?”

  He shook his head. “No payments.” He handed her another, smaller piece of paper with a telephone number written on it. “If and when you have the entire balance, telephone that number and we can arrange for you to bring me a check.”

  “But I don’t know how much interest….”

  “No interest.”

  “But…how long…?”

  His narrow shoulders swallowed most of his neck in a shrug. “Let us say three years. If you need an extension, call that number.”

  “Okay.” Feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland, she wondered if she might step out into the hall and disappear forever.

  Junipera’s smile lit the caverns in his long face. He opened the door as he might for someone who couldn’t be expected to find the doorknob herself.

  “Thank you.” She held out her hand.

  The limp way he took it made her think he would probably go down the hall to wash up before returning to his desk.

  999

  “So that’s all?” Goldie asked.

  Rachel had closed the garage at ten, then crossed the street to InterUrban Water headquarters and waited on the front steps for Goldie. Now they sat in the Merry Maids van eating some of the Oreos that Goldie always kept there, and drinking raspberry iced tea from a thermos.

  “What do you mean, all? I’ve got a check for twenty-five thousand dollars. It’s probably hot.”

  “How can it be hot? It’s from a bank.”

  “But I didn’t sign anything. You ever hear of getting a loan from a bank without signing any papers?”

  “Nope. Lucky you.”

  Rachel helped herself to another cookie. “It can’t be on the up and up. Stuff like this isn’t done by verbal agreement. I’ve been filling out loan application papers. I keep expecting them to demand a hair sample, a spit sample, and maybe an MRI scan to be sure I’ll live long enough to pay everything back.”

  “No urine sample?”

  “Very funny.”

  Goldie handed Rachel a paper towel to use for a napkin. “I wish somebody would just hand me a check for twenty-five grand.”

  “I’m going to pay it back.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “You think I should add interest?”

  “I think I would do exactly like he told you, no more, no less.”

  “I could skip the country.”

  “They know your father. At least one of them does.”

  “True. Besides, twenty-five thousand doesn’t go all that far these days.”

  “So don’t look a gift horse in the eye.”

  “Goldie!”

  “I just wanted to see if you were listening. Sometimes you do go on and on.” Goldie brushed the Oreo crumbs from her shirt. “So how’s my favorite hunk?”

  “Hank?”

  “Who else? I’ve never seen the other one. You are some woman pussyfootin’ around two guys.”

  “Hank is coming down for a three-day weekend. Starting tomorrow. He wants to go to Ventura. Get a place near the beach.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And of course you said no.”

  “Wrong.”

  Goldie gave her a narrow-eyed look. “You tell him about the arrest thing and all?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “I will. It’s just not easy to do on the phone. I want to be able to see his face.”

  “Well, do it early,” Goldie said. “Putting it off will just spoil the whole weekend. You gonna to put that ring back on?”

  “I guess. I didn’t want to wear it when I went to see El Jefe or that banker. I didn’t want them to think there was anyone else I could ask.”

  “You wanted to appear helpless.”

  “No, just, you know, with my back against the wall. Which is the truth.”

  Goldie let out a laugh. “You gotta wonder what that El Jefe of yours did for that banker dude that he would just write out a check for twenty-five large and give it to a complete stranger.”

  “Maybe he knocked off somebody who was troubling Mr. Junipera.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Rachel was surprised by how glad she was to see Hank.

  She was still half asleep the next morning and hadn’t seen his green Mustang drive up the ramp. He startled her by tapping her on the shoulder as she was bending over trying to get the keys, the jimmy, the phone numbers and everything else ready for Irene to garage-sit.

  “My God! Did you come in last night and sleep in the garage?”

  “What a way to greet a guy who’s been gone for weeks.”

  Her brain locked on the realization that she had not restored her engagement ring to its proper place on her finger. Flustered, she said, “Has it been weeks?”

  “You don’t know?” He looked so like a puzzled little boy that Rachel couldn’t help putting her arms around him. She pulled him close and kissed him on the chin. His beard was prickly. “I can’t leave till about ten. That’s when I asked Irene to be here.”

  “That’ll work,” Hank said. “I just drove down from Burbank. I need to go home and pack a few more clothes. I’ll come back about ten.”

  “You came down here before you went home from the airport?” Hank lived in La Crescenta. “That’s kind of the long way around from Burbank Airport.”

  “I wanted to see you, you silly thing.”

  She hung her head and shot him a smile.

  But he was now frowning. “Did you lose it?”

  “What?”

  He nodded toward her left hand.

  The lie just rolled right off her tongue. “Oh. No. I took it off to clean it. It’s upstairs in the bathroom.”

  999

  “Dear girl, it is not as hard to run this place as you seem to believe,” Irene told her. “One would think you were leaving a baby with me, not a parking garage.”

  “It is my baby. You can’t imagine how I worry about it. If something goes bad here, there’s nothing…I have nothing else.”

  “Don’t be silly. You have your Pa, your friends, and that estimable dear boy. Yes, estimable.” Irene smiled, admiring the word. “When are you two going to…you know, tie the knot?”

  Rachel tensed. Was everyone in Los Angeles conspiring to get her married? “We’ll set a time soon.”

  “I do hope so, dear girl. We’re not any of us getting any younger.”

  Rachel was thinking she didn’t need to hear that right now. She finished explaining the running of the garage for the third time.

  “Yes, yes.” Irene’s tone politely made it clear she remembered the first two times.

  “Here’s the key to the apartment.” Rachel handed it to her. “I do wish you w
ould just stay there till I get back.”

  “I’d miss my friends in the village.”

  “Village?”

  “On the river front, of course.”

  Rachel frowned. “The Los Angeles River?” The last she had known, Irene was spending her nights in MacArthur Park.

  “Of course, dear girl. We move from the park now and again when the policemen don’t have enough to do and pester us. I do miss the greenery. I’m scouting Elysian Park these days. I think that might be quite nice.”

  “By Dodger Stadium?”

  “Well, not right next, you know. It’s a big park.”

  “Is it safe where you are by the river? I’ve heard things are getting bad along there.”

  The river had long ago been paved into a concrete ditch that worked more like a storm sewer than a river, carrying water only after a heavy rainfall. Rachel often jogged along it. The so-called river’s banks were sometimes dotted with clusters of cardboard boxes and supermarket carts. The clusters belonged to every type of group from transvestites to octogenarians. The boxes and carts always magically disappeared about half an hour before the cops made one of their infrequent sweeps through the area.

  “Of course, it’s safe, dear girl! I am with the Gray Panther settlement. One doesn’t mess with the Gray Panthers, you know. Why once a thief who saw what I had in my purse took it upon himself to follow me to the village. My friends saw him coming. They knew him. One of them, Donald his name is, about eighty I do believe. Donald picked up one of our tables, tore off a leg and knocked the stranger out cold.

  “The fellow bled only a little, but dead to the world, he was. We put him in a cart, pushed him down to the courthouse, and laid him by the flowers. He never bothered us again.”

  “No one saw an unconscious man in a grocery cart and stopped whoever was pushing it?” Rachel asked.

  “Of course not.”

  It always amazed Rachel that the business people who frequented the downtown area could look right through the street people with a sort of selective blindness.

  “Well, please feel free to use the apartment,” she was saying when Hank’s Mustang appeared at the garage entrance.

  He stopped at the booth. “I have an idea,” he said. “If you don’t like it, we won’t do it.”