While we ate on the floor in front of a roaring fire, Jan rummaged through a box of DVDs and came up with Imitation of Life.
“Good choice, Jan, but one which calls for a roll of toilet paper. Much too intense for mere Kleenex. Better get some for RJ, too, he’s a sucker for tearjerkers. Which reminds me, can you dog-sit Wednesday night? I gotta go to Seattle and kick some subcontractor ass.”
“No can do. I gotta go to La Tuesday and probably won’t be back until Friday.” Jan always called Los Angeles “La,” as in do-re-me-fa-so-la.
“What’s going on down there?”
“Long-winded waiters and weirdoes. Smog and traffic jams. The usual. I’m being sent on a training mission. They installed a new security system at LAX and kindly used our software. I gotta go whip some aeronerds into shape.”
“Whip ‘em well, we can’t have too much security these days. Well rats, RJ, looks like you gotta spend a night with Dr. Craigosaurus while your aunt and mommy go out to fight for equality in this man’s world.”
Jan gave RJ a sympathetic pat and her plate to lick. “Too bad. He loves Craig, but ain’t too keen on his kennel.”
“What can I do? Besides this hound is overdue for a tooth cleaning, nail clipping, and debugging. And he’s been favoring his leg again.”
“Gonna have his oil changed and the air in his tires checked while you’re at it?”
“Why not?” I asked, ignoring the ringing of my phone.
After three rings Jan cocked her head and glared at me. “You gonna get that, or are you waiting for RJ to answer.”
“Let RJ take it. He speaks dawg.”
“Answer the friggin’ phone.”
“Oh, all right.” I snatched up the phone, growled, “She’s not here,” and hung up.
“Real nice, Hetta Coffey. How do you know it wasn’t some kind of family emergency in Texas? Or your sister in Denver? Or Mary?”
“For one thing, all of our relatives and friends in the whole wide world know we’re never home on Saturday night. Mary is draped over some Austin kicker bar by this time of night. Besides, it was for you.”
“How do you know? You didn’t even listen….” The phone rang again. This time I picked up after the first ring and listened.
“I told you she wasn’t here, Ree-shard. Where are you? If I see her I’ll have her give you a call, but please don’t call back here tonight. I’m going to bed early.” I hung up before the jerk could make a snide comment or Jan could grab the phone.
“Where is he?”
“At your apartment.”
“Maybe I should talk to him. I mean, if he’s worried?”
“You’re worried that BDR’s worried? After last night? Does the term, self-esteem, mean anything at all to you? RJ, you shit, quit drinking my wine. You’re dribbling on the carpet.”
Jan pouted for a few minutes while I concentrated on the movie. Lana Turner was making cookies. I muted the sound and tried to make up. “Wanna bake cookies?”
“With extra chocolate chips?”
“Why not? Let’s put both Lana and BDR on PAUSE. Let the SOB stew, then dump him. But first, tomorrow, when we’re sure he’s not at your apartment, let’s change the locks. Then you can stay here until you leave for La. Oooh, don’t you wish we knew where the fat broad lives? We could dump all his clothes in front of her place,” I said, warming to a plan, “after we let RJ chew them into little pieces.”
Jan looked a little uncertain and I pounced. “You are going to dump him, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re not gonna let him get away with it this time. You saw him with your own eyes. And after he told you he was going to Tahoe with his brother.”
“Maybe it wasn’t him we saw.”
“Pitiful,” I said, scorn dripping from my wine-reddened tongue. “Of course it wasn’t him. That was surely some other guy wearing the Armani jacket you gave him for Christmas, and driving BDR’s car. Maybe we were mistaken and it wasn’t his head buried in the fat broad’s décolletage.”
“You have a mean streak, Hetta,” Jan whimpered, tears gathering in her periwinkle eyes.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be mean. I hate to see that man use you the way he does. You have everything going for you. You’re smart, have a good job, and you’re not too ugly. You deserve better. Enough lecture. Let’s make cookies, eat some and then, if you’ve still got to call him, I won’t say a word. I promise.”
The phone rang. We both stared at it, then Jan grinned and commanded, “Hetta, kill!” giving my basal bitchiness the green light.
I grabbed the phone and growled, “What part of ‘don’t call here again tonight’ don’t you understand, you inconsiderate Lothario?”
“Uh, is this Jan? This is Lars Jenkins. We met this morning in Berkeley?”
Oops. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry, Lars. I thought you were, uh, well, never mind. This is Hetta. Her friend? Anyway, here she is.” I gave Jan a thumbs-up and the phone. I simply had to either get caller ID or a better phone presence. Or both.
After a brief conversation she hung up and asked, “I wonder how Lars got this number?”
“I slipped him your card, and this number, under the table this morning.”
“What!”
“Well, it was obvious he was interested and since you are untrained in the art of prestidigitation…”
“Spell that.”
“P-r, oh, never mind. Sleight of hand. In this case, sleight of card, which I took into my own hands.”
She opened her mouth to yell at me, but changed her mind and smiled. “Thanks. I needed that call.”
“I know. Glad I didn’t scare him off. I’m gonna sign up for caller ID. Monday morning.”
“How come? I thought you hated those things.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been getting some annoying hang-ups lately, and I’d like to know from whence they come so I can call ‘em back and hang up. Anyhow, what did you and Lars talk about?” As if I hadn’t heard every word on her end.
“It’s so cool. He and his brother work in the security business and know all about my company’s software. And he wants to meet us for lunch one day.”
“Us?”
“He thought maybe he’d bring his brother.”
“His brother, Bob, the fashion plate? If he’s paying we’ll be eating at Burger King. If the ninety-nine cent Whopper deal is still on.”
“I thought you kinda liked him. You did flirt, Hetta.”
“And was soundly ignored. No loss, he isn’t my type.”
“And that would be? Criminally insane? Internationally sought after by major law enforcement agencies? Or maybe married?”
I laughed. “You know me all too well, Tonto. But count me out on the lunch.”
“What can a little lunch with a couple of nice guys hurt?”
“I have an appointment that day.”
“You don’t even know what day. Suit yourself, Hetta, but one of these days you need to do a little soul-searching, decide if you want to end up a lonely little old lady with thirty cats.”
“Cats! We hate cats,” I yelled, covering RJ’s ears. “Besides, that Bob person completely ignored me. The girl he was with wasn’t a day over twenty-five. And stunning. Why on earth would I think he’d be interested in me? Now, let’s do cookies, then, like I said, I won’t even bitch if you call BDR.”
She didn’t.
We finished off the wine, ate those cookies RJ didn’t get to first, watched another movie, and went to bed early.
RJ, ever on the alert for an opportunity to break my house rules, slept in Jan’s room. During the night when I peeked in to check on them he was under the covers, his head on her pillow. They looked so peaceful I only whispered gruffly, “RJ, remind me to kick your doggie ass in the morning for getting on the bed.”
He feigned sleep, but I swear I saw him smile.
4
“Hand me the Phillips head, si’l vous plait.” I held out one hand while gripping a deadbolt lockset in place with the oth
er. The door was original to Jan’s 1910 building and had probably been painted at least once a year without benefit of removing the old coats. Lead poisoning came to mind as I wiped away dust and fitted up the lock.
“Gee, this looks easy,” Jan said, handing me the screwdriver.
“Not rocket science. We could have had it re-keyed, but getting a locksmith out in San Francisco on a Sunday would cost a fortune. Especially here in the Marina District. Lucky for us I had this extra deadbolt at home.”
“How come you had an extra?”
“Took it out of my front door last year when I decided Wade wasn’t a keeper.” This was my way of saying I had decided not to sleep with him.
“Wait a minute, does this mean that lunatic might still have a key? To my apartment?”
“Not to worry, I’m sure they took it from him. And he’s going to be away for at least five years. You never live in the same place for five years. Besides, he’s found Jesus and wants to be my friend.”
“How do you know?”
“He called last week.”
“He gets to make calls?”
“Evidently.”
“Holy shit, what did you say to him?”
“I was very polite, then told him the truth.”
“That being?”
“That I’m getting married and moving to Mexico. I figure even with time off for good behavior I’ve got ample time to find a husband and move,” I reasoned.
“How do you figure that? You’ve had many, many, many years to find somebody.”
“One more ‘many’ and I’ll brain you with this screwdriver.”
Jan grinned. “Okay, I take back a ‘many.’ Anyway, do you think that was a good idea? I mean, the reason you told Wade you were ending your whatever-you-called-it, was you had decided to remain celibate. Now you tell him you’re getting married?”
“Shoot, everyone knows marriage and celibacy go hand in hand. I know this must be true, for all the married men who hit on me tell me they don’t sleep with their wives.”
We locked eyes and yelled in unison, “And married men never lie!”
After a high-five, I went back to fiddling with the lock and Jan asked, “About Wade. I thought he was in for a million years. Do the criminally insane really get time off for good behavior?”
“Damned if I know.”
I concentrated on the task at hand, but made a mental note to find out more about the California penal system. I didn’t think I had anything to worry about. Wade “the perp” and I had ended our friendship long before he took his brief, but ruinous, walk on the felonious side of life. Up until that fateful foray, Wade had been a much decorated hero during a fifteen year firefighting career. Jan and I had followed Wade’s trial in the newspapers, fascinated that we knew someone who could be so incredibly stupid.
Somewhere in the saga of a convoluted crime spree involving a drug deal gone wrong and kidnapping, one of Wade’s coked-up cohorts put out a cigarette out on his then girlfriend, now the State’s star witness/victim, thereby earning a mayhem conviction for all concerned. In California, that drew a quick one-way ticket to a facility catering to the criminally insane. I pictured him playing Ping-Pong with Charlie Manson.
That wasn’t the first time I’d been involved with someone strolling the shady side of Justice Street. The way I choose men, it’s no wonder I prefer living with a real dog.
“There. Done,” I said, clicking the deadbolt back and forth.
“You’re pretty good at this handyperson thing.”
“Hey, when you’ve lived alone as long as I have and renovated a ninety-year-old house, changing out a lock is kid’s play. Let’s try the key. Just in case, you’d better go inside.”
She did, and as I bent to unlock the door, the small key I wore around my neck swung forward and clinked against the door handle. I wondered, as I unlocked Jan’s door, if I would ever know what my key unlocked. Actually, not my key, but Hudson the jilter’s key.
I threw open the door with a little “Ta-dah,” a shuffle ball change step, and a bow. “That’ll be one-hundred dollah. American. Does madame wish to put this on one of her overextended credit cards?”
“Mademoiselle, thank you. And she wishes to put it on her tab. Now, let’s get to work, for we have important labors ere this day ends.”
Exorcising Jan’s one room Victorian apartment was made simple by virtue of its small size and BDR’s lack thereof—virtue, that is. The sleaze kept only enough of his stuff at her place to keep Jan from entertaining thoughts of entertaining other men there. God only knew if hers was a pied-à-femme amongst many.
I found the slimeball’s Armani jacket draped over a chair. Plucking a long black hair from the shoulder, I held it aloft as if it had cooties. “Fat broad hair, my dear Watson,” I announced, then proceeded to go through the pockets.
“What are you looking for, Hetta?”
“Nothing. It has been my experience that only faithful and honest men leave stuff in their pockets for women to find. Show me a cheater and I’ll show you clean pockets every time.” I pulled out the empty pocket linings with a smug, “Voi-la!”
We piled BDR’s crap, with the exception of the Armani, in the stairwell as a “Dear Reechard, you’re screwed” greeting on his next visit and trudged down two flights to where RJ waited patiently in his VW. Luckily for us, no one else had thought to park in the NO PARKING zone in front of Jan’s building.
“Where to now?” Jan asked. “I’m famished.”
“Me, too. But first, a quick search for a deserving soul, then, how about Mexican? I feel a strong urge for a refried frijole,” I said.
We headed downtown, where we found a gaunt and hairy man of indeterminate age leaning against his Safeway cart of worldly possessions. I left him wearing an Armani jacket and a toothless smile.
“How much did you put in the pocket, Hetta?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Het-ta.”
“Fifty bucks. That Armani fairly screams for a silk cravat.”
“You’re a phony, you know it? How come he knew your name?”
I gave her the disdainful look she deserved, sniffed, “Very funny. Let us retrieve my car,” and drove to the Berkeley restaurant where we’d spent the previous morning slurping champagne. My candy apple red Beemer convertible sat unmolested except for a polite note on the windshield from the Night Owl Security Company reminding me that this was not a public parking lot. We parked RJ’s Volkswagen and piled into the BMW.
“RJ, just because I’m feeling a bit guilty about leaving you in Craigosaurus’s critter clink next week, you may ride in my car. There will be, however, no scratching, farting or throwing up on my white leather upholstery.”
I put down the top, hit the CD’s PLAY button, and half of Berkeley learned that Jeremiah was a bullfrog. As we sped toward a fresh tortilla, RJ’s ears flapped in the breeze and an occasional rope of doggie drool spattered cars’ windshields behind us.
At Jack London Square I parked in the loading zone in front of a Mexican restaurant where the friendly staff tolerated RJ’s presence on their patio so long as he didn’t steal too much food from other tables. I ordered cheese enchiladas with refried beans and extra sour cream for me and a beef burrito, no beans, for RJ.
“Champagne?” the waiter asked, a knowing smirk on his face.
“No gracias, Carlos, I’ll stick with ice water.”
Carlos reeled back in shock, then refilled my water glass while Jan grinned from behind her newspaper.
“I love doing that to ‘em once in awhile. Keeps ‘em on their toes,” I said. “Besides, now we’ve got two cars to get home, so no taxicabs today. You can use RJ’s car while I’m gone this week if you want. It’ll save you the indignity of public transportation. It’s so...public.”
“Snob. I will, thanks. Did you call the V-E-T yet?” For some reason Jan thought it necessary to spell in front of my dog. RJ looked suspicious.
“Remind me to call h
im later. Hey, gimme the Entertainment section when you get through with it. There’s something good on the back.”
Jan flipped over the paper. “Boat show? I thought you were drunk yesterday. I hoped you were drunk.”
“I was, but some of life’s major decisions are made while imbibing stars,” I said loftily.
“Yeah, some of your major worst ones.”
“True. But this is different, there’s no man involved. Besides,” I said, sweeping an arm towards the packed marina at Jack London Square, “how much can a boat cost?”
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 3
