by Bob Bickford
Dark and almost ordinary. he stood neither particularly tall nor exceptionally short, neither fat nor thin. His voice sounded soft, both in texture and tone. Unlike most of the men she had known well, he had no swagger and no bluster. He carried himself quietly and watchfully, with the kind of resigned sorrow she associated with priests in darkened churches.
He didn't talk tough. In fact he didn't talk much at all, but had some essential toughness about him that was hard to pin down. When she spoke, he watched her, absorbed, with a totality she had never experienced before. When she paused, he waited as though he knew there was more, and there always was.
He had smiled a little at her idea that secretly-taken photographs of infidelity would get her a divorce from a man like her husband. Instead, he had asked her a lot of questions over the course of several meetings, and then he had gone to see Sal. She didn't know what had been said between them, only that Sal had come to her and insisted on a divorce as though it had been his idea. He had packed her bags himself and held the door open for her.
Over the course of that brief time, Nathaniel Crowe began to grow on her, and she found herself more and more aware of him as a man. He affected no masculine postures and gave her no signs, but she became hopeful and almost convinced that she had been sent to him by Destiny. Fate had sent him to her as a replacement. She began to fantasize that this man would take care of her, truly and forever.
When her divorce was final, she had offered him the only thing she knew how to offer, herself. He had declined her, gentle as always, but at the same time unrelenting in his disinterest. She felt the sting of tears again, thinking about it. She swiped at her eyes angrily with a sleeve and tried again to focus on her driving.
In the rear view mirror, a pair of headlights suddenly appeared around the bend behind her. It blinded her, and she reached up to adjust the mirror, getting a glimpse of her own wet eyes as she did. The other car bore down quickly, and she kept an eye on it, nearly over-correcting on the next curve. Rubber chirped angrily beneath her.
The driver wanted to pass, but she didn't know how or where she could pull to the side. She glanced at her speedometer, and then nudged the accelerator pedal further with a delicate but determined toe. The convertible jumped ahead willingly enough, and the wheels began to moan in the bends.
It didn't satisfy the following car. The bright beams came on, and Charlene heard the steady sound of its horn keeping her radio company.
“What do you want me to do?” she wondered aloud, just as the car nudged her back bumper.
Her car skidded and started to drift. The tires howled as a guardrail loomed close in the lights. She cursed under her breath as she fought with the steering wheel and her own silk-covered bottom, which slid uncontrollably on the Naugahyde seat cover.
The bumpers touched again, and the Ford swung back and forth wildly. She lost all hope of directing it anymore. It skidded a final time as it caught the edge of the road, and then she went over the side. The car screamed as it slid down into a canyon, tearing its belly and losing pieces of itself on the way. Buffeted and flung around, Charlene's legs jammed painfully beneath the dashboard, and she screamed once, twice. Her head hit the window frame beside her, and everything went gray.
At the bottom, the chassis shuddered as the car stopped with a huge impact. The steering wheel thrust into her chest and abdomen with enough force to nearly stop her breathing. She heard and felt something vital inside her guts give way, and then the noise stopped and she fell back in the seat. She knew in an animal way that she was badly, fundamentally, damaged inside.
Her headlights still shone, and as the dust cleared from the beams, she saw a house in front of her. It had no roof and the windows were empty sockets. She stared at it with dull eyes, not understanding. A car pulled up beside it and stopped. The driver's door opened and a man got out and came forward into the lights, like an actor coming onstage. It was Sal.
The pain came in waves. Charlene leaned her head back on the top of the seat and watched her husband pick his way over the dark, rocky slope to the wrecked car she sat in. The Ford lay dying beneath her. She heard the hiss from the punctured radiator and the gurgle and drip of fluids from the engine. When he got close enough to her open window, he stopped.
“Help me,” she murmured. “I need help.”
Her voice sounded so faint in her own ears she wasn't sure if she had spoken aloud. It seemed important to her that she explain herself clearly. If Sal understood, he would take care of things, take care of her.
“I went over the cliff. Someone was chasing me. I couldn't keep the car on the road.”
He didn't seem excited, and didn't come any closer.
“I can see that,” he said. “All the razzmatazz. All the razzmatazz, all the jive, all the blah-blah-blah, and now here we are, the only ones left. You and me.”
“I'm hurt,” she said.
He stood there, lit from behind by his own Buick's headlights. His face was shadowed and dark, and she felt his lack of expression. He took something carefully from his coat pocket. She hoped it was a handkerchief, that he was going to use to wipe her face, but then she saw the dull gleam and knew he had a gun.
“I was chasing you,” he said. “You didn't think it was anyone else, did you? Out here in the middle of nowhere?
“Help me,” she said. “Please.”
He pointed the pistol at her. She smelled the familiar scents of him, soap and heavy cologne. He always smelled clean. It reassured her somehow, smelling him now amid the odors of the broken car and her own blood and perspiration. She began to cry.
“I love you,” she said.
She knew that she was going to die, and then he pulled the trigger and she did.
-Three-
I lived that year in a bungalow on Figueroa Street, a block from the police station and down a couple from the courthouse. It was a place to eat and sleep and to keep my clothes and not much more. I didn’t have any pictures on the walls inside.
The place had a lot more space than I needed. Behind the living room in front, a hallway led back past empty bedrooms, a big kitchen and a sun room that never saw the sun, because it was always shadowy inside. A wide veranda stretched across the front, and the whole property was overhung by a trio of huge old black walnut trees. Their droppings covered the lawn, winter and summer. The decomposing nuts gave off a dark, musty smell. I didn’t mind. It seemed to fit in with the rest of the place.
A garage stood beside the house, connected by a narrow drive. The previous owner had left it full of junk, so I parked my Ford coupe on the street. The car was one of the few things I owned that mattered to me. A black ’40 Deluxe, with the big V-8, it went like a bird. In my line of work sometimes I needed it to.
The apartment house across from us was the only lively thing on the street. The sidewalk in front of it always stayed littered with a tangle of bicycles and tricycles. Unseen mothers screamed from upstairs windows at the children below. In the evenings, somebody would lug a radio out to have beer and conversation on the front steps. There were rumors that a guy sold a little reefer from one of the back apartments, right under the noses of the cops a block away. It didn’t bother me much. If you did what I did for a living, you knew the city was full of worse things and worse people than that.
A shedding hedge that perpetually dropped a carpet of yellow leaves on the sidewalk separated the next door neighbor on one side. The white stucco two-story had red canvas awnings over the windows. I figured it had to be at least as gloomy inside as my place. The owners were an elderly pair named Gardiner. He’d been a doctor a long time ago. I didn’t know about her. They owned an enormous old pre-war Cadillac that he piloted onto the street once or twice a month, like a black ocean liner leaving harbor. He liked to polish it, out in the driveway.
Mrs. Gardiner fed me a drink once in a while, and talked about Santa Teresa the way it had been fifteen or twenty years ago. Her husband never said much of anything. I liked them well
enough, and I supposed they were the only friends I really had here.
The house on the other side had been put up for sale and stood empty for almost a year. After it sold, workmen came and went, hammering and painting, planting and pruning. They had dug a small swimming pool in the back yard. The new owner was a woman, and it became obvious that she had some money. She was an artist, apparently reclusive and maybe a little bit crazy. I had never seen her.
I knew her name was Anne Kahlo, because sometimes her mail ended up in my box and I walked it next door to put it into hers. She had a snazzy bottle-green Mercury convertible parked in back. I never saw her drive it. Some nights when I couldn’t sleep, I heard her leave her house. Wherever she went in the dark, she walked.
Her house was a low, brown affair with some interesting peaks and gables in the roofline. Vines and flowers covered it, winter and summer. Something always bloomed profusely, as if nature knew the owner was something special and wanted to put on a show for her. The place looked clean and fresh, like it smelled good inside.
I stood on my veranda for a moment and looked out at the street. A plane went over, climbing out of the Goleta airfield in the north. When it was gone, the street got quiet again.
I had to go out that afternoon, to close up a case with clients who weren't going to like me any better than Charlene Cleveland had. It was still early though, and I had time to kill. I went back inside to find a newspaper, the sofa, and a little bit of sleep. Maybe if I dreamed, I’d have some idea of what to do with myself next.
“He did it,” I said. “Your son did exactly what they've accused him of doing.”
This wasn't as pleasant as looking at pink under-things, but I had filing cabinets to fill and cases to close and accounts to collect. I sat in the living room of a big house. It stood in a nice neighborhood on a shady street that ran off upper State Street. Big bay windows looked out onto trees and the other houses on the street. It all seemed greener than the rest of the city.
I faced the couple on the sofa across from me. He leaned back and tried to seem relaxed. She sat on the edge of her seat and made no bones about having a case of nerves. He owned a land agency and wore a tasteful tie and wide suspenders. She looked as though she smelled nice, but she was sitting too far away for me to know for sure.
“He did it,” I repeated. “The only proof I could dig up says he's guilty.”
I didn't normally make house calls, but there had been no point in dragging these people downtown for this. I wasn't that busy.
“What are you saying?” the man demanded.
“I'm saying he gave the girl liquor to drink and then he took advantage of her.”
The man's face turned deep red. The color spread right into his scalp. His blond hair was oiled and combed back. Since I was a detective, I made it my business to notice all sorts of little things. Everything could be a clue.
“This isn't what we're paying you for,” the woman offered. “This is outrageous.”
I turned my attention to her, since the man seemed to be close to popping like a balloon, and probably couldn’t hear me.
“Your son was charged with the corruption of a minor,” I said. “A morals charge. You said it wasn't true, and you hired me to dig up the facts and find some proof that cleared him. I took your word for it, but he lied. That means you lied too, whether you knew it or not.”
“He's only a seventeen-year-old boy,” she said.
“Nonetheless, he drove her to a parking area on La Marina Drive and fed her gin until she didn't know what she was doing, and then he—”
I stopped and looked at the woman. She started to cry. I was making a lot of women cry lately, and I had no idea what I could do about it.
“—he helped her out of her clothes,” I sighed. “She was agreeable, as far as I can tell, or this would be a lot more serious. All the same, she's sixteen years old, and that means he committed a crime.”
“She's a liar,” the man said. His voice rose.
A white ceramic clock with painted gold numerals stood on an end table. It began to chime, six times, with a little whirring noise between each note. We all waited until it was done.
“She isn't a liar,” I said. “It took me less than an hour to find three of your son's school chums that had every detail. Until the cops knocked on your door, he could hardly stop boasting about it. I also talked to the girl. She's a pretty level character, in spite of her poor judgment with your son. She says there was no . . . completion. The cop knocked on the window of the car and interrupted things. The DA believes her. If she weren't so honest, your son could be facing a rape charge.”
“You're supposed to do what we pay you to do,” he said.
“I did what you paid me for. I can't find what isn't there just because you want me to. It's been a short job, and I don't need any more than the retainer you gave me.”
I plucked my hat off the table and stood up. The man stood up, too.
“I'm not giving you a dime,” he shouted. “Not a goddamned nickel. You give me my money back. This isn't how it works.”
“This is exactly how it works,” I said, and settled my hat on my head. “I'm not giving you your money back.”
“Of course not,” the woman said. “You have a gun.”
I didn't have a response for that, so I shrugged. She had stopped crying long enough to look at me like I was a bug.
“Count your lucky stars,” I said. “Your son is young, and the court might give him a break if he deserves one. Let him learn a lesson and move on.”
They sat and stared at me. No one had anything else to say, so I went out to my car and drove away.
Later that evening I met my next-door neighbor, Annie Kahlo, for the first time. At first I thought she must be some kind of ghost. I don’t know why that idea jumped out at me. Maybe it was because of the way she moved, hardly seeming to touch the ground. In hindsight, it must have taken a lot of courage to cross the grass that separated my front steps from hers.
I had one hand on my front door knob, ready to go out to nowhere in particular. It was the kind of warm twilight that makes a person want to be outside. I felt restless, and wanted crowds and noise, neon lights and the smells of good food. I patted my pockets and remembered, as I pulled the door shut, that I had left my cigarettes inside.
She was in her forties, maybe, and slender. Her light hair was long, and her arms were tanned, copper-colored against her pale green sleeveless dress. She moved gracefully, and again I had the impression that she floated as she walked toward me. She paused before she crossed onto my yard, as though she had to get over a barrier. At the bottom of my steps she looked up.
The remarkable stillness of her face is what marked her most. She gazed at me, and I wondered if she had been drinking. It wasn’t booze, though. It was something else. We stood and looked at each other for a long moment before she spoke.
“I have a birthday cake,” she said.
Her voice was light, a little breathy. She sounded like one of those film stars from a dozen or so years ago, when the talkies were brand new and the voices from the silver screen all seemed to be poured straight from expensive decanters.
“I can’t eat it by myself, and I wondered…”
She trailed off, looking miserable. I gave her what help I could.
“That's neighborly.” I smiled. “Throw in a cup of coffee and you've got a deal.”
A dark-colored sedan passed behind her, cruising slowly. A little further up the street its brake lights came on, and the driver tapped the horn. She looked over her shoulder, visibly startled. If she had been carrying the cake, she would have dropped it.
“I'm sorry. I should have come over and introduced myself before,” I said. “I'm Nathaniel Crowe. Nate will do fine.”
She tore her attention from the car and nodded. “A birthday cake,” she said. “It’s on my kitchen table. I made it today.”
I was intrigued. “Happy birthday, then,” I said.
The
dark car blipped the horn again. Its tail lights glowed bright in the gathering dusk. I supposed it was picking someone up, but nothing stirred from the houses across the street. Annie watched it, too. Her face stayed expressionless, but she twisted a bracelet on her left wrist, and I could sense her apprehension.
She turned back to me. “It isn’t my birthday,” she said. “Today isn’t my birthday at all.”
“But you baked a cake?”
She stood and watched me, turning her bracelet around and around. Her eyes were velvet, liquid and impossibly dark. They moved across my face, reading me like a story.
“Yes,” she said. “It's my sister's birthday.”
“Wouldn't you rather eat it with her, then?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “She's dead. That's no reason to waste the cake, though.”
“That's true,” I said, as if I had any idea of what she was talking about.
I finished closing up. She stood at the foot of my front steps, one hand on the railing.
“You lock your front door?” she asked. “I didn’t think anyone in this neighborhood did that.”
I decided to give her the short version. “I’m a private detective,” I said. “Sometimes my work makes people upset with me. I like to be careful.”
I smiled a little at myself, since I had upset even more people than usual today.
Annie smiled back at me. She was beautiful in a nearly exotic way, like a different species. Her features were finely etched, and in profile her eyes and brow had an Oriental cast.
“My parents were Hawaiian,” she said, as though she could read my mind. “They met in Honolulu. My father was born in the islands, and my mother was haole.”
I had served in the military for a few months in Hawaii, and I had liked it. I liked the weather, and the way the island smelled, especially at night. I also liked the way the people looked. I hadn’t found a better way of judging people than by how they looked.
