by Bob Bickford
“I can't let you be alone,” I tried again.
“I am alone,” she said. “I always will be.”
She looked at me for a very long time. Neither of us moved, and there was only the sound of the running water. Finally, she collected her bag from the floor. She stood up, slung it over her shoulder and went out.
“Does it matter that I love you?” I said, to the empty space.
I heard the front door close. I listened carefully, but there were no more sounds, so I turned the faucets off and went to find my drink.
-Nineteen-
I couldn't sleep, so I went out.
Annie's windows were dark. She slept, or tried to sleep. I got my own coupe started and drove the empty, early streets. I circled the block twice, and satisfied myself that trouble wasn't going to follow us any further tonight. Cleveland's people knew where we lived. Not long ago I had seen Raw's widow skulking away from the Gardiner's front door.
I took the empty streets slowly, and stopped the car across the street from my office building. The first floor bar was closed. A lone man slept in the doorway of the Schooner Inn. I got out without waking him and crossed the street. I bypassed the front entrance and walked around to the alley as the side of the building.
The windows above me were all dark, and only a little light from the street made it this far into the alley. Further down, a single bulb burned over the back door of a bar. Everything in between lay somewhere between deep gray and pitch black.
It didn't much matter. I wasn't here to see anything. Raw and Lowen were long gone, in the ground and on their way to wherever guys like them went after they were shot to death. The blue Nash had been hauled away days before, but its ghost lingered here, and I could almost see it sitting in the dark, stinking of motor oil and blood.
There was a sudden movement, a shift of shadows, and I was still pulling the pistol from my coat pocket when the stray dog skulked out where I could see him. As slow as I was, he was never in any real danger. I took a step forward and he wheeled to run, so I stopped. He looked back at me over his shoulder. We watched each other a moment until we were both calm. I lowered myself slowly to sit on my heels.
He was big enough and rail-thin. He reminded me of the dog I had owned in St. Louis, although I could hardly see him in the dim light, so that was probably wishful thinking. I talked a little, to get him used to the sound of my voice.
“You can come with me, if you want to. You shouldn't be out here in the middle of the night.”
He crept forward a few steps.
“I don't have anything at the house to give you,” I said. “Maybe a sandwich.”
He got as close as he planned to, and sat down about five feet away. I felt sorry for him, but I didn't know what I would do with a stray dog.
I didn't know what I was going to do about Annie Kahlo, either. I was in the middle of a situation that would either kill me or put me in jail. I didn't know why people were trying to shoot her, and I didn't know how to protect her. The best solution I'd been able to come up with was to fall in love with her and I wasn't doing much of a job with that. Talking to a strange dog was maybe the most sensible thing I'd done lately.
He sat and looked at me, as though he wondered what was next, too.
“It isn't a big deal to die for love,” I told him. “Anybody can do that. The trick is to live a little for it every day.”
His tail thumped on the asphalt, once, twice, so I figured that he understood. I stood up slowly. My legs hurt from crouching for so long.
“Let's go home,” I said.
I walked slowly toward the mouth of the alley and the street. When I reached the car, I turned to look. The dog waited on the sidewalk about ten feet away looking sad. He imagined I was leaving him. I opened the car door and snapped my fingers. He sat down.
He let me come close and get my arms around him. I waited for a growl in his chest, but he was past that. I got him up and into the Ford. I latched the door gently behind him and went around to the other side.
He crouched awkwardly on the passenger seat. I didn't think he had ever been in a car. I drove him back to my house on Figueroa Street without the slightest idea why. He gobbled whatever I found for him in the icebox, and then fell asleep on a blanket I retrieved from the closet and laid on the floor in the sunroom.
I still couldn't sleep, so I sat and watched him until the sun shone gray in the trees. Sitting in the chair, I felt myself finally start to nod off. Before my eyes closed, I saw the shadow of the ocelot as it crossed my back yard on its way to Annie's house.
There wasn't much to do about things except wait. Annie wasn't going to stay with me, and from what I could see she mostly stayed inside, anyway. The damaged convertible stayed put behind her house. I saw her leave once, on foot, with a basket hooked on one arm. I stepped onto the porch, but she gave me a cool wave and went on.
Whenever I knocked on her door to check on her, she seemed vague and distant, or else she didn't answer the knock at all. I didn't know why things were different between us. Maybe I had gotten too close to her. There were things that mattered more than my feelings at the moment, so I tried not to think about it.
I called Raines to report that we had been chased down the highway and nearly killed. He didn't seem interested. “You went to the Star-lite to do what, exactly? Scare him? Sounds like he scared you instead.”
“His people chased us and shot Annie Kahlo's car full of holes,” I protested. “They only missed shooting us because she's a better driver.”
“I told you to stay away from him,” he said. “You want me to send a prowl car out so you can make a report? Save you a trip into the station.”
“Forget it,” I said and hung up on him.
Only the dog seemed settled. I gave him an awkward bath in my tub, and saw tawny brindle under the dirt. He was some kind of Boxer mix. With a bag of kibble and a scrap of blanket, he adjusted to life with me before I had even decided he could stay.
Once in a while I had to go into the office. There were bills to pay, and if I was going to hide from danger I was in the wrong line of work. As much as I could, I stayed home and as close to Annie as I could manage. I watched the street from my living room window. I walked around the block at all hours. I didn't know if I scouted for strange cars and strange people, or offered myself as bait.
I didn't see the Gardiners at all. I wanted to talk to Mrs. Gardiner about the ocelot using my yard as a way to Annie's house. I worried about the dog going after it. I stayed away from their door, in case someone was watching.
Nothing happened. No one shot at me, no one drove slowly up the street, and there were no screams from Annie's house in the middle of the night. It couldn't go on that way forever, and I had just about decided to pay Sal Cleveland a visit when he sent someone to me instead.
I got to the office one morning just after seven. The rains arrived early this year, and the sky lowered, wet and soft. Low thunder rolled down from the worn-out mountains behind the city. I had the window open six inches or so, and the gray breeze that puffed in blew warm and cool at the same time.
I had picked up a small bag of sugared doughnuts from the bakery on Ortega. The brown paper was spotted with grease, and the smell of them went well with the odor of the coffee percolating on the hot plate in the corner. I sat down and debated whether or not to eat one before the coffee was ready.
A faint noise came from the hallway, and I heard the door open and close. Someone moved quietly into the outer office, and then the sounds stopped. I felt my nostrils flare. If I owned a set of hackles, they would have been raised. Something felt heavy to me, and I had learned to pay close attention to my feelings.
My holstered gun hung on a coat hook in the far corner. I kept a spare, an identical Browning, in the top drawer of my desk. I pushed my coffee cup away from the edge of the desk and slid it out.
“Be right with you,” I called.
I stood up and went to the door. The frosted glass
wasn't giving up any clues, so I opened it and looked out.
A man stood in the very center of the waiting room. His skin was remarkably pale. Both taller and older than me, he dressed like he knew his way around a men's department. His tie was floral, and his suit was arrogant. He stared at me for a long moment before he spoke. “Mister Crowe?” he said.
He didn't ask it like a question that needed answering, so I didn't. He smelled of almonds, and I had a strange image of him slapping cyanide on his cheeks before he went out in the morning. He had a face I had seen before, from the back window of a Buick. I wondered if Mary Raw waited somewhere nearby, keeping a shotgun company.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
He colored a little, and then he opened up into a smile. He spread his hands to convince me of his good intentions. I thought he might be a man used to convincing people.
“It's more a matter of what I can do for you,” he said. “My name is Fin.”
“What can you do for me, Fin?”
He gestured toward my office, and I stepped back to let him go in first. I still had the pistol held out of sight behind my leg, and when he was past me I put it into my coat pocket. After he settled in the client's chair, I offered coffee and went over to the corner to get cups.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
I looked over my shoulder. He had gotten the bag of doughnuts off the desk and was peering inside.
“Help yourself, Mister Fin,” I said. “You seem like a guy who usually does.”
I set his coffee in front of him.
“Just Fin,” he said. “Call me Fin.”
He took a bite of doughnut, one careful hand cupped below his chin so as not to get sugar on his suit. Despite his delicacy, he radiated appetite. It probably didn't go well for anyone who stood in the way of what he wanted, and I had a feeling I was going to do exactly that.
I looked at his hat on the corner of my desk; the lavender-and-cream band matched his shirt and tie. Looking at it was better than looking at his eyes. The air in the office got suddenly close and very, very warm, and the pistol in my coat pocket weighed a ton.
“Une jeune femme,” he said. “We're here to talk about a lady.”
The smell of almonds and marzipan grew stronger, and I could taste sweet poison at the back of my mouth.
“Fine,” I said. “Let's dance.”
“Fig's a dance.”
“An odd choice of words,” I said.
“An odd choice of words,” he agreed. “Because I've heard that you're an odd man. Let me introduce myself properly.”
He reached into a coat pocket and extracted a leather case. He thumbed out a deck of playing cards and in a swift motion fanned it out across my desk.
“Take my card,” he said. “Please don't hesitate. You'll choose the right one. I know you will.”
I was tempted to end the charade, but I didn't want to shoot him yet. I reached out and moved a single card from the stack. I slid it across the polished yellow wood with an index finger. It lay face down in front of me. He smiled encouragement until I turned it over.
It was a six; the six of spades.
I looked up at him. His eyes seemed to be entirely pupil. They reminded me of something—a dark road and a man riding a bicycle along it so slowly that balance was a question. He carried a length of rope. It was a memory, but it wasn't my memory. I smelled hot smoke mixed in and swirling with the fragrance of almonds.
“Six of spades,” I said. “You left me an envelope with the same card in the diner, didn't you?”
He nodded, pleased.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed, and rubbed his hands together. “You are indeed a detective, Mister Crowe. Somehow, I knew you wouldn't disappoint me.”
“You've been sent by Sal Cleveland.”
“Mister Cleveland is an old friend,” he said. “We went to school together back in Ohio. We stay in touch, and from time to time he calls upon me when he is in...need. He doesn't send me. No one can do that.”
“This is one of those times,” I said. “He's in need.”
“This is one of those times,” he echoed. “And since we are both from Ohio, I help him when he needs help. You are very shrewd, a true detective, in fact. More than a name in the telephone directory, more than a cheap office and a rusty gun and an empty little life spent in shadows. You're a true detective, a seer of sorts.”
His pale face gave away no hint he was anything but serious. I got all at once tired; tired of spells and tricks and all the trappings of intimidation. I was tired of seeing the fear in Annie Kahlo's eyes. I decided to send him on his way.
“I'm not interested in whatever it is you're selling,” I said.
“You bear some responsibility for all of this,” he said, his voice rising. “All of this...mess.”
“I'd like to think so,” I said.
We stared at each other, and then with some effort he drew his eyes back into their dark holes and subsided into his chair.
“I'm an orphan now,” he said. “An orphan. Imagine it. It makes things difficult, the grief. All of the things one should have done, and never did. I'm sure you know about that, don't you? The guilt?”
I didn't answer.
“It's all just wind,” he said. “Wind blowing through graveyards and convalescent hospitals and empty churches. I don't let it bother me. Fig's a dance.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“A deal,” he said. “Just to make a deal.”
“No deals,” I said. “No deals, not ever.”
“You've killed two of Mister Cleveland's men,” he said. “You'll have to answer for it. I don't think you ought to let me leave here without hearing me out.”
“I haven't killed anyone,” I said. “I wish I had, and I might yet.”
He looked at me for a long time.
“You might, if you aren't disposed of first.”
I produced the Browning and laid it flat on the desk, my hand on it. My finger tightened inside the trigger guard when he reached toward the desk. He picked up his cup, sipped and put it back down. “Wherever you find cards, there are bound to be tricks,” he said. “Before you put your cards into play, remember that. There are those who are more familiar with the deck than you are, and you might be stepping where you don't want to. Where there are cards, there are tricks. Be careful.”
I took my hand off the gun and sat back.
“Here's what I propose,” he said, and then paused to think. He drummed his fingertips lightly on the arm of his chair. “Here's how it will go.”
He paused to get another doughnut from the bag. He made an elaborate show of sniffing it and then savoring the first big bite. “Your part of the bargain is simple,” he said. “You simply leave the sisters alone.”
“The sisters?” I asked. “What sisters?”
He looked at me cautiously, as if he was suddenly unsure of my sanity.
“The Kahlo sisters,” he said. “Who else would we be talking about? June and Annie, the daughters great and small. Turn away from them and don't look back. Stop digging them up, so to speak. That's your end of the bargain.”
“And what's in it for me?”
“Your life, of course. Mister Cleveland and I will let you go on living. You may continue with your shabby little private investigations. He might even employ you from time to time. You can go on with all the things you do, until you get too old and you die of old age and a broken heart.”
He put his hands to his face and covered his eyes. Then he parted two fingers and looked out at me slyly. “Unless you drink yourself to death first,” he said. “There's always that possibility, isn't there? We can't be responsible for that.”
“Why is your boss so concerned with the younger sister?” I asked. “She's a mummy, a pile of bones. She can't hurt him.”
Fin came halfway out of his chair, face contorted. “He isn't my boss,” he snarled. “No one is my boss.”
I felt the smile stretch my face. “
He sent you here,” I said. “That's good enough for me. Why are you people so worried about the Kahlo girls? Are they ghosts?”
“Walk away from the jeunes femmes right now, and we'll let you keep walking. That's the offer, and I'm very close to reconsidering it and leaving you to your ending.”
“My ending?” I smiled. “You think I'm afraid of my ending?”
“Everyone is afraid of their own ending,” he said. “Everyone.”
I took my hand away from the gun on my desk. I thought carefully before I spoke again. “I'm not,” I said. “Annie Kahlo isn't either. June Kahlo certainly isn't. We're all three of us ghosts, or close to it already. Maybe you hadn't counted on that.”
He let the unfinished half-doughnut slip from his fingers. It fell onto the floor, out of sight. I didn't know if he was aware he had done it.
“So you want me to walk away from this whole thing, and you'll leave me alone? Does that deal go for Annie, too?”
“No,” he shook his head. “It's too late for her. She made her bed a long time ago. She's finished.”
I shook my head, thinking, and picked up the pistol again without realizing I did it. “I do know something now,” I said. “I know you people are afraid of ghosts...and do you know something?”
My smile was full now. I hadn't smiled in quite this way for a long time. I felt the relief of it. “Annie and I are ghosts,” I said. “So no deal. Go tell Sal Cleveland it's no deal.”
“You'll be sorry,” he said, and stood up. “And I'm sorry, too. I think I could have come to like you very much.”
When he was gone, I went around the desk, and picked up his half-eaten doughnut from the floor. I put it back in the paper bag and threw the bag into the tin trash basket in the corner. I picked up the coffee cup that he had used. I looked at it for a moment and then I put it in the trash, too.
-Twenty-
The news called this the worst wildfire season ever. Nearly impossible to tell if it was one big fire or a whole lot of smaller ones, as soon as the brigades seemed to have things out and under control in one place, another canyon or arroyo would start sending up flames. There had been more rainfall than anyone could remember for a Santa Teresa summer, but it didn't seem to be doing much more than washing the coating of ashes off the city's skin every once in a while.
