As She Rides By (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  All eyes that were not already on Ms. Garrison turned to her. Ms. Garrison was six feet tall. Ms. Garrison wore a silver lamé T-shirt, with nothing under it but Ms. Garrison, also a silver lame miniskirt all of three inches long, also a pair of silver lame high-heeled sandals. Ms. Garrison was insanely stunning. She looked a lot like that beautiful actress Briget Neilson, only more so, if possible, with her skullcap of blond hair, her perfect features, and her well-lipsticked, sensual mouth. Evonne and Sara had hated her intensely on sight. Father Romero had rolled his eyes and, involuntarily, I think, crossed himself. Mel went all suave, Benny steamed up his glasses, Marv slouched down even lower in his chair, and Injun Joe's eyeballs boggled out almost as far as eyeballs do in animated cartoons. Only I, veteran of a hundred similar crises, had remained impassive, impervious, which was lucky for me as my beloved was watching every flicker of my orbs.

  After the introductions were over, I suggested that the principals—with the temporary exception of Messrs. Chandler and Jameson—should then one by one state their objections to Mr. Gall's proposed cinema, keeping their remarks under five minutes, please. One by one, they did so, along expected lines—Marv stressing law and order; Evonne corruption of youth; Sara, with an apt quote or two from the Bible, purity, righteousness, and the importance of traditional American values in an increasingly corrupt society; and so on. After Elroy had finished his spiel about declining architectural standards in inner cities and the dangers thereof, I added a few well-chosen remarks in my role as your ordinary, decent, concerned man in the street. I then asked Mr. Gall if, in light of what he had just heard, he would not reconsider his plans and perhaps erect his cinema elsewhere, saving everyone a lot of grief.

  "No," he said. "I will not reconsider my plans and erect my cinema elsewhere in the light of what I've heard."

  I sighed. "Then hear this," I said. "Mr. Jameson?" Mel got up, opened his briefcase, and handed everyone in the room copies of four documents. We all pretended to look surprised, with the exception of Mr. Gall, whose expression didn't change at all, and Ms. Garrison, who frowned as she began reading.

  "What you are holding, ladies and gentlemen," Mel said in his best courtroom manner, "are as follows. One: a restraining order issued by California Civil Court number four, on such and such a date, preventing construction, destruction, transferral of property from, etc., etc., the site next door hereinafter referred to as 'the property.' Two: a notarized statement from patrolmen so-and-so and so-and-so attesting to the discovery of a certain relic on said property on such and such a date. Three: a notarized statement from Dr. John Chandler, one of America's leading experts on the subject, that said relic has been precisely dated by him and identified without question from markings engraved thereon, as being a religious symbol of the Yokuts, once prevalent in this exact area." Here Mel gestured to Joe, who nodded once. Noticing that Evonne was busy reading one of the documents, I snuck a look at Ms. Garrison's crossed limbs.

  "The fourth document," Mel went on, "if one might call it that, is a short history of the major Californian tribes and their burial customs, which Dr. Chandler has kindly compiled and which you may well find as interesting as I did."

  "Well, thank you, doctor," I said. "That was thoughtful of you. Eh, Mr. Jameson, I have a question that might be relevant. This restraining order, as you call it, could it be overturned somehow, or reversed, in a court of law?"

  "Certainly it might," Mel said. "Unfortunately, with the backlog of civil cases in the courts right now, the soonest such a hearing could be scheduled would be at least eighteen months, and more likely to be a lot longer than that."

  "Very cute," said Mr. Gall then, tucking his papers away in a back pocket. "Very, very cute."

  "Are there any other questions?" I asked then, looking pointedly at Elroy.

  "Oh, yeah," he said. "This relic thing, can we get a look at it?" I raised my eyebrows inquiringly in Taffy's direction. "Certainly, certainly," he said. "Now where did I put it? I intended to return it to its rightful owner, Joseph Half-Moon, here, in any case." He finally found it in a box under his chair, took the thing out, and then passed it reverently over to Elroy. While it was making the rounds, I asked the assembly again if anyone had a question, this time looking pointedly at Evonne. Before she could get her question in, however, Harrison, Citizen, popped in with a dozen questions of his own that had to be dealt with.

  Finally Evonne said, "Mr. Jameson, is there any other legal procedure open to Mr. Gall by which he might expedite matters in his favor?"

  "None," Mel said, "as far as I am aware."

  "Hallelujah," Marv said.

  "Amen," the twerp said, waving the rattle over her head.

  "Mr. Jameson," Mr. Gall said, "what if the principals behind the action—namely those two (meaning me and Joe)—withdrew their objections? In the light of further developments, shall we say?"

  "Then it would be withdrawn," Mel said, with a shrug.

  "How quickly?"

  "Almost immediately; just one more piece of paper for a judge to sign, there shouldn't be any real delay."

  "Thank you," Mr. Gall said. Joe nodded once. Harrison, Citizen, had finished examining the rattle and had passed it on to me; I retrieved the somewhat garish box it came in from Taffy, put the rattle back in, then absentmindedly put the box away in a drawer. When the party started breaking up a few minutes later, I remembered to retrieve it and ceremoniously hand it over to its so-called rightful owner, Joe the Scandahoovian.

  Mr. Gall and Ms. Garrison were the first to leave.

  "Thanks for coming, Mr. Gall," I called out. "Bye, Ms. Garrison!" I thought I heard one of them mutter, "Up yours," but I might have been mistaken. "Mind the dog as you go." What they did mind, I noticed—in fact, closely eyeballed—was the new sign on my front door which said I was but a humble accountant and income tax consultant. Then they turned left, out of sight; I figured they'd parked in the alley out back because out front was full up or maybe they just wanted to walk around their new fence to admire it.

  Harrison, Citizen, was the next to leave, after a few more probing questions, including a futile attempt to find out what Evonne's phone number was, I happened to overhear. As soon as he'd disappeared, we allowed ourselves a few minutes of mutual congratulations all around; King, who I'd let back in, getting his highly deserved share as well. Then Joe left, twenty dollars (of mine) richer, then Taffy, then Elroy. I had a quick word with Elroy before his departure, telling him of my soon-to-be homeless plight and asked him to keep his ears open for something suitable, as in cheap. He said he would.

  Then Joe came back for the shopping bag full of his old clothes, into which he stuffed the relic, then he left again. Then Marv took himself off, saying he couldn't wait to get out of his uniform and into a strawberry daiquiri, closely followed by the padre and Mel. Finally only Benny and I and the ladies and the dog were left. I suggested we all go out somewhere trendy together and celebrate. Benny said he couldn't, he had to meet this mink rancher later. He left.

  "Well, girls," I said brightly, "looks like it's just us three and de dawg."

  "Eh, Victor," Evonne said, "you'll have to count us out, right, Sara? Her parents are taking us to a concert and there's no way we can get out of it." My beloved blushed slightly and turned away.

  "Gee, that's right," the twerp said, snapping her fingers. "I almost forgot." And off they went with much merry chatter and girlish laughter, the rotten fibbers.

  "Well, King," I said, "looks like it's just us." He wagged his tail. "I'll tell you this, too, my friend—maybe it is true that without lies humanity would perish of despair and boredom, but they still hurt a guy." King wagged his tail once again, wobbled over to his blanket, then passed out.

  "Well, big fella," I said, "looks like it's just me. I know the perfect place, too—it's chic, it's in, it gets a real fun crowd, and it's called the nearest bar."

  While I was tidying up I noticed that King's breathing was becoming deeper and more labored.
I wasn't too worried at first, but when I went to him and cradled his head in my hands and tried to wake him up, and he wouldn't, then I got very worried very quickly. I picked him up, blanket and all, ran outside, slammed the door, then made tracks the two blocks west to the vet who'd given King his vaccinations for rabies and distemper and then his booster shots a couple of months back. Ian something, his name was; I knew he held evening clinics several nights a week and if tonight wasn't one of those nights maybe there'd be a sign up on his door directing people to the nearest vet that was open and if he wasn't open and there wasn't a sign and I couldn't get help in time, I'd kill someone and I had a pretty good idea who.

  Ian wasn't open, but when I hammered on the door in desperation, it suddenly opened. Ian stood there, still in his hospital whites. He took one look at me, then one at King, then took the dog from me and hurried back through the waiting room to his examination or treatment or operating room or whatever you want to call it. After closing and bolting his front door, I followed him.

  "Any idea what it was?" he asked me, putting the working end of a stethoscope to King's chest.

  "No," I said.

  "How long ago? he said. He opened one of King's eyes and peered closely at it.

  "Twenty, twenty-five minutes?" I guessed.

  "Hold this," he said. He passed me a plastic funnel, then a plastic, kidney-shaped basin. He then reached up on a shelf behind him and took down a bottle of distilled water, which he shook automatically, and then a piece of rubber tubing. Down into King went the tubing. Then Ian bent over and put one ear next to the free end, which I found slightly bizarre, because what in the world could he be listening for in there?

  "If it goes into a lung, you hear breathing," he said before I had a chance to ask. "In the stomach, where we want the water, you don't."

  "Oh," I said. "Why the tube at all?"

  "You don't swallow so good when you're unconscious," he said.

  "Oh," I said.

  "In," he said, propping King's head up on one arm. I started pouring. "More," he said. I poured more. "Basin below the table." I positioned the basin below the table, right next to it. Then he gave the tube a suck or two, then said, "Thar she blows," and up the tube into the basin came a lot of yucky liquid, most of which I caught. When there was no more left to come, Ian wiped King's mouth with a cloth, checked out his eyes and heart again, then gently laid his head back down on the table. Then he rinsed out his own mouth, then began poking around in the mess with a wooden tongue depressor.

  "What's the verdict, doc?" I asked anxiously.

  "Oh, he'll be all right as soon as he sleeps it off," he said.

  "That's my boy!" I said with great relief.

  "Here," he said. "Dig this." He pointed to a couple of undissolved capsules that were bobbing around in the muck. "Looks like some kind soul slipped your animal a few downers in a Snickers bar."

  "No shit," I said.

  "No shit. Lucky they were in a candy bar, they took longer to start working. In an empty stomach, who knows."

  "Would they have killed him?"

  He shrugged. "Probably not, but you should still teach that mutt not to take candy from strangers."

  "Ah well," I said, patting my boy's head. "There's a good chance that stranger was a girl so gorgeous that if she offered me a giant moose pat in a Snickers wrapper I'd have eaten it and gone back for seconds."

  He gave me a grin, then yawned.

  "Now what?" I asked him.

  "I'll tell you what," he said. "I'll take him upstairs with me for the night, I wasn't going out anyway, that way I can keep an eye on him and when he wakes up there'll be someone around who knows him and who he knows."

  I started to thank him but he interrupted me by telling me to beat it, he was tired, and to come back tomorrow and bring a lot of money.

  "Ever tell you what I saw once in a vet's down in Long Beach?" I said to him as he walked me to the door.

  "I can't guess," he said.

  "A sign," I said. "It said, 'The doctor is in. Sit! Stay!'"

  "I heard it already," he said. "Scram, will you?" I scrammed backed to my office because I remembered I hadn't locked up properly, I'd just pulled the door to. On the way I tried to puzzle out what was so wrong with telling someone a humorous quip they'd heard before. So what? People eat chili dogs more than once in their lives, don't they? Or see the same movie over again, or read the same book. So what's wrong with using some of the classic old gags more than once? You tell me, Uncle Miltie.

  Luckily, I got back to my office before anything untoward happened to it or its contents. Or me, for that matter. Remember the so-called phony war in England in 1939–1940 when months went by and nothing much happened? Thirty seconds was about the extent of our phony war, I estimated. OK. So be it. I'd been at war before with the same dirty bunch, more or less, and the score to date was a highly satisfactory V. D. 1, them 0. But it had been messy, as things are inclined to get—and not only in the music business—when there is a lot of money at stake, so a certain amount of prudence would not be unadvisable, especially in the light of what had happened so quickly and viciously to my boy, lethal dose or not.

  OK. So I'd go to war prudently. I checked my office weapon, which dwelt in the second drawer down on the left side of the desk, as I was a lefty; it looked prudent enough to me. It looked even more prudent tucked into the shoulder holster I retrieved from the safe out back. I was just about to unplug the phone and take it and a couple of other bits and pieces out back for safekeeping, when it rang. I picked up the receiver immediately. Not because I thought it might be a contrite Evonne Louise Shirley looking for some smooth-kissing fool to while away a few hours with, I always answer the phone immediately if it's within reach instead of letting it ring a few times first; what care I if people think I've got nothing else to do with my life but restlessly hover inches away from my Touch-Tone hoping against forlorn hope that someone, anyone, will call, a wrong number would do, a telephone survey, anything. Pfui, as the great Nero Wolfe said so aptly.

  On the phone was Diamond Lil, Joe's lady friend, in tears. Also in a screaming rage against guess who.

  Joe had been beaten up, bad.

  Luckily, he had that twenty bucks I'd given him, so he found a cab to take him to her place. It cost him the whole twenty, too, although it shouldn't have been more than ten bucks at the most.

  "Where?" I asked.

  "Soon as he got off the Woodman bus," she said.

  "Who?"

  "Some freaks," she said. "He said he didn't see 'em. They rolled him and even took the bag with his old clothes in, for God's sake. And some box, he says. Lucky he had the twenty down in his sock, is all I can say."

  It wasn't all she had to say, as a matter of fact. She had a lot more to say, most of it about blaming me, and I could not deny my share of culpability, let alone stupidity. Well, it turned out he wasn't hurt that bad after all, he'd been bonked on the head from behind and kicked around a bit and his nice new clothes was all tore up, which he was probably most upset about, if I really wanted to know. Here she paused expectantly. Of course I immediately said to tell Joe we'd go shopping again as soon as he felt up to it, and this time I'd throw in a pair of bloody boots.

  She finally hang up. I spotted the sign I'd hung up on the front door temporarily, went over and took it down, tore it up disgustedly, then chucked it. A lot of good it had been. I was only trying to make myself look like the most vulnerable party in the action, some nerdy, nervous accountant in glasses even, hoping that if any countermeasures were taken, they'd be taken against me. Directly, I mean, not by getting to me through getting to my dog, even I never thought of that. "Mind the dog," I'd said as they left—brilliant, Daniel. They would be sorry, I vowed. V. D. does not get angry often, but when he does, look out below. Look out everywhere, in fact. Look out in particular the Pussycat Adult Cinema Co.

  OK.

  We tried to be friendly, you two.

  We tried to be nice.
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br />   We didn't hit you with the restraining order until it was our last resort. Elroy was ready with a deal to take over your interest in the property, but you didn't want to know. OK, Harrison, Citizen, put this in your stop press: The United States of America and its allies might not have gone to war yet against Señor Saddam Hussein, but V. (for Victor) Daniel and his allies have against Gall & Garrison. How intelligent Señor Saddam Hussein was, I did not know. How intelligent Gall & Garrison were, I did know—imbecilically stupid, because:

  One. They endeavored to obtain an early settlement in their favor by frightening the two principals in the action into withdrawing; and,

  Two. Stealing the only piece of evidence in the case.

  One was doomed to failure because (a) Doc Taffy Chandler had come up with a real descendant of the once mighty Yokut Tribe—or close enough, anyway, at least he was a real Indian—who had agreed, in writing (for a sizable consideration, not in writing) to replace Injun Joe should Injun Joe retire from the affair due to illness, change of heart, or act of God (Mel's idea). One was also doomed to failure because the other principal in the case, me, was not about to retire from the affair due to any of the reasons listed above or any other conceivable or inconceivable ones.

  Which leads us to Two. The only piece of evidence in the case had not been stolen along with Joe's old clothes, it reposed in my desk drawer and was about to be shifted into the safe out back. What had been stolen was a box identical to that containing the rattle, both purchased by me that afternoon at the ever-reliable M. Martel, Stationers, said second box containing a highly original and amusing paperweight made in South Korea—a gift from some forgot admirer for some forgot festive occasion—which featured two elephants making love and which, frankly, I was not all that displeased to see the last of.