As She Rides By (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  "I must deeply concur," I said.

  "So what could a mere petal-pusher like moi do to assist you in your no-doubt ferocious counterattack?"

  "Just be yourself," I told him. "Just drop into a certain gay movie house, the p.m. show would be best, buy some popcorn, enjoy yourself, go to the bathroom, then depart. What could be simpler?"

  "Why am I suspicious, I wonder," he said. Then he called out to one of the girls, "No, no, dummkopf, the stolonifera, not the diffenbachia!" Then, to me, he said, "Why me? If it's so simple, why not you? Too chicken, I bet, to go near a gay movie house, let alone into the washroom."

  "Too something, that's for sure," I said. "But also I don't want to spy on a poor, persecuted minority, you've got the right to privacy if you want it."

  "Well, mercy buckets," he said.

  "There are a couple of other factors involved," I admitted. "Although he shouldn't be, there is an outside chance the owner might be hanging around and he knows me, although I did take care not to let him see me standing up in all my statuesque glory but tall or short I'd still stand out in a gay movie house because what stands out most in a gay movie house is someone who isn't."

  "All them nervous blushes," Phineas said, "give you away every time."

  "To say nothing of the sweaty palms," I said.

  "When?"

  "Wednesday afternoon? I'll scoot by your place first with a little present for you."

  "Why do those words fail to thrill me?" he inquired. "Ciao, bambino, must run, see you when I see you." I then tried my amigo Benjamin. He was in, and surprisingly alert, considering it wasn't even noon yet. I told him what was going down. He wanted to know how come, because he thought it was all over, given the bind we had Gall and Garrison in. I told him about Joe and King and said, that's how come. He said to include him in, naturally. He agreed to come by the office Wednesday morning late-ish so I could give him all the details and whatever equipment he'd need. When he'd hung up and gone back to bed or whatever, I took a deep breath and called up Evonne Louise Shirley at her school.

  "Hi, sweetheart," I said as soon as she was on the line. "Want to go to the movies Wednesday with your main man?"

  "I'm not sure, Victor," she said.

  "You're not sure?" I said.

  "No."

  "Tell you what I'm sure about, honey," I said. "This is the third time recently you've put me off. Now I know it's a ludicrous question, but are you seeing someone else?"

  There was a pause. Not a refreshing pause, a long, highly suspicious, mighty worrying pause, a pause about as much fun as menopause. Finally she said, defensively, "What if I am? It's only been for coffee so far."

  "May one ask who this mocha maniac is?"

  "He's a replacement history teacher here at the school."

  "And may one ask what this coffee freak is like?"

  "The opposite of you, Victor," she said.

  "Ah," I said. "The perfect description. So he's a short, fat pacifist who plays the recorder and has hair down to his waist, eh?"

  "If you're going to be like that," she said, "good-bye." She hung up. After a minute, so did I. If you're going to be like that, good-bye . . . If I'm going to be like what, womanless as well as homeless? Doubly homeless now that moving temporarily into Evonne's seemed highly unlikely even if I wanted to. She could beg me and I wouldn't move into her place now. Good-bye to you too, babe. Have a happy life with your midget peacenik vegetarian twit with dreadlocks down to his knees, sipping overpriced espresso in fake Italian cafés really owned by Armenian immigrants. The little fucker's also probably one of those guys who smokes a pipe and keeps rubbing the bowl against the side of his nose to bring out the briar.

  I don't care.

  I build my castles in the sky . . . they turn to smoke, but what care I? I don't, is what. I used to care, but no more, mi amor. I'm giving up caring, starting right now, and that includes caring for the world's walking wounded as well as sagging bleached blondes. The next time some crippled stray or bedraggled waif or limping, burr-infested mutt comes whining at my door, fuck off pronto is the message they'll get, you will see. FU. Adios, losers. Try the Samaritans, try Dial-A-Prayer, find another twenty-four-hour-a-day soup kitchen, V. D.'s triply locked door will remain triply locked, also nailed shut, also barred.

  Good-bye is right.

  Where was it ever written that I, V. D., was assigned the thankless task of being problem-solver to the needy? Nowhere is where. I don't know why I even bothered in the first place, I could have gone to mortician's school, or taken night classes in TV repair. I must have been blind, I must have been madly driven by some foolish do-gooder complex arising from what? Where? How come? Who knows, who knows, who knows what evil lurks in the minds of men and the hearts of women.

  It all could have something to do with being large.

  Large is supposed to be strong.

  Large is supposed to be able to look after itself.

  Large, by extension, is supposedly able to look after smaller and thus more vulnerable beings as well.

  Oh yeah? Tell that to the dinosaurs. Pass that message along to the mastodons and the behemoths and the hippos. Likewise to the rhinos, who are only disappearing as fast as a plate of fresh scones in a Scottish boarding house.

  I looked around the office. I was surprised I still had it, actually, useless though it now would be. Or soon would be, anyway—I'd finish up the few jobs I had on hand, do the chore I was booked for mañana for Mr. Lubinski, the jeweler around the corner, dump the few yearly security contracts I had onto some other poor stooge, and then what? Then what for a man and his dog? Then what for a man and his dog and their almost classic Nash Metropolitan? Only the world, amigos, the world opening out and scrolling up into the endless heavens like credits in a Hollywood biblical epic . . . Paris at last! Venice by night! Even cinnamon-smelling Zanzibar teahouses with dreaming parrots, why not?

  The phone rang. I deigned to answer it. It was Sara the twerp, in tears.

  Chapter Sixteen

  . . . but I had this little stash I kept down inside one boot,

  And that's kept me goin' for quite a while on beer 'n' refried beans . . .

  VIC?" SHE SAID tremulously.

  "Himself," I said. "But who is this? It can't be Sara Silvetti, because it's still morning and everyone knows poets don't tumble out of their unwashed sheets until the middle of the afternoon sometime."

  "Oh, shut up for once, can't ya?" she said. I shut up. There was a long pause, broken only by the occasional sniffle. Finally I said,

  "Now come on, honey, what's the matter, tell Uncle Vic."

  "Everything," she said.

  "Everything?" I had a thought. "You don't mean you're . . . you're . . . how shall I put it . . . that way?"

  "You mean knocked up?" she said. "No, thank Christ, everything but that."

  I sighed. What the hell. Then I said, "It's not going to do you any good staying shut up alone in your room like you probably are, so why don't you come and mope over here with me and King? I could rustle up a couple of chores for you, I guess, to take your mind off things."

  "See ya," she said, hanging up smartly. I did likewise.

  "That was a short retirement," I observed to my dog. He looked over at me and shrugged.

  Well, it turned out that Miss Silvetti was just having an attack of the vapors, or whatever it is poets get because they're so artistic and sensitive and delicate, unlike us beefy clodhoppers. And, OK, to be fair, some drunken jerk at a disco the night before had almost scared the pants off her both literally and figuratively, according to her. And she was nervous enough anyway because she was waiting for the results of a smear test she'd just had. And she'd had a fight with her parents. And she was fucking broke, as usual. And some $!!@&**$/! poetry magazine published in a basement in Forget It, Idaho, with a circulation of about eight, had rejected a batch of her latest and most brilliant work. I did not inquire whether "Haiku for a Horse's Ass" was among them. Even I could figure out
that it was that last item that hurt the most, the rejection. As it was something I personally had very little experience of—if you leave out women—I had nothing helpful to say on the subject but instead attempted to cheer up the poor twerp by paying her full bill of $34.20 without any questions or raised eyebrows even, then taking her to lunch at Fred's, where she of course ordered à la carte, and then I sent her shopping, after having presented her with a short list and appropriate sums. First she was to hit the hardware around the corner for tweezers, chain, and padlock, and then hike all the way over to the sign store on Van Nuys. She raised her (unplucked) brows at the last item on the list: those 100 (approx.) arthropods (any size).

  "And what are they supposed to be?"

  I told her.

  She glared at me. "And where am I supposed to come up with them?"

  I looked at King and shrugged. "So be inventive."

  Off she went. Shortly thereafter, off King and I went, too, to the magic store on Sunset Boulevard just west of Vine. Did I ever tell you I once ran into Muhammad Ali in that same store? Well, I did. And he was performing, with great dexterity and a neat line in deadpan patter, a trick involving considerable sleight of hand called "The Professor's Nightmare." I know it involved considerable sleight of hand, because when the great Ali departed, I forked out $4.95 for what turned out to be little more than three bits of old clothesline and some complicated directions, and nowhere is where I got with "The Professor's Nightmare." So if anyone wants a one-owner trick guaranteed new, send me ten bucks and it's yours.

  The great man was not, alas, in the store that day. I made my way down past the displays of more or less legitimate magic tricks to the so-called joke items, a section I well knew. Now I know what you are thinking—you are assuming that I knew the so-called joke section well because it was there that I replenished my collection of jumping candy, snapping gum (ouch!), and slim vols. with titles like, 1001 Snappy Jokes and The Ad-Libber's Handbook. Oh youse of little faith, as they put it in Brooklyn; some of us do grow up, you know.

  The four types of merchandise that did interest me were these: One: the "authentic replicas" (and authentic enough for most people, I can tell you) of police badges, security officer badges, sheriff's badges, and the like, complete with case ($2.95 extra). Two: Max Factor pancake makeup, false hair, spirit gum, wigs, etc. Three: The "Comic Certificates," so-called because if they didn't call them comic, they could be prosecuted for selling the real certificates they were identical to—stock certificates, birth and divorce, college diplomas, marriage licenses, and so on. For a paltry $1.95 each, these are obviously a wise investment for the beginning sleuth. And, finally, Four: laminated photo I.D. cards, one of which was the real reason for my visit. There was a whole stack of them, for novelty purposes again, of course, we get it, ranging from an excellent copy of my own California State private investigator license to things like Press, Security, and fake Actor's Equity cards, etc., but also including such humorous items as Lawn Inspector, The International Brotherhood of Comedians, Liar's License, Space Shuttle Pilot's License, and, last but not least, California Department of Health Pest and Vermin Control. And most realistic they all were. For example, the Security I.D. card said something like, "The individual pictured here and named below is a fully accredited agent of the organization also named below. He is authorized by law . . . blah blah blah." There was a space to stick in your picture and obviously spaces below for a name and a company's name and the date of authorization and a signature. Then a quick pass with an iron to seal the plastic, and your novelty is ready for use.

  So I purchased a couple, @ $4.95 each. I could have got them for $4.50 each if I bought three or more, but what the hell. Both King and my Nash were waiting for me in the parking lot out back, so I rejoined them and drove in my usual careful fashion back to the office. We stopped behind an old Buick at the lights at Laurel Canyon and Ventura; its bumper sticker read, "Pray to keep prayers out of our schools."

  Once home, King took me for a walk around the block, then I opened up and then I said to myself, big boy, I said, it's all very well and no doubt all highly amusing, your skirmish with Gall & Garrison, movie moguls to the raincoat brigade, but is it not time to spare a thought for the plight of Tom 'n' Jerry in their skirmish, complicated though it may be? It was, it certainly was. So I got out all my notes and scribbles, my conjectures and wild flights of fancy, such as they were, and thoroughly reviewed the story so far, which took a good hour. I was relaxing in my swivel chair, feet up on the desk, thinking it all over, when the twerp returned with her purchases and acquisitions, which she dumped on the desk in front of me, and then she made a big deal out of pretending to wash her hands.

  "Feeling better, dear?" I asked her solicitously.

  She shrugged.

  "Good," I said. "Say, while I think of it, want to go to the movies with me Wednesday?"

  She looked at me suspiciously. "Why don't you take Evonne?"

  "Because I want to take you, my pet. Do you good to go out with a mature male for once and besides, I like your company. You're intelligent, you're vivacious, you've stopped dressing like a Johnny Rotten groupie or a Born-Again Quaker, and also not only will I cover any and all expenses including all you can eat before, during, and after the cinema, but you will be paid a moderate fee."

  "So what's the catch?" she said.

  "Know who else said that?" I said. "Old Hollywood story. Starving agent meets the devil in the Brown Derby. Devil says, 'If you gimmie your soul and your wife's and your kids' and their kids' souls, I'll give you exclusive management of Streep, Fonda, Madonna, and Michael Jackson.' Agent thinks it over, and then he says, 'What's the catch?' "

  "Ha ha," she said. "So what is it?"

  "Sara," I said, "I am too busy to pander to your suspicious and convoluted little brain at present, pardon me ever so. Have we got a date, or not?"

  "I'll think about it," she said.

  "So go home and think," I said. "It'll give you something to do, because I do not need a report, whether haiku, sonnet, or vers libre, from you covering your activities today on my behalf. Sometimes I do. Those are the times when I am billing someone else and thus have to account not only for my expenses and time, but those of my assistants as well. And thus it is also, may I say, that I have to continually rewrite your reports before their submission to a client, being as it is that most of my clients are businessmen and other professionals and they tend to look wildly askance at expense accounts that rhyme. To conclude, may I stress that this is in no way to be considered a rejection of your poetic skills; as you well know I greatly enjoy, nay, treasure, your artistic endeavors. They are by my bedside constantly."

  "So're your full-of-shit pills," she said. "See ya." She traipsed out, giving King a pat on the way, looking somewhat more cheerful than she had been on the way in, thanks entirely to the efforts of Mrs. Daniel's number one son, may I say. Was she lucky she had me around to use as a combination Wailing Wall and Kleenex; and so were all the others, too, for all the thanks I got, not that I ever asked for any. There are such people as givers in the world, as there are takers. And takers and takers. And takers-out for demitasses of cappuccino, too, let us not overlook that pygmy-sized type of taker, those Napoleonic-complexed aggressive little moochers.

  Muscle, I thought. I need some muscle. Not to take care of E.L.S.'s hairy half-pint Romeo, forget it, he was welcome to her. I needed muscle to gain a discreet entry into the portals—to say nothing of the files—of the eighth or ninth largest corporation in the fine state of California, IMM.

  So who had muscle of the kind I needed? And spare me your jibes about Arnold Schwarzenegger, please. A VIP is who. And how many VIPs did I know? One and a half, at the most, which significantly narrowed my choices, particularly as the half was in an institution of the highest security, owned and operated by the Federal Department of Prisons, just outside Tampa, Fla., so then there was one. He was an ex-governor of a neighboring state to ours. When I met him he was s
till an aspirant to that high office but unless I could retrieve certain amatory epistles he had penned a few years previously he could pack those aspirations away forever up in some dusty attic in his old Air Force flight bag along with his stripes and war decorations and fading photos of foreign ports. His name? What's in a name? I don't want to be unnecessarily mysterious, but neither do I want to be a kiss-and-tell, so I won't. Anyway, I did retrieve the letters, not without some difficulty and some cunning but highly illegal maneuvers. He was grateful. Two weeks later he married a stunning Italian diva. After suffering a slight stroke in his third year of office, he retired to his family ranch in New Mexico, and as far as I knew, was still there ropin' and brandin' and burning his fingers on the campfire coffee pot.

  Once before he'd written me a rave recommendation when I needed a short word with a Hollywood idol who was so far up the ladder of stardom that he'd disappeared entirely into the gossamer clouds of total inaccessibility. Could he and would he do a similar service again for his old compadre? Not to keep you in suspense, he could and would. And did, that very day. It turned out to be no trouble at all getting through to him, as I still had his phone number from last time; I merely dialed his number and when a male voice answered, "Yes?" asked if I could have a word with the Governor, please.

  "Don't see why not," I was told. "Hang on there and I'll put you through." He put me through to the Governor, who turned out to be talking into a cordless phone down by the corrals. Sure he 'membered me. Nah, I wasn't interrupting anything serious, he was just admirin' his new pacer, who was gettin' broke in.

  "Broke into what?" I said.

  "Pacin'," he said. "What else? What can I do for you this time 'round, son?"

  "I need a quiet word with someone very high up at IMM," I said. "Preferably someone with half a brain and a close mouth."

  "No sweat," he said. "I know just the horse thief. Soon as I get back up to the house I'll give you a holler."