Down in the Valley (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  I went back to my fretwork. Wouldn't Mae be surprised when I gave her fretwork everything for Christmas! I hoped to God Art's had gone up the way it was supposed to, I didn't want to go through all that again, I wasn't sure I could. No, not because I was chicken but maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all, maybe it was just as stupid and potentially lethal as firing my place had been and, even more horrible thought, maybe Art had had nothing to do with it in the first place. Unfortunately, in LA the serving of mediocre franks isn't in itself sufficient motivation to level a joint.

  Anyway, it seemed that reality, which is a great place to visit but I wouldn't care to live there, was sneaking back into my life despite all my efforts to keep it at bay. And, as an example of that very thing, right then the phone rang, and there's nothing realer than that except maybe getting your foreskin caught in the zipper. It didn't ring, actually, it flashed, so it wouldn't disturb anyone else in the room, but it amounts to the same thing. Reality is reality whether it rings or it flashes, and if you want to know who said that, I did.

  It was Benny.

  'Kaput,' he whispered dramatically. 'Demolished. Flat as a pancake. Creamed.'

  'You're up early,' I said. 'How do you know?'

  'I looked,' he said.

  'Benny . . . '

  'I didn't stop, I didn't even slow down. I too know that old myth about felons returning to the scene of their crimes.'

  'Some myth you turned out to be,' I said.

  'I didn't even use my own car,' he said righteously.

  I didn't bother asking him what car he did use.

  'Any other damage?' I kept my voice down in case the sleeper was really a wide-awake police spy recording everything.

  'A tree or two,' he said. 'Bit of the parking lot. Bit of a fence. One parked car. Sure hope he's insured, he's going to have half the world suing him.'

  'Too bad,' I said. 'I wonder how much a forty-foot oak costs in these inflationary times.'

  We wondered about that for a minute, then Benny said he had to go talk to a guy about buying some money, and he hung up. I took a snooze. When my brother phoned later I told him not to bother coming by, I'd be out the next day. I had sort of hoped that Juanita Morales might drop in with a mariachi band and a care package of piña coladas, but there you go.

  The next day, I went home. Never did get to meet my roomie, he slept the whole time, unless he was dead and nobody noticed. Doctor Franklin came by before I left. He said all my legs needed was air and time.

  'How about the spring of youth?' I said.

  'And keep them dry,' he said. 'And don't be afraid to take as many anacin as you need while they're healing.'

  I said I wouldn't and winked at Flo.

  I'd told Benny when he phoned earlier that I'd hop a cab back to the office where my car was, I hoped, but he came by anyway about eleven and even insisted on carrying the suitcase. I left the petunias for my bride-to-be.

  Benny had a copy of that morning's Herald Examiner with him in the car; there was a bit about V. Daniel in it and a short item about Art's. The bit about me said the police were investigating a case of possible arson by fire-bombing. I enjoyed the 'possible' – I would have called the arson quod erat mucho demonstrated, it was like suggesting that Adolph had a possible bias against the Hebrew persuasion or it was possible a Son of Erin from County Clare might take a drink on St Paddy's Day if you twisted his arm. I did learn Timmy's last name was Flexner, and he had a mother who owned a house on St Agnes, a short street a few blocks west of my office. I hoped Mae hadn't seen the paper, Christ, she'd shit a brick all over again. I know my brother would keep it from Mom in case she was having one of her rare good days when things sunk in and when she reacted normally.

  The item in the Herald about Art's said the fire marshal's office was inspecting a possible gas leak; I enjoyed that 'possible' more than the last one.

  It seemed to be business as usual on the corner of Victory and Orange, I was glad to see. I was also glad to see my car, water-streaked but otherwise OK. Benny let me out right beside it.

  'Want some money?' I asked him.

  'Wouldn't say no,' he said.

  'What's it come to?'

  'Ah, fifty for the clothes and stuff, another fifty to borrow the keys off a girl I know. You might let me have the suitcase back sometime, I borrowed it from my sister.'

  I gave him five twenties from my wallet and, when he leaned over to take them, a couple of pats on his bald spot.

  'See you next time you want to get violent, Unk,' he said. 'Knowing you, that won't be long.' He gave a toot-toot and took off. Mrs Morales was looking out her window at us; I gave her my customary wave. She waved back but a little half-heartedly, I thought. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was time I crossed her off my shortlist is what it was maybe, God knows I'd given her enough chances.

  My office was still boarded up but the door was open. The explosion had luckily blown it ajar so the locks were still good. All it needed was a sanding and a new paint job. Who didn't? I said 'Knock, knock' and went in.

  The decorators, or Armenian folk-dancing fools, if you will, were in the front corner of the office finishing up the carpet, using one of those strange stretching tools that work so well if you know what you're doing but are knuckle-busters if you don't. 'Tundra', as I suspected, being moderately literate, having read a book or two in my time, paperbacks I admit, was a dark green.

  'Um-hum!' I enthused. 'Terrific, boys.' The walls had all been done, new plasterboard underneath, I surmised, and then repainted in the off-white they were before. I took a look out back; what was left of the charred furniture was piled against the wall awaiting collection. The cat from next door was sitting on its butt licking its tummy and looking particularly foolish. The washroom hadn't been touched; I opened up the safe and everything inside looked fine. Who's a lucky boy – a hundred bucks' worth of second-hand furniture, a visit from Ma Bell and I was back in business.

  When I came out of the washroom one of the decorators, the elder one, was politely waiting for me.

  'Sam said new glass goes in tomorrow,' he said. 'Safety glass, you know? The kind with a metal screen in it?'

  I said I knew.

  'Sam said electrician comes tomorrow,' he said. 'Telephone, too.'

  'God bless Sam,' I said. 'And you two folk-dancing fools for getting it all done so quickly.'

  'Aw,' he said. I took out a twenty and passed it over.

  'You might like to buy a present for your children.'

  'That lazy, good-for-nothing helping me is my children,' he said, 'and the only present he'd like is a bottle of Haig's Pinch.' He put the bill away in an old-fashioned change purse. I told him to just pull the doors shut when he left, the spring locks would catch.

  'That's what we did yesterday,' he said, then shouted at his boy to stop goofing off and to start getting some work done around here. The kid looked up at me and grinned. What the hell – I grinned back. I looked at the pile of mail by the front door and decided to leave it where it was.

  The week-old kitty-litter aroma of new paint was getting to me so I was glad to get out into what Los Angelenos have to make do with for air. The car started right up; it had only been standing three days and it had a battery that could turn over a Centurion tank. I backed it up in front of Mr Amoyan's and left it running while I popped in for a quick word. He was at the sander buffing down the edges of a new half-sole; he switched off when he saw me.

  'How's by you?' he wanted to know, shaking hands with me.

  I told him things were fine by me, thanked him for all his help, refused his offer of some liquid Armenian poison, shook hands again, took my leave, got back in the car and headed for home sweet home and a large, cold brandy and ginger and then another brandy and ginger and then without a doubt in this world another brandy and ginger. Then take my lumps from Mae and then another . . . maybe if I got drunk enough I could figure out a way to take a shower without getting my legs wet. Some sort of harness, perhaps, or
waterproof tights.

  I'd gone about a block or two on my way to that first brandy and ginger when I had a better idea – to go and see Timmy's mother. I'd remembered the street she lived on, St Agnes, but not the address, so I stopped for a paper at a 7-11 and looked up the story again while sipping an Orange Crush through two straws.

  I've always been a two-straws man. Was it my imagination that it didn't have as much flavor as it used to or was it that nothing had as much flavor as it used to? – I hoped it was Orange Crush's fault. I bought a couple of Baby Ruths for the bedside table, gave a panhandling wino a quarter, then hit the drugstore to fill the prescription for antibiotics the doc had given me.

  Mrs Flexner's house turned out to be a large stucco affair probably fifty years old set well back from the street. The window frames needed repainting. The front yard had a high, wire-mesh fence around it, for animals, I thought. Wrongly, I soon found out. The gate was tricky to open but with my professional skills I managed it. The lady who answered the door was large, frizzy-haired, angry and black. She had a hefty-looking child in one arm and there were two more holding on to her legs and peeking up at me.

  'Is Mrs Flexner in?'

  'She's in. What's it about?'

  'Her son,' I said. 'I'm Victor Daniel. He died in my office.'

  'You better come on in then.' She led me into a shabby front room where another, older, child was lying on the floor cutting things out of colored paper.

  'Sit yourself down somewheres.'

  'Thank you.' I sat myself down on a plastic-covered sofa beside a huge, bald doll that was missing one leg. A mutt with an erection and a red ribbon tied around its neck wandered in from the hall and came over to smell my shoes. I smelled it right back. It sat on one of my feet, looked up and wagged its stump of a tail hopefully. I obliged with a scratch behind the ear. In gratitude it let out a terrific fart which no one seemed to notice but me.

  'Mary-Lou, get the man a drink,' the lady said. One of the girls who was entwined around her legs detached herself reluctantly, then ran out.

  'I'm her,' the lady said, sitting heavily down into an ancient lounging chair. The child on the floor snuck up one hand and turned on a switch in the chair's armrest; the chair began vibrating gently. The woman aimed a mock slap at the child and turned it off again.

  'I know I don't look like her but I'm her. Children, remove yourselves. Elmira, you take Donald.' She passed over the baby. 'And keep the gate closed, you hear me loud and clear?'

  The children removed themselves. Mary-Lou came back carrying carefully a glass of Kool-Ade in one hand, which she offered me shyly.

  'Elmira made it,' she whispered. 'She never puts enough sugar in it.' Then she produced a vanilla sandwich biscuit from the other hand.

  'Thank you, sweetheart,' I said.

  'Welcome,' she said, and ran outside to join the others. I watched her go. I don't know. Sometimes you see a little girl who's so beautiful she gives you a brief surge of hope. Mrs Flexner closed her eyes for a moment; the flea-bag barked excitedly from the yard.

  'Nice kids.' I took a sip of my Kool-Ade. It was lime, not my favorite, but with Kool-Ade I had no favorite.

  'Nice enough,' agreed Mrs Flexner. 'That Kool-Ade OK? Don't care for it much myself.' I said it was fine and ate my cookie.

  'Mrs Flexner, do you know what Timmy was doing when he died?'

  'Not exactly,' she said. 'Something crazy.'

  'Someone fire-bombed my place. Timmy saw the fire and thought I was inside and went in to try and help me. He thought of me as a friend because I got him that job down at the liquor store.'

  'Well, he didn't have many of those, friends or jobs, and that's the truth, poor soul,' she said. We sat in silence for a minute. Out in the yard Mary-Lou was whispering something into the mutt's ear. Then Mrs Flexner said, 'He was my best friend's child, she lived two doors up, she never had no husband, it got to be too much for her, she just left one day. Never heard a word from her in sixteen years. So I adopted him. Adopted six so far. Got those four monsters left.'

  'Mrs Flexner, is there anything I can do to help? I don't want to embarrass you but if there's going to be a service, maybe I could pay for that if you'll let me.'

  'No thank you,' she said shortly. 'We'll manage ourselves.' She took another look out the window to check on the children. 'I don't know how that dog puts up with it.'

  'Why did he wheel all his things around with him all the time?'

  'I dunno,' she said. 'He was just a kid. Maybe he was afraid they wouldn't be there when he got back. Maybe he was showing off.' She told me when and where the service for Timmy was going to be held; I said I'd try and make it.

  'Well, there won't be no crowd,' she said. 'Us and the kids, one or two more.'

  I finished up the Kool-Ade and got up with some difficulty.

  'You get hurt too?' she asked. 'Aside from your face?'

  'Nothing much, I was lucky. I got out the back just as Timmy must have been going in the front. It was a brave thing to do.'

  'It's nice to think so,' she said tiredly. She saw me to the door. We shook hands. I waved goodbye to the kids and the mutt and drove off.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I don't think the driving helped my legs any but at least I could manage to do it. When I arrived home I pulled into the driveway and parked behind the rented truck. Feeb – landlady, blue hair, bottom apartment – was waiting for me at the door.

  'What happened, what happened?' she wanted to know.

  I didn't know what to say to her. What if she wanted us out? I couldn't blame her – who was to say it wouldn't be her house that got fried the next time or maybe one of our cars in the driveway? However I got a reprieve, she didn't mention the fire.

  'Where's Lillian, wasn't she coming Sunday?'

  Lillian is my mother's name; the old girls got on pretty well together. Once Feeb took Mom to a Kings hockey game at the Forum but they had a spot of bother in the third period when the Kings were grimly hanging on to a 6–2 deficit and Mom couldn't get to the bathroom in time so they never went again. Feeb had season tickets, I guess she must have known someone.

  I told her some story about my brother wanting a free week later during his holidays so he was keeping Lillian an extra week now. God knows what I was going to tell Feeb when she read the paper or when one of her kindly neighbors broke the news to her about my office.

  'Oh, shoot,' she said. 'Gotta run, got a macaroni cass' in the microwave. Want some?'

  I said no. I hate macaroni, especially in a casserole with potato chips and especially especially in a casserole with potato chips and mushroom soup.

  We went our separate ways. I could hear my phone ringing as I labored up the stairs but took my time, only partly because of my weary legs, I couldn't think of any good news it might be. Except Miss Shirley, wondering how her big boy was, with a spare two-pound T-bone sizzling on her backyard barbecue . . . I moved my ass. Ain't love wonderful?

  It was Mae. She didn't have a spare T-bone sizzling on her barbecue, she had a full head of steam sizzling and let me have it right between the eyes. I couldn't help wondering why she was doing such a number.

  Did I know how worried she was?

  I knew.

  Did I know how stupid I was?

  I knew.

  Did I know I could have been killed?

  I knew.

  Why didn't I call her to let her know I was getting out?

  That I didn't know, except maybe I did. She finally hung up and I could get myself a drink. It is nice to have someone worry about you, I guess; it does mean they care for you, I guess. After all, nagging is a form of caring. I guess.

  The drink was delicious. I silently toasted Mr Papanikolas and wondered what he would do without Timmy. Maybe put one of his clan up in the hot-seat, or offer all potential troublemakers a slice of his Aunt Fat'ma's halvah.

  After a while I phoned the car rental and told them I hadn't stolen their truck, I'd bring it back mañana, and g
ave them a credit-card number to keep them quiet. I noticed my glass was empty again – always a problem in the Valley, evaporation, ask any fruit farmer. So I made another one with that good, slightly rough Christian Bros brandy. Brandy and ginger ale can be a trifle sweet for some and a trifle pukkah sahib for others but I've never had any trouble with it. Frankly, I can't think of all that many drinks I have had trouble with.

  After another while I wandered into the bedroom to put away the candy bars, they belonged in the same drawer of the bedside table as the second of my .38 Police Positives. I was pointing it at myself in the mirror when I got a phone call from the vice-principal of St Stephen's.

  'Are you receiving?'

  'Barely,' I said.

  'See you in ten,' he said, and hung up forcibly. I put the gun away again, I didn't quite know why I got it out in the first place. I knew it was there, because it always was; I knew it was clean, for the same reason, and I knew it was loaded, ditto. I had four of them altogether. The one in the office, the one by the bed and the one taped underneath the driver's seat in the car. I know that only makes three. My brother got them for me one Christmas, under duress. There is a lot of philosophy written and talked about guns. I thought they smelled nice, like a garage or a woodworking shop. Strangely enough, in this lawless, violent, crazed and gun-mad frontier called California I am allowed to have a weapon in my place of work, my residence and my vehicle but not about my valuable person, even in the course of my dangerous duties, without a special permit, one I did not have and could not easily obtain. What I did normally carry about my person when I hadn't stupidly left it behind like that midnight at the Oasis was a leather bag of ball-bearings. It was a pouch, really, about as long as a hotdog and twice as big around, held closed by a leather thong that was long enough to hang around your neck or to tie from a belt. It had some sort of fake American Indian motif painted on it; hippies used to use them for cigarettes and lighters and their stash. It was the invention of a girl I used to know – I suppose I still know her, I just don't know where she is – but she was in Sacramento then, studying to be a forest ranger. Hers was full of BBs but the V. Daniel modification Mark 2 utilized ball-bearings instead for greater heft. It served nicely as a paperweight when I wasn't lugging it around.