I had my best shirt on, a Hawaiian number I’d nabbed at a Tommy Bahama outlet store. I was shaved and presentable, at least in my own estimation.
“Any trouble finding the place?” she said.
“Not at all,” I said. The trouble was in my nervous stomach.
I was not a popular kid in school. I was always the youngest in class because they’d move me up, and up. I was a chunk, too. Consequently, the girls looked past me. Or around me. I did not do the dating thing. I never learned how.
So here I was trying to figure it out on the fly, suddenly in the grip of something even stronger than Thunder McMahon’s mighty meat hooks.
“What are you reading?” I said quickly, heading to the safety of our common ground.
“Joan Didion,” she said. “Slouching Toward Bethlehem. I’m researching the 1960s, trying to figure out what happened.”
“My parents came out of the sixties and made it to maturity.”
“What do your parents do?”
“They taught. They’re no longer alive.”
The change in subject got rid of my nerves and replaced them with the sadness that is always there when I think of them.
Sophie’s face was warm, comforting.
“I bet they were good at what they did,” she said.
“Why would you bet that?” I said, a little too snappishly.
“Only from my conversations with you, brief as they’ve been.”
I should have apologized to her.
Instead, I nodded my head.
A waitress came over and handed us menus and told us the special was a cottage cheese and potato hand roll with cashews and tamarind sauce.
I ordered coffee.
“I want to teach,” Sophie said. “High school.”
“Why high school?”
“I had an English teacher in high school who practically saved my life. I guess I’d like to be able to do that, too.”
There was a lot underneath that but I decided it was too early to ask.
“The first time I saw you,” I said, “you had a UCLA sweatshirt on.”
“I’m working on my Masters,” she said. “American lit.”
I nodded. I was getting good at nodding.
“What kind of work do you do, Mike?”
There it was. How much could I tell her? No, how little could I tell her without seeming like I was hiding something? I should have rehearsed something. You don’t avoid moments by wishing them away.
I SAID, “I used to be in the entertainment business, but I’m working for a lawyer at the moment.”
“What part of the entertainment business? My grandfather worked at MGM.”
“I never got that far,” I said. “I was in live entertainment.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s not very glamorous. I did some fighting.”
“Boxing?”
“Cage.”
She thought about that, then shook her head slightly. “I’ve got to say that doesn’t go together in my mind.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Someone who does that but knows literature and philosophy like you do. But that’s a stereotype, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I never met a pug who could quote Chaucer. On the other hand, I never met a philosopher who could break my nose.”
Sophie laughed. Easily. I could have put that laugh around my neck and worn it to the beach, and been happy the rest of the day.
The waitress returned with my coffee. Sophie excused herself and headed for the restroom. I picked up the book she was reading. The book opened at an essay called John Wayne: A Love Song. I leafed it. It was about Didion, as a girl, watching John Wayne movies as a girl. Sophie had highlighted this passage:
And in a world we understood early to be characterized by venality and doubt and paralyzing ambiguities, he suggested another world, one which may or may not have existed ever but in any case existed no more: a place where a man could move free, could make his own code and live by it; a world in which, if a man did what he had to do, he could one day take the girl and go riding through the draw and find himself home free, not in a hospital with something going wrong inside, not in a high bed with flowers and the drugs and the forced smiles, but there at the bend in the bright river, the cottonwoods shimmering in the early morning sun.
SOPHIE CAME BACK and I put the book down.
“Caught me,” I said.
“She’s a good writer,” Sophie said.
“Who else do you like?”
“Jane Austen, of course,” Sophie said. “More contemporary, there’s—”
A voice said, “What’s up?”
Standing there was a guy in very good shape, about my size, six-three. He was staring at Sophie, didn’t make a move to look my way.
“What are you doing here?” Sophie said.
“What are you doing here?” he said.
The boyfriend alert system went off in my brain.
“I’m having lunch with a friend from the store,” Sophie said. “Mike, this is Josh.”
I put out my hand.
He left me hanging.
“Can we talk later?” Sophie said.
“How about now?” Josh said.
At this point, the script called for me to offer a warning in a John Wayne voice. Didn’t you hear the lady? Now why don’t you mosey on out of here?
But Sophie looked embarrassed enough. I gazed into my coffee cup.
“Later, please,” Sophie said.
I didn’t need to look up to know that Josh was using his eyes to burn holes in my head. I took a sip of coffee.
And then he was gone.
“I’m so sorry,” Sophie said.
“You don’t have to be,” I said.
“It’s complicated.”
“These things usually are,” I said. “And I don’t want to make things any harder, but …”
She looked at me, waiting.
“They’re going to be,” I said. “Because I want to keep seeing you.”
I COULDN’T BELIEVE I blurted that out. I half expected her to run screaming from the restaurant.
She did not run, nor did she scream.
She blushed. And with that, without guile or intent, she had me.
We ate, talked about books and theatre and movies and even a little philosophy. Turns out she got hooked on the history of thought by reading her grandfather’s copy of Durant’s The Story of Philosophy. I told her my father had given me a copy when I was a boy, and that got me going on it, too.
She was also an athlete, played volleyball undergrad at San Diego State. Was training for a triathlon.
It was two hours of absolute, unrestricted human normalcy.
When we finished, I could tell she was still thinking about the Josh thing. I was not going to pressure her. I needed time to think myself.
But I did tell her I wanted to do this again.
She said she did, too.
And we shook hands.
Shook. Hands.
I do not know what the current etiquette is. I never did know. The ways of modern romance are a locked-room mystery to me. Maybe someday I’ll find the key.
I WAS ALMOST to the Hollywood Bowl on the 101 freeway when Ira called.
“Where are you?” he said.
“Almost to the Bowl,” I said.
“Well turn around and come back. The police are here.”
“What’s going on?”
“They want to talk to you. About that woman you went to see yesterday, Desiree Parks?”
“What about her?”
“She got beaten up,” Ira said. “And somebody at the building gave a pretty fair description of you.”
I took the Highland off-ramp and got back on the 101 going the other way.
At Ira’s I pulled into the driveway. A newly buffed Crown Victoria was parked at the curb.
Ira was in the living room with a man and a woman, who stood when I walked in.
“
Detectives Baker and Molina,” Ira said.
The man, forty or so, good shape, had gray eyes and the crow’s feet of a veteran cop. He shook my hand. “Vic Baker,” he said. “This is my partner, Soledad Molina.”
Her grip was stronger than her partner’s. She was early thirties, had sharp brown eyes and wore a beige suit with creases that could cut meat. She didn’t say a word, or smile. She nodded once. It would have been a head-butt had I been any closer.
Baker said, “You were with Desiree Parks yesterday?”
“I was,” I said. “How did that information get to you, if I might ask?”
“Mr. Rosen’s card was in her purse,” he said.
I said, “Was her wallet in the purse?”
“Why do you ask?”
“To see if it was robbery or not.”
Baker and Molina exchanged a glance.
Ira smiled.
“Does not appear to be robbery,” Baker said. “Let’s sit down and you can tell us what happened.”
So I told them about meeting Brooklyn Christie, about her father hiring me to find her, about my chat with Desiree and all she told me.
“What time did you leave the location?” Molina asked. It was the first time she’d spoken. Her words were rapid fire. I started to think Rapid Fire would be a good nickname for her.
“About three or so,” I said. “How bad is she?”
“She’s in a coma,” Molina said.
That made me mad. Because I was probably the cause of it. Somebody following or watching. Yes, it could have been a big coincidence, but I wasn’t going to make that my working theory.
Baker said, “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt her?”
“None,” I said. “I only just met her. She did seem a little defensive.”
“In what way?”
“Not trusting me. She had some pepper spray on her key ring. She was ready to use it.”
“What was her demeanor like when you left her?” Molina asked.
“She seemed relieved,” I said.
“You were described by one of the neighbors,” Baker said.
“Which one?”
“We can’t tell you that, of course.”
“Because I didn’t see anybody else,” I said. “Oh, except a kid with a periscope.”
“Periscope?”
“Security for the building.”
Ira looked at me and shook his head, like I shouldn’t be joking around.
“Can you account for your time after left the apartment?” Baker said.
“I drove back to the beach,” I said. “Then I watched the sun go down.”
“Did you talk to anybody?”
“I had an internal dialogue,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Molina asked.
“Talking to myself,” I said.
Molina said, “So you don’t have anyone who can say where you were between three and five yesterday?”
“I have me, and I just told you,” I said. “And that’s all I’m going to tell you.”
Molina looked like she wanted to say something with even more punch behind it, but Baker stopped her by taking out a card and giving it to me. “If anything comes up, you hear anything, will you call me?”
“Anything relevant,” I said.
The two detectives stood and Baker thanked Ira.
Nobody thanked me.
Soledad Molina did give me a good-bye nod, though. And that one definitely would have crushed my nose.
“WHY DO YOU antagonize the poor police?” Ira said.
“Can I help my pleasing personality?”
“You will need them someday.”
“Just like I need you,” I said.
“Cue the violins.”
“I mean it. I need your expert legal opinion.”
“On what?”
“Breaking and entering,” I said.
“It’s better not to do both at once,” Ira said.
“I want to get into Brooklyn’s apartment.”
“And just how do you propose to do that?”
“Come on, Ira. Picking a simple lock?”
“No better than a common burglar!”
“But if I get her father’s permission, it’s not a crime, right?”
Ira folded his arms across his chest. That’s his analytical pose. Don’t ever get in the way of his analytical pose.
“At most it’s criminal trespass,” Ira said, “which is not a felony. You would not have the consent of the resident, but of her father. Now, her father no longer has parental authority, so the consent is a little tenuous. He would of course be prepared to testify that he was concerned for his daughter’s safety. It’s not a rock-solid defense for you, but I’m sure it’s enough that the D.A. would not file.”
“And what if they did?” I said. “Would you defend me?”
“I’d see that you were sent up the river.”
“L.A. doesn’t have a river.”
“Sure it does. It’s just that it’s made out of concrete now. Sort of like your head.”
“You’re the greatest lawyer of all time,” I said.
THAT NIGHT I called Ray Christie and filled him in on my conversation with Desiree Parks. I asked him if he’d ever heard his daughter talk about the archangel Michael. He said no and asked me what that was about. He was a man grasping at the meager straws I was holding out. I tried not to let him get his hopes up too high.
It’s a tricky thing, hope. If you let it soar too far it can end up like the Hindenburg. Yet most people can’t live without hope. I’ve tried.
I asked his permission to get into Brooklyn’s apartment. He said yes, and he wanted to be there. I told him I’d set it up.
Then I decided to watch a movie. I hadn’t for a long time. Ira had a set of DVDs in his mobile home, most of them classics. I scanned the titles and decided on a John Wayne. Since Sophie had just read about him, maybe I could find more common ground with the Duke between us.
The movie was Angel and the Badman.
I didn’t get the chance to start it.
C DOG KNOCKED on my screen door.
“How’s it goin’?” he said.
“Just about to watch a movie,” I said, stretched out on the sofa. “You want to come in?”
He came in, sliding the door closed behind him.
“Any luck with my guitar?” he said.
“Not yet,” I said. “I’ve had a few other things I needed to do.”
“Oh, man.”
“Sit down.”
He plopped on the futon.
“I’ll look into it, C,” I said. “How’s the other part of our agreement going?”
“Huh?”
“You know, staying clean.”
“I’m clean. Totally.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Would you be willing to pee in a cup?”
His eyes flashed. “You the frickin’ cops or something?”
“Just a humble investigator, investigating.”
With a sigh, C Dog said, “So what if I smoke a little? A little.”
“That wasn’t our agreement.”
“But I like it, man! Keeps me loose. You should try it.”
“I get loose with wisdom. I want you to try that.”
“Let me get this straight,” he said, rubbing his eyes, which were a little red to begin with. “Are you telling me not to smoke at all, and if I do, you’re not going to help me get my guitar back?”
“How about you give me a week? What’s your favorite junk food?”
“Uh, I don’t know, Funyuns?”
“You stock up on Funyuns. When you want to smoke, eat Funyuns instead. For a week. You’ll be the picture of health.”
“I could try that. But you gotta get me back my guitar.”
“I will give it my attention, C. Now how about a lesson in manhood?”
“Manhood?”
“Watch a John Wayne movie with me. I’ll make some popco
rn.”
“Who’s John Wayne?”
The decline of Western Civilization was almost complete.
“You’re going to find out,” I said. “And there will be a quiz afterward.”
“Oh, man!”
NEXT MORNING, AROUND ten, I drove Spinoza back to Brooklyn’s apartment building. Ray Christie didn’t have a key, and gave me permission over the phone to get in any which way I could. I told him to meet me there at eleven.
Picking a simple lock is easy. I’d assembled my own set of tools modeled after Joey Feint’s kit—nine picks and three tension wrenches in a leather pouch.
I was inside in ten seconds.
Stuffy was the smell. Nonuse was the tell. It was like a resort cabin in the off season. Dust had settled. The windows were closed with curtains drawn.
On a black, metal-frame coffee table sat a decorative gourd. At least I assumed it wasn’t there to be chomped. It was pear-shaped and yellow with black stripes and warts all over. Could have been someone’s idea of natural beauty. Or a witch’s head.
Next to it was a People magazine. The magazine’s date was three weeks earlier. There was a sofa with a throw blanket on it, and two bistro-style, retro chairs arranged at either side of the coffee table. On the wall above the sofa was a framed print of Marilyn Monroe standing over the subway grate and holding down her dress.
The small kitchen had a four-burner gas stove and a mid-sized refrigerator. Inside the refrigerator were some Tupperware containers of different shapes, a carton of organic milk, a resealable plastic bag of Bob’s Red Mill flaxseeds, and a jar of sunflower seed butter. The vegetable drawer had green plastic bag of spinach which was now soggy and useless. A single, lonely carrot looked like it had crawled into the drawer to die.
I started looking around for anything written—a list, a set of phone numbers, notes-to-self. Nothing in the kitchen.
Down the hallway I peeked in the bathroom and all seemed as it should be. A pink-handled toothbrush sat in a happy-face toothbrush holder on the tile by the mirror. A barely used tube of Earthpaste Lemon Twist Natural Toothpaste was on the side of the porcelain sink.
The only bedroom was at the end of the hall. The door was wide open, the room neat. The queen-sized bed was covered with a light-blue comforter. Two throw pillows with Aztec design covers were on top of the comforter. Between the pillows was a stuffed animal, one of the wild things from Maurice Sendak’s book.
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