D is for Deadbeat (22 page)

“You should be home in bed,” I said, and then wondered why I'd suggested such a thing. Billy and Lovella were currently back there groveling around on the
floor, probably causing the trailer to thump on its foundations. Who could sleep with that stuff going on?

Coral put her cigarette down and took out a Kleenex to blow her nose. I've always wondered where people learn their nose-blowing techniques. She favored the double-digit method, placing a tissue over her hands, sticking the knuckles on both index fingers up her nostrils, rotating them vigorously after each honk. I kept my eyes averted until she was done, wondering idly if she was aware of Lovella's current whereabouts.

“What's the story on Lovella? She seemed distraught at the funeral.”

Coral paused in her endeavors and looked at me. Belatedly, I realized she probably didn't know what the word distraught meant. I could see her put the definition together.

“She's fine. She had no idea they weren't legally married to each other. That's why she fell apart. Freaked her out.” She gave her nose a final Roto-rooting and took up her cigarette again with a sniff.

“You'd think she'd be relieved,” I said. “From what I hear, he beat the shit out of her.”

“Not at first. She was crazy about him when he first got out. Still is, actually.”

“That's probably why she called him the world's biggest asshole at the funeral,” I remarked.

Coral looked at me for a moment and then shrugged noncommittally. She was smarter than Billy, but not by
much. I had the same feeling here that I'd had with him. I was tapping into a matter they'd hoped to bury, but I didn't know enough to pursue the point.

I tried fishing. “I thought Lovella and Billy had a thing at one time.”

“Years ago. When she was seventeen. Doesn't count for shit.”

“She told me Billy set her up with Daggett.”

“Yeah, more or less. He talked to Daggett about her and Daggett wrote and asked if they could be pen pals.”

“Too bad he never mentioned his wife,” I said. “I do want to talk to Lovella, so when you see her please tell her to get in touch.” I gave her a business card with my office number on it, which she acknowledged with a shrug.

“I won't see Lovella,” she said.

“That's what you think,” said I.

Coral's attention strayed to the bartender who was holding a finger aloft. “Hang on.”

She crossed to the bar where she picked up a couple of mixed drinks and delivered them to the one other table that was occupied. I tried to picture her flipping Daggett backward out of a rowboat, but I couldn't quite make it stick. She fit the description, but there was something missing.

When she got back to the booth, I held up the high heels. “These yours?”

“I don't wear suede,” she said flatly.

I loved it. Like suede was against her personal dress code. “What about the skirt?”

She took a final drag of the cigarette and crushed it in the metal ashtray, blowing out a mouthful of smoke. “Nope. Whose is it?”

“I think the blonde who killed Daggett wore it Friday night. Billy says she picked him up in here.”

Belatedly, she focused on the skirt. “Yeah, that's right. I saw her,” she said, as if cued.

“Does this look like the skirt she wore?”

“It could be.”

“You know who she is?”

“Uh-uh.”

“I don't mean to be rude about this, Coral, but I could use a little help. We're talking murder.”

“I've been all tore up about it too,” she said, bored.

“Don't you give a shit about any of this?”

“Are you kidding? Why should I care about Daggett? He was scum.”

“What about the blonde? Do you remember anything about her?”

Coral shook another cigarette out of the pack. “Why don't you give it a rest, kid. You don't have the right to ask us any of this shit. You're not a cop.”

“I can ask anything I want,” I said, mildly. “I can't force you to answer, but I can always ask.”

She stirred with agitation, shifting in her seat.
“Know what? I don't like you,” she said. “People like you make me sick.”

“Oh really. People like what?”

She took her time extracting a paper match from a packet, scratching the tip across the striking area until it flared. She lit her cigarette. The match made a tiny tinkling sound when she dropped it in the ashtray. She rested her chin on her palm and smiled at me unpleasantly. I wanted her to get her teeth fixed so she'd be prettier. “I bet you've had it real easy, haven't you?” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Extremely.”

“Nice white-collar middle-class home. The whole mommy-hubby trip. Bet you had little brothers and sisters. Nice little fluffy white dog . . .”

“This is amazing,” I said.

“Two cars. Maybe a cleaning woman once a week. I never went to college. I never had a daddy giving me all the advantages.”

“Well, that explains it then,” I said. “I did meet your mom, you know. She looks like someone who's worked hard all her life. Too bad you don't appreciate the effort she made in your behalf.”

“What effort? She works in a supermarket checkout line,” Coral said.

“Oh, I see. You think she should do something classy like you.”

“I'm sure not going to do
this
for life, if that's what you think.”

“What happened to your father? Where was he in all this?”

“Who knows? He bugged out a long time ago.”

“Leaving her with kids to raise by herself?”

“Skip it. I don't even know why I brought it up. Maybe you should get to the point and let me get back to work.”

“Tell me about Doug.”

“None of your business.” She slid out of the booth. “Time's up,” she said, and walked away. God, and here I was being friendly.

I picked up the shoes and skirt and dropped a couple of bucks on the table. I moved to the entranceway, pausing in the shelter of the doorway before I stepped out into the rain. It was 10:17 and there was no traffic on Milagro. The street was shiny black and the rain, as it struck the pavement, made a noise like bacon sizzling in a pan. A mist drifted up from the manhole covers that dotted the block, and the gutters gushed in a widening stream where water boiled back out of the storm drains.

I was restless, not ready to pack it in for the night. I thought about stopping by Rosie's, but it would probably look just like the Hub—smoky, drab, depressing. At least the air outside, though chilly, had the sweet, flowery scent of wet concrete. I started the car and did a U-turn, heading toward the beach, my windshield stippled with rain.

At Cabana, I turned right, driving along the boulevard
. On my left, even without a moon visible, the surf churned with a dull gray glow, folding back on itself with a thundering monotony. Out in the ocean, I could see the lights on the oil derricks winking through the mist. I'd pulled up at a stoplight when I heard a car horn toot behind me. I checked my rearview mirror. A little red Honda was pulling over into the lane to my right. It was Jonah, apparently heading home just as I was. He made a cranking motion. I leaned over and rolled the window down on the passenger side.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure. Where?”

He pointed at the Crow's Nest to his right, a restaurant with exterior lights still burning. The light changed and he took off. I followed, pulling into the lot behind him. We parked side by side. He got out first, hunching against the rain while he opened an umbrella and came around to my door. We huddled together and puddle hopped our way to the front entrance. He held the door and I ducked inside, holding it for him then while he lowered the umbrella and gave it a quick shake.

The interior of the Crow's Nest was done in a halfhearted nautical theme which consisted primarily of fishing nets and rigging draped along the rafters and mariner's charts sealed into the table tops under a half-inch of polyurethane. The restaurant section was closed, but the bar seemed to be doing all right. I could see maybe ten tables occupied. The level of conversation
was low and the lighting was discreet, augmented by fat round jars where candles glowed through orange glass. Jonah steered us past a small dance floor toward a table in the corner. The place had an aura of edgy excitement. We were protected by the weather, drawn together like the random souls stranded in an airport between flights.

The waitress appeared and Jonah glanced at me.

“You decide,” I said.

“Two margaritas. Cuervo Gold, Grand Marnier, shaken, no salt,” he said. She nodded and moved off.

“Very impressive,” I said.

“I thought you'd like that. What brings you out?”

“Daggett, of course.” I filled him in, realizing as I summed it up that I'd had just about as much of Billy Polo and his ilk as I could take for one night.

“Let's don't talk about him,” I said when I was done. “Tell me what you're working on.”

“Hey, no way. I'm here to relax.”

The waitress brought our drinks and we paused briefly while she dipped neatly, knees together, and placed a cocktail napkin in front of each of us, along with our drinks. She was dressed like a boatswain except that her high-cut white pants were spandex and her buns hung out the back. I wondered how long uniforms like that would last if the night manager was required to squeeze his hairy fanny into one.

When the waitress left, Jonah touched his glass to mine. “To rainy nights,” he said. We drank. The
tequila had a little “wow” effect as it went down and I had to pat myself on the chest. Jonah smiled, enjoying my discomfiture.

“What brings you out so late?” I asked.

“Catching up on paperwork. Also, avoiding the house. Camilla's sister came down from Idaho for a week. The two of them are probably drinking wine and carving me up like a roast.”

“Her sister doesn't like you, I take it.”

“She thinks I'm a dud. Camilla came from money. Deirdre doesn't think either one of them should take up with guys on salary, for God's sake. And a cop? It's all too bourgeois. God, I gotta watch myself here. All I do is complain about life on the home front. I'm beginning to sound like Dempsey.”

I smiled. Lieutenant Dempsey had worked Narcotics for years, a miserably married man whose days were spent complaining about his lot. His wife had finally died and he'd turned around and married a woman just like her. He'd taken early retirement and the two of them had gone off in an RV. His postcards to the department were amusing, but left people uncomfortable, like a stand-up comic making mean-spirited jokes at a spouse's expense.

Conversation dwindled. The background music was a tape of old Johnny Mathis tunes and the lyrics suggested an era when falling in love wasn't complicated by herpes, fear of AIDS, multiple marriages, spousal
support, feminism, the sexual revolution, the Bomb, the Pill, approval of one's therapist, or the specter of children on alternate weekends.

Jonah was looking good. The combination of shadow and candlelight washed the lines out of his face, and heightened the blue of his eyes. His hair looked very dark and the rain had made it look silkier. He wore a white shirt, opened at the neck, sleeves rolled up, his forearms crosshatched with dark hair. There's usually a current running between us, generated I suppose by whatever primal urges keep the human race reproducing itself. Most of the time, the chemistry is kept in check by a bone-deep caution on my part, ambivalence about his marital status, by circumstance, by his own uneasiness, by the knowledge on both our parts that once certain lines are crossed, there's no going back and no way to predict the consequences.

We ordered a second round of drinks, and then a third. We slow danced, not saying a word. Jonah smelled of soap and his jaw line was smooth and sometimes he hummed with a rumbling I hadn't heard since I sat on my father's lap as a very young child, listening to him read to me before I knew what words meant. I thought about Billy Polo lowering Lovella to the trailer floor. The image was haunting because it spoke so eloquently of his need. I was always such a stoic, so careful not to make mistakes. Sometimes I wonder what the difference is between being cautious and being
dead. I thought about rain and how nice it is to sink down on clean sheets. I pulled my head back and Jonah looked down at me quizzically.

“This is all Billy Polo's fault,” I said.

He smiled. “What is?”

I studied him for a moment. “What would Camilla do if you didn't come home tonight?”

His smile faded and his eyes got that look. “She's the one who's talking about an open relationship,” he said.

I laughed. “I'll bet that applies to her, not you.”

“Not anymore,” he said.

His kiss seemed familiar.

We left soon afterward.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I drove to the office at 9:00. The rain clouds were hunched above the mountains moving north, while above, the sky was the blue white of bleached denim. The city seemed to be in sharp focus, as if seen through new prescription lenses. I opened the French doors and stood on the balcony, raising my arms and doing one of those little butt wiggles so favored by the football set.
That
for you, Camilla Robb, I thought, and then I laughed and went and had a look at myself in the mirror, mugging shamelessly. Amazing Grace. I looked just like myself. Where tears erase the self, good sex transforms and I was feeling energized.

I put the coffee on and got to work, typing up my case notes, detailing the conversations I'd had with Billy and Coral. Cops and private eyes are always caught up in paperwork. Written records have to be kept of everything, with events set out so that anyone who comes along afterward will have a clear and comprehensive
résumé of the investigation to that point. Since a private eye also bills for services, I have to keep track of my hours and expenses, submitting statements periodically so I can make sure I get paid. I prefer fieldwork; I suspect we all do. If I'd wanted to spend my days in an office, I'd have studied to be an underwriter for the insurance company next door. Their work seems boring 80 percent of the time while mine only bores me about one hour out of every ten.