Drawing Dead (26 page)

I can’t do that.

Why not?

Ms. Chandler inspected the scotch section behind the bar for a while.

There are things I haven’t told you, she said.

Oh my, I replied. You shock me. You mean there are … secrets?

All right. All right. I know you’re not naïve.

Thanks for that.

Of course you knew I wasn’t telling you everything.

I had a hunch. But nobody’s paying me to follow it up.

It’s about Vladimir.

Ah. Then you do know him.

I know his name.

Cherchez l’homme, I said.

I’m afraid of him.

Ah.

He’s not a pleasant man, I understand.

Few of us are.

Yes, she replied with a bit too much alacrity. But he is less pleasant than most.

Ms. Chandler, I said. I love your company. The wine is … well, it’s potable, anyway. But I must admit I would prefer it if you … how to put it? … got to the point? Saves so much time, you know.

All right, Mr. Redman.

Is there any way I can get you to call me Rick?

No.

All right, then.

Mr. Redman, do you remember the Joel Steinberg case?

Who doesn’t?

The man who beat that woman nearly to death, killed their child, and still she clung to him?

Yes, yes. Sort of a Stockholm syndrome thing.

Yes. Well, my fear is that Eloise is involved in that kind of relationship.

She seemed rather self-confident, I said.

Meaning?

Hard to see her being in thrall to someone who’s abusing her.

Be that as it may, Mr. Redman—

Rick, please.

I have my reasons.

Such as?

When I first met her friend, he seemed—

Oh, so you have met him?

—very nice. He had a Russian accent, but he dressed very well. He was always talking about this business he was starting. He was very enthusiastic.

What kind of business?

Investments, he said.

What kind of investments?

He didn’t say.

Hmm. Kind of like import-export?

What do you mean?

Well, first of all, it doesn’t mean anything, investments. All that says is somebody’s putting up some money for something. It could be women’s shoes. Or truffles from Saudi Arabia. Could be cocaine from Colombia. Same as with import-export. That used to be code for: ‘I’m with the CIA, by the way.’ Or something of that nature.

Truffles from Saudi Arabia?

Long story. Didn’t work. Too much sand.

I think you’ve lost me.

In the truffles. Sand in the truffles. Couldn’t get it out. I suppose we should have figured that might be a problem.

We? You were involved in importing truffles from Saudi Arabia?

I told you, long story. I’ll tell it to you sometime. What can I say? I met a guy at a poker game. Armenian. Full of ideas. He was looking for investors.

Investors to import truffles from Saudi Arabia. And you trusted this man?

Trust, but verify, as me and Brezhnev always say. Well, he used to. He’s dead. It’s just me now. There really were truffles. And they were way cheaper than the Italian. Anyway, see what I mean? Import-export. Never know what it means.

Was there an export part?

Dollars. To an offshore account.

My, Mr. Redman, you do seem to know a lot of things.

It’s my curse, I said, contemplating the long lean line of her thigh as she recrossed her legs.

Why is that?

My brain never shuts off. It’s always making another connection. Even in my sleep. I have the weirdest dreams …

I put my hand lightly on her leg. A little test case.

She let it stay there for a beat or two. Enough to tell me something.

I wasn’t exactly sure what it was, though.

Perhaps we’ll leave your dreams for another day, she said, pulling down her skirt, which, incidentally, or not so incidentally, served to brush my hand away. She reached for her purse.

Ms. Chandler, I protested. We haven’t finished talking about Vladimir.

Yes, yes, she said, standing up. But you know enough for now. He’s an unsavory character. I want you to find out if Eloise is still with him. And if not, where he is.

You can’t just drop by and ask?

No, I can’t, she said, heading for the exit.

As she walked away, I thought about how much she hadn’t told me. Why she thought Eloise was in thrall to this guy. Stockholm syndrome. That was a prisoner thing. The captive becomes emotionally attached to the captor.

Eloise hadn’t looked particularly imprisoned.

No more than anyone else living in a trailer park.

And she was awfully feisty, for someone supposedly susceptible to thralldom.

Louise Chandler swept through the door.

From the rear, she still made a good impression.

T
HE PHONE RANG
. I stuffed a pillow over my head. It didn’t do a thing. I’d been spoiled by down pillows. Down pillows muffle sound. Polyester doesn’t.

I told the phone to stop.

It wouldn’t listen to me.

I rolled over with a groan.

I picked up the phone.

Redman, I gargled.

Daddy!

It was my Kelley. The fog lifted immediately.

How are you, beautiful? I asked.

I’m great, and better yet, I’m here.

Here?

In Las Vegas! With Peter!

You’re joking.

Would I tell a joke?

Of course not. What are you doing here?

We came to keep you out of trouble, Daddy, what do you think? And help out with all your exciting investigations.

Strangely enough, I actually do have an investigation going.

Wow. Peter’ll be thrilled.

And very useful too, I’m sure.

Does it have anything to do with old movies?

Not that I’m aware of.

’Cause that’s where he’d be really helpful.

Okay, if an old movie angle comes up, I’ll let you guys know.

Thanks, Dad. Anyway, come on over. I’m going food shopping. We can make a feast.

Sounds good to me. But where are you?

We’re at a friend of Peter’s house. He loaned it to us. He’s in Thailand looking for boys on the beach.

Charming. What’s the address?

She gave me the address. I dragged myself out of bed. Avoided the mirror.

On the way, I remembered about Madeleine. Kelley’s half sister, I supposed. Kelley would need to know. But then I’d have to explain. And I didn’t have an explanation.

Maybe I could do the Redman thing.

Procrastinate.

The place they’d borrowed was a tiny one-story adobe thing on the edge of the desert, in a poor part of town. It was the first time I’d seen that there was a poor part of town. But I guess the help had to live somewhere. Every surface in the place was occupied by kitschy stuff: 1950s girlie ashtrays, lamps in the shape of bulgy propeller-driven airplanes, bright orange plastic dinner plates, neatly stacked. Hundreds of porcelain dolls’ heads. The usual desert decor.

I got the stuff, said Kelley, holding up a plastic bag.

I looked in. Oh, nice. Baby bok choy. Fresh ginger and garlic. Fine rice noodles.

Aha, I said. Chinese soup.

It was our favorite thing to make. One of the few things that had nothing but good memories attached.

They have grocery stores in Vegas?

If you know where to look, said Kelley with a knowing wink.

I had no idea what the wink meant.

I minced the garlic. Kelley chopped the ginger. Peter told us about Anna Nicole Smith’s autopsy report.

I mixed the ginger and garlic in soy sauce, rice vinegar and sesame oil. I put on the wok. Kelley chopped up some chicken. I sliced some shiitakes and green onions. Peter, reluctantly, soaked the rice noodles. I prepared the bok choy. Heated up some olive oil in the wok.

Okay, olive oil isn’t Chinese. So sue me.

I secretly surveyed the kitchen for booze, in the guise of looking for spices. I managed to open enough cabinets to find a bottle of gin. Peter liked gin. He liked to mix ridiculous colorful cocktails with it.

I surreptitiously poured some into my glass of seltzer.

Kelley was no naïf. She knew my proclivities. But I preferred to keep them from her as much as I could. She had enough to deal with.

I heated a gallon of chicken stock in a robin’s egg blue cast-iron pot. Kelley stirred the sauce into the wok. Once the cloud of ginger and garlic flavors became almost overwhelming, she added the chicken, stirred it a bit, added the vegetables and just enough Asian chili oil to give the stuff a nice bite.

You know, said Peter, feigning wistfulness. We really should become vegetarians.

You want me to pull the chicken out now? asked Kelley.

You’d have to take all the liquid out, too, I said. It’s chicken stock.

Darn it, said Peter. I feel so sad.

What about? I asked.

The poor chickens, he said. I used to have pet chickens, you know.

You did?

Yes, Kelley said. He really did.

Elvis and Baby, said Peter.

Who?

Those were their names. Elvis and Baby. They were really ugly at first. Then they got cute. Then they started eating everything. And I mean
every
thing.

Let’s not go there, I said.

And then they got ugly again. Anyway, my point is, you don’t think about the poor chicken’s soul. You just cut it up and dump it in the pot.

I do so think about chickens’ souls, said Kelley.

Not nearly enough, said Peter.

If I promise to think more about chicken souls, can we finish making the soup?

Yes! said Peter. Victory at last. Chicken souls for the soup.

Oh my God, I said. You didn’t do all that just to set up that lame pun, did you?

Of course not, said Peter. It just came to me now.

We poured the sizzling contents of the wok into the boiling chicken stock. It roiled. It gave off the heavenly scent of everything good about having children. Family. An anchor in the heaving world.

So, Dadster, Kelley said. How’s it going?

I don’t know, I said. Bad. Depressing.

Like the time you cut your fingernails too short? Kelley laughed. You complained about that for a week.

We were so worried, said Peter.

The suicide watch, said Kelley.

And the time he cut his thumb slicing onions? said Peter.

Oh my God, said Kelley, that scream.

I called 411, said Peter.

Unfortunately, said Kelley, they had no information.

I took it all with a smile. Your children, of course, know you better than yourself. Which doesn’t mean you believe them when they tell you about it.

I thought about the Melissa years. How Kelley kept me alive. Melissa alive. With her humor and good grace. Maybe, I thought, it had a bad side. Allowed me to indulge my depressions, my negativity. Knowing Kelley would always be there to bring me back to reality. Or at least a funny version of it.

We sat on the couch. A piece of plywood on bricks stood in for a coffee table. I put the bowls on the plywood. I put noodles in the bottom of the bowls. Peter ostentatiously ladled out the soup from an enormous mango-colored tureen.

So how’s your big case going, Daddy? Kelley asked.

Yeah, Daddy, said Peter, leaning forward. Tell us all about it. Got any pictures we can see? Naked ladies? Mangled bodies? Naked
men
?

It’s not so interesting, I laughed. Just a missing persons case. Or something like that.

Oh, you’re holding something back, said Peter, I can tell you are. Come on, we’re family. You can share. Who’s missing?

Somebody’s sister.

A sister. Then there has to be a man involved. Tell me there’s a man involved. Tell me he’s tall and Bulgarian.

Russian, actually. But I don’t know if he has a mustache.

Russian. That’s okay. He has to have a hairy chest, though.

I’ll let you know. If I ever meet him. The Russians I’ve been dealing with so far, well, I can’t tell you if they have a hairy chest. But I’m quite sure they aren’t your type.

Ooh, said Peter. Mystery. Tell me more.

I told them about Andrei and Anatoly. How Brendan was being drawn into their world. How worried I was about him. Kelley and Peter
knew Brendan, of course. He was Kelley’s uncle, now that I thought of it. She liked him.

Daddy, said Peter. What’s wrong with you? It’s so obvious.

What’s so obvious?

There’s nothing mysterious about it. They’re showing him the town. The other side of town, if you know what I mean.

I don’t know, I said. I mean, I know what you mean. And yes, they are. Harmless, I’m sure. But I’m not sure I know much of anything these days.

Daddy! said Kelley. Did you cut yourself again?

Oh, Daddy, said Peter. Introduce me. Don’t even introduce me. All I need is to see them. Then I’ll know everything.

Okay, I said, laughing, next time I get a chance, I’ll point them out. You’re family, after all.

Oh, squealed Peter. Thank you, thank you.

He gave me an enormous squishy hug.

I tolerated it. I loved Peter. I really did think of him as family. But I wasn’t sure how I felt about big squishy man hugs, in the best of circumstances.

Anyway, I said. I don’t blame Brendan. He’s doing his thing. He’s allowed. He’s an adult.

Well … said Peter, officially, I guess.

And anyway, nothing I could say would change what he wants to do. He’s very willful, you know. In spite of … the other things.

What other things?

Oh, come on, I said. This isn’t fun. Let’s get back to having fun.

We got back to having fun. We ate the soup. Peter stole more than his share of the shiitakes. I took more of the meat. Kelley was happy with the noodles.

Peter was telling a story. I wasn’t listening.

I was ruminating. I was thinking about Dani from Oklahoma. The scent of apricots. Matt was out of town, she’d said. Matt and the kids. For a week. Was the week over? There was no way of knowing.

Afterwards, Peter was saying, we had a little party. There were muffins. Somebody said, I want a muffin. I looked at the security guard. Take
him!
I said. He’s well baked.
And
available!