Something's Cooking (18 page)

She reached out and patted his shoulder, then brushed her hand over the back of his head, finally twisting a lock of his hair around her finger. She liked the soft, springy way his hair felt—the way all of him felt, the scent of him, the taste of him. Everything about him was a treasure to her, but one she could not keep, despite her wealth. She was finding out what made one feel truly rich in life.

“It'll be late by the time we get back to the inn,” she said. “Let's wait until tomorrow to go back to the city and allow ourselves one more night of escaping whatever's waiting for us back there. Would that be all right?”

Their eyes met briefly, and Paavo reached over and squeezed her hand. “One more night.”

 

Early the next morning they checked out of the inn, explaining to Mrs. Ward that some unexpected business had come up. Mrs. Ward said she was sorry it had to interfere with their honeymoon.

Two hours later the world once again consisted of skyscrapers, paved hills, and gridlock. They had entered San Francisco.

“There's got to be a better way to live,” Angie said.

“There is, but you'd be bored silly in two weeks if you tried it.”

“No I wouldn't. I could live at the Ben Lomond Inn forever.”

“Face it, Angie. You have the same goofy love-hate affection for this city that I do.”

As they came to the crest of a hill, Angie caught a glimpse of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco Bay. She sighed. He was right.

All afternoon, Paavo
was strangely quiet, but she felt his gaze on her as she walked around, straightening up his house, taking care of the laundry, and then later putting away the groceries he'd bought. He left the house again for about an hour. When he returned, he was even quieter. He wouldn't say a word to her about what he was planning.

That evening, his face scruffy since he hadn't shaved that day, his hair uncombed, wearing old jeans, a Levi's jacket, and a plaid shirt, Paavo said good-bye.

“I don't know how long I'll be gone,” he told her. “Wait here for me. Remember, if you hear nothing, everything's all right. If I were to get hurt or anything happened with Crane, the police would contact you.”

“Yes, but—”

“No
buts
. Don't worry. I've got to find Crane, Angie. And when I do I'm going to learn what's going on. Who killed Matt, who killed George Meyers, and why. Meyers—that's the one that really makes no sense. He had to have been working with Crane to get those crazy recipes published on time. So why would Crane kill him? It doesn't add up.”

“I guess only Crane can explain it.”

“Exactly.” His gaze softened. “Good-bye, Angie. You'll be safe here, since no one but Inspector Calderon knows where you're hiding.”

“I'll wait for you, Paavo. You should know that by now.”

Then he was gone.

She waited for two days, but he didn't return, and he didn't call. It became more than she could bear. She telephoned her mother, her sisters, some friends—one she hadn't talked to since high school. She even became fascinated by a 900 number that told horoscopes. She did a lot of weed pulling in the backyard, despite the constant fog. Without her notes, she couldn't even work on her book, and of course she knew better than to write recipes now.

She was in the garden, wiping the tears that threatened to splash onto the begonias, when she decided she was tired of sitting around, cooped up and waiting to be rescued like some princess in a tower. Paavo was out there in the real world, knowing exactly what was happening, facing adventure, danger, intrigue, and probably enjoying every second of it. She certainly wasn't doing
what she enjoyed. She was bored to death, and…

She sank back on her heels, her knuckles pressed against her teeth.

And worried sick about him. Where could he be? What was taking him so long?

She returned to the house, but she couldn't sit still. In the bedroom, she looked in the mirror at her red, puffy eyes, shiny nose, and dirt-smudged face. What a mess, and all due to some man! She looked out the window and saw a trickle of sunshine peeking through the fog. That made it harder than ever to sit around and do nothing.

She had never been an idle person; she hated trying to stay put. The need to go out grew in her, along with her fears about Paavo. She had to find him and be sure he was okay.

A plan began to formulate in her mind. She knew it was dangerous—Paavo would rage at her if he found out—and she knew a whole lot better than to do it….

It was taking a chance, a foolish chance maybe. But so was Paavo, and this was her battle, not his. It was hers and George's. But George had lost.

 

It wasn't as if Angie knew
nothing
about the Tenderloin. She had driven through it many times with her car doors locked, trying to avoid looking at the derelicts and hookers on the streets, the pornographic book shops, and the old hotels. There were a number of legitimate thea
ters along the edge of it, with a few not-so-legitimate ones inside.

Angie knew she had to be careful. She couldn't simply waltz into the area at night looking for Paavo. She'd be an easy target and probably wouldn't make it from one block to the next without losing her purse—not to consider what else she might lose. The only way to be safe was to fit in, just as Paavo had done. Or so she hoped.

She planned her wardrobe more carefully than she'd planned her last outfit for the Black and White Ball.

She put on slacks, a sweater, a pair of sneakers, and then covered as much as she could with Paavo's old army jacket. She stuffed about a hundred dollars in her pockets and hid Paavo's house key in the garden so she could get back into the house when she returned. No purse, no credit cards, no identification. She felt positively naked.

She called a taxi and had the cab drop her off in front of a tacky-looking discount store on the edge of the Tenderloin. They had just what she wanted: a platinum-blond afro wig, shimmering black tights, a long-sleeved yellow leotard, false eyelashes, plenty of garish makeup, and a large, black canvas drawstring bag. From there she went to a store that seemed to sell only leather, where she found a red leather miniskirt and a pair of black sandals with ankle straps and narrow, four-inch heels.

She ate at a diner and drank several cups of coffee while waiting for nightfall.

At about nine o'clock, she walked toward the
theater district and found a gas station on the way. She went into the ladies' room, changed into her new clothes, and stuffed everything she'd been wearing into the canvas bag. She globbed on the makeup and even added a couple of beauty marks. She stepped back from the tiny mirror to survey the results. What a looker! Would Sister Mary Ignatius have considered this outfit merely a venial sin or an out-and-out mortal one? She poked her head out of the restroom, wondering if she really had the nerve to appear in public like this.

She had no choice. Paavo was out there alone, and so was Crane. She stepped through the doorway and hesitated. The skies didn't open up, and not a single lightning bolt struck her. She headed across the station to the sidewalk, and then up the street toward the Tenderloin.

Slow down, she told herself. You've got to fit in, to act like one of the regulars and not call attention to yourself.

Coming toward her were two women, arm in arm. When Angie saw them she stopped walking and her mouth dropped open as she stared. One had bright purple hair, the top straight up and spiky, the sides slicked back. She wore white face powder, with black lips and blue circles around her eyes. Her clothes were black—a tee-shirt and leggings, with a low-slung, wide, silver belt—and heavy aluminum rings were around her neck and forearms.

The other woman's hair was turquoise, almost shaved over the left ear and hanging to the ear
lobe of the right ear. She was also dressed in black—a tank top, the shortest miniskirt Angie had ever seen, and boots with metal studs down the sides. She wore a silver pentagon-shaped medallion and silver earrings that fell to her shoulders. Her eyebrows were shaved off.

Damn! Angie thought. I'm out-of-date, passé. How mortifying!

She tried to ignore the derisive expressions on the faces of the two women as they eyed her outfit. The medallion caught Angie's eye. It looked Satanic. She felt as if a cold hand had touched her. She dropped her gaze and hurried on. This was going to be more difficult than she had expected.

The Tenderloin was small—about six blocks long, all centered around two main streets. In one night she could cover the whole thing. If Crane was there, she'd find him. If he wasn't, she didn't even want to think about it.

She started at one end of the district and methodically went into every bar and dirty bookstore on one side of the street to the end of the district, and then she crossed the street and started down the opposite side. She received many strange looks, some very frightening. It wouldn't do. Although going into the bars and clubs seemed to be the easiest way to find Crane, it was probably the easiest way to get into serious trouble.

When she saw two women vacate a centrally located doorway and get into an enormous white car, she took their place, leaning against a wall. Now she just had to hope she didn't get arrested.

A car pulled up and stopped. A middle-aged man reached over and rolled down the passenger-side window. “Nice night, isn't it?” he called.

“Get lost!” she yelled.

“Say, er, would you—”

“No! Leave me alone, or I'll scream!” She was shaking. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all.

The man's eyebrows shot up. He looked confused and flustered as he stepped on the gas and drove off.

“You musta know'd I was comin' baby. I seed you get ridda that john.” A black man swaggered up to her, hands on his belt.

“Stuff it!”

“I can take care a you. Your prayers is answered, baby.”

She hadn't expected so much attention so soon, and her initial upset was quickly turning to irritation. She scowled. “I don't know you, and Leon don't know you, so you get the hell away from me.”

“I don't care 'bout no Leon,” he said, smirking.

“You will, sucker.” She looked at him and smiled. That must have been what did it—her smile. The man just shook his head and moved on, muttering something about a “bad news broad.”

Time passed. A couple of men stopped and looked in her direction, but she averted her eyes, and they left without saying a word.

The street became quiet. The night swallowed up the other “girls,” and eventually, only Angie
still stood there, unwilling to give up, certain that Crane or Paavo might yet walk by. Her legs, feet, and back all ached from standing for so many hours. No more than three or four johns spoke to her. She was glad she wasn't doing this for a living; she would probably have starved to death.

No Crane, no Paavo. And she thought finding them would be easy. When two-thirty
A.M.
rolled around, she was chilled to the bone and dejected. An empty taxi rode by. That decided it. She ran out to hail it, but it kept right on going.

“Wait!” she screamed, running down the street after the rapidly departing cab.

“What's wrong, honey?” a low, mellifluous female voice called from the shadows. “Don't you have anyone to give you a ride?”

“I've had more than enough rides for one evening, I guess,” Angie said, squinting into the darkness, trying to see whom she was talking to.

A throaty laugh filled the quiet street and then stopped as quickly as it began. “You new here, honey?”

“Yes.” Angie hesitated to say more. She wondered if she shouldn't just move on.

“From?”

Good question, she thought. “San Jose.”

The woman began to sing an old song about the way to San Jose. Her voice was deep and off-key. Then she stepped forward, in front of the red and yellow neon lights from a shop window. All Angie could see was the fiery silhouette of a very tall, large, and amply endowed woman with hair like a lion's mane and a long, thick boa over
her shoulders. Her face was shrouded in darkness. Angie shrank back, saying nothing.

“You can't get a taxi to take you all that way, honey. Come with me. I'll help.”

“I can take care of myself, thanks, anyway.”

“Not here you can't honey. I'll take care of you. I can introduce you to people. This can turn into a good, profitable relationship.”

“You know lots of people around here?”

“'Course, honey. In fact, I was going to an after-hours place now. Why don't you come along?”

Angie's stomach flip-flopped. Something told her she should just go back to Paavo's house and forget this. She just might be getting in way over her head. On the other hand, what better place to find someone like Crane than inside the world she was only seeing the periphery of?

The woman stepped up to her, dwarfing her. Angie was surprised to see a face heavy with powder, rouge, and mascara—a face that had lost the battle against years of rough living.

The woman's name
was Rachel. Angie called herself Star, and told Rachel a long story of unhappiness which culminated in the streets of the Tenderloin. Rachel didn't say much but was sympathetic and friendly. She reminded Angie of a crocodile crying before dispatching its victim.

When Rachel turned into a dark alley, Angie hung back. It seemed too dangerous, too forbidding. “Don't worry, honey,” Rachel's voice rumbled. “We're here.”

She knocked on a door which immediately opened and then beckoned to Angie. Cautiously, Angie followed.

The massive room was hazy with smoke and filled with people. The lighting was dim, consisting only of shaded bulbs casting cold glares. In the shadows, Angie made out a long bar lined with people, a number of tables with card games
in progress, a band dressed in black leather, and a dance floor. It reminded her of a movie she had seen years ago that had depicted a modern-day Orpheus going to Hades to find Eurydice. But Hades had nothing on this place; the evil that lurked here was palpable.

Rachel introduced her to a tall, thin man named Fish. He had greasy, slicked-back hair, cirrhotic skin color, and a shiny, gold front tooth. He smiled broadly, the tooth twinkling, and extended a hand toward her. She grasped it and found it as cold and scaly as his name suggested.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said.

Surprise flickered in his eyes, then he laughed. “You're new here?”

“That's right.”

His eyes raked her body and then met her glance. “Maybe we can talk?”

“Maybe. Later. I'd like to check out the scene, you know?”

“She's from San Jose,” Rachel said. Angie assumed this was an explanation of her hopelessly dated patois.

The man nodded. “Okay, Star. Check it out. But anybody asks, you tell them to see Fish.”

Angie gulped and forced a smile, and then moved away from the two, blindly heading toward the bar. It suddenly occurred to her that it might be considerably more difficult getting out of this place than it had been getting in. Her heart beat faster.

The bartender handed her a Chivas Regal on the rocks. “It's from Fish,” he said.

Angie lifted the glass in the man's direction and nodded her head slightly in thanks. He returned the gesture. She took a large sip of the amber liquid. It was just what she needed to calm her nerves. It went down smoothly, warming her. She moved away from the bar toward the band.

Crane had to be here, he absolutely had to. She slowly wandered through the room, looking at the men, hoping that she'd see him. She didn't.

On the other side of the room, she spotted the rest rooms and went into the one marked Women. It was filthy and windowless—no escape here. She hurried out again and stood beside the door, trying to figure out what to do.

Rachel came up to her and looked at the door next to Angie. “This is always such a hard choice, honey,” she said. Then, to Angie's astonishment, Rachel walked into the men's room.

Angie found a chair and sat in it with a thud. She took a long sip of her scotch. What she had just seen explained everything about the strange way Rachel acted and sounded. But it also gave her an idea: with Crane's high voice and small build, what better way to hide?

Angie downed the scotch and then stood, feeling just a little wobbly. Slowly, she made her way across the room, scrutinizing every woman—or possible woman—in the place.

It was the voice that gave him away. Angie knew she would recognize that voice if she ever heard it again, and she did. She turned around, stepping back into the shadows as her gaze fixed on the body with Edward G. Crane's voice. It was
him, wearing a short, red-haired wig in a shag cut, a glittery black and silver dress with a turtleneck and long sleeves, nylons, and high heels. Angie felt sick. She stumbled toward the bar and asked for another drink. It was too much, too crazy. She longed to be suddenly whisked away from all this and safe at home again.

“You ready to talk yet, babe?”

Her fingers tightened on the glass as she felt something press against her shoulder and looked down. Fish's long, thin finger rested lightly on it, causing a chill to creep along her back. “Not yet.” Her voice was breathless.

“You're wasting time, you know. Fish don't like that.” His long razorlike fingernail trailed from her shoulder down her arm.

Her stomach curled, but she smiled, trying to hide the quaking she felt. She had to keep on his good side so she could sneak out of here when the opportunity arose, if ever. “Let me finish my drink, okay? I'll come find you.” She took a big sip, feeling the whiskey's fire all the way to the pit of her stomach.

He gave her a long, hard stare and then gestured for the bartender to fill up her glass. He watched as she drank a little more. “Fifteen minutes,” he ordered and then walked away.

Her hand trembled as she faced the bar, cold perspiration breaking out on her upper lip. The hard liquor was making her dizzy. She had to get out of this hellhole.

When she turned toward the crowd again, Fish
had disappeared. There must be a back exit, she reasoned, a means of escape.

Squinting to see through the smoke and haze that filled the room, she spotted a door in one corner and prayed it didn't lead to a closet. Now she just had to get to it. An empty table in front of the door gave her an idea.

There were always any number of men looking at any woman standing alone at a bar. She checked over the men and made her choice—a small one, thirtyish, scruffy and dirty, clearly under the influence—a man she thought she could handle.

She let go of the bar, swaying dizzily, and then approached him. She cast him a look guaranteed to rattle his teeth. “Me?” he mouthed.

She nodded.

He moved toward her as she slipped her arm in his. “Why don't we go find a nice table for two?” she murmured.

“Sure,” his diction was slurred. As he tried to walk he stumbled a bit, so she gripped his waist, and he slung an arm over her shoulders, pulling her close to him. She had to hold her breath to keep from gagging from the fumes of a long night's bout of drinking.

He threw his other arm across her chest as she tried to maneuver him toward the table and began to nuzzle at her ear. His hand slipped lower. She pushed it away, but he clutched her against him with far more strength than she had expected him to possess. Disgusting suggestions of intimacy were whispered in her ear, his hands
moving freely over her body as she struggled to control him. Relentlessly, though, she managed to move him toward the back door.

Suddenly, they were pushed apart. Fish figured out my plan, she thought. Stumbling, she tried to run when she was grabbed again, this time spun around so that she faced her assailant—Paavo. She nearly fell over, out of surprise and from the influence of the whiskey.

Angie's drunken friend, in the meantime, was loudly decrying Paavo's legitimacy.

“The lady made a mistake,” Paavo said quietly, palming a crumpled ten-dollar bill into the man's hand. He staggered away without another word.

Paavo then turned to face Angie. He didn't touch her. His stance remained nonchalant for the benefit of the roomful of people watching them, but his eyes blazed. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” His voice was hushed, but tense and furious.

“Nothing! I—”

“Nothing!” In one fluid motion he had all but scooped her up and led her to the empty table.

“Sit down before you fall down. You're drunk,” he said, his teeth clenched as his hand clamped tightly on her wrist. “Look at you! These are pimps, junkies. How in the hell did you get in here?”

“I didn't
do
anything, if that's what you're implying!” Her eyes smarted. “I was looking for you. I was worried about you, and scared!”

“Keep your voice down,” he warned, his look softening as he listened to her words. He let go of
her and then shook his head, angry again. “My God, woman, don't you realize the danger?”

Her head felt clouded and dizzy as she looked at him. She had found Crane—she had done it!—and now here Paavo was to help her get away, but he had turned on her like an adversary.

He watched her wordlessly, his face stony, his eyes emotionless. She couldn't bear it. She reached out to stroke his thin, noble face, but he caught her hand in a crushing grip and flung it back to the table.

“We're being watched,” he said, and she felt the glances upon them. “Let's dance.”

He grasped her hand, pulling her to the dance floor as the band played a slow, swirling cacophony of sound with a heavy metal beat. He took her roughly into his arms. She wrapped both of hers around his neck, a shudder of relief going through her body as she let herself melt against him. His expression showed irritation, almost pain as he clutched her. She felt the tension in his body as they danced, but also his desire for her.

He pushed her away, keeping inches between them, while continuing the dance. “You know I should wring your neck,” he said.

“Yes.” She paused. “But before you do, I found Crane.”

His step faltered. “You what?”

“He's here. In drag.”

“Drag? No wonder I couldn't find him!”

As they turned around the dance floor Angie pointed out which “lady” Crane was.

“You're sure?” Paavo asked, grimacing.

“Yes.”

“He's been here each night. If only I'd known. Damn!”

“We need to follow him.”

“He—she—stayed till dawn the last couple of nights. I've got time to get you out of here first.”

“That might not be so easy. There's this guy called Fish who appointed himself my pimp.”

Paavo let out a sardonic snort. Angie was not amused.

“Let's go.” Unsmiling, he put his arm around her waist and headed for the door.

Fish met them halfway. “You leaving, Star?”

“Just give me ten minutes,” she said.

Paavo looked shocked. Then he nuzzled her neck. “That's all? What do you think I am? I should get at least twenty.”

“You don't go nowhere with the lady till I say so.” Fish studied Paavo.

“How much for you to say so?” he asked.

Fish pursed his lips. “Fifty.”

“For her? Ten.”

“Forty.”

“Twenty.”

Fish looked slowly at Angie, head to toe, then back again. He shrugged. “Deal.”

Paavo handed him the money. “Hey, that's mine,” Angie reached for it.

“When you come back, babe. When you come back.” Fish put the cash in his pocket and walked away.

“Thank God we're out of there!” Angie sighed
with relief as they went through the exit to the alley.

“I'll get you a cab back to my place.”

She hurried to keep up with his long strides. The cold, impassive inspector was back, and Paavo, friend and lover, was gone. She hadn't heard from the inspector for a while—not since Bodega Bay, the last time Paavo had been deeply upset by her.

The street glistened with dampness from the night fog and echoed with their footsteps. The brick walls of the alley took on an eerie shine above the layers of old exhaust smoke. The pungent garbage smell around them mixed with the saltiness of the night air.

“Why are you angry?” she cried, running and stumbling, trying to ignore the way the scotch made her feel. She grabbed his sleeve to stop him from going farther.

His look blackened. “I don't like, and I don't need, you putting yourself in danger to help me.”

“If you were worried about me,” she cried, “then tell me you care! Don't shut me out.”

He looked at her and she dropped her hands, but her heart pounded. She didn't understand what was wrong.

“I do care,” he said.

He turned away from her and resumed walking. She followed close behind, the echoes of her footsteps matching the hollowness within her body. She pulled off the wig, that stupid blond mess, and toyed with it. Her voice, when she found it, was tiny, childlike. “Really?” she asked.

He spun toward her, gripping her shoulders, his face contorted with inner turmoil. “What are you trying to do?”

“I just want to help you, to be with you.”

“I don't need your help. I want you to leave me alone!”

“Paavo!”

“I'll get you a cab.”

“I don't want a cab!”

“What do you want then? What do you want from me? I've got nothing to offer you, Angie. Nothing! Not much money, few friends, and little time to find any, either. I can't even remember the last time I went to a party.”

She was shocked. “I don't want your money! And I don't even like parties. What are you talking about?”

His voice grew soft and his eyes, intense. “You can have anything you want, do anything you want. I can't. Don't make it harder on me than it is.”

She stopped walking, unable to believe she had heard him right. Then she remembered something he had once told her. He had likened her to his sister, who had liked to go off and have good times. One of his few memories of his mother was of her getting dressed up and going away from him. And Angie, too, had talked to him about her dates, the theater, and using her money to run from any danger. But she had never dreamed how he would see it.

She ran to him, grabbed his sleeve, and made him turn and face her. He looked surprised as
their eyes met. “I don't want to leave you.” Her voice caught. “Nothing else matters.”

“Because you've always had everything else.” He jerked his arm free and continued down the street.

At the corner, he stopped beside a lamppost and stuffed his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, watching her as she neared him.

She reached his side. The street was absolutely silent. The streetlamp cast its pale glow down on them. He said nothing as she stood breathlessly watching him, waiting, knowing he was carefully weighing her words and praying that he would believe her.