The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) (22 page)

I
HAD WATER UP MY NOSE
.

I also had water in my mouth and in my ears and I was freezing my balls off, but it was the nose that really got me. I’d hit the surface ass-first, sunk down a fathom or two, and thrashed my way back to the surface. I continued thrashing, which is as close to swimming as I get, until I more or less stabilized, treading water in
Zinger Ifs
shadow. I trod long enough to get my breath back, and when I did I felt the burning behind my palate that meant water had gotten up my nose, and I cursed Henry Farber out at the top of my lungs.

My pink plastic glass floated by, followed by a catsup packet from Burger World with an unidentifiable yellow-green glob on top. I splashed it away and vocally reaffirmed my opinion of Farber. I swam to the dock, climbed up on it, and stormed up to the boat. It was a half-assed storming because one of my sandals now rested at the bottom of the marina. It’s tough to storm when you’re walking lopsided.

Farber obviously hadn’t thought his action through. He must have figured when I went over the side I’d disappear forever, that there were man-eating mackerel down there or something. Now that I was back aboard his pride and joy, he
put his hands up in front of him and stepped back, mumbling, “Now, now.” He inched over toward the cabin until I said, “Hold it right there.”

He held it. I got in his face and flicked water from my hair at him. “You are
such
an asshole,” I said.

“It was instinctive,” he said. “I saw you there with Maria and I remembered what you did before.”

“No,” I said. “Protective can be instinctive. Angry can be instinctive. Pushing me off the goddamned boat isn’t instinctive.” I wheeled toward Maria. “Has old Hank here told you he was seeing someone else?”

A tiny shrug. “I kind of figured.”

“He was seeing Brenda again, you know.” I threw a glance back at Henry. There was always the possibility Eugene Rand had given me a bum steer. God knew what that love-starved wienie was capable of. But no. By the caught-red-handed look on Henry’s face, I knew I’d hit the bulls-eye.

Back to Maria. “Has he ever threatened you? Slugged you, done anything violent?”

She didn’t say anything. But she wanted to.

“Come on, Maria. Let it out.”

“I went out to dinner with an old friend. A man. He got angry.”

“How angry?”

“He grabbed my arms and shook me.”

“And?”

“That was it. I had little bruises. Not too bad. Henry isn’t very strong.” A slight turn of the head. “Are you, Henry?”

“So I got a little mad once. That doesn’t mean I did anything to Brenda.”

I raised my eyebrows. “No one said you did.”

“The police came and asked me questions. They didn’t suspect anything.”

“Didn’t they?”

“It doesn’t matter if you believe me. I didn’t do it.” He roused himself and went over to Maria. “Honey, she didn’t mean anything to me. It was just a fling. Only once or twice.”

“Christ, Hank,” I said. “You went to faculty parties with her and everything. While poor Maria here stayed home down in Long Beach watching reruns of
Cheers”

I watched them, hoping she’d get mad, hoping the whole thing would get emotional, with yelling and screaming, so Henry would lose control and let something slip. But instead, Maria got a little teary-eyed, and Henry told her he was sorry. He tried to put his arms around her. She shrugged him off. But not very forcefully, and I was afraid if he tried again she would let him. I didn’t want to be around to see that. I didn’t want to see yet another asshole getting the girl while nice guys like me slept alone. So I got off the boat.

Someone new was walking up, a big red-haired lug carrying a six-pack of Blackened Voodoo. “You must be Dutch,” I said, and went somewhere else to dry off.

I found a towel among the debris in the truck. But my shirt was still wet, binding, and uncomfortable, so I pulled it off and drove home bare-chested. A guy without a shirt in a pickup. All I needed was the backward baseball cap to complete the redneck image.

When I got home I threw my orphaned sandal in the Goodwill bag atop Mrs. Kwiatkowski’s jogging suit and checked the phone machine. My father had called. So had Magda Tillis. Both said the machine was making weird noises and they were hoping I’d get the message.

Dad wanted to know how I was doing. Were the cops still following me? I called him back and told him everything was
fine and that I hadn’t seen my shadow again. He told me to be careful. I said I would.

Magda told me Dicks memorial service was Monday at ten-thirty at a small cemetery in the hills above Santa Monica, where his ashes would already have been interred in front of a select few on Sunday. She hoped I could make it.

This presented a small dilemma. My ten-fifteen Burger World audition should be over by ten-thirty, but it was way over in Hollywood. The earliest I could get to the service would be eleven. I briefly considered calling Elaine to cancel the audition. But I couldn’t afford to blow off a shot at a Burger World.

After I put the chunk of milii in the greenhouse, I phoned Gina. We exchanged stories, mine about Farber and hers about her mother. Mine was more exciting; hers scored points for human interest.

She was prepping for her encore with Carlos. We joked about how it was the first time in a year either of us had seen the same person two nights in a row. And about how she might get lucky. “I thought you were getting too old for recreational sex,” I said.

She waited a long time before answering. “I guess two dates in a row takes it out of the recreational category. Maybe not quite meaningful, but close enough. I’ve been celibate too long. You too, Joe. It’s making me nervous.”

I showered and shaved. This made three days out of four shaving, way above my average. I emptied my wallet and dried the contents as best I could with my hair dryer. I spent fifteen minutes inspecting my wardrobe before settling on my blue Dockers and a chambray shirt Gina’d gotten me for my last birthday, and I left for my assignation with Amanda Belinski.

I stopped at American Flowers, picked out half a bouquet, asked myself what the hell I was doing, and carefully returned them to their containers. But I broke the stem off one iris, so I paid for it and threw it on the floor of the truck.

The flowers went back because it wasn’t a date. It was fact-gathering with someone who could be invaluable to my investigation. The fact that she was attractive and I was suddenly horny had nothing to do with it. Besides, what kind of putz would come on to a woman whose sister had just been murdered?

I was halfway up Main Street in Ocean Park when the eight-track ate the Dave Clark Five. I jerked the cartridge out, reeled in four or five feet of tape, and threw the whole mess on the floor. It landed atop the iris. This reminded me of Iris Bunche and of her substantial yet attractive tush. They say men think of sex every six seconds. I’d been way behind, and all of a sudden my hormones were playing catch-up.

It was a quarter after seven by the time I pulled into the circular drive in front of the Loews. Twenty-five after by the time I’d discussed the rates with the parking attendant and opted for a place several blocks up the street. Twenty-five to eight when I knocked on the door to Room 621.

Amanda came to the door wearing a diaphanous white blouse over something lacy. Her dark gray slacks faithfully followed the curve of her hips. She wore a little more makeup than when I’d seen her before—a bit of color on her cheeks, some highlighting around the
eyes
—and ear studs with pale blue stones. Her dark brown hair hung straight down the sides of her face, framing it perfectly. She had a nice perfume on, subtle but sexy.

“Shall we go to the restaurant downstairs?” she said.

“That’ll be fine.”

She grabbed a sweater, and we took the elevator down and walked through the lobby. I’m not usually a fan of fancy
expensive hotels, but the Loews works for me. A huge atrium arched all the way to the roof, with plants all over the place. All relatively tasteful. And right at the beach.

We’d just about reached the restaurant when I heard someone call my name. I turned to see Willy Schoeppe approaching. He was clad in khaki pants, a matching shirt with epaulets, and his ever-present smile. He came up and pumped my hand Teutonically I introduced him to Amanda and told her how he knew Brenda, while wondering why he hadn’t looked Amanda up before.

“Have you eaten, Mr. Schoeppe?” she asked.

“I have not,” he said. “But I would not want to intrude.”

“Nonsense. Mr. Portugal and I are here to talk about Brenda. I would be happy to have you join us.”

He looked at me, and I nodded. A few moments later we were seated at a window table that afforded us a splendid view of the sunset. Little rows of delicate high clouds transformed from pink to purple in a minute’s time. A lone pelican winged by over the bay.

The waitress came by and recited the specials. None of us took her up on them. When she went away I broke the ice. “You said at the funeral that you and Brenda’d grown apart.”

Amanda nodded. “Especially since our parents died. Seven years ago. Within a month.”

“Sometimes it’s like that,” I said. “When people are really close, when one goes, the other doesn’t want to—”

She shook her head. “They weren’t close at all. They divorced when I was two. They just happened to pass away the same month. And as for Brenda and me, a lot of the time I lived with my father and she stayed with Mother. And even when we were living in the same house, we didn’t play together much. She was nine years older than me.” Which put Amanda around forty. Old enough. Unlike Iris, who—

Jesus, Portugal, I told myself, get your mind out of your gonads.

The sun squashed itself down atop the horizon, turned redder and redder, and winked out. I kept an eye on Amanda, waiting for some sign this was affecting her emotionally, waiting for the big breakdown.
“I wish I’d known her better
,” she would gasp out between sobs.
“I wish I’d gotten to tell her that even though we hardly ever saw each other, I loved her”

It didn’t happen, and by the time our entrees arrived, I knew it wasn’t going to. Pasta with chicken for me, a steak for Schoeppe, lamb curry for Amanda. In L.A. a lot of people had given up lamb and veal. The whole baby-animal thing. Things were different in Wisconsin.

I didn’t taste much of my meal. I was too involved in the conversation. And in watching Amanda Belinski eat.

She did so with amazing intensity. She loaded everything into her mouth with strong, discrete actions. Like a robot would eat, if robots had to. First a shrimp cocktail she’d cached while Schoeppe and I ate our salads, then her lamb curry. Fork in food, fork up, fork over, fork in mouth. I was especially taken by the way she shook the salt. With vigor. Strong, discrete shakes.

We got to talking about Brenda’s burial place. Schoeppe had been out there twice. “A fine example of the Merina tradition,” he said.

“I knew Brenda was into all things Madagascan,” I said, “but I had no idea she would have herself buried like one.”

“It was probably my doing. She was always fond of the plants, but I insisted on introducing her to the culture, and in short order she was more of a devotee than I.”

But that was the last time Brenda entered the conversation for quite a while. Mostly, Amanda and I swapped life stories, while Schoeppe acted avuncular. She taught geology
at a medium-size private college in Bow Springs, Wisconsin, where she’d lived for the last twelve years. She’d never been married, had no immediate prospects, and lived with a dog and a cat and a pair of lovebirds named Lucy and Desi.

When the check came, everyone grabbed for wallets and purses. The waitress had Schoeppe’s hundred-dollar bill before my hand even reached my pocket. “Please, allow me,” he said. “It has been a great pleasure.”

Amanda and I filed halfhearted protests. Schoeppe pooh-poohed us, got his change, threw a big tip on the table. Smiling more broadly than ever, he said, “I think you two young people would like to be alone now.”