The Last Good Kiss (11 page)

"Yes, right. Once, some time ago," he babbled, "I

thought I saw her in a porno flick over in the city. The

girl was fat and awful, a pig, it might have been her, it

looked like her, the print was bad, all grainy, and the

lighting even worse, but it looked like her, except for

this scar, this ugly scar in the middle of her belly."

When he stopped talking, his ruined mouth kept

moving like a small animal in its death throes.

"Why lie about that?" I asked, honestly amazed.

"I was

I

.

.

.

am ashamed of my interest in that . . .

that sort of thing," he said, then rushed into his drink.

"And it was so sordid, that awful fat girl and all those

old men . . .

"

"You remember the name of it?"

"Animal . . . something or other. Lust or Passion,

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something like that. I can't remember, it was so

horrid," he moaned, then began to weep.

"And so exciting," I said, and he nodded. "That's all

you had to tell me?" I asked, and he nodded again.

It didn't sound right, but I didn't know what sounded

wrong. I did know that I couldn't push him anymore. I

didn't have the stomach for it. The only interrogation I

had seen in Vietnam had made me sick, but I didn't

remember if I had vomited because of the tiny Viet

Cong's pain, the Vietnamese Ranger captain's pleasure, or my own fatigue. I had been in the bush for twenty-three days, and I could sleep standing up with

my eyes open , which was good, because I couldn't sleep

lying down with them shut. A few days later, I made

the mistake that got me out of Nam and two years later

out of the Army. Those times seemed far away,

usually, but listening to Gleeson sob into the clear

sunlight, they seemed too close.

"Hey," I said, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Oh, I understand," he blubbered, "that horrid war

twisted so many of you boys."

"I left Nam nine years ago," I said, "and I'm no boy,

so don't make excuses for me."

"Of course," he said as sincerely as he could, "of

course. " Then he took his hands away from his face and

wiped at the tears. "Will you do me one small favor?"

"What's that?"

"If you find her, will you call me? Please. I'll pay

anything you ask. Please."

"You might have thought of that ten years ago . "

''Ha," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Ten years ago I was

still in my thirties, instead of nearly fifty, and I had no

idea that I was going to be here ten more years, no idea

that the peak of my career was going to be some little

high school actress. No idea at all. I didn't know what

she meant to me then. I do now. I'd just like to see her,

talk to her again. Please. "

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"I won't find her," I said.

"But if you do . . .

"

"I'll let you know for free," I said. "Sorry about your

wrist, and thanks for the beers."

"My pleasure," he answered, a slight smile curling

his lip, then his head dropped into his hands again.

I left him there on the sun deck, his huge head

cradled in his arms like that of a grotesque baby. As I

stepped out the front door, a young girl wearing a

halter and cut-offs took that as her cue to push her

ten-speed bike up the walk. I wanted to tell her that

Gleeson wasn't home, but her greeting and smile were

shy and polite with wonder, her slim, tanned thighs

downy with sweat.

"Hello," she said. "Isn't it a lovely day?"

"Stay me with flagons," I said, "comfort me with

apples, for I am sick of love."

"What's that?" she asked, sweetly bewildered.

"Poetry, I think. "

Instead of taking her in my arms to protect her,

instead of sending her home with a lecture, I walked

past her toward my El Camino. Youth endures all

things , kings and poetry and love. Everything but time.

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s ••••

SINCE IT WAS GEITING ON INTO SATURDAY AFTERNOON ,

and since I didn't feel like Christian charity on the hoof,

I hoped Albert Griffith wouldn't answer his telephone.

No such luck. After I explained what I wanted, he

agreed to meet me in his office at five. He even sounded

anxious to talk to me. I drove to Petaluma and found an

anonymous motel bar and dirge of a Giants game on

the television with which to slay foul time until five.

After a couple of deadly dull innings and slow,

carefully paced beers, the bartender drifted by and I

asked him for a drink.

"Stay me with CC ditches, my friend, for I am bored

shitless by all this."

"Hey, fella, take it easy, huh," he said, then walked

away.

"That's Canadian Club and water, you turd," I

shouted at his back. "But I'll have it someplace else. "

"That's fine with me, buddy," he said.

For a tip, I left him the remains of a stale beer. When

even the bartenders lose their romantic notions,

it's time for a better world. Or at least a different bar. I found the local newspaper and the nearest bar.

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Albert Griffith, though, had enough romantic notions to gag Doris Day. He kept an office in a restored Victorian house on a quiet side street just outside the

downtown area, sharing the house with another lawyer

and two shrinks. And he had dressed for the occasion.

A dark-blue, expensively tailored , vested, pinstriped

suit and a silk tie. As he ushered me into his office, he

offered me a wing-backed gold brocade chair and a

taste of unblended Scotch. I accepted them both. In my

business, you have to buy everybody's act. For a few

minutes. Usually lawyers are too devious to suit me.

They seem to have the idea that justice is an elaborate

game, that courtrooms are tiny stages, and clients

simply an excuse for the legal act. They also have a

disturbing habit of getting elected to political offices, or

appointed to government commissions, then writing

laws you have to hire a lawyer to understand. But

Albert Griffith acted as if he were my best friend. For a

moment.

As soon as I was settled, he leaned against the front

of his massive desk, his arms crossed as he , towered

over me, smiling in a friendly way beneath sardonic

eyes. After I had a taste of his great Scotch, he leaped

into his act.

"All right, Mr. Sughrue," he said, "let's get something straight from the very beginning. I don't know how you persuaded Mrs. Flowers to hire you for this

wild goose chase, and I don't know how much money

you have managed to weasel out of that poor woman,

but she's a personal friend of my mother's, and I intend

to put an end to this nasty little gambit of yours."

"You want me to cut you in, huh?" I said. "Okay.

There's enough for everybody."

"What?"

While he worked on his confusion, I stood up and

walked around behind his desk, took a cigar out of a

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burled walnut box, lit it, sat down in his leather swivel

chair, and propped my boots on his desk.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"Making myself comfortable, partner," I said, then

blew smoke in his face.

"Get up from there," he sputtered. He couldn't have

been any angrier if I had sat down on his wife's face.

"Listen, Buster Brown," I said, taking a fistful of his

cigars for my pocket, "you've got a fancy setting here,

but you're just another second-class creep. Your daddy,

when he can stand up, holds a sign for the highway

department, and your momma put you through law

school with a beauty operator's tips. Your daddy-in-law

is springing for this antique whorehouse decor, this

whole lawyer scam, and you, Mr. Griffith, aren't only a

failure, you're a courthouse joke, so get out of my face

with this big-shot attorney crap. "

"If you don't get out of my office this instant, I'm

calling the police," he said in a voice on the verge of

sobs.

"After you apologize," I said, "maybe we can start

this whole thing over again."

At the moment, though, he didn't have anything

to say. I watched his face change hues about four times

and examined the shoddy dental work on his back

lower molars. At the newspaper bar, I had found an AP

stringer who, for the price of a 7&7, had given me

Albert Griffith's life history.

"If it will improve your attitude," I said, "give Rosie

a call. She's got eighty-seven bucks, two beers, and a

smile into this, and I might take another beer or two,

and I might only lose a hundred bucks on this, but -she's

paid all she's going to pay. So call her while I have

another taste of this overpriced whiskey."

While I stiffened my drink, he called Rosie and spoke

softly to her for a minute. Then he hung up, loosened

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his tie, and made himself a really stiff drink. I didn't

have much of a picture of Betty Sue Flowers yet,. but

just the mention of her name seemed to drive grown

men to drink.

"Let's sit on the couch," Albert said, and we sat at

opposite ends of a long leather expanse. "Please accept

my apology," he said. "I'm sure you've been in the

business long enough to understand that most independent operatives are scumbags. Even the corporate security people are frighteningly ugly beneath that slick

exterior they maintain."

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For not thinking I have a slick exterior."

"You're welcome," he said, glancing at my faded

Levis and worn work-shirt and laughing. A bit too long

to suit me. "Rosie explained everything, Mr. Sughrue,

and I am sorry for acting so hastily."

"That's okay," I said. "I'm used to it. "

"Well, I am sorry," he repeated. I wished he would

stop. "Rosie even said that you told her it was probably

a waste of time and money," he said, then smiled sadly.

"Let me tell you that it is definitely a lost cause."

"Why's that?"

"I was a student at Berkeley when Betty Sue ran

away," he said, "and I spent all my spare time for two

years searching for her in the city. Let me tell you, my

transcript showed it too. I nearly didn't get into law

school," he said dramatically. I wasn't impressed yet.

"I never turned up a single lead: Not one. It was as if

she walked away from my car that afternoon and off the