The Last Good Kiss (19 page)

trouble, and I wasn't going to send a damned cent to

get her out. Not by a damned sight I wasn't, you know

what I mean."

Even if he knew anything else, Betty Sue's father

wasn't going to tell me, so I didn't have to be nice for

effect. "You mean those dirty hippies were probably

stuffing drugs up their noses, too," I said.

"You got a smart mouth, fella," he said, his eyes as

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flat as yesterday's beer. Then he smiled with just his

mouth. "But that's okay, because you must have a

smart head on your shoulders to come into town and

tell me that."

"Peggy Bain told me," I said, not wanting him to

think I was too smart.

Flowers sighed heavily, as if the conversation had

been the hardest work he had done in years. His

secretary patted his shoulder again. "Remember your

heart, honey," she murmured. She had dressed for the

occasion too, but her idea of a sex kitten looked like

something the cat had dragged in.

"Most drugs make you stupid," he lectured me, "but

cocaine is a smart man's high. You have to be smart to

enjoy it and rich to afford it."

"A man in my business needs his wits," I said, "so I

don't know anything about drugs."

"I can see that," he said scornfully. "How much is

Rosie paying you for this wild goose chase?"

"Not nearly enough," I said, meaning to insult him.

"She was always tight with a dollar bill," he said

ignoring my tone. "Goddamned old woman. "

"Well, her place isn't doing as well as yours," I said.

"You must have done well in the aluminum cookware

business."

"How would you like that smart mouth on the other

side of your head, fella?" he said quietly. "Or maybe

one of your legs busted at the kneecap."

"You'd need help," I said stupidly.

"All I have to do is snap my fingers ," he said as he

held up his hand. "You know what I mean?".

"You have the right connections, right?"

"You could say that."

"What's a good ol' boy like you doing with connections like that?" I asked pleasantly.

"Making a living," he said.

"Okay," I said, "I'm sorry."

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"Don't let the door hit you in the butt on the way

out," he said.

"Give my best to the family," I said, then left. He

could have been bluffing, but I didn't want to find out. I

made a quick exit, which made Traheame happy.

"This place gives me the creeps," he said as we left.

"Me too," I said, and on the way to the car I told him

why.

Since I needed some time to think about Betty Sue

Flowers, and since Trahearne demanded a few days of

luxurious recuperation, we drove straight through to

San Francisco, and he checked us into a suite at the St.

Francis.

Some time for reflection and recuperation. Cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild women. One commercial type spent the whole time babbling in my ear about her shrink, so I faked an orgasm for her and hid

in the shower until she went about her business. Then

there was a lady poet, an old friend of Trahearne's, who

was so mean that she scared me into hurrying. Hiding

in the shower didn't help a bit. She came in and gave

me an endless lecture on my responsibility to women in

general and herself in particular. Somewhere in the

drunken blur, Trahearne walked oft the balcony bar in

the lobby and fell headfirst into a rubber tree, much to

the consternation of the management. Somehow, I

drove his convertible into the rear of a cable car.

Nobody was hurt, but I had to endure a monsoon of

abuse about trying to destroy a national monument.

The conductor and his passengers acted as if I had run

over a nun. The worst thing that happened, though,

was that Fireball took to wearing a rhinestone collar

and drinking Japanese beer.

One afternoon, it finally came to an end. Fireball was

drinking water out of the toilet bowl, a naked blond

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woman wearing red boots slept on the couch in an

extremely revealing position, and the suite smelled like

a Tenderloin flophouse.

"This is no way for a grown man to live," Trahearne

announced as he woke me up. "Let's go home," he

said.

"Home's where you hang your hangover," I said.

"Let's have more movement, jack, and less piss-ant

redneck homilies," he grumbled, holding his head very

carefully.

When he decided he wanted to go home, Trahearne

wasn't about to wait for anything. Not even to wake up

the blond lady. He griped about the length of time it

took me to pack, then he whined all the way to Sonoma

as I detoured by Rosie's to drop off her dog and pick up

a tow bar and my El Camino. But there was a strange

woman behind the bar. She told me Rosie was asleep in

her trailer house, and not to bother her, but I had to.

Rosie came to the door after Fireball and I had spent

several minutes standing on the steps. She was hastily

wrapped in a faded purple chenille bathrobe, her hair

tangled with sleep and sweat. Fireball elbowed past me

and trotted toward the rear of the trailer, where the

sounds of masculine snoring rumbled.

"What the hell's that thing around his neck?" she

asked, not sounding all that happy to see me. "You

shoulda called, gimme a chance to clean up," she

added.

"Sorry," I said, "but I didn't know we were coming

until a few minutes ago."

"Been on a toot, huh?"

"Had about as much fun as a man can stand," I said.

"You find my baby girl?" she asked.

I shook my head and looked down. Rosie tried to

hide her long, crooked yellow toenails, first with one

foot, then the other. I looked back up.

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"You come up with any leads?" she asked.

"One rumor," I said, "that she was living up in

Oregon six or seven years ago."

"Where'd you hear that?" Rosie looked puzzled.

"From her daddy."

"You talk to that worthless bastard?" she asked.

"Just about as long as I could," I said.

"How's he doing?"

"Got his own band," I said, "and a place to play it in."

"Somebody must be running it for him," she said.

"He's got himself a secretary," I said.

"Naw, it wouldn't be that," Rosie said. "Jimmy Joe's

scared sideways by a smart woman. He might've loved

Betty Sue if she hadn't been so smart. "

"Maybe so," I said. "Listen, since I didn't come up

with anything definite, why don't you take your money

back?" I tried to hand her a sheaf of folded bills.

"Get away with that," she said.

"Take it."

"You earned it."

"Okay," I said, ''I'll stop in Oregon on the way

through and ask around some more." Which was

exactly what I didn't want to do. I didn't want to look

anymore, didn't want to find any more scraps of Betty

Sue Flowers. "If I find anything, I'll give you a call. "

"I'd appreciate that," she said, "but you've already

done more work than I paid for." Down the hallway

behind the living room, the squeak of springs and a

series of muffled curses filled the close air. Fireball had

joined the gentleman in bed, and the gentleman hadn't

enjoyed it. Rosie looked embarrassed and turned to

quiet the man. When she did, she exposed a life-sized

poster of Johnny Cash on the wall behind her. Then she

glanced back at me. "You did more work than I paid

for, didn't you?"

"I told you it was wasted money," I said.

"It's mine to waste," she said, "and I thank you for

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trying. Give me a call, collect, you hear, whatever you

find in Oregon, and if you're ever down this way, you

got a place to drink where your money's no good."

"Sounds like heaven," I said, and Rosie smiled.

"You taking the big fella's car home?'' She nodded

over my shoulder. I had already hooked Trahearne's

Caddy to the tow bar and my El Camino.

"The big fella too," I said.

"What's the matter? Can't he drive?"

"He can't even walk yet," I said.

"Must be nice," Rosie murmured.

"What's that?"

"To have enough money to hire somebody to tow

you around," she said.

"I don't know ," I admitted, then as Rosie and I

exchanged goodbyes, a bald, hairy man, his beer belly

drooping over his sagging boxer shorts, wandered into

the picture, demanding cold beer, scrambled eggs, and

true love. Rosie asked me in for lunch, her eyes

pleading for me to leave, so I did. I had to drive

Trahearne home anyway.

Trahearne had made his literary reputation with six

highly praised volumes of poetry, two of which had

been nominated for national prizes, but he had made

his fortune with three novels, the first published in

1950, the second in 1959, and the third in 1971. I had

read all three, and although they were set in different

places with different characters, I couldn't keep them

separate in my mind. The first one, The Last Patrol,

had been set on a nameless island in the Pacific during

the final week of World War II. A Marine squad had

been sent on a mission behind Japanese lines to blow up

a crucial bridge. Before they can make the march,

though, they receive a radio signal telling them that the

war is over, but the young lieutenant who is leading the

patrol keeps the information to himself. At the bridge,

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