Not A Girl Detective (22 page)

ever seen. And I don’t mean Nancy howling “Some

days it don’t pay to get out of your crypt,” because on occasion I’ve felt the very same way. No, things got

weird when she wrapped up the vampire number, and

“I Wanna Be Sedated,” and disappeared backstage only

to emerge as Dolly Parton—I mean with boobs spilling

out of a peach sequined halter dress, foot-tall blond hair, and foot-long peach fingernails, belting out what sounded like “My Tennessee Mountain Ham.” The

twang was dead-on.

“Who is this girl?” Gambino whispered.

“I have no idea.”

“Do you want another drink?”

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“Good idea.”

After warbling her way through “9 to 5,” Nancy went

backstage again. A Betty Boop cartoon came on. When

it was done, she returned in a mauve cocktail dress with padded shoulders and a come-hither look in her eyes.

She blew a few kisses around the room, then draped

herself across the top of a baby grand piano the key-

board player had wheeled in. He put a wineglass out

with a couple of dollars already in it, sat down, and played a few bars. She introduced him as “Bobby,” then did a credible job with “Stormy Weather,” though she

positively burned through “I Got It Bad (and That Ain’t Good).” She was still a kid, but to sing like that you had to have survived some messy affairs of the heart.

“Would you call her versatile?” Gambino asked.

I tapped my fingers on the table. “Schizophrenic.”

The hostess came over again and whispered some-

thing in Gambino’s ear. He nodded and got up.

“I’m going to go help this woman for a second.”

“I thought you were off duty.”

“I’ll be right back.” He leaned down to kiss me.

“Be careful.”

“I think I can handle a couple of hookers.”

Nancy left the stage and the guitar player announced

it would be a few minutes until the grand finale. They started projecting footage of Marilyn Monroe singing

“Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to JFK. You couldn’t

hear Marilyn, though, because the room was so loud. I checked my watch. It was eleven forty-five. Almost the witching hour. I got up and headed to the ladies’ room.

It hit me as I stood in front of the bathroom’s grimy mirror. Gambino and I were having a normal evening.

An actual date. Okay, maybe I’d jumped the gun a little N O T

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with my comment, but he’d taken it well. I reapplied

my lipstick. Very well, in fact, considering that marriage was one of his sore spots, too, thanks to his own cheating ex-spouse. That was part of the problem the

first time we got together four years ago. It was too soon for both of us. Maybe this was finally the right moment.

We were learning to trust each other.

Earth to Cece.

This was not a normal evening. This was not an ac-

tual date. I was doing surveillance on Nancy Olsen. I had to tell Gambino because we had no chance whatsoever of making it if I kept having all these agendas he knew nothing about. I regarded my mouth dispassion-ately. An error. I would be throwing away all my heavy lipsticks. Heavy lipstick was yet another defense mechanism I was done with.

“Sorry to bother you,” came a voice from one of the

stalls, “but there’s no bathroom tissue in here. . . .”

I checked in the other stall, but there wasn’t any in there either, so I grabbed some paper towels from the dispenser and bent down to shove them under the door.

I found myself face-to-face with a pair of high-heeled red slingbacks and some expensive-looking stockings.

“Clarissa?”

There was a flush and the door opened, almost

knocking me over.

“Cece, dear, watch yourself. What a lovely surprise.”

“Clarissa. All the way from Phoenix. What are you

doing here?”

“I wanted to surprise my daughter, of course.”

She washed her hands ferociously, like she did

everything else. “Nancy doesn’t know I’m here,

though. I don’t want to make her nervous.”

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I was nervous just standing next to her.

She yanked down some paper towels and dried her

hands until they were almost as red as her shoes and her dress. Red was her signature color, I guess.

“How’s the book coming?” I asked.

“Spectacularly. And yours?”

“I finished it.” A white lie. White was my signature

color.

“I can’t wait to read it.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“We don’t want to miss the finale.”

“We certainly don’t,” I said, heading for the door.

She didn’t move. I paused. “Would you like to join me?

There’s room at the table.”

“No,” she said, smiling furiously. “I’m fine here.”

I supposed she’d come out when she was ready.

By the time I returned to my seat, Nancy was back,

clad in a white lace skirt and bustier, a tangle of cruci-fixes, and masses of bleached blond hair. Behind her, a slide show was in progress. Every few seconds, the image changed.

A marble statue of Aphrodite.

A Raggedy Ann doll.

“Gambino. I have a confession to make.” I fidgeted in my seat. The dress was not good for sitting. “Gambino?”

He was mesmerized by an image of a kinky Helmut

Newton model, naked except for a pair of thigh-high

boots.

“I have a confession, too,” he said. “I love perfor-

mance art.”

I kicked him under the table.

A geisha girl holding a flower.

A female nude curled up like a seashell.

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It couldn’t be.

Nancy writhed across the stage moaning “Like a Vir-

gin” and doing distinctly unvirginal things with her microphone stand.

A little girl from the Victorian era sitting on a river-bank.

These were the slides I’d found in her car.

A headless mannequin draped in fur.

They were part of her act.

I was glad I couldn’t see Clarissa’s face, because I

knew what was coming next. Indeed, at the precise mo-

ment Nancy screamed “Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin,” it materialized on the wall: the painting of naked Nancy Drew, in all her fleshly glory. It was like the return of the repressed, only in stereo-surround sound.

Was Grace Horton turning in her grave? Or proud of

her feisty granddaughter, who was doing it on her own terms? And Clarissa? I turned to see if I could catch a glimpse of her, but all I saw was a blur of red moving out the door.

I sighed deeply.

“What did you want to confess?” Gambino asked.

“Nothing,” I said, adjusting his collar. “How’d it go with the hookers?”

2 3

The phone rang at 2:11 A.M. Startled, I reached over

Gambino to pick it up, but there was no one on the other end. Must’ve been a bad dream. I put the phone down

and he pulled me into his arms.

“Everything okay?” he mumbled, still half asleep.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Go back to sleep.”

The phone rang again at 2:13 A.M. There was still no-

body there.

“Damn,” I said out loud.

“What is it?” Gambino sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Wrong number, I guess. I don’t know.” I rearranged

the blankets a little. My feet were cold.

“You look sexy in that thing.”

“It’s called a sweatshirt,” I said, smiling.

We were back asleep by about 3:00 A.M.

The phone rang again at 4:10 A.M.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Cece?”

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I lowered my voice. “Andrew?”

“Listen, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Did you call before?”

“When?”

“Never mind. What’s going on? It’s the middle of the

night.” I glanced over at Gambino.

“It’s Jake. He’s all riled up. He wants to see you. He says he’s got to get something off his chest.”

“I’m not a priest.”

“I realize that.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“I don’t think so. Jake insists on talking to you.”

“It’ll be light in a couple hours. I can come over

then.”

“Please.”

“Andrew, this is crazy. I’m sleeping.”

“You don’t understand. I have to be at the store at

seven this morning. We’re doing inventory before we

open. The only time is now.”

I groaned.

“You’re a good person.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “Jake said to

bring what Edgar gave you. He’ll explain.”

And what exactly did either of them know about what

Edgar had given me? And while we were on the subject

of explaining, it was about time Andrew explained how he happened to have my missing key in his desk.

I hung up the phone and looked at Gambino again.

He was out cold. I’d be back before he woke up. And I didn’t need to bother him. He’d been working so hard, it was the last thing he needed. He had the morning off.

Maybe I’d bring back a guava and cheese pie from

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Café Tropical in Silver Lake, and we’d eat the whole

thing in bed.

My sweatshirt was lying on the floor inside out. I

pulled it on and tiptoed over to the closet, where my sweatpants were hanging on a hook. I put them on,

stuck the black-and-white photograph Edgar had

mailed me into the front pocket, jammed my feet into

an old pair of fleece-lined boots, and walked as quietly as I could to the front door. Buster appeared out of

nowhere, thrilled at the prospect of an impromptu stroll.

“No, boy. Later. I promise.”

I shut the door behind me.

Traffic was light. I made it in fifteen minutes. There was an open spot across the street from Andrew’s. It was permit only, but I doubted any cop cars would be patrolling the area at this hour. Plus, the sign was so covered with graffiti you’d have a hard time making the

ticket stick. I got out and locked the car. The air smelled like rotten meat. I sidestepped some Styrofoam packing crates that seemed to have been dismembered right there on the sidewalk. There was a baby crying in the distance.

Then the sound of a car backfiring. Then someone kicking a can. There were people all around. Businessmen.

“Smoke?”

“No.”

“Smoke?”

“No.”

“Smoke?”

“No.”

“Where you going?”

I kept my head down.

“Need company?”

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“No.”

“Whore.”

Echo Park Lake in the wee hours of the morning was

not the happiest place on earth.

I started up to Andrew’s apartment. I was almost at

his door when I heard some scuffling at the top of the stairs. Probably rats. Spooked, I looked up, prepared for anything. Anything except someone running past

me faster than the speed of light.

It looked like Andrew.

I turned around and watched him disappear.

There was no answer when I knocked at his door.

What was going on?

“Jake? Open up, Jake!”

Silence.

“Andrew? Please open the door!”

That was when I felt a hand grasp my shoulder and

spin me around.

“You think I’m going to let you wander around the

street in the middle of the fucking night?”

“Gambino! You scared me.”

“You scared me.”

“I was going to get you a guava and cheese pie.”

“We’re a long way from the Tropical.”

“On my way home, I meant.”

“From where exactly?”

“Bridget’s boyfriend’s. He’s with Edgar’s boyfriend.

They’re in trouble.”

“Please tell me you’re not talking about the one the

cops are looking for.”

“Okay, I’m not.”

“Damn it, Cece.”

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“I have to go inside. They need my help.” I tried the door. It was unlocked. Before he could stop me, I

swung it open and started inside.

“What are you doing? Do not take another step!”

Gambino pushed me behind him and drew his gun. “I

mean it.”

I nodded, knowing he meant it. But I’d made a prom-

ise, and when I make a promise, I mean it, too.

He headed back into the bedroom. I waited for what

seemed like hours, not moving, barely breathing. The

living room looked as small and shabby as it had the

other day. The wallpaper was grimy, the couch was

threadbare, the plants needed watering.

“Jesus Christ!”

“What is it?” I yelled.

“Don’t touch anything. Just come in here.”

I walked into Andrew’s bedroom. My legs felt like

water. Gambino was standing there, looking down at

the floor.

“You know this poor bastard?”

“It’s Jake Waite,” I said softly.

Gambino knelt down. With a white handkerchief

he’d taken out of his pocket, he picked up a small gun lying next to Jake. Then he took Jake’s hand. It looked small in his large one.

“Holy shit!”

“What?”

He laid his head on Jake’s chest. “He’s not dead.”

“He’s alive?”

Gambino pulled out his phone and called an ambu-

lance. “For the time being.”

“Jake, Jake, it’s Cece.” I fell to my knees and

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stroked his cheek. “You’re going to be okay. Who did

this to you?”

“He did it to himself,” Gambino said. “Some fucking

suicide.”

“Suicide? What are you talking about?”

“Read this,” he said, holding up a small piece of paper.