Potshot (14 page)

The way we normally worked it was that she said she’d meet me in the dining room at, say, 9 a.m. and I should go down and get a table for us. So I would and have some juice and coffee and study the menu and she would show up about 9:30 without any apparent awareness that she was a half-hour late. On the other hand she wasn’t reliable. If I went down at 9:30 she would have showed up before me, and, in the future, would expect me to be a half-hour late. So next time, she’d show up at 10.

It is one of the secrets of happiness that you know which battles you can win and which you can’t. I had given up the punctuality battle years ago. And the pleasure of her company when she did show up was always worth the wait.

I had drunk some orange juice and read
USA Today
, and was on my second cup of coffee at a table for two, near a window, when she came gleaming into the dining room. Several people looked at her more or less covertly. Maybe she was a movie star.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said.

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I didn’t notice.’

‘Do you know what you’re going to have?’ she said.

‘Here’s a how-well-do-you-know-me test,’ I said. ‘Read the menu, see if you can guess.’

Susan put on the reading glasses she had just bought on Rodeo Drive, round ones with bright green frames, and studied the menu. She smiled.

‘Ah ha!’ she said.

‘And your answer is?’

‘Heuevos rancheros,’ she said.

‘You win,’ I said.

‘Good. What have I won?’

I smiled at her without speaking.

‘Oh,’ Susan said, ‘that.’

When the waiter arrived, Susan ordered decaffeinated coffee, and a fresh fruit platter with yogurt. I kept my date with the heuevos rancheros.

‘Other than a threat to my life the other night outside that restaurant,’ Susan said, ‘I’ve been having a very nice time. How about you?’

‘The time we’ve spent together has been nice,’ I said.

‘Isn’t it always,’ Susan said.

‘But other than that I feel like the more I learn the less I know.’

‘Do you know who it was that threatened us?’

‘Guy named Jerome Jefferson,’ I said, ‘sent by a man named Morris Tannenbaum.’

‘How about the other man? Tino?’

‘No record. Haven’t located him. The guess is he’s a day player, hired by Jefferson for the occasion.’

The food arrived. Susan ate a raspberry.

‘Why would this Tannenbaum person want to threaten us?’

‘He wants me to stay away from Lou Buckman, Potshot, the Dell, and the west side of the continent.’

‘He mentioned the Dell?’

‘Yep.’

‘Then he’s… he’s involved,’ she said.

‘You get sick of shrinkage, you could get a license and join me. Spenser and Silverman, investigations.’

She picked up a wedge of cantaloupe with her fingers and took a small bite off of the end of it. I could never figure out why I was eating with my hands when I did that. When she did it she was elegant.

‘Alphabetically it’s Silverman and Spenser,’ she said.

‘But I’d be senior partner.’

‘And I’d be main squeeze,’ she said.

‘Silverman and Spenser,’ I said. ‘Investigations.’

‘So how is Tannenbaum involved?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have you learned anything more about Lou Buckman, the little blonde cutie?’

‘You sound jealous,’ I said.

‘So?’

‘You haven’t even met her.’

‘So?’

‘Apparently all was not as it seemed with the Buckmans. They don’t seem to be too well liked by former colleagues and neighbors. It is alleged that they both slept around. One interesting factoid: Both Mark Ratliff and Dean Walker lived in the Buckmans’ old neighborhood in Santa Monica. Ratliff seems to have had an affair with her. And the former Mrs Ratliff had a get-even affair with Steve Buckman.’

‘Walker is the police chief in Potshot,’ Susan said. ‘Who’s Ratliff?’

‘I told you about him,’ I said. ‘The producer. Moved to Potshot to get away from the Hollywood rat race.’

Susan smiled.

‘Where, I assume, he was running a dead last.’

‘I’ve heard,’ I said, ‘that people with a three-picture deal don’t usually seem to suffer the same moral revulsion.’

Susan dipped a small wedge of pineapple into her small cup of yogurt and took a small bite.

‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘When in doubt,’ I said, ‘go home.’

‘Oh good,’ Susan said.

‘Getting bored?’

‘Getting homesick,’ Susan said.

‘Pearl?’ I said.

‘Yes. I miss her.’

‘Yeah. You talk with Farrell at all?’

‘Of course. He says she’s sleeping with him every night. Says it’s his first female.’

‘Man is she easy,’ I said.

‘She’s just a friendly girl,’ Susan said.

It was September in Boston, which normally means early fall. When I went to work the morning after I got home, the day was bright blue and 70 degrees. The first hint of color was beginning to show in the leaves of some trees. Once again pennant fever was not gripping the Hub. And there wasn’t a starlet in sight.

My first assignment was to catch up. Catching up meant mostly throwing away junk mail without reading it. But there was my answering machine to listen to. Since I’d been gone there were eight new messages. One was from Frank Belson inviting me and Susan to have dinner with him and Lisa. One was from a young Chinese girl named Mei Ling who wanted to use me as a job reference. One was from Samuelson in L.A. with instructions to call him.

‘Couple of sheriff’s deputies found your pal, Jerome Jefferson,’ Samuelson said when I got him, ‘beside the PCH up near Topanga Canyon.’

‘Dead?’ I said.

‘Nine millimeter, once, behind his left ear.’

‘Think it happened there or was he dumped?’

‘Coroner says he was dumped.’

‘Suspects?’

‘None.’

‘Leads?’

‘None.’

‘Clues?’

‘Come on!’

‘Chances of solving this?’

Samuelson laughed.

‘Around zilch,’ he said.

‘Tannenbaum?’ I said.

‘Probably,’ Samuelson said. ‘Wasn’t satisfied with Jerome’s job performance.’

‘There’s a girlfriend on Franklin Avenue,’ I said. ‘She might know something.’

‘Name and address?’

I told him.

‘Get there early,’ I said. ‘She should be drunk by noon.’

‘Wish I were.’

‘Cop’s life is a hard one,’ I said. ‘Could you get me the record of a former cop named Dean Walker? Used to live in Santa Monica. I don’t know if he was LAPD or Santa Monica.’

‘Glad to,’ Samuelson said. ‘If I didn’t have legwork for you, I wouldn’t have anything to do.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Samuelson said.

‘Call me when you know something. If I’m not here, leave it on my machine. I may be traveling.’

‘Pay attention while you are,’ Samuelson said. ‘Morris Tannenbaum is a genuine bad guy. The real thing.’

‘All the way to Boston?’ I said.

‘Wherever,’ Samuelson said. ‘If he thinks it’s a good thing to do.’

‘Lot of people think it’s a good thing to do,’ I said. ‘I’m still here.’

‘Don’t let it go to your head,’ Samuelson said and hung up.

I listened to the rest of my messages. All of them were from Potshot. Two from Lou Buckman. Two from Roscoe Land, the Potshot mayor. And one from Luther Barnes. All of them were wondering how things were going and when I might come back there with my colleagues and clean up the Dell. I didn’t return the calls.

Pearl was aging. Her muzzle was gray, her hearing was less acute, her eyesight wasn’t as good as it used to be and her left front shoulder was arthritic, causing her to limp when she walked. But she was a hunting dog, and the genes persist. She could still track an open packet of peanut butter Nabs across any terrain.

‘Not too much longer,’ Susan said, watching Pearl ease up onto the couch. ‘Pretty soon we’ll have to boost her.’

We were drinking Iron Horse champagne in Susan’s living room. Tomorrow I was heading to Potshot and the farewell supper that Susan had made waited on the counter in her kitchen, blocked off by chairs. Pearl hadn’t lost that much.

‘We won’t mind,’ I said.

‘No,’ Susan said.

‘What’s for supper?’

She smiled.

‘Do you ask out of eagerness or fear?’

‘Just looking for information,’ I said.

‘Lobster salad and corn.’

‘Native corn?’

‘Yes, from Verrill farm.’

‘Prepared by you?’ I said.

‘I bought the lobster salad,’ Susan said. ‘I was hoping you’d boil the corn.’

Pearl didn’t like the position she had assumed on the couch. She stood and turned around a couple of times and lay back down, as far as I could tell, in the same position, and sighed with relief.

‘I already have to boost her onto the bed.’

‘Isn’t she kind of heavy?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ Susan said.

Susan usually hung around the house in sweats that cost more than my suit, and looked better. But she had her own sense of occasion and tonight, because I was going away for a while, she wore a little black dress, and pearls. Her arms and shoulders and neck were strong. Her makeup was perfect. Her face was dominated by her eyes. Her face hinted strongly at intelligence and heat.
Excellent combination
.

‘I heard somebody define heaven once,’ she said, looking at Pearl, ‘as a place where, when you get there, all the dogs you ever loved run to greet you.’

‘As good as any,’ I said.

She sipped her champagne. Pearl shifted a little on the couch and lapped her nose a couple of times.

‘Do you think there’s anything after death?’ Susan said.

‘Yikes,’ I said.

‘No. Talk about it. Surely doing what you do, you’ve thought about it.’

‘As little as possible,’ I said.

‘But you’ve thought about it.’

‘Sure.’

‘And?’

I took in a little champagne.

‘There are some scientists,’ I said, ‘who’ve discovered an element of light that is faster than light.’

‘Einstein said that’s not possible,’ Susan said.

‘It arrives at the receiver before it leaves the transmitter,’ I said.

‘What about cause and effect?’

I shrugged.

‘Afterlife is no less implausible than anything else,’ I said. ‘All explanations of existence are equally incredible.’

‘So you might as well believe something that makes you feel good as not,’ Susan said.

‘No harm to it,’ I said.

We were quiet, drinking champagne, looking at Pearl, who had fallen asleep.

‘Well,’ Susan said, ‘we’ll find out someday.’

‘Or we won’t,’ I said, ‘in which case we won’t know it.’

Susan’s glass was empty. She held it out to me. I took the Champagne from the ice bucket and poured her another dollop.

‘I don’t know whether you’ve cheered me up or depressed me,’ Susan said.

‘If your feelings are inspired by Pearl’s forthcoming demise, I can offer a less-complex solution.’

‘I know.’

‘Mourn for an appropriate time…’ I said.

‘And buy another brown German shorthair,’ Susan said, ‘and name her Pearl.’

‘Reincarnation,’ I said.

‘Maybe I’m not just thinking about Pearl,’ Susan said.

‘Is it Margaret that you mourn for?’ I said.

‘No,’ Susan said.

‘Does it have anything to do with me leaving for Potshot tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would drinking and eating and making love ease your concerns?’ I said.

Susan smiled at me.

‘Oddly enough,’ she said, ‘it would.’

It made me feel pretty good too.

Hawk had acquired a black Ford Explorer, properly registered with a new inspection sticker. I didn’t ask him about it. He and I and Vinnie, with gear, were on the road the next day by 8:00 in the morning. Hawk was driving. Vinnie was in the back seat. The sun was shining directly into our faces. I was drinking coffee and eating two donuts. Donuts make excellent travel food.

‘We coulda flown,’ Vinnie said. ‘Take us four or five hours.’

‘With a bunch of infernal devices?’ Hawk said.

‘You mean guns?’ Vinnie said.

‘Sho ’nuff,’ Hawk said.

‘Hell,’ Vinnie said. ‘You coulda driven the guns out, and I coulda flown out next week, first class, and met you there.’

‘We may all wish you did,’ I said. ‘An hour out of Boston and you’re already bitching.’

Vinnie almost smiled.

‘We there yet?’ he said.

I had a CD in the player. Carol Sloane and Clark Terry.

‘She can sing for a white broad,’ Hawk said.

‘The best,’ I said.

‘Keeps right up with the black guy,’ Hawk said.

‘Astonishing isn’t it?’ I said.

We turned off the Mass Pike at Sturbridge and went west on Route 84. We weren’t in a hurry. We drove through Connecticut, which was low and green and suburban. We went across New York State and crossed the Hudson River near Fishkill. We crossed the Delaware near Port Jervis and after a while picked up Route 81 at Scranton. The country had grown hillier. We played CDs: Carol Sloan, and Sarah, and Bob Stewart, and Sinatra, Mel Torme, and Ella, and some Clifford Brown. Hawk insisted on a couple of Afro-Cuban CDs that gave me a stomachache, but I tried to stay open-minded. We talked about sex and baseball, and food and drink, and the days when Hawk and I were fighters. When we exhausted that topic we talked about sex and basketball, and the days when we were soldiers. We stopped along the way for more coffee, and more donuts, and peanut butter Nabs, and prewrapped ham sandwiches, and pre-condimented cheeseburgers, and chicken deep-fried in cholesterol.

‘We got to find better chop,’ Hawk said. ‘We keep eating this crap we’ll be dead before we get there.’

‘Maybe the next place will have a salad bar,’ I said.

‘With some of that orange French dressing,’ Hawk said.

‘Which is also excellent for slicking your hair back.’

‘My hair?’ Hawk said.

‘If you had some.’

‘Used to have an Afro,’ Hawk said.

‘I remember,’ I said. ‘You looked like a short Artis Gilmore.’

‘Handsome,’ Hawk said, ‘and distinguished, but too easy to get hold of in a scuffle. My present do is more practical.’