Saturday morning, she decided passive waiting sucked. He hadn’t called her, so all right, then she’d call him. Twenty-first century, right? Women’s lib. Lucas hadn’t given her his home number, but he’d used her phone to call Mama before he left Tuesday night, to see if she got home from her date, so his number was still on her speed dial. Detective Tamara.
She made the call, and on about the sixth ring a woman’s voice answered. Thin, irritable, a little fuzzy around the edges. Must be sleep fuzz. Alisha wouldn’t be boozing at eleven in the morning, would she?
“Is Lucas home? This is Tamara calling.”
“Who?”
“Tamara Corbin. Friend of your son.”
“He’s a damn fool.”
“… What?”
Silence.
“Mrs. Zeller?”
“My name isn’t Zeller.”
“… You’re not Alisha, Lucas’s mother?”
More silence. Then some hacking, wheezing noises… nicotine cough? “What do you want?”
“To talk to Lucas. Is he there?”
“No.”
“Well, when he comes in, would you ask him to give me a call-”
“No,” the woman said, and hung up on her.
Weird conversation. Lucas’s mama or not? Not a wife, that hadn’t checked out, but how about a live-in girlfriend? The scratchy, fuzzy voice hadn’t been young, and those hacks and wheezes sounded like they’d come out of a pretty old throat. Well, she’d just have to wait for Lucas to get in touch to find out. If he got in touch. If he didn’t… c’est la vie, it’d been sweet while it lasted.
The rest of the day dragged. Lonesome Saturday night ahead. Unless Vonda and Ben were free and wanted to stop by later, share a bottle of wine, maybe go out to dinner at one of the restaurants on Potrero Hill
…
Yep, they were and they did. So it wouldn’t be a lonesome night after all.
At six o’clock the three of them were sitting out on the little porch that opened off the kitchen, just large enough for a table and four chairs, with a view of the backs of houses and apartment buildings on the next street over. The weather had improved, clear and windy today, but a mimosa tree gave the porch some shelter and it wasn’t bad sitting out there. One of the perks of city living.
Vonda was showing now, really showing, and she was only five months along. She’d be big as a house before the kid was born. Boy or girl, they didn’t know yet which it was, they wanted to be surprised. Vonda, who’d sworn never to get married and have kids. Pregnancy agreed with her, though; she had this definite earth mother glow. Ben agreed with her, too. Who’d’ve thought she’d hook up with a white Jewish guy after a string of about three hundred black dudes, and get knocked up and married and be so happy she glowed? Ben was a good-looking guy, Tamara had to admit that. And they were good together, they even looked good together. Even Vonda’s racist brother James had seen that and quit giving her grief.
So they sat sipping Chardonnay and talking and the wine made Tamara mellow enough to want to spring Lucas on them. Casually she said, “Well, I met somebody last weekend. Took care of my little problem.”
Vonda grinned. “Hey, girl. About time.”
“Sunday night, Monday morning, Tuesday night.”
“You ho! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Hey, no big deal.”
“Yeah, right, after almost a year. Who is he? What’s his name?”
“You know him. Lucas Zeller.”
It got cold out there all of a sudden. Ben and Vonda sat real still, staring at her like she’d just sprouted a second head.
“What?” she said.
“Oh Jesus, Tam. Not Lucas Zeller.”
“Why not? Man was at your wedding reception, that’s where I met him.”
“Not by invitation,” Ben said. He sounded grim. “James didn’t know he was coming, didn’t want him there.”
“What’s the matter with him, except that he’s a mama’s boy? He’s been real sweet to me.”
“He’s on the down low,” Vonda said.
“What! Come on now, you don’t mean-”
“I’d never lie about something like that. James told me. Lucas tried to get him to join this club he’s in.”
Tamara stared at her, stunned. On the down low. Black men having sex with other black men, the way Vonda meant it. A group of switch hitters.
“No,” she said. “No.”
“When you slept with him, you made him glove up, didn’t you? Every time?”
“Except the last, we ran out of condoms.”
Vonda looked sick. “Oh God, Tam, you better get yourself tested. Right away, don’t waste any time.”
Lucas, on the down low. Every time except one.
Tested-
No!
30
Gregory Pollexfen spent less than eight hours in jail. His criminal attorney, an even more high-powered gent than Arthur Sayers, called in a favor and got him released on a minimal amount of bail.
That was the good news for Pollexfen. The bad news was that at eleven thirty Saturday morning, he suffered a stress-induced heart attack while cleaning up his library and was now in the intensive care unit at UCSF.
Joe DeFalco called to tell me the news. Quid pro quo. I owed him a favor, so I’d given him first crack at the story of Jeremy Cullrane’s murder after Inspectors Yin and Davis carted Pollexfen away Friday morning. DeFalco is a look-out-for-number-one muckraker, but I’d known him a long time and he plays fair when he doesn’t have a personal agenda.
“What’s the prognosis?” I asked him. “Is Pollexfen going to make it?”
“Probably not. Long history of health problems, one of them a bad heart.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Chances are he’ll never stand trial for his crimes.”
Not in this world, anyway.
O n Monday morning I went over to Great Western Insurance to hand-deliver the agency invoice on the Pollexfen case. I also took along my copy of Barney Rivera’s promissory note for the $5,000 bonus, just in case he’d forgotten offering it and putting the offer in writing.
Tamara had taken the day off again, but evidently not for the same reason as last Monday. She’d called Sunday night, said she wasn’t feeling well, the flu or something; and if the listless, choked-up sound of her voice was any indicator, she was liable to be out more than one day. No problem for me to handle office business until she returned, just not this morning. Jake Runyon had a full schedule, so I’d brought Alex Chavez in to stand watch while I paid my visit to Great Western’s chief claims adjustor.
Rivera’s attactive blond assistant, Margot Lee, was at her desk when I walked into GW’s claims department. She took one look at me and assumed a stiff, professional posture. I knew what she was going to say even before she opened her mouth-a parroting of what her boss had told her to say if I called or showed up.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Rivera is unavailable without an appointment. He has a very busy schedule today.”
“I’ll bet he had a busy weekend, too.” I leaned confidentially on her desk and winked at her. “The two of you have a nice time together?”
