“Truth is,” Rick said, “you’re pissing me off. Big-time.”
Pissing. A huge subject. Where to begin? It was certainly something we’d done by the side of the road, me and Bernie, and more than once, but had there ever been any of that side by side stuff with me and Rick? Maybe something to look forward to.
“I know you, Bernie,” Rick went on. “You want something from me, but you’re hesitating to ask. Why? Possibility one: you’re implicated in some shit and you’re looking for an out. Meaning I’d get implicated, too, and that’s just not you.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Bernie said.
“Fuck you,” said Rick.
Then they both laughed, a surprise to me: I’d been pretty sure they were about to throw down. Quiet laughter, though, and it didn’t last long.
“Possibility two,” Rick said. “You don’t trust me. And I can’t come up with a possibility three. If it exists, let’s hear it.”
Bernie said nothing.
“There you go,” Rick said.
Where? This wasn’t easy to follow. In the not-as-far-as-downtown distance I could see the airport, the runways lit up, planes circling, landing, taking off, soaring away with blurred orange trails slowly dissolving behind them. The whole city hummed and muttered in the night like a living thing. A disturbing thought. I tried to forget it, couldn’t, then tried again, and succeeded with whatever it was.
Bernie took a deep breath.
“Stop with the deep breathing shit,” Rick said. “You saved my goddamn life-think I’d ever forget that?”
“Happened to be there,” Bernie said.
“It cost you your job, asshole,” said Rick.
Bernie shrugged. “Things worked out all right.”
Well, of course: just think of the Little Detective Agency, for starters. Who was better? The Mirabelli brothers? Georgie Malhouf? Ha! But whoa. Bernie got canned on account of Rick? News to me. This felt like the kind of puzzle to take on from different angles, a project for later.
They sat in silence. Fine with me. I sat in silence, too. Rick gave me a little pat. Bernie smoked his cigarette down to practically nothing, then ground the practically nothing under his heel, ground it out extra-hard.
“I need a cold case file from Central Records,” he said.
“In an informal sort of way,” said Rick.
Bernie nodded.
TWENTY-THREE
He’s wearing eye makeup?” Bernie said.
“Bernie, please,” said Leda.
We were back at the movie set, me, Bernie, Leda, and Charlie, all by ourselves in one of the trailers. Leda wore tight jeans, a tight little top, and lots of jewelry. Bernie was dressed like Bernie. I had on my brown leather collar-the black one’s for dress-up, in case that hasn’t come up yet. Charlie wore a sort of cowboy outfit-cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and one of those long duster coats. Bernie had one, hanging in the closet back home, a gift from Mr. Teitelbaum, who owned clothing stores, although not as many after the Teitelbaum divorce, a case I’ll never forget. Mrs. Teitelbaum driving that earthmover right through the garage where Mr. Teitelbaum kept his antique car collection? And then back the other way? That kind of thing stays in the mind. It was also on that case that I first discovered kosher chicken, proving there’s good in everything; one of my core beliefs.
But back to Charlie. There was no doubt that he was wearing eye makeup, dark and kind of purple. Also his face had whitish stuff on it, making him look pale, like he wasn’t feeling well. Plus he seemed so small in that long duster.
“My son,” Bernie said, “is wearing eye makeup.”
“God almighty, it’s for the camera,” Leda said. “John Wayne wore eye makeup. Humphrey Bogart wore eye makeup.”
“I don’t believe it,” Bernie said.
Charlie glanced up from a sheet of paper he was staring at. “I’m trying to memorize this.”
“Memorize what?” said Bernie.
“His line,” said Leda. “Why are you not getting this?”
All of a sudden it felt like old times. I preferred new times, especially if old times meant going back to the Leda days. In some ways-this occurring to me for the very first time, funny how the mind works-she was like Mrs. Teitelbaum. But unlike Mrs. Teitelbaum, Leda couldn’t drive a stick-would I ever forget the time Bernie tried to teach her? — so the earthmover episode would never have happened to us.
“What’s the line, Charlie?” Bernie said.
“Don’t disturb him,” Leda said. “He’s internalizing it.”
“Huh?” said Bernie.
“The artistic process is a complete blank to you, isn’t it, Bernie?” Leda said. That tone: hard to describe, sort of like Bernie was one of those butterflies our pal Professor Bokov from the college gazes at through his magnifying lens. Once we worked a case that came down to a certain kind of butterfly; that’s all I remember of it, except for Bernie losing the check on the way home.
“Artistic process?” Bernie said. “He’s six years old.”
Charlie, who’d gone back to gazing at the sheet of paper-his lips moving silently, an interesting thing you saw sometimes in humans, no time to go into it now-looked up again, paused for a moment, and said, “How can I concentrate in this atmosphere?”
Bernie’s mouth fell open. When was the last time that had happened? For a moment, he seemed about to speak, but nothing came out. He turned and stalked out of the trailer, slamming the door after him, so hard the door opened again, good thing since now I could get out, too. We walked down the movie Western street and into the movie Western bar. No one around. Bernie grabbed a bottle from behind the bar, twisted off the cap and drank, then banged the bottle down on the bar.
“Tea, for Christ sake. Cold goddamn tea.”
Tea? And some had splashed down onto the floor? Water’s my drink, but I didn’t mind tea. I licked it up.
“Atmosphere?” Bernie said. “He said atmosphere? What the hell is going on?”
No clue, on my part. I wouldn’t have minded if more tea got spilled. Bang the bottle again, Bernie! Keep spilling! And maybe he would have-there’s no end to what Bernie can do-but at that moment the light, all of which was flowing in from the street, dimmed. I turned and saw Jiggs at the saloon doors. The doors swung open and Jiggs walked in, bringing the light with him.
“Trying to sneak in a quick snort?” he said, coming over to the bar.
Bernie slid the bottle toward him. “Help yourself.”
Jiggs shook his head. “Not a tea drinker, myself.” He sat on the stool beside Bernie’s, pointed his chin at the bottle. “That’s so the studio can tell the Wall Street boys how careful they’re being with their money. Meanwhile, Lars gets his meals flown in every day from some restaurant he likes in Barcelona.”
“And how about Thad?” Bernie said.
“How about him?” said Jiggs.
“What are his special requirements?”
Jiggs looked down at Bernie. “Not sure where you’re going with that.”
“Don’t be so cautious-I’ve got no connections on Wall Street.”
“You’re just curious about his meals?” Jiggs said.
“Sure,” said Bernie.
“He’s a normal guy, eats normal food, like you and me.”
“I’m partial to caviar, myself,” Bernie said.
Caviar? A new one on me. Oh, wait, not quite. I came very close to remembering a party at the Ritz, possibly
