Vera Zabriskie went back to her rocking chair and sat in it and took a pull on the Southern Comfort bottle, and stared at the tube. It stared back with about the same level of comprehension. She dropped her burning cigarette on the floor and stamped aimlessly at it and half squashed it. The crushed butt continued to smolder. The floor around her chair was littered with sniped cigarettes and burn marks in the unfinished plywood.
I went around and turned off the television. She showed no reaction. She continued to look at the blank screen.
I said, “Who’s the woman in the picture?”
Her head turned slowly toward me. She squinted a little. She raised her left hand and realized there was no cigarette and stopped, put the bottle of Southern Comfort on the floor, picked up a pack of Camels from the floor and got another cigarette burning. She inhaled deeply, put down the pack, picked up the jug, and stared at me again.
“Who’s the woman in the picture?” I said.
“Jillian.”
“Jillian who?” I said. I still had my official tone.
“Jillian Zabriskie,” she said with no inflection. “I seen the name on a TV show.”
“She related to you?”
“Daughter,” she said. There was a sound in her voice that I hadn’t heard before. It was weak but it might have been pride. I looked around the oneroom shack where Vera Zabriskie lived. She saw me look around. I saw her see me. We stared for a moment at each other, like two actual humans. For a moment a real person lurked inside the mask of alcohol and defeat, and peered out at me through the rheumy blue eyes. For a moment I wasn’t a guy pumping her for information.
“You’re not close with your daughter,” I said.
Vera suddenly heaved herself up out of the rocker. She put the cigarette in her mouth and put the bottle on the chipped enamel table. She opened the drawer in the table and rummaged with both hands, and came out with another picture.
It was framed in cardboard, like the picture of Jill, only this one was a school picture. Vera handed it to me. It was a picture of a little girl, maybe ten. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and a clear resemblance to Jill Joyce.
“Who’s this?” I said. “Granddaughter,” she said.
“Jillian’s daughter?” I said.
“Yuh.”
I looked at the picture again. In the indefinable way that pictures speak, this one was telling me it wasn’t recent.
“How old is she now?” I said.
“Jillian?”
“No, your granddaughter.”
The burst of humanity had drained her. She was back in the rocker, with her bottle. She shrugged. Her gaze was fixed on the blank picture tube. I slipped the picture out of its holder and put it inside my shirt. Then I folded the cardboard and put it back in the drawer.
“You see her much?” She shook her head. “She live around here?”
She shook her head again. She drank a little Southern Comfort from the bottle.
“Far away?” She nodded. “Where?”
“L.A.,” Vera said. Her voice was flatter than a tin shingle.
“She with her dad?” I said. Sincere, interested in Vera’s family. You’re in good hands with Spenser. Vera shrugged.
“What’s her dad’s name?”
“Greaser,” Vera said clearly.
“Odd name,” I said.
“Told her stay away from that greaser. Took my granddaughter.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Spic name.”
“Un huh,” I said helpfully.
“Told her not.”
“What’s his name?” The helpful smile stretched across my face like oil on water. I could feel the tension behind my shoulders as I tried to squeeze blood from this stone.
“Victor,” she said. “Victor del Rio.”
“And he lives in L.A.”
“Yuh.”
“You know where?” She shook her head. “You ever see your granddaughter?”
She shook her head again. She was frowning at the blank television, as if the fact of its gray silence had just
