Each apartment had a view of the pool - which was kidney-shaped and cloudy - and its own entrance. The doors were painted olive green, and flimsy-looking olive iron railings ran along both of the upper walkways. Unit seven was on the ground floor, midway down the north side of the U. I knocked on the door and received no answer. A peek through the curtains revealed a small, empty living room and, on the other side of a plywood partition, a windowless kitchenette. No signs of habitation. I took the stairs one flight up to fifteen.
This time my knock elicited a response. The door opened, and a short, pretty blonde woman of around twenty-five peered out sleepily and smiled. She had a pointed feline face and wore crotch-cutting jogging shorts and a terry-cloth tank top stretched by pendulous breasts. Her nipples were the size of cocktail onions. Through the open door came a breeze of strong perfume and coffee and the soft refrain of a Barry Manilow song. Over one white shoulder I saw a red velvet settee and wrought-iron occasional tables. On the wall were a framed zodiac chart and a cheap oil painting of a reclining nude who bore some general resemblance to the woman in the door.
'Hi,' she said, huskily, 'you must be Tom. You're a little early, but that's cool.'
She moved closer, and one hand stroked my bicep.
'Don't be shy,' she urged. 'Come on in and let's party.'
'Sorry,' - I smiled - 'wrong number.'
The hand dropped, and her face hardened and aged ten years.
'I'm looking for Andrea Vann,' I explained.
She stepped backward and reached for the door. I shot my foot forward and prevented it from closing.
'What the hell - ' she said.
'Wait a second.'
'Listen, Mister, I have a date.' A car door slammed, and she jumped. 'That could be him. Come on, get the hell out of here.'
'Andrea Vann. A nurse. Dark, good-looking.'
She bit her lip.
'Big tits and a little dark-haired kid?'
I remembered what Vann had told me about my lecture's helping her with her child's sleep problems.
'That's right,' I said.
'Downstairs.'
'Which unit?'
'I don't know, one of the ones on that side.' She pointed north with a long-nailed finger. Footsteps echoed in the empty courtyard. The blonde panicked and leaned against the door. 'Come on, that's him. Don't fuck up my day, mister.'
I stepped back, and the door shut. As I headed toward the stairs, a man rose from them - young, weedy, bearded, wearing jeans and a blue workshirt with the label 'Tom' over one breast pocket. He carried something in a paper bag, and when we passed, he avoided my eyes.
I went back to seven, stared at the empty living room again, and was wondering what to do when a shrill voice sounded behind me. 'Can I help you?'
I turned and faced an old woman in a pink quilted housecoat and hairnet of matching hue. The hair under the net was a pewter cap that accentuated the grey in her complexion. She was short and skinny with a crooked mouth, rubbery cheeks, a strong cleft chin, and blue eyes that regarded me suspiciously.
'I'm looking for Mrs. Vann.'
'You family?'
'Just a friend.'
'A good enough friend to pay her debts?'
'How much does she owe you?'
'She hasn't paid rent for three months runnin'. Put me off with excuses about late child support and big doctor bills for the kid and all that sad music. I shoulda said never you mind, but instead, I gave her time. That's gratitude for ya.'
'What does three months come out to?'
She adjusted the edge of the hairnet and winked.
'Well, to be honest, I got a last-month deposit and a damage deposit that shoulda been more than it is, but that still leaves a month and a half's worth - seven hundred and fifty. You of a mind to come up with a sum like that?'
'Gee,' I said, 'that puts us in the same boat. She borrowed quite a bit of money from me, and I came here to try and collect.'
'Great.' She snorted. 'Lotta help you'll be.' But camaraderie twinkled in her eyes.
'When did she leave?'
'Last week. Snuck out in the middle of the night like a thief. Only reason I saw it was that it was late and the horn was blarin', so I went on back to see what was goin' on. There she was, talking with some no-accounts, leaning on the horn like nothing mattered. She saw me, got all scared and guilty-lookin', and sped off. What really ate me was that the car was a new one. She'd got rid of her old heap and bought one a them flashy little Mustangs. She had money for that but none to pay me. How much she into you for?'
'Plenty.' I groaned. 'Any idea where she went?'
'Honey, if I knew that, would I be talkin' to you?'
I smiled.
'Any of the other tenants know her?'
'Nah. If you're her friend, you gotta be the only one. In the six months she was here I never did see her talk to no one or take visitors. Course, she worked nights and slept days, so that may have been part of it. Still, I always wondered if there was somethin' wrong with her. Good-lookin' girl like that never socialism'.'
'Do you know where she was working at the time she left?'
'Nowhere. I noticed it because her usual routine was to take the kid to school, then come back and sleep the day away, bring the kid home, and head off to work. Latchkey situation, which is a hell of a way to raise kids if you ask me, but they're all doin' it nowadays. Coupla times she asked me to look in on the kid; once in a while I gave him a cookie. Coupla weeks ago all that changed. The kid started stayin' home, inside with her. She'd leave during the middle of the day and take him with her. First I thought he was sick, but he looked pretty good to me. They were just vacationin', I guess. With her outa work, I shoulda suspected I wasn't gonna get my money. But that's what you get for being too trustin', right?'
I nodded sympathetically.
'Hell of it is, I always liked the girl. Quiet but classy. Raisin' that kid all by herself. Even the money wouldn'ta made me lose sleep - the owner's a fat cat, he'll survive -but it's the lyin' I can't stand. The taking advantage.'
'I know what you mean.'
'Yeah,' she continued, placing her hands on her hips. 'It's that flashy little car that's still eatin' at me.'
I drove back on the freeway, wondering about Andrea Vann's sudden departure. The fact that she'd registered with Tubbs's agency right after quitting indicated an intention to stay in town. But something had happened to make her pack her bags in the middle of the night. Whether or not it had to do with Jamey was unclear; there was no
shortage of stresses that could drive a single mother out of town. The only way to be certain was to talk to the lady, and I had no idea how to find her.
I exited at Laurel Canyon and drove south into Hollywood. Roland Oberheim's place of business was on La Brea, just south of Santa Monica Boulevard, a small two-storey office building sided with herringbone cedar. The first floor was occupied by a recording studio. A separate entrance housed the stairs to the second, which was taken up by three entertainment concerns: Joyful Noise Records ('a subsidiary of the Christian Musical Network'); The Druckman Group: Professional Management; and, at the end of the cork-panelled hall, Anavrin Productions, R. Oberheim, Pres.
The Anavrin suite was a waiting room and a back office. The former was silent and decorated with twenty- year-old psychedelic posters advertising Big Blue Nirvana in Concert at various halls around the country. The spaces in between were taken up by framed PR photos of sullen-faced bands I'd never heard of. The girl hunched behind the desk wore a hot pink vinyl jumpsuit. She had short, tortured hair and heavy jaws that worked rhythmically as
