Another exchange of glances. More fear than wariness.
'Nothing ominous,' I said. 'I'm a doctor, over at Western Pediatric Hospital-in Hollywood. Dawn used to work there and she may have some information on a patient that's important. This is the only address I have for her.'
The woman walked over to the man. It seemed like a selfdefense move but I wasn't clear who was protecting who.
The man used his free hand to brush petals off his shorts. His bony jaw was set hard. The sunburn had gotten his nose, too, and the tip was raw.
'You come all the way here just to get information?' he said.
'It's complicated,' I said, fudging for enough time to build a credible story. An important case-a small child at risk. Dawn checked his medical chart out of the hospital and never returned it.
Normally I'd have gone to Dawn's boss. A doctor named Ashmore.
But he's dead. Mugged a couple of days ago in the hospital parking lot-you may have heard about it.'
New look on their faces. Fear and bafflement. The news had obviously caught them off guard and they didn't know how to respond. Finally they chose suspicion, locking hands and glaring at me.
The retriever didn't like the tension. He looked back at his masters and started to whine.
'Jethro,' said the woman, and the dog quieted. The black mutt perked up his ears and growled.
She said, 'Mellow out, Homer,' in a singsong voice, almost crooning it.
'Homer and Jethro,' I said. 'Do they play their own instruments or use backup?'
Not a trace of a smile. Then I finally remembered where I'd seen them.
Robin's shop, last year. Repair customers. A guitar and a mandolin, the former in pretty bad shape. Two folkies with a lot of integrity, some talent, not much money. Robin had done five hundred bucks' worth of work for some self-produced record albums, a plate of home-baked muffins, and seventy-five in cash. I'd watched the transaction, unnoticed, from up in the bedroom loft. later, Robin and I had listened to a couple of the albums. Public domain songs, mostly-ballads and reels, done traditionally and pretty well.
'You're Bobby and Ben, aren't you?'
Being recognized cracked their suspicion and brought back the confusion.
'Robin Castagna's a friend of mine,' I said.
'That so?' said the man.
'She patched up your gear last winter. Gibson A-four with a headstock crack? D-eighteen with loose braces, bowed neck, bad frets, and a popped bridge? Whoever baked those muffins was good.'
'Who are you?' said the woman.
'Exactly who I said I was. Call Robin-she's at her shop, right now.
Ask her about Alex Delaware. Or if you don't want to bother, could you please tell me where I can find Dawn Herbert? I'm not out to hassle her, just want to get the chart back.'
They didn't answer. The man placed a thumb behind one of his suspender straps.
'Go call,' the woman told him.
He went into the house. She stayed behind, watching me, breathing deeply, bosoms flopping. The dogs watched me too. No one spoke. My eyes caught motion from the west end of the block and I turned and saw a camper back out of a driveway and lumber toward Sepulveda. Someone on the opposite side of the street was flying an American flag. Just
beyond that, an old man sat slumped in a lawn chair. Hard to be sure but I thought he was watching me too.
Belle of the ball in Culver City.
