“Oh,” he said. “We don’t got sushi.”
“We’ll just take whatever you have.”
“I think we got almonds.” He ticked a finger. “Okay, so it’s Champagne and a … Sidecar.”
“A Sidecar and Chivas,” I said. “That’s a blended whiskey.”
“Sure. Of course.” Slapping his forehead. “I never did this before.”
“You’re kidding.” Robin kicked my shin.
“A Sidecar,” he said, repeating it again in a mumble. “They just called from the temp agency yesterday, said there’s a place closing down, you got five hours to get over there if you want it, Neil. Mostly I work in places with no drinking.”
“McDonald’s?” I said.
Kick kick kick.
“That was in the beginning,” said Neil. “Then I did two years at Marie Callender’s.” Grin. “All the pie you can eat, man I was getting fat. Then I lost that and signed up with the temp agency and they sent me here. Too bad it’s only one night. This is a cool old place.”
“Sure is. Too bad they’re tearing it down.”
“Yeah … but that’s the way it is, right? Old stuff dies.”
“We’ll take those drinks, now. And those almonds, if you have them.”
“Last time I checked we did, but you never know.”
As he turned to leave, the girl in white slipped on oversized, gold-framed sunglasses with lenses so dark they had to be blinding her. Sucking on her cigarette, she twirled the holder, stretched coltish legs, ran a finger along the side of a clean, smooth jaw. Licked her lips.
Red Jacket watched her, transfixed.
Robin said, “She is beautiful, Neil.”
He wheeled. “So are you, ma’am. Um … oh, man, sorry, that came out weird. Sorry.”
Robin touched his hand. “Don’t worry about it, dear.”
“Um, I better get you those drinks.”
When he was gone, I said, “See, you’ve still got it going on.”
“He probably looks at me like I’m his mother.”
I hummed “Mrs. Robinson.” She kicked me harder. But not enough to hurt. Our relationship’s not that complicated.
he Sidecar devolved to a Screwdriver, the Chivas was a whiskey slushy, overwhelmed by crushed ice.
We laughed and I tossed bills on the table and we got up to leave.
From across the room, Neil held up his palms in a
As we passed Snow White, her eyes met mine. Big, dark, moist. Not seductive.
Welling with tears?
Her lower lip dropped, then clamped shut. She avoided my glance and smoked single-mindedly.
Suddenly her getup seemed sad, nothing but a costume.
Neil nearly tripped over himself bringing the check but when he saw the cash, he detoured to Snow White’s table.
She shook her head and he slinked off.
A commercial for ecologically sound detergent rasped the smoky air.
When we got back outside, Dudley Do-Right was gone.
Robin said, “Guess we were wrong about Snowy being his charge.”
“Guess we were wrong about taking a final jaunt on the
She took my arm as we headed for the Seville. “Nothing to redeem. I’ve got you, you’ve got me, and despite those killer legs, that poor little thing has no one. But sure, some real drinks would be nice. After that, we’ll see what develops.”
“Mistress of suspense,” I said.
She tousled my hair. “Not really, you know the ending.”
I woke at six the following morning, found her at the kitchen window, washing her coffee cup and gazing at the pines and sycamores that rim our property to the east. Polygons of pink and gray sky cut through the green; intensely saturated color, bordering on harsh. Sunrise in Beverly Glen can be brittle splendor.
We walked Blanche for an hour, then Robin headed to her studio and I sat down to finish some child custody reports for the court. By noon, I was done and emailing recommendations to various judges. A few were likely to listen. As I put the hard copy in a drawer and locked up, the doorbell buzzed.
Shave and a haircut, six bits, followed by three impatient beeps.
I padded to the living room. “It’s open, Big Guy.”
Milo pushed the door open and stomped in swinging his battered, olive-vinyl attache case wide, as if preparing to fling it away. “Step right in, Mr. Manson, then hold the door for Mr. Night Stalker.”
“Morning.”
“All these years I still can’t convince you to exercise normal caution.”
“I’ve got you as backup.”
“That and a Uzi won’t buy you a Band-Aid if you ignore common sense.” He marched past me. “Where’s the pooch?”
“With Robin.”
“Someone’s thinking right.”
My best friend is a gay LAPD homicide lieutenant with inconsistent social skills. He’s had a key to the house for years but refuses to use it unless Robin and I are traveling and he checks the premises, unasked.
By the time I made it to the kitchen, he’d commandeered a loaf of rye bread, a jar of strawberry preserves, a half gallon of orange juice, and the butt-end of a four-day-old rib roast.
I said, “Hey kids, beef ’n’ jam, the new taste sensation.”
He cast off a gray windbreaker, loosened a tie the color of strained peas, and settled his bulk at the table. “First conundrum of the day: carbs or protein. I opt for both.”
Brushing coarse black hair off a lumpy brow, he continued to stare at the food. Bright green eyes drooped more than usual. Where the light hit him wrong, his acne-pocked pallor was a hue no painter had ever blended.
I said, “Long night?”
“The night was fine, it was the damn morning that screwed things up. Four a.m., why can’t people get their faces blown off at a civil hour?”
“People as in multiple victims?”
Instead of answering, he troweled heaps of jam on three slices of bread, chewed the first piece slowly, inhaled the remaining two. Uncapping the juice, he peered inside, muttered, “Not much left,” and drained the container.
Contemplating the roast, he sliced, cubed, popped morsels of meat like candy. “Got any of that spicy mayo?”
I fetched some aioli from the fridge. He dipped, chewed, wiped his mouth, snorted, exhaled.
I said, “Male or female bodies?”
“One body, female.” Crumpling the juice carton, he created a waxed paper pancake that he pulled out like an accordion, then compressed. “And for my next number, ‘Lady of Spain.’ ”
A dozen more pieces of roast before he said, “Female, and from her figure, young. Then again, this is L.A. so
