Unable to return to the beach after work on Sunday because of closures on the coast highway, I had been forced to weather the storm that evening at Arnie’s. Earlier I’d phoned home and made arrangements for Allison and Nate, along with Callie, to spend the night at Christy’s condo in Malibu-assuring them that the highway would probably be open the next morning and I’d see them on Monday following my shift. After work I drove to Westwood for dinner with Arnie, who for a change wasn’t spending the entire weekend with Stacy. During dessert, to Arnie’s obvious surprise, I suggested that we head over to the Scotch ‘n’ Sirloin for a nightcap.
By ten that evening the bar at the Scotch had begun filling up-restaurant patrons sipping after-dinner drinks, a nightclub crowd materializing as soon as the weekend jazz combo started its first set. At that point Arnie and I were comfortably encamped at a table in the back. My choice for the evening was Jack Daniel’s, straight up. And I wasn’t sipping.
Arnie took a pull on his Coors, drinking from the bottle. “Maybe you oughtta slow down a bit, amigo,” he advised. “You’re not in drinkin’ shape anymore.”
“Go screw yourself.”
“Just makin’ a suggestion.”
“If I want a nursemaid, I’ll hire one.”
“Right, partner. You want to tell me what’s bugging you or not?”
“Not.”
“Fine. Look, I’m heading over to Stacy’s before long. She has a big opening tonight at her studio. Watercolor exhibit, something like that. Why don’t you join me?”
“No way, pal. I break out in hives whenever I get around too much culture.”
“It should be over about twelve. Afterward, we’re going out for ice cream. C’mon, Dan. Let’s get out of here.”
“I like it here,” I said gloomily. “Besides, I’ll be getting my full dose of sophistication soon enough. Kate’s arriving home tomorrow, and I promised to accompany her to some Music Center fundraiser tomorrow night.” Earlier that evening Catheryn had left a brief message that her flight was being delayed in Dallas, and she wouldn’t be arriving home until late Monday morning.
Arnie grinned. “Black tie, limos, champagne?”
“Yeah,” I said, adding, “I’ve always been glad to accompany Kate to these things because they’re important to her, but I can definitely think of better ways to spend an evening.”
“I can just picture you rubbing elbows with LA’s movers and shakers,” Arnie snorted. “But don’t they usually hold those shindigs in the summer?”
“They didn’t have them at all for a while, which was okay with me,” I answered. “They’re throwing this one to celebrate the Philharmonic’s return from Europe.”
“Kate’s been gone, what-almost six weeks now? You must be looking forward to seeing her.”
I didn’t answer.
Arnie regarded me closely. “Everything okay between you two?”
“None of your business.”
“Sorry.”
I finished my bourbon and signaled the waitress for a refill. “Arnie, lemme ask you something,” I said. “You were married to Lilith for what, twenty years? Either of you ever have an affair?”
“Not me,” said Arnie. “Not that with my good looks and charm, I didn’t have plenty of opportunity.”
“Yeah, sure. How ’bout Lilith?”
“She was too busy working to make time for me, let alone anybody else. At least as far as I knew. Toward the end when she took up with that real estate asswipe, it was pretty much over between us.” Arnie’s brow furrowed as he backtracked on my train of thought. “Is that what this is about? You stupid Mick, are you steppin’ out on Kate?”
“Not me.”
“You think Kate’s got something going on the side?”
I scowled at my empty glass. “Damn, what’s it take to get a drink around here?”
Arnie stared across the table. “Listen, Dan. I know Kate. Whatever’s going on, she’s not being unfaithful.”
“Hey, Arleen. How ’bout gettin’ us another round?” I called to a passing waitress.
Arnie shook his head. “Not for me.”
“One more, partner,” I insisted. “For old times’ sake.”
“Can’t. Dan, about Kate-you’re screwing up, amigo.”
Again I remained silent.
Arnie shook his head. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. You comin’?”
“Nope.”
“Suit yourself,” Arnie sighed. “I’ll be staying at Stacy’s tonight, so make yourself at home. See you tomorrow?”
I nodded glumly.
“One more thing. If you’re gonna keep drinking, fork over your keys. I’ll give ’em back tomorrow morning.”
I glared, then slid the keys to my Suburban across the table. “Don’t trust me, huh? I’m not stupid, pard. I already decided that if you left me for greener pastures, as it appears you’re doing, I’d be taking a cab.”
Arnie pocketed my keys. “Fine. At least you’ve got one neuron up there still firing.”
“I don’t drive when I drink, pal.”
“Now we don’t have to worry about it, do we?”
“Thanks, Mom.” Impatiently, I glowered across the room, checking the status of my next drink. “Aw, hell. Look who just came in.”
Arnie turned, groaning when he spotted Lauren Van Owen standing by the bar. Dressed as though she’d just come from the theater, Lauren had on a short woolen skirt and matching jacket, and for the evening she had twisted her long blond hair in a French braid. A petite, exotic-looking woman accompanying her wrinkled her nose, inspecting the noisy room with obvious distaste. Lauren looked our way, then leaned closer to her friend to say something. The woman shook her head.
“That’s the broad from Channel Two,” said Arnie. “The one who carries a pair of pinking shears in her purse. Lauren something?”
“Van Owen. Damn, she spotted us.” I watched Lauren bid good-bye to her friend, who’d evidently decided to leave. A moment later Lauren started across the room.
With a crooked grin, Arnie rose from the table. “I would love to stick around, amigo, but I prefer my gonads right where they are. See you, pal.”
Lauren nodded to Arnie as he passed, then continued on. “Hello, Detective,” she said upon arriving at my table. “Again, a pleasant surprise.”
“For you, maybe.”
“Hope I didn’t chase off your friend.”
“He had to leave anyway. You following me, Van Owen?”
“Definitely not.” Lauren paused, listening for a moment to the jazz trio. “You were right. The music here is terrific.” She glanced at the empties lined up on the tabletop before me. “What’s the occasion? Celebrating something?”
“None of your business.”
The waitress to whom I’d spoken earlier delivered my latest refill. “Something for you?” she asked Lauren.
Lauren’s eyes made a circuit of the crowded bar, then returned to me. “Mind if I join you?”
I shrugged. “It’s a free country.”
“Thanks.” Lauren slipped into a chair across from mine. Then, to the waitress, “I’ll have a white wine.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The waitress turned to go.
“While you’re at it, bring another one of these and keep ‘em coming,” I added.
“So,” Lauren said, struggling to fill the ensuing silence. “What’s new on the task force? Anything come of my releasing that psychological profile?”
