full lower lip, all topped off by a mass of auburn hair held up by a few pins arranged in an oddly Victorian fashion. Wisps of fine hair framed her face. She looked like Colleen Dewhurst playing Colleen Dewhurst. There was a little too much flesh under the skin, but not so much that it kept swinging back and forth after she'd finished shaking her head. Once I got past the image of the terrible third-grade teacher, she reminded me of nothing so much as the prettiest of all my elementary school friends' mothers. I had gone to his house largely to see her.
Jessica acknowledged the challenge with a disdainful sniff. Maybe she just resented being called a little girl.
“She's very special,” I said. I paused before the word “special.”
“And you're her what?”
“She's my ward,” I said.
“Like your name,” she said brightly. “Ward.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Isn't that a coincidence?”
“It certainly is,” she said, watching me with an entirely new expression.
Jessica, feeling excluded, began to fidget.
“You're legal?” Mrs. Brussels said.
“Well, Mommy and Daddy aren't here.”
“They could show up,” she said, one hand under her chin. “Where are they, anyway?”
Jessica heard her cue. “They're dead,” she said.
“Is that so?” Mrs. Brussels said, her face turning into a postcard of sympathy. “That's terrible.”
“Oh, golly,” Jessica said, “you don't know how I cried.” I was proud of her; she resisted the impulse to wring her hands.
“And now”-Mrs. Brussels in her most motherly tones- “you have no one but Mr. Ward, here.” Her eyes, when she turned them to me, were older than rocks.
Jessica looked at me proudly. “He's all I need,” she said. “He's wonderful.”
“They died in Idaho,” I said. “A car wreck.”
“What a sad story,” Mrs. Brussels said perfunctorily. “And you said you were her legal guardian?”
“Legal enough,” I said.
“Because there are contracts,” she said.
I looked at Jessica, who had withdrawn into herself. She was sitting on her hands like Wayne Warner.
“And are you willing for her to travel?” Mrs. Brussels said in the tone I would have used to ask if it were sunny. And why not? If I was right about her, and I was sure I was, all we were talking about was the Mann Act.
“I'm a frequent flier,” Jessica said remotely.
“What a delightful child,” Mrs. Brussels said. Her voice sounded like a knife being sharpened on a whetstone. “So precocious. I'm sure we can work something out, Mr. Ward. There are the standard papers, of course. Nothing special, all to your benefit and little Jewel's. Perhaps we could draw them up overnight and you could come in tomorrow and sign them. You and Jewel, I mean.”
“Sure,” I said. “Be delighted. Call me Dwight.”
“And where are you staying? Since you've just come here from Idaho, I mean.”
“The Sleep-Eze Motel,” I said, “on Melrose.”
She gave me the crinkly smile. “Nice place,” she said. She directed a glance toward the computer terminal on her desk, which had just whirred and beeped. Eyes on the screen, she tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “And now,” she added, “I have work to do.” Without looking up from the computer, she extended a hand to me, ignoring Jessica completely. “We're going to do just fine,” she said. “Great career. Come tomorrow, tennish? Birdie will show you out.”
“Tennish,” I said.
Birdie showed us out.
In the parking lot, Jessica tugged at my hand. “That woman is a snake,” she said. “What was the big deal about the
“Jessica,” I said, “I think you've got a future in this line of work.”
She got into the car, sat back, and glowed.
14
“What's the name this time?” asked the old bat at the Sleep-Eze as she took my money. I had told her that we'd be expecting phone calls.
“Ward,” I said, “Dwight Ward. And this is my little ward, Jewel.”
She glared down at Jessica. “There ought to be a law,” she said, dropping the bills into a drawer.
“There is,” I said, “and you're breaking it.”
Jessica had stopped glowing by the time she got home. I dropped her, figuratively kicking and squealing, at her parents' house. Annie leaned in through the car window long enough to ask whether she was okay.
Jessica dispelled whatever doubt there might have been. “Hey, Mom,” she said, stomping toward the house as though she weighed a thousand pounds, “count my arms and legs, would you?” She didn't want me to go anywhere without her.
At home, I spent several damp hours making notes on the Sleep-Eze's purloined stationery and then painstakingly tapping them into my computer. The roof was leaking. There was something about the sight of my notes on paper that reawakened my collegiate faith in the much-vaunted and probably overrated human ability to solve problems. I flipped off the computer, tossed the stationery onto the floor, and went out and watered the garden, which didn't need it. Time passed slowly. I was waiting for dark.
On the drive into town, I indulged my latest crankiness by dialing from station to station to listen to what the traffic reporters were doing to the English language. Where, I wondered, was the linguistic equivalent of the antivivisectionist league? Motorists who were “transitioning” from the Hollywood Freeway onto the Five would find an accident “working” in the right lanes. Working at what? I’d seen accidents, and as far as I could tell, they were just accidenting. CHP was “rolling,” and the whole mess would, I was told, cause slowing “for you.” And only for you, apparently. Who says we live in an impersonal world?
I got off the freeway and cut north into Hollywood. Even on a Monday night Santa Monica Boulevard was cramped and crawling, due largely to scavenger driving as solo male motorists eyed the kids on the street. I angled up onto Fountain so I could pass the Oki-Burger, and slowed down, along with most of the other male drivers, to take a look. No Aimee.
I hadn't expected her to be there, of course, or on the curb near Jack's either, although that's where Junko was. Her black hair spilled over her white blouse as she divided her attention between a parked and bearded biker and the oncoming traffic. Keeping her eye on the main chance, wherever it might come from. She looked jumpy, trying for alluring. Her pimp was nowhere in sight.
I stopped at Computerland and bought a bag full of blank disks, both the five-and-a-quarter-inch versions and the little three-and-a-half-inch ones. I had no way of knowing which I would need. I hadn't paid enough attention. I also bought a DOS diskette, just in case I couldn't find Birdie's. Then, to kill time, I drove past both Jack's and the Oki-Burger again. No Aimee this time either, and no Junko. She'd gotten a customer.
At precisely nine-fifteen I walked briskly into the lobby of Mr. Kale's building, nodded in a businesslike fashion at the night guard, an undersize specimen with a telltale scarlet nose that Jim-Beamed up at me beneath the visor on his cap, and headed for the elevator.
Some years back, when I decided to ignore everyone's advice and go into this line of work, I did something that many a smart crook has done before and since: I apprenticed myself to a locksmith, a lovely old guy named Zack Withers. In four months I'd learned that most locks aren't worth the space they take up in a door, and that the bigger and more massive they are, the less they're usually worth.
Mr. Kale's were worse than most. A careful man, he'd installed three. I could have unlocked, relocked, and
