Eureka

CHAPTER 4

I awoke from a deep sleep to hear Rosebud scratching on the back door. A moment later he came into the bedroom, sat next to the bed, and growled at me. I opened one eye and stared at him.

“Don’t you ever bark, Slugger?” I said.

I hip-hopped barefoot back to the kitchen, let him out and left the door cracked for him, fed him and filled his water dish. I went to my bathroom, shaved and showered, and put on my dark suit, the one I wear when I’m going to be talking to nice, decent, everyday people who are anxious to cooperate with the law and usually tell you more than you want to know. Muscle and blackjack not required.

I put another can of dog food in Rosebud’s bowl, refilled the water dish, and put them outside in the little cave under the alcove.

He watched every move, and when I started back into the house, those dark eyes followed me to the door.

“Try not to bark or make a ruckus,” I told him. “Spend the day looking for Slugger.”

Fifteen minutes later I was tooting the horn in Ski’s driveway. I picked him up every day. He had a brand-new Plymouth but his wife, Claire, used it to take kids to school, go shopping, and do whatever women do all day long to make life pleasant for the rest of the family.

My five-year-old used Olds needed new shocks, the fan belt squealed like a pig on the way to the slaughterhouse, and I had to stand on the brakes to slow down, not an easy thing to do since I had to move the seat all the way back to accommodate Agassi’s frame and drive with the tips of my toes. There was a hole in the upholstery on the passenger side, which was covered by a blue embroidered pillow with a couple of palm trees framing yellow letters that said “Welcome to San Diego.” And it had that old-car smell, a mixture of oil, gasoline, cheap carry-out food, and an ashtray that hadn’t been emptied since Hitler was selling hand-painted postcards on the streets of Vienna. It got me there, which was all that mattered.

We stopped at Wally’s coffeehouse, which is on the way, and got coffee in paper cups and a bag of sinkers, and Ski read the newspaper as he always did, running an occasional headline by me if it was something he thought I needed to know or a comical item like: escaped kangaroo kicks preacher to death at bus stop.

As we pulled away from the curb, a flatbed truck went by, going the other way. There were two large billboards on the bed. Red letters on a field of white: buy bonds keep America free join the armed forces today

Two starlet types in red-and-white bathing suits were standing on a little perch to keep from falling out, waving blue high hats, while a loudspeaker over the cab was blasting Kate Smith’s “God Bless America” loud enough to raise the dead.

Ski started grousing. “I hate Kate Smith,” he snapped. “I really hate hearing her bellow when I’m not fully awake yet.”

Smith wrapped her song and Irving Berlin’s forlorn voice began moaning, “Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning.”

“I hate that, too,” he growled.

“Why should you care,” I said. “You’re forty-two, you got a wife and three kids, and you’re sixty pounds overweight. They’ll be drafting blind men before they get to you.”

“Christ, you’re thirty-four. They’ll never get to you either. Besides, you’re a cop. Immediate deferment.”

“That sounds unpatriotic,” I said.

“I think you want to go if we get into it with the Krauts,” he said. “Mr. Gung Ho.”

I started laughing and he finally broke up, too, and turned back to the paper.

“So what’s the plan for the day?” he asked.

“I go to the bank, you check where she worked. We’ll meet at the Kettle for lunch.”

“How about Moriarity?”

“What about him?”

“It’s an accident. He’s gonna want to know what the hell we’re up to.”

“Let’s see what we come up with. Then we’ll worry about the lieutenant.”

“Great, just great,” Agassi moaned.