Finnegan's week

CHAPTER 20

Fin and Bobbie were having an amazed conversation by the time their third drinks arrived, and he was as amazed as she.

“Wait’ll I tell Nell Salter tomorrow,” he said. “Nell talked to Jules Temple on the phone, and we both talked to the truckers, but nobody told us about you!”

“It’s obvious they didn’t want us to get together,” Bobbie said.

“The truckers I can understand,” he said. “Your instinct could be right. They might be your shoe thieves, but what about Jules Temple? Why didn’t he tell Nell about you? I’d say it was relevant that two different investigators were interested in Green Earth for two different reasons tied together by the same employees.”

“Pretty weird stuff,” she said, slurring the s.

“Wanna have dinner, long as we’re here?”

“Super,” she said, slurring again.

“My treat?”

“Dutch treat.”

“I’ll flip you for it afterward.”

“Okay.”

The restaurant was about half filled by then, and Fin signaled for menus. Bobbie was still wearing the blazer over her pink cotton shell. While reading the menu she started to take off the jacket, then remembered her sidearm and kept it on.

“I can take the gun to the car for you,” he said, “if you’re too warm in the jacket.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

“A forty-five?”

“Yeah.”

“Guess the navy and marines won’t abandon the forty-five till they get Star Wars lasers.”

“It’s a pretty good gun though, the nineteen eleven model.”

“Awfully big gun for …”

“Don’t say a little girl, okay?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want people to think a me like that. Do you know when you ordered the last drink you said, ‘Ready for another, kid?’ That’s what you said.”

“Did I?”

“I’ll be thirty in a few years and I’m a good investigator. I don’t have your experience but my forty-five’s loaded and I got two extra magazines in my purse and I’m not a kid or a little girl.”

Fin knew she was too polite and much too “navy” to have said that without a belly full of booze, but he was touched. “No, you’re not a kid,” was all he could say, and zing went the strings of his heart!

Then she grinned sheepishly and said, “But we’re not allowed to carry it with a round in the chamber so I couldn’t win a quick-draw contest with anybody.”

After the waiter took their identical orders of sea bass, Fin decided that he might give an arm or maybe a leg to be ten years younger. Well, a toe maybe, the little one with fungus on it. If he was still forty he wouldn’t feel that this infatuation was so preposterous. But of course the more he drank the less preposterous it seemed to be.

When she went to the rest room, he looked her over from the rear. She was a lot shorter than Nell Salter and maybe wore one size larger. Or did height have something to do with dress sizes? But she walked like a little athlete, and he was certain she had a very firm body. He wanted to be ashamed of himself.

The food came while Bobbie was gone, and he slipped his credit card to the waiter so she couldn’t argue about paying. When she got back he stood up until she was seated. He could see that he scored big with that move.

“The fish is real good here,” she said. “Not too much junk on it.”

“I’m glad we came.”

“Me too,” she said, “except I always eat too much sourdough bread.”

“Just be glad they still got the kinda joints that serve sourdough bread. My third ex-wife used to drag me to places where they sold you smoked-duck pizza topped with papaya, or ahi dunked in raspberry mango sauce. Anyway, you’re too young to worry about calories.”

“There you go again,” she said.

“Sorry.” Then to the waiter, “Bring us a nice bottle of white wine. Not Chardonnay. You pick it.” Turning to Bobbie he said, “Okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

“Chardonnay also reminds me of porcini mushrooms, tofu and blue-corn tortillas. And my third ex-wife who almost wrecked my health by smoking like Tallulah Bankhead.”

“Who?”

“If I said Bette Davis would it make any difference?”

“Who’s she?”

“Never mind,” he said.

When the waiter brought the wine and a wine bucket, Fin said, “Let the lady taste it.”

She smiled self-consciously, but performed the ritual she’d learned from her former boyfriend. She examined the cork and sniffed the bouquet.

“Real good,” she told the waiter. “I think.”

Fin was surprised at how much wine she could put away. She guzzled it.

When it was time for dessert Bobbie pointed to one on the menu and said, “You know what this is?”

He read it and said, “Crème brûlée. Yeah, that’s outta style now, so let’s have it. All it is, it’s your mom’s egg custard with burnt sugar on top.”

“I got a theory about Jules Temple,” she said after he ordered two of the desserts.

“What’s your theory?”

“That he didn’t wanna tell you guys about me because …”

“Because what?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Okay.”

“Because he’s in cahoots with those two truckers. Maybe he planned the job.”

Fin laughed.

“So much for promises,” Bobbie said.

“I’m sorry, Bobbie,” he said, “but I don’t think somebody with a business as big as his would risk it for some shoes.”

“Two thousand pairs. They’re worth a lotta money.”

“I know, but …”

“Okay, you’re the old pro,” she said. “You tell me.”

“I can’t,” he said. “There’re pieces here that just don’t make sense, no matter how I figure it.”

“The truckers stole the shoes, that much we know.”

“That much we think we know.”

“Same thing.”

“Not exactly.”

“Anyway,” she said, “they stole the shoes and drove them to T.J. That’s what we think now, right?”

“That’s what I think I think,” Fin said.

When the desserts came, she wolfed hers, forgetting about truckers and shoes. When she was finished there was a creamy little globule of custard clinging to her upper lip. It was so cute and she was so young that he didn’t hesitate to reach across the table with his napkin and dab it off.

“Oops,” she said. “I’m such a doofus when I eat stuff like … What’s this called again?”

“Crème brûlé. My third ex-wife was a fad-food type. Used to drag me to a Vietnamese deli. In America they’re called pet shops. I think I ate Rin Tin Tin a couple of times.”

“What’s Rin Tin Tin?”

“He was Lassie’s role model.”

Then she said, “You have such perfect table manners. Me, I eat like a sailor.”

“You can thank my sisters for making me eat with the fork in my left hand, tines down. They trained me with a wooden spoon that was really a billy club. I was always having to sing or dance or recite poems for the entertainment of females. My childhood was a combination of Great Expectations and the Jackson Five.”

“You gonna eat your dessert?” Bobbie asked.

“No, you can have it.”

This time her smile had all the wattage of Las Vegas. Then she said, “You been married three times, huh?”

“So far,” he said. “Maybe the last one cured me. She needed a metal tag on her ear just so I could follow her migration habits.”

Three ex-wives didn’t seem to faze her. “Okay, so back to the case,” she said, spooning out every last drop from his little dessert bowl. “They take the shoes to T.J. and sell them. Then they dump their load a waste down there.”

“You got a problem already,” Fin said.

“What’s that?”

“They’d get very little money in T.J. for those shoes. Do you think Mister Jules Temple would risk his livelihood, his freedom, for such small profit?”

“You tell me then! How’d it go?”

Her eyes were bouncing boozily now, her pretty blue eyes. She wore no eyeliner, no mascara, and now her lipstick was gone. Fin thought she didn’t need it, not with her robust good looks. He also thought she shouldn’t drink any more unless he drove her home. “Do you live on the base?” he asked.

“No, I got an apartment in Coronado. Kinda expensive, but I like the privacy.”

“But your own car’s on the base, right?”

“No, I rode my bike to work today. I usually do when the weather’s this good.”

“Okay then, we can have an after-dinner brandy. I’ll drop you at your apartment.”

She smiled and said, “Yeah, my bike’s okay where it is till tomorrow.”

He’d forgotten how they smiled at that age. The old songs his sisters loved were right: This kid beamed.

“I wish I could solve your crime as easy as that,” Fin said.

“If I had your experience I bet I could do it.”

“Maybe I can come up with an answer by tomorrow,” he said. “I’d like to impress you.”

“You would? Why?”

“I’d just like to. I almost asked the waiter to call my beeper number so I could jump up in the middle of dinner and look important.”

“You are important!” she said. “You’re a San Diego P.D. detective. That’s what I wanna be when I leave the navy. And you’re an actor. I think you’re real important. People oughtta look up to you.”

A helpless sigh in the face of her unabashed innocence. Fin actually felt himself blush! And he stammered when he said, “I wanna be a screenwriter and an actor when I leave the job. I wanna write the first screenplay in the last twenty years not to have ‘Are you all right?’ or ‘Are you okay?’ in the dialogue.”

“Do they all have that in them?”

“Even the period films. All of them. The cliché of our age.”

“Does stuff like that bother you?”

“People in the business oughtta get bothered by bad writing.”

“In what business?”

“The business. You know? Show business?”

“I don’t know anything about show business,” she said. “You ever met Tom Cruise?”

“The guy twinkles too much. All that dentistry musta cost his old man more than four years at Harvard. You don’t go for guys like that, do you?”

“You kidding?”

He tried to think of an actor his own age. Finally, he said, “Do you think Bill Clinton’s attractive? Or Al Gore?”

“They’re okay for older guys.”

That did it. Fin thought he might as well take her home. Served him right, developing a case of vapors over a child.

“Getting late,” he said, looking at his watch.

“Okay,” she said, “but it’s still early for me.”

“Wanna go somewhere else?”

“My ex-boyfriend used to like to take me to this place in La Jolla where they got some pretty good sounds.”

“Live music?”

“It ain’t dead.”

“Hard rock?”

“Semi-hard.”

Was that a double entendre directed at him? Was she laughing at this pathetic geezer, as old as Bill Clinton? How did he get in this soap opera anyway?

“I don’t like La Jolla nightclubs,” he said. “All those rich gentlemen from sand-covered countries get on my nerves.”

“They don’t bother me,” she said. “They start slobbering down my neck I just say, ‘Shove off, mate, and salaam aleikum.’ I was in Saudi Arabia so I know how to handle ’em.”

He decided to stop the charade, to show her who he really was, to see if she bolted.

“Could I take you to an old person’s bar in south Mission Beach?” he asked. “They have music there too. Dead music of course. Could you stand it with the over-forty crowd?”

She took a good hard look at Fin. The over-forty crowd? She’d always been curious, hadn’t she? He was more or less as good-looking as her ex-boyfriend, but of course Fin was even older. Over forty. Could he be the one to satisfy her curiosity?

“Okay, if I can buy you one a those brandy drinks, I forget what you call em. They’re sweet?”

“B and B?”

“Can we still try to solve the case tonight?”

“You got a one-track mind.”

“I buy the drinks, okay?”

“Buy me a drink, sailor? You bet,” Fin said.

“That was a pretty sneaky trick,” Bobbie said, when they were in his Vette heading for south Mission Beach. “Paying the bill when I was in the head.”

“I told you I’d let you buy the after-dinner booze.”

“We make good money in the navy nowadays. I can afford to pay my way.”

“I know you can, but I can’t help it. I’m an old-fashioned guy. My sisters made me do it.”

Bobbie leaned back on the headrest, loosened the seat belt and scooted around. The streetlights glistened off her teeth when he turned to look at her. She said, “You really are a gentleman, know that? I got a lotta experience with sailors, even a little bit with the officers when they’re not scared a getting caught fraternizing with enlisted personnel. Officers’re not necessarily gentlemen, I can tell you.”

“I was an enlisted man myself,” he said. “I shoulda stayed in.”

“Don’t you like police work?”

“It’s a living,” he said, “but the theater’s where I belong. I just did an important audition. In fact, the only reason I’m dressed like this is for the role of a dork in wingtips. Next time I get a stage gig I’ll send you a ticket and you can come see me.”

“I’d like to go see some plays,” she said. “My boyfriend, before he went back to his wife, he was gonna take me to L.A. to see Phantom of the Opera.”

“I’ll take you. It’s really good.”

“You’ll take me? Okay, but I’ll pay for the tickets.”

Fin was feeling woozy. The streetlights started swimming. His face felt hot and his pulse was up to a hundred, at least. And it was only partly because of the booze. The last time he felt like this he married the babe in the passenger seat!

A moment of panic, then he blurted, “I’m forty-five!”

“Yeah?”

“Does that shock you?”

“Why would it?”

“Take my word for it, Bobbie. Normal people get real goofy when they turn forty-five, but actors? We jump off buildings!”

“I thought you were about forty,” she said. “Forty … forty-five, what’s the difference?”

What’s the difference? What’s the use! He felt lonely for a moment, very lonely. He wished someone Nell Salter’s age was sitting next to him. What’s the difference?

“No difference,” he said. “It’s all the same.”

She put her hand on his arm then, the first time they’d touched. She said, “I don’t care if you wore wingtip baby shoes. I just wish you could forget about age. Is this what a mid-life crisis is all about?”

“No, this’s what a mid-life calamity is all about.”

“Well, just stop it,” she said; then she unhooked her seat belt. “Speaking a forty-five,” she said, “I gotta get this sidearm off.”

“We’ll lock it in the car.”

“Are you packing?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think we’re gonna need a gun in the joint I’m taking you to. When their customers get in a brawl it’s about as dangerous as two clowns smacking each other with pig bladders. I did Shakespeare once, when that’s what we did. Hit each other with fake pig bladders.”

Fin took the scenic route, driving past the Santa Fe Depot, a handsome train station in the Mission Revival style. It had been done well, so that the wood framing and stucco created the illusion of eighteenth-century adobe walls. Then Fin drove along the bay front, slowing for the nighttime tourist traffic. There was one cruise ship in port, and the three masts of the Star of India were outlined in white lights. Probably the oldest ship still sailing, the Star was christened on the Isle of Man in 1863, and had made numerous trips to and from Australia with other iron sailing ships of the era.

By the Star of India was a ferryboat that had done rescue work in the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Across from the harbor side was the County Administration Center, Fin’s favorite building, a 1930’s beaux-arts landmark aglow with shafts of vertical light.

Fin was thinking how he was doomed to love everything old about his city and to scorn the new, when Bobbie interrupted his reverie to say, “It’s a shame the Portuguese and Italians couldn’ta hung on to their fishing industry the way it used to be.”

“I was just thinking how I like all that old stuff!” Fin said. “You read my thoughts.”

“See, we got a lot in common,” Bobbie said. “More than you think.”

Fin crossed the San Diego River Floodway, driving past Sea World, and then across the Mission Bay Channel, that allows small pleasure craft to penetrate the 4,800-acre aqua park from the ocean side.

Bobbie said, “I think this is one a the most excellent things about this town. A huge water park right in the middle a the city!”

“Not like where you come from, huh?”

“Wisconsin? Not even!”

“Do you sit around in winter and ice-fish, or what?”

“Yeah, and we stay in saunas mostly, and talk with funny Scandinavian accents and whack each other with birch switches. In our spare time we shiver. Believe me, I’ve heard all the snowbird put-downs.”

“So maybe you should stay in California when you leave the navy,” Fin said, turning onto Mission Boulevard toward south Mission Beach.

The old roller coaster was lit up and operational since the. recent restoration. In Fin’s youth, there was a ballroom next to it where his sisters danced to the big bands. He was feeling nostalgic, and would’ve talked about those golden days in Mission Beach if the woman next to him was Nell Salter, or someone not younger than his handcuffs.

When they got to Fin’s favorite gin mill they were lucky to grab a parking space only half a block away.

“You aren’t expecting a trendy bistro, I hope,” he said, after they’d locked up Bobbie’s sidearm.

“I’ve spent a little time in Mission Beach,” she said, “but mostly on the north side.”

“Nothing up there but kids and derelicts,” Fin said. “Down here any derelicts you meet won’t be kids, just old geezers that sit around telling knock-knock jokes.”

As soon as Bobbie stepped inside she said to Fin, “Wow! This is a serious saloon. Bet you could get a terminal case of Smirnoff flu with this crowd.”

“Or Napa Sonoma virus,” Fin said, “if we stick to wine like we should.”

“Not in here,” she said with a grin. “This is the kinda place where you grog it up!”

It was a typical beach saloon: low ceiling, redwood paneling, and a large four-sided bar in the center where one could look across at alter egos and always find somebody in worse shape than oneself. There were many women drinkers, all of whom were older than Fin. Two of the women had helmet-head blunt-cuts, sprayed so they wouldn’t ruffle in gale-force winds or if they got conked by a beer bottle.

Even though California beach communities were into outdoor sports and health, saloons like this one were havens for those few smokers left. These people had worse fears than death: aging, for instance.

Fin was in a semi-rollicking mood. He said to Bobbie, “Until I ran into you today, I was feeling that my life had the value of a disposable diaper, a used one. Now I think I’m ready for some fun. So where’s my grog?”

Bobbie boldly wiggled through the drinkers standing two deep at the bar, and yelled, “Make a hole, shipmates!” The mustachioed bartender wore a tank top and shorts, and she said to him, “Two double brandies!”

An old coot sitting at the bar turned to her and said, “You old enough to drink brandy?”

Bobbie winked at the bartender, and said, “Make that one brandy and a double Roy Rogers on the rocks!”

This close to the election, there were lots of political debates going on in the saloon. Bobbie stood next to a guy who had navy written all over him. He was arguing with another old geezer whose belly was big enough to make the cover of Vanity Fair.

The old sailor said, “A liberal Democrat’s always against capital punishment, but for killing fetuses.”

“So?” the other geezer said, after a horrendous belch.

“It’s not consistent. Don’t you see that?”

“What’s your point?”

“Mother Teresa’s consistent. She doesn’t wanna execute guilty murderers or innocent fetuses. I’m consistent. I wanna kill Death Row murderers and innocent fetuses as long as they come from the inner city and would probably grow up to be guilty murderers.”

“What’s your point?” the other codger repeated, belching again.

“I got more in common with Mother Teresa than any candidate does!”

Bobbie paid for the drinks, tipped the harried bartender a buck from her change, and wriggled back through the crowd to Fin, who was trying to play some not-so-oldies on the jukebox, even though it was impossible to hear the music over the din.

Bobbie looked at the dollar bills she’d been given in change and said, “Gnarly!”

Each was nearly faded to white. One was Scotch-taped.

Fin said, “Beach-town bucks. Those dollar bills’ve been in the pockets of shorts during surfing, swimming, Laundromat cycles, and maybe even bathtubs when their former owners were fully clothed.”

Bobbie kept the limp rags of currency separate from her other money, intending to leave them as tips.

They began watching a woman with dye-damaged hair, who’d probably graduated from high school during Eisenhower’s presidency, weaving in little circles with a geezer in flipflops, jeans, and a T-shirt that said “Canardly” on it.

Fin explained that all “Over-The-Line” players knew that it stood for “Canardly get it up.” This as opposed to players in the other divisions like “Cannever,” or “Canalways,” or “Caneasy.”

Bobbie learned that this saloon was an official hangout of the OMBACs, the Old Mission Beach Athletic Club-or if one preferred, the Old Men’s Beach Athletic Club-a group that had made the zany sport of OTL world-famous since it began in 1954. Now, thousands attended the annual OTL Tournament on Fiesta Island, and money was raised for worthy causes while men and women tried to bat and catch softballs after having consumed enough Bacardi rum to make Puerto Rico not even need statehood.

The annual OTL Tournament attracted packs of aspiring models, actresses, strippers and other exhibitionists, who vied for the honor of winning the tit tournament, thus becoming “Ms. Emerson.”

Bobbie was interested to find out that the most recent Ms. Emerson was an ex-marine her own age.

When she asked one of the old duffers why they called their beauty contest winner “Ms. Emerson,” the geezer said, “Knock-knock.”

Bobbie looked warily at Fin, but said, “Okay, who’s there?”

The codger said, “Emerson.”

Bobbie said, “Emerson who?”

The old coot said, “Em-er-son tits!”

Then all the fogies had a good snuffle and cackle, and Bobbie found herself with three Bacardis and two more brandies, compliments of the geezer gang.

Bobbie was told that some of the teams participating in the OTL Open Division had names like Dicks With Stix, Titty Clitty Gang Bang, and Tongue In Groove. The Women’s Open Division had teams named No Flat Chicks, Our Team Sucks, Penis Envy-Not, and George, Stay Outta My Bush.

Bumper-sticker team names were plastered to the walls, alluding to Hollywood movies, such as, TWAT’S UP DOC? HANNIBAL ATE JODIE AND SILENCED THE CLAM, DANCES WITH WOOL, and DANCES WITH VULVAS.

There were political statements stuck to the ceiling that said: ARKANSAS WOMEN ARE SO FAST THEY NEED A GOVERNOR PUT ON THEM, and a reference to Bill Clinton’s ex-paramour, Gennifer Flowers: ROSES ARE RED, VIOLETS ARE BLUE, CLINTON INHALES FLOWERS TOO.

The motto over the smoky hamburger grill said, IF IT DOESNT GET ON YOUR FACE, IT’S NOT WORTH EATING.

On the door to the women’s rest room Bobbie read, WE SNATCH KISSES amp; VICE VERSA.

By 11:30 Bobbie was ripped, and sitting in the lap of a retired San Diego cop called “Bub” who’d also been a commander in the U.S. Naval Reserve, thus bridging the two worlds of the two drunks at his table.

Fin’s head was starting to loll, and he said, “That is it! No more rum!”

“Don’t be a wuss!” Bub said. “You sound like one of those Secret Service guys last week chasing around after the vice president with spiders in their ears, saying, “I can’t drink when I’m on duty!”

“They don’t make Feds like they used to,” Fin had to agree, scratching his chin but not feeling it. “Only reason the FBI and CIA even exist anymore is so every putz in Hollywood can make movies claiming their leading man is the target of government agents.”

Bub literally bounced Bobbie on his knee like a child, and said, “Put on some tunes, will ya? But nothing by Ozzy Osbourne. It sounds like sea gulls chasing a trawler. And nothing by that crotch-grabbing, former human person, Michael Jackson.”

“Okay, Bub!” Bobbie said, heading for the jukebox. Her cotton top was a mess from spilled rum. The former pink shell now looked like a paisley.

“I either gotta go home or make a dying declaration,” Fin said to Bub, but he knew that before leaving there’d be the long sentimental goodbyes required in such places.

When she came back, Bobbie overheard an old redhead with big hooters whisper to Bub, “Do you like to talk dirty to your wife when you’re having sex?”

Bub answered, “Only if there’s a phone handy.”

When Bobbie questioned Fin about the age of all the fun-loving fogies, coots, geezers, codgers, duffers and biddies she’d met in the saloon, he didn’t know how to tell her that the oldest fossil in the joint wasn’t fifteen years his senior.

All he could mumble in their behalf and his own was “Because of all their fun in the sun, crow’s-feet are badges of honor. Sorta like the face paint on Alice Cooper and Amazon headhunters. They’re really not as antique as they look.”

Fin was doing some shaky driving when they crossed the Coronado Bridge at 2:00 A.M. He had the radio tuned to a San Diego oldie station, and while Natalie Cole’s old man sang “Too Young,” he said to her, “My sisters made me sing that when I took guitar lessons. They thought I was adorable.”

“You still are,” she muttered drowsily, her eyes closed.

He glanced over, thinking that now she looked like a teenager. At the top of the bridge he saw the Suicide Prevention Hotline number, and thought: What is happening to me? Where am I going with my life? Do I have a life left? Where’s the Menopause Hotline number? Does it get worse than this?

When they drove through the toll gate he said to her, “Time to wake up, kid, I mean, Bobbie. Open up your peepers.”

“Huh?” she said, bolting upright.

“It’s not a Scud attack,” he said, “but we’re in Coronado. Where do you live?”

She directed him to a house just off Fourth Avenue, and after he parked in front, he retrieved her.45 automatic. Then he opened the car door for her, and this time he had to pull her up by the hand. She staggered when she took the first step so he put his arm around her waist and walked her to her upstairs apartment in the rear.

She fumbled in her purse, and didn’t object when Fin took the purse and rummaged for the keys. She didn’t object when he unlocked the door and led her inside. Nor did she object when he put her purse on the kitchen counter, along with the holstered automatic, gun belt, and keys.

She did object when he pecked her on the cheek and turned toward the door.

In fact, still wobbly, Bobbie intercepted him and threw her arms around his neck, exploring his gold crowns with her tongue.

When he pulled away he knew he was in trouble. Gallantly, he said, “No way, kid.”

“Don’t call me kid.”

Hoarsely: “No way. Not in your condition. Not in my condition.”

Bobbie ran her hands under Fin’s jacket and over his buns saying, “What condition are you in?”

“No way, Bobbie!” he said, even more raspy. “Your boyfriend went back to his wife, right? You’re just lonely.”

“Sure, but I don’t have to hit on toll-booth attendants. I can find somebody any time I want.”

“You’d be sorry tomorrow,” he said.

“I never had an older guy,” she said. “Besides, it’s already tomorrow.”

A croak: “I can’t go the distance.”

She stepped back then and said, “I can’t believe it! You’re the first guy ever turned me down!”

“I’m not turning you down,” he said. “Just asking for a rain check.”

“But why?”

That stopped him. His mouth was dry. His heart was hammering. His hands were shaking. He wanted to peel off that rum-stained pink shell right this second and fondle those Emersons for a week at least!

Instead, he said, “I can’t take advantage of a kid … of a young woman that’s drunker than a beer-hall mouse.”

“You are a gentleman!” she said in amazement. “For real! The first one I ever met in California!”

Trudging out the door, he said, “I wish I had Jimmy Carter’s home number ‘cause I sure got a lotta lust in my heart!”

She popped her head out and said, “You really are! A gentleman!”

He was boozy and woozy and full of self-pity when he said, “I’m a combat veteran of the battle of the sexes, but somehow I can’t bring myself to really use-and-abuse personnel of your gender. Because of my sisters! Those three babes have wrecked my entire life!”

When he got to the bottom of the steps she said, “Wait, Fin!”

He paused: “Is it about the rain check?”

“It’s about the shoe!” Bobbie said. “I been forgetting to ask you all evening about the shoe on the dead guy’s foot. Whazzisname, Pepe Palmera? What kinda shoe was it?”