G Is For Gumshoe

2

By one o'clock I was home again, feeling smug about life. I had a new job, an apartment I was thrilled with…

The phone began to ring as I unlocked the door. I snatched up the receiver before my answering machine kicked in.

"Ms. Millhone?" The voice was female and unfamiliar. The hiss in the line suggested the call was long-distance.

"Yes."

"Will you hold for Mr. Galishoff?"

"Sure," I said, instantly curious. Lee Galishoff was an attorney in the public defender's office in Carson City, Nevada, whom I'd worked with some four years back. At the time, he was trying to track a fellow named Tyrone Patty, believed to be in this area. An armed robbery suspect named Joe-Quincey Jackson had been arrested and charged with attempted murder in the shooting of a liquor store clerk. Jackson was claiming that Tyrone Patty was the triggerman. Galishoff was very interested in talking to him. Patty was rumored to have fled to Santa Teresa, and when the local police weren't able to locate him, Galishoff had contacted the investigator for the Santa Teresa public defender's office, who in turn had referred him to me. He filled me in on the situation and then sent me the background information on Patty, along with a mug shot from a previous arrest.

I traced the subject for three days, doing a paper chase through the city directory, the crisscross, marriage licenses, divorce decrees, death certificates, municipal and superior court records, and finally traffic court. I picked up his scent when I came across a jaywalking ticket he'd been issued the week before. The citation listed a local address-some friend of his, as it turned out-and Patty answered my knock. Since I was posing as an Avon sales rep, I was fortunate I didn't have to deal with the lady of the house. Any woman in her right mind would have known at a glance I didn't have a clue about makeup. Patty, operating on other instincts, had shut the door in my face. I reported his whereabouts to Galishoff, who by then had found a witness to corroborate Jackson 's claim. A warrant was issued through the Carson City district attorney's office. Patty was arrested two days later and extradited. The last I'd heard, he'd been convicted and was serving tune at the Nevada State Prison in Carson City.

Galishoff came on the line. "Hello, Kinsey? Lee Galishoff. I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time." His voice was booming, forcing me to hold the receiver eight inches from my ear. Telephone voices are deceptive. From his manner, I'd always pictured him in his sixties, balding and overweight, but a photograph I'd spotted in a Las Vegas newspaper showed a slim, handsome fellow in his forties with a shock of blond hair.

"This is fine," I said. "How are you?"

"Good until now. Tyrone Patty's back in county jail, awaiting trial on a triple murder charge."

"What's the story this time?"

"He and a pal of his hit a liquor store up here and the clerk and two customers were shot to death."

"Really. I hadn't heard that."

"Well, there's no reason you would. The problem is, he's pissed at us, claims his life was ruined the day he was put away. You know how it goes. Wife divorced him, kids are alienated, the guy gets out and can't find a job. Naturally, he took to armed robbery again, blasting anybody in his way. All our fault, of course."

"Hey, sure. Why not?"

"Yeah, well, here's the bottom line. Apparently, couple weeks ago, he approached another inmate on a contract murder plot involving the two of us, plus the DA and the judge who sentenced him."

I found myself pointing at my chest as I squinted into the receiver. "Us, as in me?" My voice had gotten all squeaky like I was suddenly going through puberty.

"You got it. Fortunately, the other inmate was a police informant who came straight to us. The DA put a couple of undercover cops on it, posing as potential hit men. I just listened to a tape recording that would chill your blood."

"Are you serious?"

"It gets worse," he said. "From the tape, we can't tell who else he might have talked to. We're concerned he's been in touch with other people who may be taking steps we don't know about. We've notified the press, hoping to make this too hot to handle. Judge Jarvison and I are being placed under around-the-clock armed protection, but they thought I better pass the information on to you. You'd be smart to contact the Santa Teresa police to see about protection for yourself."

"God, Lee. I can't imagine they'd provide any, especially on a threat from out of state. They don't have the manpower or the budget for that." I'd never actually called the man by his first name before, but I felt a certain privilege, given what I'd just heard. If Patty was the plotter, Galishoff and I were fellow plottees.

"We're actually facing the same situation here," he said. "The sheriff's department can't cover us for long… four or five days at best. We'll just have to see how things stand after that. In the meantime, you might want to hire somebody on your own. Temporarily, at any rate."

"A bodyguard?" I said.

"Well, somebody versed in security procedures."

I hesitated. "I'd have to think about that," I said. "I don't mean to sound cheap, but it would cost me a fortune. You really think it's warranted?"

"Let's put it this way-I wouldn't chance it, if I were you. He's got six violent priors."

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed. The insulting part is he isn't even paying that much. Five grand for the four of us. That's less than fifteen hundred bucks apiece!" He laughed when he said this, but I didn't think he was amused.

"I can't believe this," I said, still trying to take it in. When you're presented with bad news, there's always this lag time, the brain simply unable to assimilate the facts.

Galishoff was saying, "I do know a guy, if you decide that's what you want. He's a local P.I. with a background in security. At the moment, he's burned out, but I know he's excellent."

"Just what I need, somebody bored with his work."

He laughed again. "Don't let that dissuade you. This guy's good. He lived in California years ago and loves it out there. He might like the change of scene."

"I take it he's available."

"As far as I know. I just talked to him a couple days ago. His name is Robert Dietz."

I felt a little jolt. "Dietz? I know him. I talked to him about a year ago when I was working on a case."

"You have his number?"

"It's around here someplace, but you might as well give it to me again," I said.

He gave me the number and I made a note. I'd only dealt with the man by phone, but he'd been thorough and efficient, and he hadn't charged me a cent. Really, I owed him one. I heard a buzz on Galishoff's end of the phone.

He said, "Hang on a sec." He clicked off, was gone briefly, and then clicked on again. "Sorry to cut it short, but I got a call coming in. Let me know what you decide."

"I'll do that," I said. "And thanks. Keep safe."

"You, too," he said and he was gone.

I set the receiver down, still staring at the phone. A murder contract? How many times had someone tried to kill me in the last year? Well, not that many, I thought defensively, but this was something new. Nobody (that I knew of) had ever put out a contract on me. I tried to picture Tyrone Patty chatting up the subject with a hit man in Carson City. Somehow it seemed strange. For one thing, it was hard to imagine the kind of person who made a living that way. Was the work seasonal? Were there any fringe benefits? Was the price discounted since there were four of us to whack? I had to agree with Galishoff-fifteen hundred bucks was bullshit. In the movies, hit men are paid fifty to a hundred thou, possibly because an audience wants to believe human life is worth that. I suppose I should have been flattered I was included in the deal. A public defender, a DA, and a judge? Distinguished company for a smalltown private eye like me. I stared at Dietz's number, but I couldn't bring myself to call. Maybe the crisis would pass before I had to take any steps to protect myself. The real question was, would I mention this to Henry Pitts? Naaah. It would just upset him and what was the point?

When the knock at the door came, I jumped like I'd been shot. I didn't exactly flatten myself against the wall, but I exercised a bit of caution when I peered out to see who was there. It was Rosie, who owns the tavern in my neighborhood. She's Hungarian, with a last name I don't pronounce and couldn't spell on a dare. I suppose she's a mother substitute, but only if you favor being browbeaten by a member of your own sex. She was wearing one of her muumuus, this one olive green, printed with islands, palm trees, and parrots in hot pink and chartreuse. She was holding a plate covered with a paper napkin.

When I opened the door, she pushed it toward me without preamble, which has always been her style. Some people call it rude.

"I brought you some strudel for your birthday," she said. "Not apple. It's nut. The best I ever made. You' gonna wish you had more."

"Well, Rosie, how nice!" I lifted a corner of the napkin. The strudel had a nibbled look, but she hadn't snitched very much.

"It looks wonderful," I said.

"It was Klotilde's idea," she said in a fit of candor. Rosie's in her sixties, short, top-heavy, her hair dyed the utterly faux orange-red of new bricks. I'm not certain what product she uses to achieve the effect (probably something she smuggles in from Budapest on her biannual trips home), but it usually renders her scalp a fiery pink along the part. She had pulled the sides back today and affixed them with barrettes, a style much favored in the five-year-old set. I'd spent the last two weeks helping her find a board-and-care facility for her sister Klotilde, who'd recently moved to Santa Teresa from Pittsburgh, where the winters were getting to be too much for her. Rosie doesn't drive and since my apartment is just down the street from her little restaurant, it seemed expedient for me to help her find a place for Klotilde to live. Like Rosie, Klotilde was short and heavyset with an addiction to the same hair dye that tinted Rosie's scalp pink and turned her tresses such a peculiar shade of red. Klotilde was in a wheelchair, suffering from a degenerative disease that left her cranky and impatient, though Rosie swore she'd always been that way. Theirs was a bickering relationship and after an afternoon in their presence, I was cranky and impatient myself. After checking out fifteen or sixteen possibilities, we'd finally found a place that seemed to suit. Klotilde had been settled into a ground-floor room in a former two-family dwelling on the east side of town, so I was now off the hook.

"You want to come in?" I held the door open while Rosie considered the invitation.

She seemed rooted to the spot, rocking slightly on her feet. She becomes coquettish at times, usually when she's suddenly unsure of herself. On her own turf, she's as aggressive as a Canada goose. "You might not want the company," she said, demurely lowering her eyes.

"Oh, come on," I said. "I'd love the company. You have to see the place. Henry did a great job."

She wiggled once and then sidestepped her way into the living room. She seemed to survey the room out of the corner of her eye. "Oh. Very nice."

"I love it. You should see the loft," I said. I set the strudel on the counter and quickly put some water on for tea. I took her through the place, up the spiral steps and down, showing her the trundle bed, the cubbyholes, the pegs for hanging clothes. She made all the proper noises, only chiding me mildly for the meagerness of my wardrobe. She claims I'll never get a beau unless I have more than one dress.

After the tour, we had tea and strudel, working our way through every crispy bite. I cleaned the plate of flaky crumbs with a dampened fingertip. Her discomfort seemed to fall away, though mine increased as the visit went on. I'd known the woman for two years, but with the exception of the last couple of weeks, our entire relationship had been conducted in her restaurant, which she rules like a dominatrix. We didn't have that much to talk about and I found myself manufacturing chitchat, trying to ward off any awkward pauses in the conversation. By the time we finished tea, I was sneaking peeks at my watch.

Rosie fixed me with a look. "What's the matter? You got a date?"

"Well, no. I've got a job. I have to drive down to the desert tomorrow and I need to get to the bank."

She pointed a finger and then poked me on the arm. "Tonight, you come to my place. I'm gonna buy you a glass of schnapps."

We left at the same time. I offered to drop her off, but the tavern's only half a block away and she said she preferred to walk. The last I saw of her the mild spring breezes were billowing through her muumuu. She looked like a hot-air balloon shortly before liftoff.

I headed into town, detouring by way of the automated teller machine at my bank, where I deposited Mrs. Gersh's advance and pulled a hundred bucks in cash. I circled the block and parked my car in the public lot behind my office. I confess this news about a hit man had made me conscious of my backside and I suppressed the urge to zigzag as I went up the outside stairs.

In my office, I picked up my portable typewriter, some files, and my gun, then stopped into the California Fidelity Insurance offices next door. I chatted briefly with Darcy Pascoe, who doubles as the company's secretary and receptionist. She had helped me on a couple of cases and was thinking about changing fields. I thought she'd be a good investigator and I was encouraging her. Being a P.I. beats sitting on your ass at somebody else's front desk.

I moved on to Vera Lipton's cubicle, completing my rounds. Vera's one of those women men are mad about. I swear it's not anything in particular she does. I suppose it's the air of total confidence she exudes. She likes men and they know it, even when she sasses them. She's thirty-seven, single, addicted to cigarettes and Coca-Cola, which she consumes throughout the day. You'd think that would offend the health nuts, but it doesn't seem to cause dismay. She's tall, probably a hundred and forty pounds, a redhead who wears glasses with big round lenses, tinted gray. I know none of this sounds like the girl of your dreams, but there's something about her that's apparently tough to resist. She's not in any way promiscuous, but if she goes to the supermarket, some guy will strike up a conversation with her and end up dating her for months. When the relationship's over, they usually remain such good friends that she'll match him up with someone she knows.

She was not at her desk. I can usually track her by the smell of cigarette smoke, but today I was having trouble picking up the scent. I cleared a chair and sat down, taking a few minutes to flip through a handbook on insurance fraud. Wherever there's money, somebody finds a way to cheat.

"Hello, Kinsey. What are you up to?"

Vera came into the cubicle and tossed a file onto her desk. She was dressed in a denim jumpsuit with shoulder pads and a wide leather belt. She sat down in her swivel chair, reaching automatically into her bottom drawer where she keeps an insulated cold pack filled with Cokes. She took out a fresh bottle and held it up as a way of offering me one.

I shook my head.

She said, "Guess what?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"Take a look around and tell me what you see."

I love this kind of quiz. It reminds me of that game we used to play at birthday parties in elementary school where somebody's mom would present a tray of odds and ends, which we got to look at for one minute and then recite back from memory. It's the only kind of party game I ever won. I surveyed her desk. Same old mess as far as I could see. Files everywhere, insurance manuals, correspondence piled up. Two empty Coke bottles… "No cigarette butts," I said. "Where's the ashtray?"

"I quit."

"I don't believe it. When?"

"Yesterday. I woke up feeling punk, coughing my lungs out. I was out of cigarettes, so there I am on my hands and knees, picking through the trash for a butt big enough to light. Of course I can't find one. I know I'm going to have to throw some clothes on, grab my car keys, and whip down to the corner before I can even have my first Coke. And I thought, to hell with it. I've had it. I'm not going to do this to myself anymore. So I quit. That was thirty-one hours ago."

"Vera, that's great. I'm really proud of you."

"Thanks. It feels good. I keep wishing I could have a cigarette to celebrate. Stick around. You can watch me hyperventilate every seven minutes when the urge comes up. What are you up to?"

"I'm on my way home," I said. "I just stopped by to say hi. I'll be gone tomorrow and we'd talked about having lunch."

"Shoot, too bad. I was looking forward to it. I was going to fix you up."

"Fix me up? Like a blind date?" This news was about as thrilling to me as the notion of periodontal work.

"Don't use that tone, kiddo. This guy's perfect for you."

"I'm afraid to ask you what that means," I said.

"It means he isn't married like someone I could name." Her reference was to Jonah Robb, whose on-again, off-again marriage had been a source of conflict. I'd been involved with him intermittently since the previous fall, but the high had long since worn off.

"There's nothing wrong with that relationship," I said.

"Of course there is," she snapped. "He's never there when you need him. He's always off with what's-her-face at some counseling session."

"Well, that's true enough." Jonah and Camilla seemed to move from therapist to therapist, switching every time they got close to a resolution of any kind; "conflict habituated," I think it's called. They'd been together since seventh grade and were apparently addicted to the dark side of love.

"He's never going to leave her," Vera said.

"That's probably true, too, but who gives a shit?"

"You do and you know it."

"No, I don't," I said. "I'll tell you the truth. I really don't have room in my life for much more than I've got. I don't want a big, hot love affair. Jonah's a good friend and he comes through for me often enough…"

"Boy, are you out of touch."

"I don't want your rejects, Vera. That's the point."

"This is not a reject. It's more like a referral."

"You want to make a sales pitch? I can tell you want to make a sales pitch. Go ahead. Fill me in. I can hardly wait."

"He's perfect."

" 'Perfect.' Got it," I said, pretending to take notes. "Very nice. What else?"

"Except for one thing."

"Ah."

"I'm being honest about this," she replied righteously. "If he was totally perfect, I'd keep him for myself."

"What's the catch?"

"Don't rush me. I'll get to that. Just let me tell you his good points first."

I glanced at my watch. "You have thirty seconds."

"He's smart. He's funny. He's caring. He's competent…"

"What's he do for a living?"

"He's a doctor… a family practitioner, but he's not a workaholic. He's really available emotionally. Honest. He's a sweet guy, but he doesn't take any guff."

"Keep talking."

"He's thirty-nine, never married, but definitely interested in commitment. He's physically fit, doesn't smoke or do drugs, but he's not obnoxious about it, you know what I mean? He isn't holier-than-thou."

"Unh-hunh, unh-hunh," I said in a monotone. I made a rolling motion with my hand, meaning get to the point.

"He's good-looking too. I'm serious. Like an eight and a half on a scale of one to ten. He skis, plays tennis, lifts weights…"

"He can't get it up," I said.

"He's terrific in bed!"

I started laughing. "What's the deal, Vera? Is he a mouth breather? Does he tell jokes? You know I hate guys who tell jokes."

She shook her head. "He's short."

"How short?"

"Maybe five four and I'm five nine."

I stared at her with disbelief. "So what? You've dated half a dozen guys who were shorter than you."

"Yeah, well secretly, it always bothered me."

I stared at her some more. "You're going to reject this guy because of that?"

Her tone became defiant. "Listen, he's terrific. He's just not right for me. I'm not making a judgment about him. This is just a quirk of mine."

"What's his name?"

"Neil Hess."

I reached down and pulled a scrap of paper from her wastebasket. I took a pen from her desk. "Give me his number."

She blinked at me. "You'll really call him?"

"Hey, I'm only five six. What's a couple of inches between friends?"

She gave me his number and I dutifully made a note, which I tucked in my handbag. "I'll be out of town for a day, but I'll call him when I get back "

"Well, great."

I got up to leave her office and paused at the door. "If I marry this guy, you have to be the flower girl."