Potshot

Chapter 32

ONE OF THE things I always liked, especially when I traveled with Susan, was to have breakfast with her. The only drawback was that, no matter when you woke up, you waited an hour or so to eat while she worked out, showered, did her hair, put on her face and dressed like a Parisian model. I had never actually met a Parisian model, but I was sure that if I did, she'd be dressed like Susan. The thing was that without her clothes on, with no makeup, and her hair down, she was gorgeous. Occasionally I remarked about carrying coals to Newcastle. And always, when I did, she gave me a look of such penetrating pity that I never pursued it.

The way we normally worked it was that she said she'd meet me in the dining room at, say, 9 A.M. and I should go down and get a table for us. So I would and have some juice and coffee and study the menu and she would show up about 9:30 without any apparent awareness that she was a half-hour late. On the other hand she wasn't reliable. If I went down at 9:30 she would have showed up before me, and, in the future, would expect me to be a half-hour late. So next time, she'd show up at 10.

It is one of the secrets of happiness that you know which battles you can win and which you can't. I had given up the punctuality battle years ago. And the pleasure of her company when she did show up was always worth the wait.

I had drunk some orange juice and read USA Today, and was on my second cup of coffee at a table for two, near a window, when she came gleaming into the dining room. Several people looked at her more or less covertly. Maybe she was a movie star.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she said.

"Really?" I said. "I didn't notice."

"Do you know what you're going to have?" she said.

"Here's a how-well-do-you-know-me test," I said. "Read the menu, see if you can guess."

Susan put on the reading glasses she had just bought on Rodeo Drive, round ones with bright green frames, and studied the menu. She smiled.

"Ah ha!" she said.

"And your answer is?"

"Huevos rancheros," she said.

"You win," I said.

"Good. What have I won?"

I smiled at her without speaking.

"Oh," Susan said, "that."

When the waiter arrived, Susan ordered decaffeinated coffee, and a fresh fruit platter with yogurt. I kept my date with the huevos rancheros.

"Other than a threat to my life the other night outside that restaurant," Susan said, "I've been having a very nice time. How about you?"

"The time we've spent together has been nice," I said.

"Isn't it always," Susan said.

"But other than that I feel like the more I learn the less I know."

"Do you know who it was that threatened us?"

"Guy named Jerome Jefferson," I said, "sent by a man named Morris Tannenbaum."

"How about the other man? Tino?"

"No record. Haven't located him. The guess is he's a day player, hired by Jefferson for the occasion."

The food arrived. Susan ate a raspberry.

"Why would this Taimenbaum person want to threaten us?"

"He wants me to stay away from Lou Buckman, Potshot, the Dell, and the west side of the continent."

"He mentioned the Dell?"

"Yep."

"Then he's… he's involved," she said.

"You get sick of shrinkage, you could get a license and join me. Spenser and Silverman, investigations."

She picked up a wedge of cantaloupe with her fingers and took a small bite off the end of it. I could never figure out why I was eating with my hands when I did that. When she did it she was elegant.

"Alphabetically it's Silverman and Spenser," she said.

"But I'd be senior partner."

"And I'd be main squeeze," she said.

"Silverman and Spenser," I said. "Investigations."

"So how is Tannenbaum involved?"

"I don't know."

"Have you learned anything more about Lou Buckman, the little blonde cutie?"

"You sound jealous," I said.

"So?"

"You haven't even met her."

"So?"

"Apparently all was not as it seemed with the Buckmans. They don't seem to be too well liked by former colleagues and neighbors. It is alleged that they both slept around. One interesting factoid: Both Mark Ratliff and Dean Walker lived in the Buckmans' old neighborhood in Santa Monica. Ratliff seems to have had an affair with her. And the former Mrs. Ratliff had a get-even affair with Steve Buckman."

"Walker is the police chief in Potshot," Susan said. "Who's Ratliff?"

"I told you about him," I said. "The producer. Moved to Potshot to get away from the Hollywood rat race."

Susan smiled.

"Where, I assume, he was running a dead last."

"I've heard," I said, "that people with a three-picture deal don't usually seem to suffer the same moral revulsion."

Susan dipped a small wedge of pineapple into her small cup of yogurt and took a small bite.

"So what are you going to do now?"

"When in doubt," I said, "go home."

"Oh good," Susan said.

"Getting bored?"

"Getting homesick," Susan said.

"Pearl?" I said.

"Yes. I miss her."

"Yeah. You talk with Farrell at all?"

"Of course. He says she's sleeping with him every night. Says it's his first female."

"Man is she easy," I said.

"She's just a friendly girl," Susan said.