Potshot

Chapter 46

THE RATTLESNAKE CAFE was long and narrow with an open kitchen to the right and high-back wooden booths along the left wall. The ceiling was tin. The booths were painted with desert scenes. The tabletops were Mexican tile.

Mary Lou Buckman and I sat in the first booth, and I, mindful of Wild Bill Hickok, sat facing the door. We were reading the menus. Among the choices were a chicken breast sandwich on sourdough bread with sprouts; blackened salmon; a Desert Burger with green chili relish; and a Cactus Club Sandwich.

Bernard J. Fortunato's apricot pancakes were sticking grimly to my ribs, and, an oddity for me, I wasn't very hungry. Mary Lou decided on the Desert Burger. I ordered the Cactus Club, to be sociable. We both had iced tea.

"What is the occasion for this lunch?" Mary Lou said. "Not, of course, that I'm not thrilled to see you."

She was wearing a white baseball cap, the kind where you can adjust the size by moving a plastic strap in the back. Her blond hair was spooled through the adjustment opening and hung in a long braid to her shoulders. Her dark blue tank top revealed a little self-effacing cleavage, and I had noticed when she walked in that her white shorts were well fitted.

"That would be one reason," I said. "The other is that I'm your employee. It seems appropriate for me to report to you now and then."

She had applied her makeup so adroitly that she looked as if she wore none, except her eyes were bigger and her lashes were thicker than God had intended. She still smelled of good soap, and her tan was still even. Except for the plain gold wedding ring on her left hand, she wore no jewelry.

In memoriam.

The food arrived. The Cactus Club contained chicken, tomato, bacon, and lettuce, but no cactus.

"Very well," she said, and smiled a little, "report."

"I've been to L.A.," I said.

She had a bite of Desert Burger in her mouth. She raised her eyebrows and said nothing.

"There are several people there who allege that both you and your husband fooled around."

She blushed. It had been so long since I had seen someone blush that it took me a moment to be sure what she was doing. She swallowed, and took her napkin from her lap, and patted her mouth with it, and put the napkin back in her lap.

"Steve and I had an open marriage," she said.

"People allege that a couple of the people you fooled around with are Mark Ratliff and Dean Walker."

She stared at me without speaking for a time. I waited.

Finally she said, "Why do you feel the need to investigate my private life?"

"It's what I do," I said. "I investigate stuff."

"It is not what you were hired to do."

"While I was in L.A. a big old ugly hoodlum warned me to stay away from you or he'd kill me."

"My God."

"He also told me to stay away from the Dell."

Mary Lou seemed to have forgotten her Desert Burger.

"What does this all mean?" she said.

"It means that a guy who pretty much runs the rackets east of L.A. is interested in you and the Dell. It means that two men, at least, who knew you, ah, intimately, appear to have followed you out here."

"They didn't follow me."

I nodded.

"I never had anything to do with either one of them."

"Guy who warned me off is named Morris Tannenbaum," I said.

"I never heard of him," she said. "I don't know what all this is about."

"I'm just reporting," I said. "And this is what I've got to report."

"Well it doesn't feel that way," she said. "It feels like you are accusing me."

"Of what?"

"I don't know of what. Do you think I killed my husband?"

"It would have been sensible, when you hired me to look into his death, if you'd told me a little more about your past and its connection to your present," I said.

"I don't even know what that means," she said.

She seemed like she might cry soon.

"I'm alone here. A gang of thugs killed my husband. I turned to you for help. I had nowhere else to turn."

"What do you suppose is out here that would interest Morris Tannenbaum?" I said.

"The racketeer," I said. "Remember?"

"Oh. Yes."

"What would be his interest?"

"I can't imagine."

"You worked once for the DWP in L.A.," I said.

She stared silently ahead, not making eye contact. Then she began to moan softly.

"I wanted you to help me," she said between moans. "Why won't you help me?"

"You had a job in water resource," I said.

"I can't do this," she said. "I can't."

She stood up and walked out.