V is for Vengeance

3

Fifteen minutes later I was turning off Cabana Boulevard onto Albanil. I parked my Mustang half a block from my apartment and limped the rest of the way, still rerunning the episode in my head. It’s amazing what you miss when someone’s trying to score a traffic fatality at your expense. There was no point in berating myself for failing to pick up the number on the license plate. Well, okay, I chided myself a little bit, but I didn’t go overboard. I could only hope the woman in the black pantsuit had actually been arrested and was at the county jail being booked, fingerprinted, and photographed. If she was a novice, a night in jail might cure her of the urge to steal. If she was an old hand at shoplifting, maybe she’d lay off, at least until her court date came up. Her friend might also take a lesson.

Turning up the front walk, I saw that Henry had already put his garbage bins at the curb, though the regular weekly pickup wasn’t until Monday. I went through the squeaky gate and around to the rear, where I unlocked my studio door and dropped my shoulder bag on a kitchen stool. I turned on the desk lamp and pulled up my pant leg to examine my injury, a move I immediately regretted. My shin now sported a bony protrusion that had an eerie sheen to it, flanked by two wide bruises the color of eggplant. I don’t like playing tag with a luxury sedan. I don’t like being forced to leap between cars as though rehearsing a stunt. I was more pissed off in retrospect than I’d been at the time. I know there are people who believe you should forgive and forget. For the record, I’d like to say I’m a big fan of forgiveness as long as I’m given the opportunity to get even first.

I crossed the patio to Henry’s place. The kitchen lights were on and the glass-paned door stood open, though the screen was hooked shut. I picked up the scent of split pea soup simmering on the stove. Henry was on the phone. I tapped on the frame to let him know I was there. He waved me in and when I pointed at the door, he stretched the long coiled telephone line to the maximum to unhook the screen. He went back to his conversation, which he conducted while gesturing with a ticket envelope, saying, “By way of Denver. I have an hour-and-thirty-minute layover. Connecting flight gets me in at 3:05. I left the return open so we can play that by ear.”

There was a pause while the other party responded in such loud tones, I could almost distinguish the content from where I stood. Henry held the handset away from his ear and fanned himself with his itinerary, rolling his eyes.

After a moment, he cut in. “That’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I can always take a cab. If I see you, I see you. If I don’t, I’ll show up at the house as soon as I can.”

The conversation went on for a bit while I held up my skinned palm, the butt of which was scored with skid marks. He peered at it closely and made a face. Still chatting, he tossed the plane ticket on the counter, opened a drawer, and took out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a box of cotton balls.

When his conversation ended, he returned the handset to the wall-mounted cradle and motioned me into a chair. “How’d you do this?”

I said, “Long story,” and then regaled him with a condensed version of the shoplifting incident and my attempt to pick up an ID on the younger woman. “You should see my shin,” I said. “It looks like somebody hit me with a tire iron. Weird thing is I don’t even know how it happened. One minute she was steering straight for me. Next instant I’d levitated, getting out of her way.”

“I can’t believe you went after her. What were you going to do, make a citizen’s arrest?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I was hoping to pick up her plate number, but no such luck,” I said. “What’s going on? It sounds like you’re taking a trip.”

“I’m flying to Detroit. Nell took a spill. Lewis called first thing this morning and woke me out of a sound sleep.”

“She fell? That’s not like her. She’s usually steady as a rock.”

He saturated a cotton ball with peroxide and dabbed my wound. A light foam bubbled on the edge of the scrape. The wound no longer hurt, but there was something lovely about being tended to by a bona fide mother substitute. He frowned. “She was opening a can of tuna and the cat was winding back and forth between her legs. You know how they do. She went to set his bowl on the floor, tumbled over him, and came down on her hip. Lewis said it sounded like a well-struck baseball flying out of the park. She tried to pull herself up but the pain was excruciating, so the boys called 9-1-1. She went from the ER straight into surgery, which is when he called me. I contacted my travel agent as soon as the office opened and she got me a seat on the first flight out.”

“What cat? I didn’t know they had a cat.”

“I thought I told you about him. Charlie took in a stray a month ago. Skin and bones from all reports, no tail, and half of one ear gone. Lewis was adamant about turning the scruffy guy over to the pound, but Charlie and Nell ganged up and voted him down. Lewis made his usual dire predictions-mange, cat scratch fever, septicemia, ringworm-and sure enough, this morning ‘tragedy struck,’ as he put it. Most of his report was taken up with I-told-you-so’s.” He returned the first-aid items to the drawer.

“But Nell’s okay?”

Henry wagged his hand. “Lewis says they put a fourteen-inch titanium pin in her femur and I don’t know what else. It was tough to keep him on point. I gather she’ll be in the hospital for a few days and then go to rehab.”

“Well, the poor thing.”

Henry’s sister, Nell, was ninety-nine years old and ordinarily the picture of health, not only active but vigorous. The only other hospitalization I’d heard about was nineteen years before, when she’d developed “female trouble” and had undergone a hysterectomy. Afterward she’d declared that while at eighty she was fully reconciled to the notion that her childbearing days were done, she was sorry to lose the organ. She’d never had a body part removed and she’d been hoping to leave the world with all her original equipment intact. Nell had never married and had no children of her own. Her four younger brothers had served as surrogates, aggravating the life out of her as kids are meant to do. Henry, as the youngest, was more closely allied with Nell than any of the intervening sibs. The two of them were like bookends, holding the three middle brothers upright. After Nell, Henry was the take-charge member of the family. In truth, he sometimes served in that capacity in my life as well.

William, age eighty-nine and senior to Henry by one year, had relocated to Santa Teresa four years before and had subsequently married my friend Rosie, who owns the neighborhood tavern where I hang out. As for Lewis and Charlie, still living at home, they were entirely capable of taking care of themselves. It was Nell, the temporary invalid, they’d find difficult to accept. All the boys deferred to her, giving her full command over their lives and well-being. If she was out of commission, even briefly, Lewis and Charlie would be lost.

“What time’s your flight?”

“Six thirty. Means getting up at four thirty, but I can sleep on the plane.”

“Is William going with you?”

“I talked him out of it. He’s been complaining about his stomach, and the news of Nell’s fall threw him into a tizzy. If he went, I’d end up with two patients on my hands.”

William was a born-again hypochondriac and couldn’t be trusted around the sick or infirm. Henry had told me that in the months before Nell’s hysterectomy, William suffered from monthly cramps, which were later diagnosed as irritable bowel syndrome.

“I’ll be happy to take you to the airport,” I said.

“Perfect. That way I won’t have to leave my car in the long-term parking lot.” He put the oven on preheat and fixed a blue-eyed gaze on me. “You have dinner plans?”

“Forget it. I don’t want you worrying about me. Have you packed?”

“Not yet, but I still have to eat. After supper I’ll haul out a suitcase. I have a load in the dryer so I can’t do much anyway until it’s done. Chardonnay’s in the fridge.”

I poured myself some white wine and then took out an old-fashioned glass and filled it with ice. He keeps his Black Jack in a cabinet near the sink, so I added three fingers. I looked at him and he said, “And this much water.” He held his thumb and index finger close together to specify the amount.

I added tap water and passed him the drink, which he sipped while he continued dinner preparations.

I set the table. Henry pulled four homemade dinner rolls from the freezer and put them on a baking sheet. As soon as the oven peeped, he slid the pan in and set the timer. Henry’s a retired commercial baker who even now produces a steady stream of breads, rolls, cookies, cakes, and cinnamon buns so tasty they make me whimper.

I sat down at the table, catching sight of a list of items he needed to handle before he left town. He’d already canceled the newspaper, picked up his cleaning, and rescheduled a dental appointment. He’d drawn a happy face on that line. Henry hates dentists and postpones his visits for as long as he can. He’d crossed out a reminder to himself to roll out the garbage bins for Monday pickup. He’d also put his interior lights on timers and shut down the water valve to the washer so the machine wouldn’t suffer a mishap in his absence. He intended to ask me to water his plants as needed and cruise through his place every two days to make sure things were okay. I checked that item off the list myself. By then the salad had been made and Henry was ladling soup into bowls. We snarfed down our food with the usual dispatch, competing for the land speed record. So far I was ahead.

After supper I helped him with the dishes and then went back to my place, toting a brown paper bag full of perishables he’d passed along to me.

In the morning, I woke at 5:00, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and pulled a knit cap over my mop of hair, which was mashed flat on one side and stood straight up everywhere else. Since it was Saturday, I wouldn’t be doing my usual three-mile jog, but I stepped into sweats and running shoes for simplicity’s sake. Henry was waiting on the back patio when I emerged. He looked adorable, of course: chinos and a white dress shirt with a blue cashmere sweater worn over it. His white hair, still damp from the shower, was neatly brushed to one side. I could picture “widder” women in the airport waiting room, angling for the chance to sit next to him.

We chitchatted on the twenty-minute drive to the airport, which allowed me to repress the feelings of melancholy I experienced the minute I dropped him at the gate. I made sure his flight was on time and then I waved once and took off, swallowing the lump in my throat. For a hard-assed private eye, I’m a wienie when it comes to saying good-bye. Home again, I pulled off my shoes, stripped my sweats, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin. The Plexiglas skylight above my bed was streaked with the pink-and-blue streamers of a burgeoning dawn when I finally closed my eyes and sank into the warmth.

I woke again at 8:00, showered, dressed in my habitual jeans, turtleneck, and boots, and watched a segment of the news while I finished my cereal and washed my bowl. Neither the newspaper nor the local television station made reference to the shoplifting episode, not even as a tiny two-line report on an inside page. I would have appreciated learning the woman’s name and age, along with some hint of what had happened to her. Was she arrested and charged, or kicked out of the store and told never to return? Policy varied from one retail establishment to the next and ranged from warn-and-release to criminal prosecution-the alternative I’d vote for if it were up to me.

I don’t know why I thought the disturbance would warrant a news story. Crimes take place daily that don’t generate a smidge of interest in the public at large. Minor matters of burglary and theft are relegated to the back page, break-ins reported by neighborhood with a cursory list of items stolen. Vandalism might be elevated to a one-inch squib. Depending on the political climate, taggers might or might not be accorded column space. White-collar crime-especially fraud and embezzlement of public funds-are more likely than murder to inspire irate letters to the editor and the denunciation of corporate greed. My shoplifter and her coconspirator were probably long gone, my bruised shin the only testimony that remained, painful witness to their skullduggery. For the foreseeable future, I’d be scanning pedestrians, alert to the presence of any black Mercedes sedan, all in hopes of spotting one or the other of the two women. Mentally, I sharpened the metal toes of my boots.

In the meantime, I loaded my car with cleaning equipment in anticipation of my Saturday chores. I was at the office by 9:00, happy to find a parking place out front. There was a period of time when I’d hired a service, the Mini-Maids, to clean my office once a week. There were usually four of them, though never the same four twice. They wore matching T-shirts and arrived toting mops, dust cloths, vacuums, and assorted janitorial products. The first time they cleaned for me they took an hour, their efforts thorough and conscientious. I’d been thrilled to pay the fifty bucks because the windows shone, all the surfaces gleamed, and the carpet was as clean as I’d ever seen it. Every visit thereafter, they accelerated the process until they became so efficient, they were in and out again in fifteen minutes, dashing off to the next job as though their very lives depended on it. Even then, much of their time on the premises was spent chatting among themselves. Once they departed, I’d find a dead fly on the windowsill, spider silk trailing from the ceiling, and coffee grounds (or were those ants?) littering the counter in my kitchenette. I figured fifty bucks for fifteen minutes (fraught with giggles and gossip) was the equivalent of two hundred bucks an hour, which was four times more than I earned myself. I fired them with a giddy sense of piety and thrift. Now I made a point of going in at intervals to do the job myself.

It wasn’t until I hauled my vacuum cleaner from the trunk of my car that I noticed the fellow sitting on my steps, smoking a cigarette. His blue jeans had faded to white at the knee and his brown boots were scuffed. He had wide shoulders, and his shirt was a royal blue satin, unbuttoned to the waist, the sleeves rolled up above his biceps. The name Dodie was scrawled in cursive along his right forearm. For a moment I drew a blank, and then his name popped to mind.

He grinned, gold incisors flashing in his weathered face. “You don’t recognize me,” he remarked as I came up the walk.

“I do too. You’re Pinky Ford. Last I heard, you were in jail.”

“I’ve been a free man since last May. I admit I was picked up Friday on a DUI, but I got sprung. That’s what friends are for is how I look at it. Anyways, I had business over at the jail this morning and seeing’s how I was in the neighborhood, I decided to stop by and see how you were doing. How you been?” His voice was raspy from a lifetime of smoking.

“Fine, thanks. And you?”

“Good enough,” he said. He didn’t seem to register the Hoover upright and I didn’t explain. It wasn’t any of his business if I was working as a part-time char. He flipped his cigarette onto the walkway and stood up, brushing off his jeans. He was my height, five six, wiry, bowlegged, and brown from too much sun. His arms and chest were muscular, veins running across like piping. He’d been a jockey in his youth until he got tossed one time too many and decided he’d better find another line of work. He’d started smoking when he was ten and continued the habit as an adult because it was the only way to keep his weight including tack under the 126 pounds required for the Kentucky Derby, which he’d ridden in twice. This was long before his personal fortunes had gone into reverse. He’d kept on smoking for much the same reason any habitual criminal does, to break up the time while he was in the joint.

I put down my vacuum cleaner and unlocked the door, talking to him over my shoulder. “You’re lucky you caught me. I don’t usually come in on Saturdays.”

I ushered him into the office ahead of me, noting that his limp was pronounced. I knew how he felt. Pinky was in his sixties, coal black hair, black brows, and deep lines around his mouth. He sported the ghost of a mustache and the shadow of a goatee. There was a band of white on his left wrist where he’d shed a watch.

“I’m about to put on a pot of coffee if you’d like a cup.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

After his passion for racing was squelched, his second calling was a long, inglorious career as a nonresidential burglar. I did hear he’d eventually taken to burgling houses, but I hadn’t had that confirmed. He was the man who’d given me a set of key picks in a leather case years before, essential tools on those occasions when a locked door stands between me and something I want.

He’d hired me during one of his stints in prison when he’d been worried about his wife, the aforementioned Dodie, convinced she was dallying with the guy next door. She was actually being faithful (as far as I could tell), which I’d reported after sitting surveillance off and on for a month. He gave me the picks in lieu of payment, since his cash reserves were all illegally acquired and had to be returned.

“Why burglary?” I’d asked once.

He’d flashed me a modest smile. “I’m a natural. You know, because I’m a skinny guy and agile as a cat. I can squeeze in through places lot of other fellows can’t. Job’s more physical than you’d think. I can do a hundred one-arm push-ups, fifty either side.”

“Good for you,” I’d said.

“There’s actually a trick to it, something a fellow taught me up in Soledad.”

“You’ll have to show me sometime.”

I put on a pot of coffee and went to my desk, where I sat down in my swivel chair and propped my feet on the edge. Meanwhile, Pinky remained standing, scanning my office with an eye to where the valuables might be kept.

He shook his head. “This is a comedown. Last I saw, you had an office over on State Street. Nice location. Very nice. This-I don’t know so much. I guess I’m used to seeing you in classier digs.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I remarked. With Pinky, there wasn’t any point in taking offense. He might be a repeat offender but he was never guilty of subterfuge.

When the coffee was done I filled two mugs and handed him one before I returned to my swivel chair. Pinky finally settled into one of my two visitor’s chairs, sucking in hot coffee with a series of slurping sounds. “This is good. I like it strong.”

“Thanks. How’s Dodie?”

“Good. She’s great. She’s gone into direct sales, like an entrepreneur.”

“Selling what?”

“Nothing door-to-door. She’s a personal beauty consultant for a big national company, Glorious Womanhood. You probably heard of it.”

“Don’t think so,” I said.

“Well, it’s bigger than Mary Kay. It’s Christian-based. She sets up these home parties for bunches of women. Not our place but someone else’s, where they serve food. Then she’ll do makeovers, demonstrating products you can order on the spot. Last month, she edged out the regional manager for top sales.”

“Sounds like she’s doing well. I’m impressed.”

“Me too. I guess the regional manager was fit to be tied. Nobody ever beat her out before, but Dodie’s purpose-driven when she puts her mind to it. Used to be when I was gone, she’d get all mopey and depressed. I’d be doing hard time and she’d be laying around watching TV and eating fatty snacks. We’d talk on the phone and I’d try to get her motivated-you know, building up her self-esteem-but it never did much good. Then she hears about this business opportunity, similar to a franchise or something like that. I didn’t think much of it at the time because she never stuck to anything until this came along. This past year, she’s earned enough to buy a Cadillac and qualify for a free vacation cruise.”

“Where to?”

“The Caribbean… St. Thomas… and around in there. A flight to Fort Lauderdale and then onto the ship.”

“You going with her?”

“Sure. If I can get myself set. Two of us have never been on a vacation together. It’s tough to make plans when we never know if I’ll be in jail or out. Something like this, I don’t want to be dependent on her moneywise. The trip is all-expenses-paid, but there’s incidentals-on-shore excursions and the casino when you’re out at sea. Two of the six nights formal wear’s required so I’ll have to rent me a tux. Can you picture it? I always swore I’d have to be dead before you caught me in one, but she’s all excited about the dress she had made. Not that she’d show me. She says it’d be bad luck, like seeing a bride decked out in her wedding finery before you get to the church. It’s a knockoff of a gown Debbie Reynolds wore one year to the Academy Awards. There’s even a good possibility she’ll be crowned Glorious Woman of the Year.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” I said. I let him go on telling the story his way. I knew he had a problem-why else would he be here?-but the faster I pushed him, the sooner I’d be in the bathroom, scrubbing the toilet bowl. I figured that could wait.

“Anyways, I’m giving you the background.”

“I assumed as much.”

“Thing is, my wife’s got this engagement ring. One-point-five-carat diamond set in platinum, worth three grand easy. I know, because I had it appraised two days after it came into my possession. This was in Texas some time ago. She hasn’t been wearing it because she says it’s too loose and bothers her every time she goes to wash her hands.”

“I can’t wait to see where you’re going with this.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the other thing. She’s lost a lot of weight. She looks like a runway model only bigger in the tush. You probably don’t remember, but she used to be… I won’t say fat, but on the far side of plump. The past fifteen months, she’s taken off sixty pounds. I came home, I didn’t recognize her. That’s how good she looks.”

“Wow. I love success stories. How’d she manage it?”

“Diet supplement, an over-the-counter upper that’s not FDA regulated because, technically speaking, it’s not a drug. She’s so buzzed all the time, she forgets to eat. She has to be on the go every minute or she gets whacked out from too much nervous energy. As a side benefit, the house’s never looked so good. Drop of a hat, she’ll do all the windows, inside and out. Anyways, she tossed the ring in her jewelry box six months back and she hasn’t touched it since. Now she wants to have it sized so she can wear it on the cruise. She’s all stressed out because she can’t find it anywhere, so I said I’d look.”

“You hocked it.”

“Pretty much. I want to do right by her, but I’m low on funds and it’s tough to find work. I don’t like taking handouts from the woman I love. Problem is, the skills I have aren’t exactly in demand. What happened was, I put together a stake using the ring as collateral on a four-month loan. This was way last spring after I got out of Soledad. I went down to Santa Anita to play the ponies. I don’t get to the track every couple of months, I tend to brood. I’m a moody guy to begin with and the nags take my mind off.”

“Let me guess. You lost your shirt and now you need to get the ring back before she figures out what you did.”

“There you have it. I couldn’t come up with the principal so I paid the interest and rolled it over for another four months. Now that’s up and the ten-day grace runs out Tuesday of next week. I don’t pay, that’s the last I see of it, which would break my poor heart. Hers, too, if she found out.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“That’s all you got for a ring worth three grand?”

“Sad, but true. The guy lowballed me on the deal, but it’s not like I had any choice. I can’t borrow from a bank. I mean, picture the loan docs, me wanting two hundred dollars for a hundred and twenty days. Can’t be done. So now I owe the two in cash plus another twenty-five in interest. Be honest about it, I might not get the money back to you right away. I mean, eventually, sure.”

I stared at him while I considered his request. I had cash in my wallet so I wasn’t worried about that. The key picks he’d given me had served me well, as had the tutorial he’d provided before he got sent up. Also counting in his favor was the fact that I liked the man. Profession aside, he was a good-hearted soul. Even a burglar suffers the occasional financial woes. Finally, I said, “How about this? I won’t give you the cash, but I’ll go with you to the pawnshop and pay the guy myself.”

His look was pained. “You don’t trust me?”

“Sure I do, but let’s not tempt fate.”

“You’re tough.”

“I’m a realist. Your car or mine?”

“Mine’s in the shop. You can drop me off there afterward and I’ll pick it up.”