A Stranger in My Grave (5 page)

“He's still in jail,” Pinata said.

“I think she should have bailed him out, let bygones be by­gones.”

“Maybe she prefers him in.”

“Say, Mr. Pinata, you wouldn't by any chance have another pint of bourbon around? That cheap stuff doesn't stay with you.”

“You'd better get cleaned up first, before your daughter arrives.”

“Daisy has seen me in worse—”

“I'm sure Daisy has. So why not surprise her? Where's your tie?”

Fielding put up one hand and felt his neck. “I guess I lost it someplace, maybe at the police station.”

“Well, here's a spare one,” Pinata said, pulling a blue-striped tie from one of his desk drawers. “A client of mine tried to hang himself with it. I had to take it away from him. Here.”

“No. No, thank you.”

“Why not?”

“I don't happen to like the idea of wearing a dead man's tie.”

“Who said he's dead? As a matter of fact, he's selling used cars a couple of blocks up the street.”

“In that case I suppose there's no harm in my borrowing it for a while.”

“The bathroom's down the hall,” Pinata said. “Here's the key.”

When Fielding returned, five minutes later, he had washed the dried blood off his face and combed his hair. He was wearing the blue-striped tie, and his sports jacket was buttoned to hide the tear in his shirt. He looked quite sober and respectable for a man who was neither.

“Well, that's an improvement,” Pinata said, wondering how soon it would be safe to let him have another drink. The old drinks were wearing off fast now, Pinata could tell by the jerky movements of Fielding's eyes and the nervous whine in his voice.

“What difference should it make to you, Pinata, how I look in front of my own daughter?”

“I wasn't thinking of you. I was thinking of her.”
No, that's a lie. I was thinking of Johnny and how I never want him to see me in the same shape Daisy has seen, and will see, her father.

It was mainly for the sake of the boy that Pinata kept himself in very good condition. He swam every day in the ocean in the sum­mer, and in the winter he played handball at the Y and tennis at the municipal courts. He didn't smoke and seldom drank, and the women he took out were all very respectable, so that if, by some miraculous stroke of fate, he should ever meet Johnny acciden­tally on the street, the boy would have no reason to be ashamed of him or his choice of companion.

But it was difficult, living for a boy he only saw for a month out of each year, and the days were often hard to fill, like a jug with a hole in the bottom. His work, though, saved him from self-pity. Through it he came in contact with so many people in so many and various stages of despair that by comparison his own life seemed a good one. Pinata wanted to remarry and felt that he should. He was afraid, however, that if he did, his ex-wife might seize the occasion to go to court and try to have Johnny's yearly visits curtailed or stopped altogether; she begrudged the time and effort the visits cost her and the disruption they caused in the life of her new family.

Fielding was at the window, peering down into the street. “She should be here by this time. Half an hour, she said. Isn't it more than that already?”

“Sit down, and relax,” Pinata said.

“I wish this damn rain would stop. It's making me nervous. It's enough of a strain on me having to face Daisy.”

“How long is it since you've seen her?”

“Hell, I don't know. A long time anyway.” He had begun to tremble, partly from the drinking he'd done, partly from dread of the emotional experience of seeing Daisy again. “How should I act when she gets here? And what the hell will I say to her?”

“You did all right on the telephone.”

“That was different. I was desperate, I had to phone her. But listen, Pinata, there's no
real
reason why I should have to see her, is there? I mean, what's to be gained? You can give her a mes­sage for me. Tell her I'm O.K. and I'm working steady now, at the Harris Electrical Supply warehouse on Figueroa Street. Tell her—”

“I'll tell her nothing. You're going to do the talking, Fielding. Yourself personally.”

“I won't. I can't. Be a sport for chrissake and let me out of here before she comes. I give you my word that Daisy will pay you the money I owe, my solemn word—”

“No.”

“Why not, in God's name? Are you afraid you won't get your money?”

“No.”

“Then let me go, let me out of here.”

“Your daughter's expecting to see you,” Pinata said. “So she's going to see you.”

“She won't like what I came up here to tell her anyway. But I felt I ought to tell her. It was my duty. Then I got cold feet and went into that bar to warm them up a bit, and—”

“Tell her what?”

“That I'm married again,” Fielding said. “It'll be a shock to her, hearing she's got a new stepmother. Maybe I'd better break the news to her more gradually, say in a letter. That's what I'll do. I'll write her a letter.”

“No, you won't. You're staying right here, Fielding.”

“How do you know Daisy wants to see me? Maybe she's dread­ing this as much as I am. Listen, you said before I was a bum. O.K., I'm a bum, I admit it. But I don't want to have to spell it out in front of my own daughter.” He took two or three defiant steps toward the door. “I'm leaving. You can't stop me. You hear that? You can't stop me. You have no legal right to—”

“Oh, shut up.” The time, Pinata felt, had come. He reached into one of the desk drawers, brought out another pint of bour­bon, and unscrewed the top. “Here. Help yourself to some courage.”

“You sound like a goddamn preacher,” Fielding said. He grabbed for the bottle and held it to his mouth. Then, without warning, he made a sudden lunge for the door, holding the bot­tle against his chest.

Pinata didn't attempt to chase him. He was rather glad to see him go, in fact: the meeting between Daisy baby and her father wouldn't have been any fun to watch.

He went to the window and looked down. Fielding was run­ning along the sidewalk in the pouring rain, still clutching his bottle. His step was quick and light for a big man, as if he'd had a lot of practice running in his life.

Daisy baby
, Pinata thought,
you're in for a surprise.

5

It is a thought that takes some of the ugliness out of these cruel years, some of the sting out of the tricks of time. ...

 

The lettering on
the door at the end of the long, dark hallway spelled out
stevens pinata
.
bail bonds
.
investigations
.
walk in
. The door was partly open, and Daisy could see a dark-haired, sharp-featured young man seated behind a desk, fooling with a typewriter ribbon. He jumped up when he became aware of her presence and gave her an anxious little smile. She didn't like the smile. It was as if she'd dropped in on him unexpectedly and caught him doing something he shouldn't.

He said, “Mrs. Harker?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Steve Pinata. Please sit down. Let me take your coat. It's wet.”

She made no move either to sit down or to unbutton her pink plaid raincoat. “Where's my father?”

“He left a few minutes ago,” Pinata said. “He had an engage­ment in L.A. and couldn't wait.”

“He—he couldn't wait even a few minutes after all these years?”

“It was a very important engagement. He asked me to be sure and tell you how sorry he was, and that he'll be getting in touch with you soon.”

The lie came out easily. Practically anyone would have believed it, except Daisy. “He didn't want to see
me
at all, just the money, is that it?”

“It's not quite that simple, Mrs. Harker. He lost his nerve. He was ashamed of—”

“I'll write you out a check.” She pulled a checkbook from her handbag with brusque impatience like a very efficient business­woman who had no time or taste for emotional exhibitions. “How much?”

“Two hundred and thirty. The fine was $200, ten is my straight fee, and the rest is my ten percent commission.”

“I understand.” She wrote out the check, bending over his desk, refusing the chair he had pushed up for her. “Is this correct?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He put the check in his pocket. “I'm sorry things had to turn out like this, Mrs. Harker.”

“Why should you be? I'm not. I'm as much of a coward as he is, perhaps more. I'm
glad
he ran out on me. I didn't want to see him any more than he wanted to see me. For once, he did the right thing. Why should you feel sorry, Mr. Pinata?”

“I thought you'd be disappointed.”

“Disappointed? Oh no. Not at all. Not in the least.” But she sat down suddenly and awkwardly, as if she'd lost her balance under the weight of something too heavy for her to handle.

Daisy baby,
Pinata thought,
is going to cry.

In his business Pinata had witnessed too many plain and fancy crying jobs not to know the preliminary signs, and they were all there, from the rapid blinking of her eyes to the clenching and unclenching of her hands. He waited for the inevitable, wishing he could prevent it, trying to think of something to say by way of encouragement, not sympathy; sympathy always pushed them over the line.

Two minutes passed, then three, and he began to realize that the inevitable wasn't going to happen after all. When she finally spoke, her question took him completely by surprise. It had noth­ing to do with long-lost fathers.

“What kind of things do you investigate, Mr. Pinata?”

“Not much of anything,” he said frankly.

“Why not?”

“In a city this size there isn't much call for services like mine—people who need a detective usually hire one from L.A. Most of the work I do is for private attorneys around town.”

“What are your qualifications?”

“What qualifications would I need to solve your problem?”

“I didn't say there was any problem. Or that it was mine.”

“People don't ask me the kind of questions you've been asking without having something in mind.”

She hesitated a moment, biting her under lip. “There is a prob­lem. But it's only partly mine. Someone else is involved.”

“Your father?”

“No. He has nothing to do with it.”

“Husband? Friend? Mother-in-law?”

“I don't know yet.”

“But you'd like to know?”

“I
have
to know.”

She lapsed into another silence, her head cocked at an angle, as if she were listening to some debate going on inside herself. He didn't press her; he wasn't even very curious. She looked like the kind of woman whose darkest secret could be bleached out with a little chlorine.

“I have reason to believe,” she said finally, “that on a certain day four years ago something very grave happened to me. I can't remember what it was. I want you to help me find out.”

“Help you remember?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, that's not in my line of work,” he said bluntly. “I might be able to help you find a lost necklace, even a missing per­son, but a lost day, no.”

“You misunderstand, Mr. Pinata. I'm not asking you to pry into my unconscious like a psychiatrist. I simply want your assistance, your
physical
assistance. The rest would be up to me.” She studied his face for any sign of interest or curiosity. He was staring, blank-faced, out of the window, as if he hadn't heard anything she'd said. “Have you ever tried to reconstruct a day, Mr. Pinata? Oh, not a special day like Christmas or an anniversary, just a plain ordinary day. Have you?”

“No.”

“Suppose you were forced to. Say the police accused you of a crime and you had to prove exactly where you were and what you did—let's make it two years ago today. This is the ninth of Feb­ruary. Do you remember anything special about the ninth of February two years ago?”

He thought about it for a time, squinting up his eyes. “Well, no. Nothing specific. I know the general circumstances of my life at the time, where I was staying, and so on. I assume, if it was a weekday, that I got up and went to work as usual.”

“The police wouldn't accept assumptions. They would ask for facts.”

“I think I'll plead guilty,” he said with a quick smile.

She didn't return the smile. “What would you do, Mr. Pinata? How would you go about finding the facts?”

“First, I'd check my records. Let's see, February the ninth two years ago, that would be a Saturday. Saturday night is usually a pretty busy time for me, since there are more arrests made. So I'd check the police files, too, in the hope of coming across a case I might remember.”

“What if you had no files or records?”

The telephone rang. Pinata answered, talked in monosyllables, mostly negative, for a couple of minutes, and hung up. “Everyone has records of some kind.”

“I haven't.”

“No diary? Bank statement? Bills? Check stubs?”

“No. My husband takes care of things like that.”

“What about this check you just gave me? Isn't it drawn on your own account?”

“Yes, but I don't write very many, and I certainly haven't kept track of the stubs from four years ago.”

“Do you use an engagement book?”

“I throw away my engagement book at the end of each year,” Daisy said. “I used to keep a diary a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“I don't recall exactly. I just sort of lost interest in it—nothing seemed to happen to me that deserved writing down, no excite­ment or anything.”

No excitement,
Pinata thought.
So now she's scrounging around for some, looking for a lost day like a bored child during summer vacation looking for something to do, a game to play. Well, Daisy baby, I haven't got time for games. I won't play.
“I wish I could help you, Mrs. Harker, but as I told you, this is out of my line. You'd be wasting your money.”

“I've wasted money before.” She stared at him obstinately. “Anyway, you're not in the least concerned about my wasting my money, only about your wasting your time. You don't understand—I haven't made you realize how terribly important this is to me.”

“Why is it important?”

She wanted to tell him about the dream, but she was afraid of his reaction. He might be amused like Jim, or impatient and a lit­tle contemptuous like Adam, or annoyed like her mother. “I can't explain that right now.”

“Why not?”

“You're already very skeptical and suspicious of me. If I told you the rest of it, well, you might consider me quite crazy.”

Bored,
Pinata thought.
Not crazy. Or maybe just a little.
“I think you'd better tell me the rest of it anyway, Mrs. Harker, so at least we'll understand each other. I've been asked to do some pretty funny things, but finding a lost day—that's a tall order.”

“I didn't lose the day. It's not lost. It's still around someplace, here or there, wherever used days and old years go. They don't simply vanish into nothing. They're still available—hiding, yes, but not lost.”

“I see,” Pinata said, thinking that Daisy baby wasn't a little crazy after all; she was a whole lot crazy. He couldn't help being interested, however; he wasn't sure whether his interest was in Daisy's problem or Daisy herself, or whether the two could ever be separated. “If you don't remember this day, Mrs. Harker, why do you believe it was so important to you?”

It was almost the identical question Adam had asked. She hadn't been able to give a satisfactory answer then, and she couldn't now. “I know it was. Sometimes people know things in differ­ent ways. You know I'm sitting here because you can see and hear me. But there are other ways of knowing things than merely through the five senses. Some of them haven't been explained yet.... I do wish you'd stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“As if you expected me to announce that my name was Josephine Bonaparte or something. I'm quite sane, Mr. Pinata.
And
rational, if the two can possibly go together in this confused world.”

“I thought they were the same thing.”

“Oh, no,” she said with a kind of prim politeness. “Sanity is a matter of culture and convention. If it's a crazy culture you live in, then you have to be irrational to want to conform. A completely rational person would recognize that the culture was crazy and refuse to conform. But by not conforming, he is the one who would be judged crazy by that particular society.”

Pinata looked surprised and somewhat annoyed, as if a pet parrot, which he had taught to speak a few simple phrases, had suddenly started explaining the techniques of nuclear fission.

“That was a neat trick,” he said at last.

“What was?”

“The way you changed the subject. When the box got a little hot for you, out you jumped. What are you trying to avoid telling me, Mrs. Harker?”

He's honest
, Daisy thought.
He doesn't pretend to know things he doesn't know or to exaggerate what he does know. He isn't even very good at hiding his feelings. I think I can trust him.

“I had a dream,” Daisy said, and before he could tell her he didn't deal in dreams, she was telling about the stroll on the beach with Prince and the tombstone with her name on it.

Pinata listened, without audible comment, to the end. Then he said, “Have you told anyone else about this dream, Mrs. Harker?”

“My mother, my husband Jim, and a friend of Jim's who's a lawyer, Adam Burnett.”

“What was their reaction?”

She looked across the desk at him with a dry little smile. “My mother and Jim want me to take vitamins and forget the whole thing.”

“And the lawyer, Mr. Burnett?”

“He understood more than the others how important it was to me to find out what happened. But he gave me a warning.”

“Which was?”

“Whatever happened on that day to cause my—my death must have been very unpleasant, and I shouldn't try to dredge it up. I have nothing to gain and everything to lose.”

“But you want to go ahead with it anyway?”

“It's no longer a question of wanting to. I have to. You see, we're about to adopt a baby.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“It won't be just my life and Jim's anymore. We'll be sharing it with a child. I must be sure that this child will be coming into the right home, a place of security and happiness.”

“And at the moment you think yours isn't the right home?”

“I'm checking to be certain. Let's say you bought a house, Mr. Pinata, and you've been living in it for some time quite comfortably. Then something happens, say an important guest is arriving. You decide to check the place over, and you find cer­tain serious structural defects. Would you consult a good contractor to see what he could do about the defects? Or would you just sit there with your eyes closed and pretend everything was fine?”