Dangerous (42 page)

“Don’t spoil this, Val. We’re here to relax and have fun. Today is for us. For
you
. He wasn’t hitting on me anyway.” Well, he might have been, but what did it matter? I pointed back toward the bike rental place. “Let’s rent one of those pedal cars and see the beach. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

She acquiesced. I tugged her back the way we’d come.

After paying the rental fee and surrendering my license as collateral, the man gave us a brief lesson in pedal car operation. And we were on our way.

§

The afternoon turned breezy as we pedaled a couple miles down the paved bike path along the beach. On the way back we saw a news chopper hovering off the end of the wharf. Val guessed they were shooting footage for a news story about the rogue jet on tonight’s broadcast.

We stopped to buy shave-ice from a guy in a sombrero, selling ice cream from a gaudy, belled freezer cart that resembled those crazy Tijuana taxicabs.

It felt good to sit with Val on the grass, lips numbed by the fruit-flavored ice as the wind fluffed my dress.

The afternoon had taken that golden hue I associate with perfection, the kind of joy that suffuses fond childhood memories. In this halcyon light, Val’s eyes glowed the color of olive soapstone, her pale skin like fresh cream butter. I wished this day would last forever. Knew that it wouldn’t.

The palm trees stirred overhead. Two pelicans skimmed the water, flying east along the strand, their bodies straight as speed skaters.

I set my cup down. “What became of your fish?”

Val was a moment pondering my unexpected question. “The fish in my pond?” I nodded. “Yolanda helped me catch them late Wednesday. She took them home in two big buckets. Her daughter works for a hotel in Little Tokyo that has a koi pond. We spoke on the phone the next day, but she didn’t mention the fish. I assume they are well. Why do you ask?”

I gazed out to sea, wondering that myself. “I don’t know. I remembered them the other day and wondered if you thought of it, or had a chance to rescue them. What will you do with your maid?”

“I’m still paying her for the time being, if that’s what you mean. She’s unusually discreet, and that’s worth a great deal to me. It’s so hard to find good help these days.”

I felt no warmth for the maid, who had always treated me with cool courtesy, when she deigned to notice me at all. But I could see how Val would prize the woman, given her own scandalous appetites and need for privacy.

Val leaned closer. “You’re suddenly full of questions.” Her nose rubbed my cheek.

“I’m just curious, is all.”

She nuzzled more forcefully, breath hot on my skin. With a hand she turned my head into a prolonged kiss.

Here was the moment of decision, from which many paths led. But I was paralyzed by the conflicting needs of mind, heart, and body. So I allowed the kiss, perhaps out of the memory of what had been. Or not wanting to dispel the delicate magic of the afternoon. Or simply for her kindness in saving the fish. But I didn’t return her energy, and presently she drew back, to gaze pensively over the water.

I feared this truly was the end, yet I didn’t want it to be.

The weight of the moment became unbearable. I stood up, straightened my skirt, and tossed my cup into a nearby trash can. Which, I saw, was conspicuously empty of glowing ice cubes.

“We should get back,” I said.

§

The dashboard clock said 7:57 when I shut off the engine. The last rays of twilight were fading and the air still smelled faintly of smoke.

Emerging from the sunken garage, we passed into the courtyard between the middle two condo buildings. It was tranquil here, with lines of hooded landscape lights and a watery blue glow rising from the swimming pool. Overhead, the first-quarter moon shone white as milk, lending the scene a kind of elven magic. As much as I desperately wanted to sell my stupid condo, I’d miss the beauty of this courtyard at night.

Wearily we climbed the steps to my landing, and I unlocked the door. Standing close enough to brush against me, Val chastely kissed my cheek. “Thank you for a splendid day.”

“It’s the least I could do,” I said, unlocking the door. We stepped into the darkened room. After setting my keys and purse on the kitchen counter, I flicked on the living room light, which made us squint.

We took turns in the bathroom, and changing. When I’d done, I found Val sitting crosswise on the leather couch with one of my coffee-table art books open on her lap.

I still felt that weight in the air, the imbalance between us, and desperately needed something to do, a reason to get out and secure some quiet time alone.

“I’m going to the laundromat to wash this,” I announced a few minutes later, plopping my big blue lotus-print comforter on the counter. I scooped a handful of quarters from my change dish under the wall phone, and put on sandals.

Val, sitting crosswise on the couch, looked up from her book with a raised eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little late for laundry?”

“If I do it now, I can be lazy tomorrow.”

Val shrugged, not wanting to impede my sudden industry.

I grabbed my keys, stuck a John Grisham novel in my purse. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Can you get the door?”

With an effort I manhandled the soft, ungainly armload down the stairs, and heard the door close behind me with a click.

§

The interior design of the U-Wash-It Laundromat, with its fake wood paneling, Baby Poop Yellow walls and Toothpaste Green accents had never been stylish, even when new. But a decade of zero maintenance, and the change to fluorescent lights—one of which flickered at a seizure-inducing rate—rendered the place absolutely nauseating.

I took refuge in my book while waiting for the buzzer, trying to ignore the ghastly linoleum floor tiles. A mockingbird subjected to lethal gamma radiation might lay an egg with just that speckled pattern.

After the wash cycle, I fluffed out the comforter with some difficulty, and started the dryer. Rather than return to the molded fiberglass chair bolted to the floor, I stepped outside to give my ass (and eyes) a break.

It was a glorious night, despite the mundane view of the busy intersection, the luminous island of a gas station at the corner. I watched a steady stream of customers park in front of the liquor store next door, to leave a minute later with booze and cigarettes in black plastic shopping bags. It was like watching time-lapse footage, but without the time-lapse.

It gave me time to mull over our fate, Val’s and mine. I doubted she’d ever lose her taste for dolls; it was an integral part of her. Could I stay with her, knowing she was keeping other girls? Probably not. But maybe all she needed was some fertile ground in which to plant her delicate emotional seeds. Maybe then her other appetites would fade.

In the same way that, perhaps, Hitler wouldn’t have turned to politics if he’d won that art scholarship at the Viennese Academy, instead of his rival Oskar Kokoschka. I’d actually preferred Hitler’s shy, delicate style to the other’s crude and (I thought) self-indulgent expressionism.

And, I recalled with wry amusement, Kokoschka had actually commissioned a life-sized sex doll of a woman who’d loved and left him, only to destroy it later in frustration, at a party. Ah, the crazy things I learned in art school. Mother would be proud.

Mother.
I’ll never understand why you stopped seeing that nice boy, Brent
, I heard her say.

Deep, cleansing breaths.

I played puzzle games on my cell phone for half an hour, until I lost interest. I remembered Paul and his offer to see a movie, and realized I had yet to return his call. As I scrolled down the list of contacts I glimpsed the entry for
Pizza
just below
Paul
. That was Val’s work number, the one I’d hidden with the fake name, and scrambled, in case Val should peek at my phone.

What was at the other end of that number? Sudden, burning curiosity consumed me. Maybe it would help explain why Val was the person she’d become.

I clicked on
Pizza
and saw the number. The area code had really been 310, not the 818 I entered. And I’d turned the numbers around, reversing both the 3- and 4-digit parts individually. That was easy enough.

I’d simply call the number and see who picked up. It was after hours, so I’d probably get some kind of voice mail. No matter what, I could hang up and no one would be the wiser.

But I felt a spasm of paranoia as I began to dial. What if they had Caller ID and recorded my number? Too risky.

I recalled seeing a pay phone next to the liquor store, and I had a pocket full of quarters. I found the phone and lifted the handset, carefully reading the instructions. I hadn’t used a pay phone in years and had forgotten how to use them. After dropping in two quarters, I punched in the number and waited anxiously as it connected.

It rang several times.

A woman’s voice answered:

“Thanks for calling the office of Doctor Manendra Sharma. We’re currently closed right now. Our business hours are ten to seven on weekdays, and noon to seven on Saturdays. If you’d like to schedule an eye exam, press 1. If you’re calling about—”

I hung up. An
optometrist’s office
? And why would this number be listed as
Gordon
on her phone?

Wait, the area code had been 213, not 310. I remembered now, it was a downtown number. With another deep breath I plunked in two more coins and carefully dialed again.

This time it rang only once.

“Operator.” It was a man’s voice, no-nonsense.

Pay dirt.

I wanted to say something, to squeeze more information out of the call, but only drew a blank. I didn’t trust myself to lie convincingly. The moment dragged on as the man waited silently, then I heard keystrokes in the background.

I hung up.

Way to go, doofus.

I spent five minutes calming down, thinking about what I’d learned, which was effectively nothing. Or was it?

An operator was someone who answered calls, redirecting them, connecting to other people. Or gave some sort of assistance. But the way he’d said
operator
suggested the only people calling
that
number already knew who—or what—they wanted.

The word, and his manner, suggested infrastructure, organization, professionalism. He’d been sitting at a computer, hardly a surprise. Did the Mafia answer phone calls that way? No, I’d made contact with some sort of agency, though maybe not strictly governmental. What were they called? Contractors. Like those Blackwater creeps.

His voice had betrayed no hint of an accent, either. He’d been an adult American, possibly Caucasian, and sure of himself in a way that didn’t require airs.

Whatever that number was, it was an inside line meant only for intimates, not the general public. I would learn nothing further from calling there.

None of this greatly altered my original suspicions of the last few months.

And that, I thought with a sigh, was the end of my career as a private investigator. I’d exhausted every lead without learning the least thing about Val and her work. In a way it was a relief. Now I could let it go and wait to ask her in person, if our relationship held together long enough for such questions to become possible, or important.

I deleted the
Pizza
number. Then I called Paul.