The Rabbit Factory (7 page)

My mother was equally fantastic and even more colorful. When Big Jim first met Tess Delehanty, she had just fallen off a horse. She had to fall off three more times before the director felt he had it on film. She was one of the top stuntwomen of her day and worked in over two hundred movies, five of them with John Wayne. Every now and then, Joanie and I would be watching an old video, and some woman would fall down a flight of stairs, jump off a bridge, or get hit by a truck, and I'd smile and proudly say, "That's my Mom."

Jim and Tess got engaged two months after they met. A

Ś ŚI -- week later they broke up, and for the next three years they were on-again-off-again. They were so well matched that I

Inever could figure out why their courtship was so stormy. But

family legend has it that Mom had trouble letting go of an old boyfriend. I could understand how that would piss Big Jim off. They finally got married on a ranch in the Napa Valley. Mom was three months pregnant at the time with me.

After I was born my mother stopped taking the high-paying, high-risk Hollywood stunt jobs. Instead, she opted to help Jim with the driving and do the occasional job as a film extra. But she never lost her stunt skills, and at an age when most kids are

learning their ABCs, Tess was teaching me how to fall down the porch steps, crash my bike, take a fake punch, and do a roll and tuck without getting hurt. I thought she was the coolest Mom in the neighborhood. My kid brother Frankie, on the other hand, was totally embarrassed having a truck-driver father and a daredevil mother. He wanted Ozzie and Harriet. Mom and Dad didn't even come close.;

During her heyday my mother broke seventeen bones, got three concussions, lost four teeth, and punctured a lung. She took it all in stride. No fear. Always relying on her God-given talent, a vigilant stunt coordinator, and the occasional air bag. When she died of congestive heart failure five years ago, she went just the way she always said she would. Peacefully, in her sleep.

Big Jim, of course, was a mess. Some people drink to deal with death. Some eat. Jim shut down. One of the most outgoing guys on the planet just went into hibernation. He asked Chico, one of his drivers, to take charge of renting out the vehicles, and then notified the studios that he personally was not available. After four months he started driving long hauls, which got him out of the house, but kept him isolated for weeks on end.

Thank God for Oprah. One of her shows was about widowhood. A grief counselor suggested that the surviving spouse return to a place where they had the happiest times of their marriage. Then she gave a list of spiritual exercises to help them accept the death of their husbands or wives.

If I had suggested it, my father would have blown me off. But I didn't suggest it. Oprah did. So he went to the spot where he and my Mom had spent some of the happiest moments of their lives.

The Rabbit Factory

The Hillview Country Inn is a hundred-year-old estate in the Napa Valley, just off Highway 29 between Napa and Yountville. Mom and Dad went there on their honeymoon and about twenty more times after that. Except for the color TVs in every room, central air conditioning, and the annual price increases, time has pretty much stood still at The Hillview. The Old English Rose Garden looks just like it did when they saw it together Ś for the first time. Entering the parlor, where you start your morning with a two-thousand-calorie country breakfast, is like stepping into the nineteenth century.

Dad has told me every detail of his journey back to The

Hillview, and every year on the anniversary of my mother's

death he tells me the story again. When he first drove up to the

property his chest clenched so hard he was sure he'd have to be

J taken to the ICU instead of his room. The owners, Victor and

IGerri Gomperts, greeted him the same way they had greeted him every time since his honeymoon--with a pot of tea, a basket of scones, and a gargantuan side of clotted cream and jam. They gave him their best suite and their deepest sympathies. For a while he just sat there on the big white iron bed, staring out the window, wondering if this was such a good idea. Finally he undressed and got into this big, Spanish-tiled shower built for two.

And every time he tells the story, he says these exact words: I "Son, there's nothing sadder than a two-person shower, a two-person bed, and a two-person room, when one person is gone forever."

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I wasn't there, but I've heard him tell it enough times to be able to picture what happened next. The big man slowly sank to the shower floor and let the water beat on him for twenty

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I minutes while he wept for the piece of him that was missing. Oprah, he thought, you were wrong.

. That night, he was sitting in the parlor when Angel came over and extended her condolences. Angel Cruz is at least twenty years younger than Jim, with wide dark eyes, creamy caramel skin and that lustrous black hair that so many Mexican women are blessed with. She had been a fixture at The Hillview for years. By day she waited on tables; at night she served espresso and after-dinner drinks to the few guests who actually hung around after dinner. She had always taken excellent care of my parents, and my Mom adored her. "Face it, Jim, she's your fantasy girl," my mother used to say. "Beautiful, exotic, and she waits on you hand and foot. Next time we go up to The Hillview we should bring her back home with us." "I don't need a fantasy girl," Jim would answer. "I need a feisty old woman who can jump off a burning building but is totally dependent on me to light the barbecue." "Feisty old women die," my Mom would tell him. "When I do, take my advice and go back for this one."

They used to joke about it, but somehow that night it seemed to make perfect sense. Jim offered Angel a job as his housekeeper. Much to his surprise she said, Gracias, but no. He called me the next morning, totally wounded. "Can you believe it? I offered her more money than she makes at the hotel, plus free room and board, and she said no." "So hire somebody else," I said. "L.A. is knee-deep in housekeepers. There's got to be at least one out there who could tolerate working for you." "No dice," he said. "This is the one your mother thought

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The Rabbit Factory

would make a good housekeeper. I'm going back next weekend and offer her the job again." Angel said no again. Now Jim was pissed. He drove back to L.A. and bitched and moaned to Joanie and me over fried chicken and beer. "I offered her an extra hundred a week, her own car, a TV in her room, a VCR, whatever she needs, and she still turns me down. I give up." "Give it one more shot," Joanie said. "Try offering her dinner." Jim and Angel started dating. Six months later, he asked her if she'd like to leave The Hillview and move in with him. Permanently. This time she said, I do.

It was 8 p.m. when I pulled into El Rancho Lomax. Only thirty minutes late. Not bad for a cop. Angel's spring flowers were starting to bloom and the Mexican-style decorative lights along the pathways heralded their arrival.

The house itself started out in the 1930s as a rambling, single-story California Hacienda. It was, I am told, semi-tasteful for its day. But over the years, it expanded without any architectural rhyme or reason. The original white stucco exterior has been joined by an eclectic combination of red brick, bluestone, clapboards, and oak beams. In the ultimate insult, my parents, who were far more pragmatic than artistic, covered several of the add-on sections with vulgar vinyl siding from Sears. There are also four undistinguished, industrial-strength outbuildings on the property, whose sole function is to house vehicles, not people. Buckingham Palace it's not, but every time I pull into the driveway, that big old eyesore feels like home to me.

There was a car in the driveway that I didn't recognize. A black Jeep Cherokee. I figured it must belong to the pilot, and right now he's waiting for his wine to arrive. I've met more than

my share of Jim's fly-boy friends, usually colorful war veterans who can regale you for hours with the gory details of every bombing mission they ever flew. Boy, was I not in the mood for that.

Angel opened the front door. "Mike," she said, singing my name, her eyes radiating joy like she was genuinely happy just to hear me ring the bell. "You're looking well."

"And you look like a Latin movie star ready for her close up. Perfect hair, perfect makeup." She gave me a big, stepmotherly hug and kiss. "And you smell fantastic," I said. "I hope my father knows what a lucky man he is."

"I tell him ten times a day, but it couldn't hurt if you remind him."

Skunkie was right behind Angel, patiently waiting for me to notice him. The Skunk is a photogenic mutt with shaggy hair that's black and white and about forty shades of gray. In a world full of yapping, high-strung, Type-A dogs, Skunkie is the low maintenance exception. He's loving, mellow, and zero trouble, which is why he's the only dog allowed to live in the house. The other three have to be content with the kennel out back.

Skunkie sat at my feet, his tail sweeping the floor as I bent down to say hello. He tilted his head quizzically, which I decided was his way of asking about Joanie. He hadn't seen her since she got sick over a year ago, so I'm pretty sure he was concerned. He's that kind of dog. No pedigree, but extremely sensitive.

I handed Angel the bottle of wine and followed her into the living room. Big Jim was already out of his oversized brown La-Z-Boy and bounding over so he could crush me to death in his loving arms.

"Detective Lomax, I'm so pleased you could make it," he

bellowed after I came out of the bear hug. "I want you to meet one of my fellow pilots. This is Diana Trantanella. Diana's one of those misguided pilots who still flies a high wing. A Cessna 172. I'm trying to get her to switch to a real airplane."

I had hardly noticed her sitting in the corner of the sofa when I entered the room. She stood up, and I could immediately see there was a lot to notice. This was definitely not some ancient bombardier here to share war stories. Diana had the clean, wholesome look of a high school cheerleader who had made a graceful transition into her early forties. Her hair was that curious shade of California dirty blonde which I'm never sure is real or store-bought, but which works for me, no matter what its origins. She was wearing a casual summery dress, that salmony, pinkish color that blondes always look great in. She had what my mother used to call a 'lovely figure,' which meant that she'd never make the centerfold of Playboy, but any man who spent the night with her would surely thank the Almighty for His generosity.

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She extended her right hand, which had, of all things, a Rambunctious Rabbit watch on the wrist. Small weird world. I'd have to tell Biggs. There appeared to be no jewelry on her left hand, ŚI emphasis on the ring finger. "Big Jim has told me so much about you. It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said, shaking my hand. I quickly made a few more mental notes. Five-foot-six. Pretty blue eyes. Sexy voice. Drop dead smile. I was really pissed.

Pilot, schmilot, this was a goddam fix-up. Granted, at first sight, she looked to be a nine and a half on a scale of one to ten, but that didn't change the fact that my well-meaning father had ambushed me with an unwanted dinner date. There are worse fates, I know, but I was not prepared to make an evening

I of it with this woman. Not this evening.

I shook her hand grudgingly, giving only about five percent of the enthusiasm that she gave when she shook mine. I then muttered that I had brought wine and excused myself to go to the little boys' room. In addition to all her other attributes, Diana apparently also has excellent antennae. She caught my Fm-not-interested vibe and turned on a dime. By the time I got back from the bathroom, she had gone from happy-to-meet-me to politely chatting with Angel in the kitchen. Jim and I had our drinks in the living room and quietly watched the Dodgers get their asses kicked by the Mets. Dinner was a little more sociable. Four people sitting around a table tend to make small talk. We tried. Jim asked what I was working on these days. In deference to Amy Cheever and the Governor of California, I decided it wouldn't be wise to bring up the Lamaar murder with Diana in the room. So I mentioned the dentist who got stabbed at the Bottoms Up. Diana literally dropped her fork. "Oh, my God. Alan Trachtenberg?"

"You knew him?" I asked. '

"Not well, but I work with his wife, Jan. We're nurses at Valley General. She's in Maternity; I'm in Pediatrics. Have you caught whoever killed him?" f ' "Not yet." I said. "But a lot of things say it could be drug related."

"That doesn't shock me. Alan had a real problem. Jan and I have talked about it many times. I'm sure she told you." "Not right away," I said. "But we're aware of it now."

"This chicken is delicious, Angel," Diana said. "And I can't

get over how fluffy this rice is." My connection to the Trachtenberg case had briefly opened the door to a real dialogue. Diana was now shutting the door. "Thank you, Diana," Angel said. "It's just regular rice from the box."

"My rice usually cooks up into one big sticky lump," Diana said.

I caught the look on my father's face. The women are now talking about rice. I hope you're happy.

I decided to make an effort. "So, Diana, how long have you been flying?"

"A year and a half. I took it up after my husband died. It helped a lot with the grieving process." She smiled, "Plus it gets me four thousand feet closer to God." She let the smile dissolve into a look of concern and compassion. "I understand your wife died recently. I'm sorry for your loss." "Thanks, and I'm sorry for yours." Now I understood Jim's logic. Recent widower meets recent widow. A match made in Teamster Heaven. "Have you ever considered taking up flying?" she asked.

"About ten years ago my brother Frankie and I took a few lessons," I said. "It just didn't do it for us."

"Speaking of Frankie," our father said, "what do you hear from him?"

"Not much. It's been over a week," I said. "But you know Frankie, the telephone is not his favorite way to communicate." ; "Unless he's putting his money down on a basketball team," Jim said. I could tell he regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. He tried lamely to recover. "He's a good kid," he told Diana. "Runs a health club in Beverly Hills." Jim turned back to me. "If