The watch on her right arm sparkled with diamonds as she consulted it again. The waiter made no attempt to leave as she pulled something out of a white clutch. An ivory cigarette holder that she rolled slowly between slender fingers.
Robin said, “Someone’s channeling Audrey Hepburn.”
The girl crossed her legs and the dress rode up nearly crotch high. She made no attempt to smooth it.
I said, “Audrey was a lot more subtle.”
“Then someone else from that era. Hey, maybe she’s who Dudley Do-Right’s guarding.”
I looked around the room. “Can’t see anyone else who’d fit.”
“Someone that cute all alone?”
“She’s waiting for someone,” I said. “That’s the fifth time she checked the time.”
“Maybe that’s why I thought of Audrey. Roman Holiday, poor little princess all on her lonesome.” She laughed and snuggled against me. “Listen to us. The chance to be together and we’re messing in someone else’s business.”
The girl produced a cigarette, fit it into the holder, and licked the ivory tip before inserting it between her lips, half-smiling at the waiter, wide-eyed.
He fumbled in his pockets, shook his head. Out of her clutch came an ivory lighter that she held out to him. He lit her up. She inhaled greedily.
No smoking in bars has been California law for years. When the girl in white created haze, no one protested. A moment later, someone across the room was also blowing nicotine. Then two more orange dots materialized. Then four.
Soon the place was hazy and toxic and oddly pleasant for it. The commercial ended. Music resumed. Some imitation of Roberta Flack being killed softly.
Robin and I had been ignored for nearly ten minutes while Red Jacket lingered with the girl in white. When she turned away from him and began concentrating on her martini, he returned to the bar, chatted with the befuddled brunette.
Robin laughed. “I am definitely losing my touch.”
“Want to go?”
“And lower my odds for lung cancer? Perish.”
“Okay, I’ll go educate Surfer Joe.”
“Be gentle, darling. He’s still wrestling with puberty.”
As I stood, the barkeep said something to Red Jacket and he swiveled. Mouthed an O.
Loping over, he grinned. “Hey. You just get here?”
Robin said, “Seconds ago.”
“Great … er … so … welcome to the Fowlburg. What can I get you guys?”
“We guys,” I said, “will have a sidecar on the rocks with light sugar on the rim, and Chivas neat, water on the side.”
“A sidecar,” he said. “That’s a drink, right? I mean, it’s not a sandwich. ’Cause the kitchen’s basically closed, we just got nuts and crackers.”
“It’s a drink,” I said. “Any wasabi peas left?”
“There are no vegetables anywhere.”
“That’s a bar snack. Peas coated with wasabi.”
Blank look.
Despite Robin’s soft elbow in my ribs, I said, “Wasabi’s that green horseradish they put on sushi.”
“Oh,” he said. “We don’t got sushi.”
“We’ll just take whatever you have.”
“I think we got almonds.” He ticked a finger. “Okay, so it’s champagne and a … sidecar.”
“A sidecar and Chivas,” I said. “That’s a blended whiskey.”
“Sure. Of course.” Slapping his forehead. “I never did this before.”
“You’re kidding.”
Robin kicked my shin.
“A sidecar,” he said, repeating it again in a mumble. “… They just called from the temp agency yesterday, said there’s a place closing down, you got five hours to get over there if you want it, Neil. Mostly I work in places with no drinking.”
“McDonald’s?” I said.
Kick kick kick.
“That was in the beginning,” said Neil. “Then I did two years at Marie Callender’s.” Grin. “All the pie you can eat, man I was getting fat.” Then I lost that and signed up with the temp agency and they sent me here. Too bad it’s only one night. This is a cool old place.”
“Sure is. Too bad they’re tearing it down.”
“Yeah … but that’s the way it is, guys, right? Old stuff dies.”
“We’ll take those drinks, now. And those almonds, if you have them.”
“Last time I checked we did, but you never know.”
As he turned to leave the girl in white slipped on oversized, gold-framed sunglasses with lenses so dark they had to be blinding her. Sucking on her cigarette, she twirled the holder, stretched coltish legs, ran a finger along the side of a clean, smooth jaw. Licked her lips.
Red Jacket watched her, transfixed.
Robin said, “She is beautiful, Neil.”
He wheeled. “So are you, ma’am. Um … oh, man, sorry, that came out weird. Sorry.”
Robin touched his hand. “Don’t worry about it, dear.”
“Um, I better get those drinks.”
When he was gone, I said, “See, you’ve still got it going on.”
“He probably looks at me like I’m his mother.”
I hummed “Mrs. Robinson.” She kicked me harder. But not enough to hurt. Our relationship’s not that complicated.
CHAPTER
3
The sidecar devolved to a screwdriver, the Chivas was a whiskey slushy, overwhelmed by crushed ice. We laughed and I tossed bills on the table and we got up to leave.
From across the room, Neil held up his palms in a what-me-worry gesture. I pretended not to notice.
As we passed Snow White, giant sunglasses now off, her eyes met mine. Big, dark, moist. Not seductive.
Welling with tears?
Her lower lip dropped, then clamped shut. She avoided my glance and smoked single-mindedly.
Suddenly her getup seemed sad, nothing but a costume.
Neil nearly tripped over himself bringing the check but when he saw the cash, he detoured to Snow White’s table.
She shook her head and he slinked off.
A commercial for ecologically sound detergent rasped the smoky air.
When we got back outside, Dudley Do-Right was gone.
Robin said, “Guess we were wrong about Snowy being his charge.”
“Guess we were wrong about taking a final jaunt on the Titanic. Let’s go somewhere else and try to redeem the night.”
She took my arm as we headed for the Seville. “Nothing to redeem. I’ve got you, you’ve got me, and despite those killer legs, that poor little thing has no one. But sure, some real drinks would be nice. After that, we’ll see what develops.”
“Mistress of suspense,” I said.
She tousled my hair. “Not really, you know the ending.”
I woke at six the following morning, found her at the kitchen window, washing her coffee cup and gazing at the pines and sycamores that rim our property to the east. Polygons of pink and gray sky out through the green; intensely saturated color, bordering on harsh. Sunrise in Beverly Glen can be a brittle splendor.
We walked Blanche for an hour, then Robin headed to her studio and I sat down to finish some child custody reports for the court. By noon, I was done and emailing recommendations to various judges. A few were likely to listen. As I put the hard copy in a drawer and locked up, the doorbell buzzed.
Shave and haircut, six bits followed by three impatient beeps.
I padded to the living room. “It’s open, big guy.”
Milo pushed the door open and stomped in swinging his battered, olive vinyl attaché case wide, as if preparing to swing it away. “Step right in, Mr. Manson, then hold the door for Mr. Night Stalker.”
“Morning.”
“All these years I still can’t convince you to exercise normal caution.”
“I’ve got you as backup.”