“Spending the night with a dead body,” Mrs. McCone was saying, “and a crucified body at that. Horrible. And then getting shot. Shot in the... shot, for heaven’s sake. My little girl. Horrible.” She did something to the crab cioppino and then looked at me again. “Have you ever been shot?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have? Then why are you still a detective?”
“It’s what I do.”
“Wouldn’t you like to have another job where your life wouldn’t be in danger all the time?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
She sighed. “I suppose that’s how Sharon feels too. I suppose she’ll keep right on being a detective.”
“I suppose she will.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if she had a man around to watch out for her,” Mrs. McCone said again. “I wouldn’t worry so much if she was married.”
I hid my tongue behind my teeth and kept it there.
“An older man would be best for her. Not that young disc jockey she’s seeing now — Don; he’s not stable enough. A mature man is what she needs.” Pause. “I’ve never understood the objection to May-December romances, have you?”
“Mm,” I said.
“Sometimes they work out very nicely. It all depends on the man and woman involved.”
“Mm,” I said.
She did something else to the cioppino. “Sharon tells me you’re not married,” she said casually.
“Uh, no, I’m not. But I—”
“Ever been married?”
“No.”
“You’re not a confirmed bachelor, are you?”
“Well, not exactly...”
“That’s good. I don’t trust confirmed bachelors. They have quirks.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How long have you been a detective?” she asked.
“Almost all of my adult life.”
“Do you make a good living? Sharon doesn’t, you know.”
“I get by all right.”
“I’ll bet you’re very successful,” Mrs. McCone said, smiling. “I can always tell when a man is successful at what he does.”
Outside, Mr. McCone’s humming had grown louder and more jaunty. Now he burst into snatches of song that came drifting in through the open kitchen window.
Mrs. McCone said, “Are you Catholic?”
“Ma’am?”
“Catholic. Most Italians are Catholic.”
“Well, I was raised a Catholic, yes.”
“Mr. McCone and I are Catholics,” she said. “Our children — well, they have minds of their own. Or pretend to. But Andy and I are very devout.”
Outside, the devout Mr. McCone was singing in a reedy tenor:
Mrs. McCone cocked an ear. Then she went to the back door, opened it, stuck her head out, and said to Mr. McCone, who had paused for breath, “Andy, I would appreciate it if you would confine your singing to the garage. We have a guest.” Then she shut the door and came back to where I was. As if she hadn’t moved at all, and Mr. McCone hadn’t been singing a song in the backyard about Onan the jerk, she said, “You’re fond of Sharon, aren’t you? I know she’s fond of you.”
“Oh, sure. She’s like the daughter I never had.”
“Daughter?”
“I wish I’d gotten married a long time ago so I could have had a daughter just like her. But I guess it’s too late now. I mean, even if my fiancée and I get married next month and have a little girl next spring, I’d be eighty-nine and probably dead by the time she reached Sharon’s age.”
“Fiancée?”
“We’re very much in love,” I said solemnly.
Mrs. McCone looked disappointed. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”
The telephone rang. She went over to the kitchen extension and said hello, paused, and then put the receiver down and announced that the call was for me.
I stood up, thinking that it must be Tom Knowles. I had spent last night in Pacific Beach with Charley Valdene, at his invitation; and when I’d left this morning Valdene, who was taking the day off work, had volunteered to pass along word that I could be reached here at the McCones’ in the event either the sheriff’s department or the SDPD needed anything further from me.
But it wasn’t Knowles or anybody else on the cops. It was Eberhardt. And damned if he didn’t sound drunk. “Hiya, paisan,” he said. “Hell of a P.I. I am, huh? Tracked you right down.”
“What is it, Eb? Something come up?”
“Something came up, all right,” he said, and snickered. “Listen, hang on, I got somebody here wants to say hello.”
“Eb...”
Another voice, a shrill feminine voice that sounded even drunker than Eberhardt’s, said in my ear, “Hi! This is Wanda.”
“Who?”
“Wanda. You know, Ebbie told you ‘bout me. Told me ‘bout you too. You muss be quite a guy. Can’t wait to meet you.”
“Uh,” I said.
“What a party it’s gonna be!” Wanda said. “Boy!”
“Party?”
“Here’s Ebbie. He’ll tell you.”
“Me again, paisan,” Eberhardt’s voice said. “Ain’t she something? Wait’ll you meet her.”
“Listen, Ebbie, what the hell is going on up there? You’re not at the office, are you?”
“Nah. Taking the day off.”
“You’re drunk. What’s the idea of calling me like this?”
“Wanted you be the first to know the big news.”
“What big news?”
“Wanda and me — we’re getting married.”
“What!”
“Yeah. I popped the question little while ago and we been celebrating. Champagne, five bucks a bottle. Bet you’re surprised, huh?”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t have said anything if I’d wanted to.
“We haven’t set the date yet, so don’t worry ‘bout that,” Eberhardt said. “You’re gonna be my best man. Wouldn’t have anybody else.” Whispers and giggles in the background. “Got to go now, paisan. You tell Kerry, huh? Four of us’ll get together real soon. Want you both meet Wanda right away.”
He hung up. I hung up too, and stood there trying to get my mouth closed. Eberhardt and Wanda-from-Macy’s. Married. Jesus Christ!
Mrs. McCone was looking at me. “Did you have some bad news?” she asked solicitously.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said, “but I think so.”
Mr. McCone had begun singing again outside:
Yeah, I thought, and his name sure as hell isn’t Eberhardt.
Mrs. McCone frowned and shut the window. Then she said, “Well, I’m sure everything will work out for you. I just hope it does for Sharon. She really does need a man to look after her. Marriage would settle her down—”
“I heard that, Ma,” Sharon’s voice said from the doorway. She came waddling in on her cane; in spite of the gunk on her blistered face, she looked pretty good for a member of the walking wounded. “Why do you have to keep pushing marriage all the time? I’m not even sure I want to get married.”