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“What kind of service?” Kerry said. “The Private-Eye Special — in at ten, out at ten-oh-five?”

I sighed. “I hate snappy comebacks,” I said.

“That’s because you can never think of one yourself.”

We went on like that for a while, bantering the way lovers do, and by the time we said good-bye I was pining away for her. Who needed a blonde when you could run your fingers through rich red hair as soft as velvet? Who needed a forty-two-inch bust when you could snuggle up to seven inches less around the chest but a whole lot more elsewhere, all of it slender and smooth and—

Cut it out, you horny old fart. It’s only Friday and you just got here.

I tried to call Eberhardt, to find out if any business had come our way during the day and to tell him what a terrific time I was having so he’d want to go to next year’s convention; that way I could get even with him. But he wasn’t at the office. And he wasn’t home yet either.

Which left me with nothing much to do except to read one of the pulps I’d brought along as trade items for Charley Valdene. At six o’clock I got up, not without great reluctance, and combed my hair and put my suit coat back on and rode the elevator down to the mezzanine.

The convention was in full swing. Hundreds of people milling around and chattering and fondling voice recorders and wiretaps and each other, a riot of swirling color and half-naked flesh and name tags and plastic wine cups and glistening machinery. I stood outside the elevator for a time, taking it all in and marshaling my courage. And then, like a soldier on a suicide mission, I girded my loins and gritted my teeth and plunged into the midst of it with no hope at all.

5: McCone

As I drove back to my parents’ home in the Mission Hills district of the city, a kind of low, flat mood stole over me. I had spent very little time in San Diego during the past ten years, and now that I was here for what might be an extended visit, nothing felt right.

The city had changed, of course. Where there had once been a funky auto ferry from Coronado Island to the mainland, there was now a white soaring expanse of bridge. New, tall buildings lined the downtown streets. And the town limits had spread, shopping centers and housing tracts obliterating what had once been wild canyons.

But the biggest change was really in the people. I looked at my mother and father and saw they had more wrinkles and tired easily. My sister Charlene, down from Los Angeles for the week with her four kids, was pregnant again, and her poor color and lack of appetite told me this time things weren’t going so well. John, naturally, had his troubles. Joey, my other brother, was still trying to decide what to do with his life, but his willingness to try everything and settle on nothing wasn’t as charming as it had been five years ago. Patsy, my littlest sister, wasn’t even here; she lived on a farm up near Ukiah, and Lord knew when I’d ever see her again — or if we’d have anything to say to each other when we did.

And then there were my old friends. I’d come down two days ago and, since my mother had spread the word, the phone had immediately started ringing. The calls led to a gathering the next night at my friend Donna’s house, out in an area of expensive homes near San Diego State. And that had been a disaster.

First there was Donna, who had married a guy from our high-school class. He had done well in computers. They had a four-bedroom house with a pool; two children, a boy and a girl, well behaved as far as I could tell; country club membership; boat at a Mission Bay marina; twice-yearly trips to Hawaii.

And Donna was scared to death of me.

She had perched on the edge of the couch waiting for the others to arrive and asked polite questions — how was my family, was I settled in my new house yet, was I glad to be back in San Diego? And all the time she watched me, nervously, warily, as if she expected me to do something peculiar. Then the others had arrived: Tina, a new embittered divorcee; Janey, still teaching school, still looking for Mr. Right; Connie, now a bank vice-president, married to “another professional”; Amy, wife of a professor at State, looking comfortable and sloppy as ever.

And they were all afraid of me too.

To ease the tension, we had had some wine, and then some more wine. And when the questions started to flow, I realized what was wrong. Despite the fact they were all different from one another, I was more different yet. In fact, to them I was strange. After all, I was a detective. I consorted with underworld characters, I carried a gun, I had — for God’s sake — even shot a man to death. The questions went on and on; I could see the vicarious excitement gleaming in their eyes; and when I finally couldn’t take it anymore, I had escaped early.

I didn’t like to put much stock in old adages, but now I saw the truth in the one about not being able to go home again.

The street was crowded with cars when I pulled up to my parents’ home at the end of the cul-de-sac. Getting out of the MG, I spotted their next-door neighbor, Mr. Murphy, and realized some things never change. He was sweeping his sidewalk, pushing the dead leaves and twigs down onto the walk in front of my parents’ house. And when he saw me, he leaned on the broom and glared.

“Hi, Mr. Murphy,” I called, and waved.

He glowered harder and turned his back. I smiled and went up the front walk. You’d think he’d have mellowed with the years, but no, Mr. Murphy, along with the pyramids of Egypt and a few other immutables, would go on and on. He’d never forgive the McCones for their too numerous kids and cars and parties that sometimes brought the cops. He’d never forget the night that John and Joey had toilet-papered the trees in front of his house. Mr. Murphy would go on glaring and sweeping as long as there was breath in his body.

And somehow that pleased me. It gave me the stability that had been missing during the last two days.

I pushed open the front door and went in, dumping my purse on the table in the hall. The place was a big, rambling ranch house. Originally it had stood on an acre of land, but as more kids had arrived and more room was needed, it had expanded until it sprawled haphazardly toward all four lot lines. Bedrooms had been added in one direction, and in the other the kitchen had been moved twice, until it was now at the extreme end of the house. From year to year nothing had ever been in the same place; in a way it was like moving without ever having to pack.

Ahead of me was the old living room, which had been converted into a playroom, and beyond that what was left of the backyard — the part with the pool. The pool had been there when Ma and Pa had bought the house, but it had later been cracked by a sonic boom from the fighter planes at Miramar Naval Air Station. My parents had sued the Navy, but had never been able to prove their case, and since they couldn’t afford to repair the pool, eventually they’d had a couple of loads of dirt hauled in, filled it, and turned it into a vegetable garden. We’d always had plenty of zucchini and corn and melons, and since we hadn’t been raised to expect luxury, it was no hardship to drive to the beach for a swim.

I went through the playroom, stepping carefully over stuffed animals and games, and went outside. The brick barbecue was going full blast, but no one was to be seen. Taking a shortcut around the grape arbor, I entered the kitchen by the side door.

My mother stood at the center chopping block, making hamburgers. Her long hair, red streaked with gray, was fastened on the top of her head with a couple of barrettes, and beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead. When she heard me close the door, she turned and said, “Aha! There’s the prodigal daughter. Did you get registered at the convention all right?”

“Yes.” I grinned at her and then at Charlene, who leaned heavily against the refrigerator, her shape reminiscent of the back end of a Volkswagen Beetle. She was a curly haired towhead, like the rest of my siblings. Although there is an eighth Shoshone Indian blood in the McCone family, I’m the only one it came out in — a genetic accident unkindly labeled a “throwback.” I’ve taken plenty of abuse in my time because of that label.