"Ever married? If it's none of my business, just say so."
"That's all right. No, I never married."
"You do pretty good for not having a woman around."
"I've had a lot of practice. Can I ask you a question?"
"Shoot."
"Where are you from? Taiwan?"
"I have a knack for languages. Back home, I spoke pidgin American, but when I got here I cleaned up my act. I also speak rotten French, illiterate Chinese in four or five varieties, gutter Vietnamese, and enough Thai to holler, 'Me wanna see American Consul, pretty-damn-quick, you!' "
I laughed. When she said it, her accent was thick.
"I been here eight years now. You figured out where home is?"
"Vietnam?" I ventured.
"The sidewalks of Saigon, fer shure. Or Ho Chi Minh's Shitty, as the pajama-heads re-named it, may their dinks rot off and their butts be filled with jagged punjee-sticks. Pardon my French."
She ducked her head in embarrassment. What had started out light had turned hot very quickly. I sensed a hurt at least as deep as my own, and we both backed off from it.
"I took you for a Japanese," I said.
"Yeah, ain't it a pisser? I'll tell you about it some day. Victor, is that a laundry room through that door there? With an electric washer?"
"That's right."
"Would it be too much trouble if I did a load?"
It was no trouble at all. She had seven pairs of faded jeans, some with the legs cut away, and about two dozen T-shirts. It could have been a load of boys' clothing except for the frilly underwear.
We went into the back yard to sit in the last rays of the setting sun, then she had to see my garden. I'm quite proud of it. When I'm well, I spend four or five hours a day working out there, year-round, usually in the morning hours. You can do that in southern California. I have a small greenhouse I built myself.
She loved it, though it was not in its best shape. I had spent most of the week in bed or in the tub. As a result, weeds were sprouting here and there.
"We had a garden when I was little," she said. "And I spent two years in a rice paddy."
"That must be a lot different than this."
"Damn straight. Put me off rice for years."
She discovered an infestation of aphids, so we squatted down to pick them off. She had that double-jointed Asian peasant's way of sitting that I remembered so well and could never imitate. Her fingers were long and narrow, and soon the tips of them were green from squashed bugs.
We talked about this and that. I don't remember quite how it came up, but I told her I had fought in Korea. I learned she was twenty-five. It turned out we had the same birthday, so some months back I had been exactly twice her age.
The only time Kluge's name came up was when she mentioned how she liked to cook. She hadn't been able to at Kluge's house.
"He has a freezer in the garage full of frozen dinners," she said. "He had one plate, one fork, one spoon, and one glass. He's got the best microwave oven on the market. And that's it, man. Ain't nothing else in his kitchen at all." She shook her head, and executed an aphid. "He was one weird dude."
When her laundry was done it was late evening, almost dark. She loaded it into my wicker basket and we took it out to the clothesline. It got to be a game. I would shake out a T-shirt and study the picture or message there. Sometimes I got it, and sometimes I didn't. There were pictures of rock groups, a map of Los Angeles, Star Trek tie-ins… a little of everything.
"What's the L5 Society?" I asked her.
"Guys that want to build these great big farms in space. I asked 'em if they were gonna grow rice, and they said they didn't think it was the best crop for zero gee, so I bought the shirt."
"How many of these things do you have?"
"Wow, it's gotta be four or five hundred. I usually wear 'em two or three times and then put them away."
I picked up another shirt, and a bra fell out. It wasn't the kind of bra girls wore when I was growing up. It was very sheer, though somehow functional at the same time.
"You like, Yank?" Her accent was very thick. "You oughtta see my sister!"
I glanced at her, and her face fell.
"I'm sorry, Victor," she said. "You don't have to blush." She took the bra from me and clipped it to the line.
She must have mis-read my face. True, I had been embarrassed, but I was also pleased in some strange way. It had been a long time since anybody had called me anything but Victor or Mr. Apfel.
The next day's mail brought a letter from a law firm in Chicago. It was about the seven hundred thousand dollars. The money had come from a Delaware holding company which had been set up in 1933 to provide for me in my old age. My mother and father were listed as the founders. Certain long-term investments had matured, resulting in my recent windfall. The amount in my bank was after taxes.
It was ridiculous on the face of it. My parents had never had that kind of money. I didn't want it. I would have given it back if I could find out who Kluge had stolen it from.
I decided that, if I wasn't in jail this time next year, I'd give it all to some charity. Save the Whales, maybe, or the L5 Society.
I spent the morning in the garden. Later I walked to the market and bought some fresh ground beef and pork. I was feeling good as I pulled my purchases home in my fold-up wire basket. When I passed the silver Ferrari I smiled.
She hadn't come to get her laundry. I took it off the line and folded it, then knocked on Kluge's door.
"It's me. Victor."
"Come on in, Yank."
She was where she had been before, but decently dressed this time. She smiled at me, then hit her forehead when she saw the laundry basket. She hurried to take it from me.
"I'm sorry, Victor. I meant to get this-"
"Don't worry about it," I said. "It was no trouble. And it gives me the chance to ask if you'd like to dine with me again."
Something happened to her face which she covered quickly. Perhaps she didn't like "American" food as much as she professed to. Or maybe it was the cook.
"Sure, Victor, I'd love to. Let me take care of this. And why don't you open those drapes? It's like a tomb in here."
She hurried away. I glanced at the screen she had been using. It was blank, but for one word: intercourse-p. I assumed it was a typo.
I pulled the drapes open in time to see Osborne's car park at the curb. Then Lisa was back, wearing a new T-shirt. This one said A CHANGE OF HOBBIT, and had a picture of a squat, hairy-footed creature. She glanced out the window and saw Osborne coming up the walk.
"I say, Watson," she said. "It's Lestrade of the Yard. Do show him in."
That wasn't nice of her. He gave me a suspicious glance as he entered. I burst out laughing. Lisa sat on the piano bench, poker-faced. She slumped indolently, one arm resting near the keyboard.
"Well, Apfel," Osborne started. "We've finally found out who Kluge really was."
"Patrick William Gavin," Lisa said.
Quite a time went by before Osborne was able to close his mouth. Then he opened it right up again.
"How the hell did you find that out?"
She lazily caressed the keyboard beside her.
"Well, of course I got it when it came into your office this morning. There's a little stoolie program tucked away in your computer that whispers in my ear every time the name Kluge is mentioned. But I didn't need that. I figured it out five days ago."