She pouted the lips at him, giving him attitude. 'I gotta go to the store. I got things to buy.'
'You think you're gonna run around with your cunt friends while I'm bustin' my ass? You think you're gonna spend my dough in some fuckin' mall?'
'We're outta mayonnaise. We're outta those little pickles.'
He jumped up and grabbed her right arm. 'You're gonna stay here and clean this fuckin' rathole, that's what you're gonna do!'
I stood.
She tried to twist away from him, screaming, 'You piece of shit! I'm not your fuckin' slave!' She pounded at him with her left fist, pretty good shots that nailed him on the head and face and chest until he was able to grab her left arm, too.
'James.' The ache in my neck had moved up to my scalp. Never a good sign.
She said, 'You're hurtin' me, you asshole!'
'James. Leave go of her.'
James Lester said, 'Fuck you. This is my house. This is my wife. She's gonna do what I say or I'll give'r a fat lip!'
I held up my right index finger. 'Watch the finger, James. I want to show you something.'
His eyes went to the finger, like maybe it was a trick, only he couldn't figure out what the trick might be.
'Are you watching my finger?'
'Suck my ass.' She was watching my right finger, too.
I hit him flush on the nose with a left.
He yelled, 'Ow!' and grabbed at his face with both hands. He stumbled back and tripped over the little side table. Jonna Lester leaned over him, wiggled her butt, and yelled, 'Ha-ha, asshole!' Some wife.
James Lester was on his back, eyes watering, blinking at me. He said, 'You piece of shit. You wait'll I get up!'
I put my notes in the manila envelope, then went to the door. Lucy was probably in the midst of her negotiation right now. Ben was probably watching Jodi Taylor shoot a scene right now. The world was turning on its axis right now.
I said, 'Thanks for the statement, James. If anything comes of it we'll be in touch about the reward.'
'You better not jew me out of that reward! I'm gonna call the cops, you hear? I'm gonna have you arrested!'
I left them to their lives and walked out into the sun. You want to do the right thing, but sometimes there is no right thing to be done.
Another day, another moron. And to think, some people have to work for a living.
CHAPTER 12
The Hangar was a small, bright hole-in-the-fence-type bar wedged between a place that sold balsa-wood rocket kits and another place that repaired appliances. They were doing a pretty good lunch business when I got there, selling chili tacos and grilled sausages to people swilling down schooners of beer. Both of the bartenders were women in their fifties, and neither of them knew a blond guy named Steve who worked for Shell. I didn't expect that they would, but you never know. The older of the two women called me'sweetie.' The younger of the two didn't like it very much. Jealous.
I bought a grilled sausage with kraut, a schooner of Miller, and asked if they'd mind letting me use their phone book. The older one didn't, but the younger one warned me not to walk out with it. I assured them that I wouldn't. The younger one told me to be careful not to spill anything on it. The older one asked the younger one why she always had to make such a big thing, and the younger one said what if I ruined it? I assured them that I'd buy them a new phone book if I ruined the loaner. The older one said, 'Oh, don't you give it another thought, sweetie,' and the younger one went down to the far end of the bar and sulked.
Half the schooner later I had addresses for the nine Shell service stations located in the El Monte,' Baldwin Park,' West Covina area. I finished the sausage, thanked the older one for her help, and made the round of the Shell stations. At each stop I spoke to the manager or assistant manager, identified myself, and asked if a tall blond guy named Steve had worked there anytime in the past six months. At the first four stations I visited, the answer was no, but at the fifth station the manager said, 'You mean Pritzik?'
'Who's Pritzik?'
'We had a fellow named Steve Pritzik.' The manager was a Persian gentleman named Mr Pavlavi. He was short and round and stood in the shade of his maintenance center with his arms crossed. His maintenance center, like the rest of his service station, was polished and gleaming.
I said, 'Was he tall?'
'Oh, yes. Very tall.'
'Was he blond?'
'Oh, yes. Very blond.'
I said, 'Mr Pavlavi, is he employed here now?' Just because a tall blond guy named Steve worked here didn't mean it was the same tall blond Steve. Maybe it was just a coincidence.
Pavlavi frowned. 'Not in a very long while. He quit, you know. One day here, the next day not, never to return.' He sighed as if such things are the stuff of life, to be expected and therefore no great cause for anxiety or resentment.
'About how long ago was that?'
'Well,' he said. 'Let us see.'
He led me into the air-conditioned office and took a ledger from his desk. The ledger was filled with page after page of handwriting that, like the service station, was immaculate. 'Pritzik was last here exactly one hundred two days ago.'
'Hm.' Steve Pritzik had last been in four days before Susan Martin's murder.
'I owe him forty-eight dollars and sixteen cents, but he has not been in to collect. I will keep it for exactly one year, then give it to charity.'
'Mr Pavlavi, would you have an address on Pritzik?'
He did, and he gave it to me.
Steve Pritzik lived in one of a cluster of six small duplex cottages in an older neighborhood at the base of the Puente Hills, not far from the Pomona Freeway. The duplexes were single-story stucco and clap-board buildings stepping up the side of the hill and overgrown with original planting fruit trees and ivy and climbing roses.
I parked at the curb, then made my way up broken cement steps, looking for Pritzik's address. The steps were narrow, and the heavy growth of ivy and roses made them feel still more narrow. Pritzik's apartment was the western half of the third duplex up from the street. Each side of the cottage had its own little porch, separated by a couple of ancient orange trees and a trellis of roses. The eastern.porch was neat and clean and decorated by a small cactus garden. Pritzik's porch was dirty and unadorned, and his mailbox was heavy with letters and flyers. I rang the bell and could hear it inside, but no one answered. I listened harder. Nothing. I went to the mailbox and fingered through gas and phone and electric bills. They weren't addressed to Steve Pritzik; they were addressed to a Mr Elton Richards. Hmm. I walked around the orange trees and up onto the adjoining porch and rang the bell. You could hear music inside. Alanis Morissette.
A woman in her late twenties opened the door. 'Yes?' She had long dark hair and great floppy bangs and she was wearing cutoff jeans under an oversized man's T-shirt. The T-shirt was blotched with small smears of color. So were her hands.
I gave her the card and introduced myself. 'I'm trying to find a guy named Steve Pritzik. I think he lives or used to live next door.'
She read the card and grinned. 'Are you really a private eye?'
'Pretty amazing, huh?'
She grinned wider and nodded. 'Cool.'
'You know Pritzik?'
She offered the card back, but I raised a hand, telling her to keep it. 'I don't think so. Elton lives next door.'
'Is Elton tall and blond?'
'Oh, no. He's short and kinda dark.' Ah. She rolled her eyes. 'He's such a creep. He's always hitting on me, so I try to avoid him.'
'I was just over there, and it looks like Elton hasn't been around.' I told her about the mail.