“Speaking of the kid,” I said, “they say he comes straight out of the Halls of Records.”
She laughed. “And you want to know if I’ve heard anything about that? Sorry, Bobby. What do you care, anyway? They didn’t stick you with him.” She stood up. “Any requests?”
For a moment I thought she was going to sing or something, then I saw she was headed for the jukebox. “Nothing that will make my head hurt.” I watched her walk across the room. Nice shape. We call her Monica because she’s dark-haired, cute, and a bit a bit of a bossy group-mom, like that character on Friends. Naber…well, that’s because it’s hard to say “Nahebaroth” properly without making your throat sore. She’s a good person, except her taste in men is appalling, me being the prime example. I was told by another female friend once that when I get morose it’s “like being around a grumpy cat-you’ll let someone feed you, but Heaven forbid anything more.” And we were doing pretty well at the time she said it.
The bar fell into an unexpected moment of silence as the antique jukebox clicked and hummed, then the record was flipped onto the turntable and the needle dropped. I used to think of The Compasses’ jukebox as a metaphor for how every soul in God’s Kingdom mattered, but I’m not certain any more that the conceit really works.
As Monica strolled back through the mostly empty tables, Steely Dan’s “Haitian Divorce” began to honk its way through the introduction. Naber had a little sway in her walk. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t been seeing Naber suspicious, I’d been seeing Naber flirtatious, but I’d forgotten what it looked like. She’d been on that stool for a while, drinking mai tais or some other godawful tropical poison, and that meant she was liable to do something dangerous. Extremely liable.
“What are you looking so miserable for, anyway?” she asked as she slid in beside me, still moving to the music. “Jeez, B, if you’d cheer up a little something nice might even happen to you tonight.”
Frisky and nostalgic. Things were about to get really complicated. We’d had a great time together for a while, but it ended in a protracted firefight of name-calling and running-for-the-hills-the former her, the latter me-so there was no way in hell I was going to start anything up again unless I was real drunk and real stupid, and I hadn’t had a drink yet that night.
Then, just that moment, as if to prove that the Highest still loved little Bobby Dollar very, very much, my phone started buzzing in my pocket.
Monica looked down at my vibrating pants. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s because you’re happy to see me.”
“Gotta take it. It’s work.”
“You go and get some, honey!” Sweetheart shouted. I’m not sure what he meant.
“Shit,” I said, staring at the screen. “Alice says this should have been Sam’s, not mine, but she’s passing it on to me. Looks like I’ve got a date with old money.”
Monica did her best to look amused, but I could tell she was disappointed, which made me more than nervous. When did she decide I was anything but another guy who’d messed her up? If Monica had decided to forgive me-to forgive me with benefits, even-it was going to make The Compasses a bit hot for me.
“Is it Woodside?” she asked. That’s a place in the hills at the edge of the city where the horses have more rights than most human beings.
“Nope, down in the flats. Palo Alto district.”
She sighed and sat up, pulled her drink into closer range. “Break a leg, then. No, I’m feeling generous-break both.”
I left Monica nursing her drink, looking vaguely sad. I think that phone message saved us both from a lot of bad luck. Well, at least her. As you’ll see, it was a different story for me.
I tease Sam about his boring company ride, but to be fair, there are a few benighted souls who remain unimpressed by my custom ‘71 Matador Machine, despite its handsome copper paint job and checkered interior upholstery. In fact, someone (it might have been Monica Naber) once referred to it as “a car for under-endowed teenagers.” To each their own. I know what I like, and one thing I like about the Matador is that I could smash that beast into a tank at sixty and not even stall the engine. I prefer a stout piece of machinery around me. Dying is never fun, even the third or fourth time.
At that time of the day in San Judas it’s a lot faster to take surface streets than the freeway. Twenty minutes later, give or take, I was cruising east down University Avenue through a genteel, greenery-shrouded district where even the palm trees had their own physicians. (I’m not lying. The Palo Alto Neighborhood Association hires specialists to climb them once a month to check them for nut-rot or whatever.)
The main drag was lined with expensive apartment buildings but behind them lay the real neighborhood-if by “real” you mean “million dollar down payment, minimum,” where people such as rich Stanford alums and old-school corporate big shots lived and enjoyed their money in quiet surroundings. (The newer, younger Silicon Valley money tended to wind up in flashier parts of the city, like townhouses around one of the public squares, Atherton Park, or out at the Shores.)
The mansion in question stood on one of the winding side streets, a mock Tudor with half an acre of lawns and hedges. Two SJPD cars and an ambulance were already parked in the long driveway and the garage door was open. A couple of guys in paramedic outfits with oxygen masks were just removing the body from the car inside the garage, a late model piece of expensive overseas engineering. I got a glimpse of the deceased as they pulled him out-white haired Caucasian guy, trim, wearing a dressing gown and pajama bottoms. His skin was a lovely fuchsia pink, classic symptom of carbon monoxide poisoning.
Well, it sure looked like suicide.
I summoned a Zipper and stepped through. Everything seemed to change just a little-the angle of the sun, the quality of the light-and the cops and paramedics all stopped moving at the same time, as if they were playing a kids’ game. I wandered over to the car to look at the deceased’s face. It seemed familiar. I might have met him somewhere, or he might have been in the newspaper. I turned and found the hovering glow of the late Mr. Monoxide’s guardian beside me.
“Doloriel,” I said, starting introductions.
“Yurath,” said the glow.
“Who is he?”
“Don’t you recognize him?” Little Yurath seemed a bit anxious, bobbing like a firefly in a strong breeze. Of course, its job of several decades was just about to end. Yurath might even have liked the guy. That happens sometimes. “Edward Lynes Walker. Founded a bunch of companies, including one of the biggest in Northern California. Philanthropist. Community leader. They even named a satellite after him.”
“Sadly, he’s still just as dead,” I pointed out. “Okay, so everyone loves him. Any reason this shouldn’t be a slam dunk for our side? Besides it being a suicide, I mean?” The rules on offing yourself have loosened up a bit. If Yurath could provide me with even the slightest history of painful medical problems or serious emotional trauma I was pretty sure the way Walker went out wouldn’t hurt our case too much.
“I can think of at least one reason,” the guardian said. “Look behind you.”
I could already feel him, but I turned and pretended to be surprised. “Prosecutor Grasswax. Goodness, this is my lucky week! Two days in a row! And Mr. Howlingfell-say, that’s a nasty bruise on your throat.”
Howlingfell just balled his fists and looked away but Grasswax showed me all his teeth. It took a while. “Doloriel. I’m sure you and your friends sat up late last night celebrating your victory.”
“Nope. I went home early, then visited old friends. Not that it’s your business.”