Robert L. Pike
The Gremlin’s Grampa
This novel is dedicated
with great love and admiration
to a fabulous granddaughter—
Chapter 1
Wednesday — 8:30 p.m.
Mr. Sessue Noguchi, owner and manager of the Little Tokyo restaurant, was disturbed by the unaccountable silence that had fallen over the corner table; it was occupied by his old friends and longtime customers Lieutenant Reardon of the San Francisco police, his lovely lady, Miss Jan Something-or-other, and their guest Sergeant Something-Dondero. From the vantage point the proprietor maintained next to the cash register — presided over by his eldest daughter — Mr. Noguchi wondered what difference of opinion made all three of his old friends refuse to even face one another, seemingly preferring to stare through the window at the fog curling eerily up from the bay to swirl about the bobbing lights on the crosstrees of boats swaying at cable length from Fisherman’s Wharf. It couldn’t be the food; Mr. Noguchi was certain of that. The tempura and the specialty of the house — Noguchiyaki — had been personally inspected by he, himself, before being permitted to be taken to the table by the waitress — his wife’s sister’s middle daughter — and besides, it had been thoroughly consumed. Quite obviously some disagreement over something undoubtedly minor...
A raised finger from the lieutenant brought Mr. Noguchi from his reverie; he was at the table almost instantly, his stack of billboard-sized menus clasped to his thin chest as if for protection, his thoughts well masked from the trio.
“Lieutenant?”
“Another martini, please, Mr. Noguchi.”
“Of course, Lieutenant.” There was a brief pause. “Miss Jan?”
If the manager and owner of the Little Tokyo was surprised at this quite unusual after-dinner drink on the lieutenant’s part, he showed no sign of it, but waited politely for the girl’s answer. Jan merely shook her head, continuing to stare from the window. Mr. Noguchi moved on to the third party.
“Sergeant?”
“I pass.”
Mr. Noguchi backed away with the hint of a bow, returned to the cash register and passed the order on to one of the bar waitresses — his oldest son’s wife’s cousin. At the table Jan took a deep breath and turned from the misty view beyond the window, looking at Reardon.
“Jim...”
“Yes?” Reardon was a stocky man in his middle thirties. His features were fine, sensitive; his hair was a shock of rust, a bit longer than normal for police lieutenants and looking at the moment as if it could stand combing. His eyes were wide spread, gray in color; his hands, lying calmly on the table, were large for his height, strong and veined. His voice was coldly polite.
Sergeant Dondero cleared his throat pointedly.
“You folks will have to pardon me. I’ll go to a movie, or get lost or something. Family quarrels are not my idea of fun. I’m the peace-loving type — it’s the reason I’m still a bachelor.”
“You stay right there,” Jan said. “This isn’t a quarrel and it’s not going to be.” She smiled faintly, more a glint in her lovely eyes than anything else. “Besides, if you leave, Jim will probably lean over the table and belt me one.”
Reardon merely grunted, not at all amused. Jan turned back to him, completely serious once again, dropping her voice.
“Jim, if you’re angry with me — and I honestly can see no real reason why you should be — I can see even less reason why you should take it out on yourself.”
“Take it out on myself?”
“Yes. A martini after dinner? And that’s your third.”
“It is, indeed.” Reardon nodded solemnly, as if complimenting Jan on her arithmetic. His gray eyes fought to remain cool and impersonal, his hands continued to lay quiescent. “And I’ll be greatly surprised if it’s my last one.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
Dondero looked up at the ceiling; it offered little in the way of escape. He stared about at the other tables, instead. Conversations there seemed to be more animated and less embittered. Tonight I should have had a cold sandwich at home, he thought, alone — and then smiled inwardly. No, anything was better than that prospect! He reached for a glass of water a bit obviously; Reardon paid him no attention, looking at Jan with a faintly sardonic lift of his eyebrows.
“Don’t tell me you refuse to marry me because I drink too much, because if you do, we’re just going around in circles. The reason I drink as much as I do — and I refuse to concede that it’s too much — is precisely because you won’t marry me, my pet. So who gets off the merry-go-round first? No pun intended.”
“In the first place,” Jan said quietly, refusing to face him, staring at her entwined fingers on the table instead, “the reason I won’t marry you has nothing to do with your drinking at all, and you know it. Or you should know it. I just don’t plan on spending my life waiting for the phone to ring to be told my husband the policeman has just been shot, or stabbed, or beaten to death...”
Dondero was forced to concede it wasn’t a bad argument, although he had never considered it in depth. He waited for Reardon’s answer with the interest of a spectator at a tennis match waiting for a particularly good serve to be returned.
Reardon was watching Jan with no expression on his face, wondering what there was about her small trim figure, her pert features, her intelligence, her soft brown eyes, her cropped hair, or her small strong hands with their square, clean nails, that made her the most important girl in the world for him. Still, how on earth could he be anything but a policeman? It was impossible.
“And if they call up and don’t say it’s your husband, but instead merely say it’s your boyfriend who has just been shot, or stabbed, or run over by a five-year-old’s tricycle, that would be perfectly all right?”
“You needn’t be sarcastic,” Jan said sharply, looking up. “There’s a difference and you know it.”
Reardon dropped the matter for the moment as being counterproductive, reverting instead to her first statement.
“When you say ‘in the first place,’” he said quietly, watching her, “it usually presupposes there is a second place. And probably a third and a fourth place.”
“And in the second place, if you insist on having any more places,” Jan said evenly, “I seriously doubt that marrying me would stop you from drinking. I happen to know—”
She broke off abruptly, suddenly smiling so cordially that for a moment Reardon wondered if she realized at last how wrong her attitude had been and was in the process of apologizing; Dondero — more alert, merely being an onlooker — saw that Jan’s attention was directed over their shoulders. Together with Reardon he turned in time to see a slight, pretty dark-haired girl approaching with a husky uniformed man at her side. Wings decorated his blue jacket. The girl was smiling pleasantly in return; she made no attempt to interrupt their progress but merely waved and moved toward the steps of the restaurant while her companion paused at the cash register to pay their bill. Dondero saw a perfect opportunity to change the subject.
“Hey, hey!” he said. “Who’s the babe with the fly-boy?”
“She’s a girl from our office named Gabriella, and that’s her brother.” Jan refused to be sidetracked, and in fact her eyes seemed to glisten with the light of battle, as if all the proof in the world had suddenly been furnished for her argument. “She has another brother on dope and we’ve discussed it, and I tell you I honestly don’t know which is worse, drugs or drink—”
Reardon shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. “Maybe I didn’t hear right. Now I’m an alcoholic? Or a drug fiend? Which is it?”