G Is For Gumshoe

"You want to come in?" I held the door open while Rosie considered the invitation.

She seemed rooted to the spot, rocking slightly on her feet. She becomes coquettish at times, usually when she's suddenly unsure of herself. On her own turf, she's as aggressive as a Canada goose. "You might not want the company," she said, demurely lowering her eyes.

"Oh, come on," I said. "I'd love the company. You have to see the place. Henry did a great job."

She wiggled once and then sidestepped her way into the living room. She seemed to survey the room out of the corner of her eye. "Oh. Very nice."

"I love it. You should see the loft," I said. I set the strudel on the counter and quickly put some water on for tea. I took her through the place, up the spiral steps and down, showing her the trundle bed, the cubbyholes, the pegs for hanging clothes. She made all the proper noises, only chiding me mildly for the meagerness of my wardrobe. She claims I'll never get a beau unless I have more than one dress.

After the tour, we had tea and strudel, working our way through every crispy bite. I cleaned the plate of flaky crumbs with a dampened fingertip. Her discomfort seemed to fall away, though mine increased as the visit went on. I'd known the woman for two years, but with the exception of the last couple of weeks, our entire relationship had been conducted in her restaurant, which she rules like a dominatrix. We didn't have that much to talk about and I found myself manufacturing chitchat, trying to ward off any awkward pauses in the conversation. By the time we finished tea, I was sneaking peeks at my watch.

Rosie fixed me with a look. "What's the matter? You got a date?"

"Well, no. I've got a job. I have to drive down to the desert tomorrow and I need to get to the bank."

She pointed a finger and then poked me on the arm. "Tonight, you come to my place. I'm go

We left at the same time. I offered to drop her off, but the tavern's only half a block away and she said she preferred to walk. The last I saw of her the mild spring breezes were billowing through her muumuu. She looked like a hot-air balloon shortly before liftoff.

I headed into town, detouring by way of the automated teller machine at my bank, where I deposited Mrs. Gersh's advance and pulled a hundred bucks in cash. I circled the block and parked my car in the public lot behind my office. I confess this news about a hit man had made me conscious of my backside and I suppressed the urge to zigzag as I went up the outside stairs.

In my office, I picked up my portable typewriter, some files, and my gun, then stopped into the California Fidelity Insurance offices next door. I chatted briefly with Darcy Pascoe, who doubles as the company's secretary and receptionist. She had helped me on a couple of cases and was thinking about changing fields. I thought she'd be a good investigator and I was encouraging her. Being a P.I. beats sitting on your ass at somebody else's front desk.

I moved on to Vera Lipton's cubicle, completing my rounds. Vera's one of those women men are mad about. I swear it's not anything in particular she does. I suppose it's the air of total confidence she exudes. She likes men and they know it, even when she sasses them. She's thirty-seven, single, addicted to cigarettes and Coca-Cola, which she consumes throughout the day. You'd think that would offend the health nuts, but it doesn't seem to cause dismay. She's tall, probably a hundred and forty pounds, a redhead who wears glasses with big round lenses, tinted gray. I know none of this sounds like the girl of your dreams, but there's something about her that's apparently tough to resist. She's not in any way promiscuous, but if she goes to the supermarket, some guy will strike up a conversation with her and end up dating her for months. When the relationship's over, they usually remain such good friends that she'll match him up with someone she knows.

She was not at her desk. I can usually track her by the smell of cigarette smoke, but today I was having trouble picking up the scent. I cleared a chair and sat down, taking a few minutes to flip through a handbook on insurance fraud. Wherever there's money, somebody finds a way to cheat.

"Hello, Kinsey. What are you up to?"

Vera came into the cubicle and tossed a file onto her desk. She was dressed in a denim jumpsuit with shoulder pads and a wide leather belt. She sat down in her swivel chair, reaching automatically into her bottom drawer where she keeps an insulated cold pack filled with Cokes. She took out a fresh bottle and held it up as a way of offering me one.

I shook my head.

She said, "Guess what?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"Take a look around and tell me what you see."

I love this kind of quiz. It reminds me of that game we used to play at birthday parties in elementary school where somebody's mom would present a tray of odds and ends, which we got to look at for one minute and then recite back from memory. It's the only kind of party game I ever won. I surveyed her desk. Same old mess as far as I could see. Files everywhere, insurance manuals, correspondence piled up. Two empty Coke bottles… "No cigarette butts," I said. "Where's the ashtray?"

"I quit."

"I don't believe it. When?"

"Yesterday. I woke up feeling punk, coughing my lungs out. I was out of cigarettes, so there I am on my hands and knees, picking through the trash for a butt big enough to light. Of course I can't find one. I know I'm going to have to throw some clothes on, grab my car keys, and whip down to the corner before I can even have my first Coke. And I thought, to hell with it. I've had it. I'm not going to do this to myself anymore. So I quit. That was thirty-one hours ago."

"Vera, that's great. I'm really proud of you."

"Thanks. It feels good. I keep wishing I could have a cigarette to celebrate. Stick around. You can watch me hyperventilate every seven minutes when the urge comes up. What are you up to?"

"I'm on my way home," I said. "I just stopped by to say hi. I'll be gone tomorrow and we'd talked about having lunch."

"Shoot, too bad. I was looking forward to it. I was going to fix you up."

"Fix me up? Like a blind date?" This news was about as thrilling to me as the notion of periodontal work.

"Don't use that tone, kiddo. This guy's perfect for you."

"I'm afraid to ask you what that means," I said.

"It means he isn't married like someone I could name." Her reference was to Jonah Robb, whose on-again, off-again marriage had been a source of conflict. I'd been involved with him intermittently since the previous fall, but the high had long since worn off.

"There's nothing wrong with that relationship," I said.

"Of course there is," she snapped. "He's never there when you need him. He's always off with what's-her-face at some counseling session."

"Well, that's true enough." Jonah and Camilla seemed to move from therapist to therapist, switching every time they got close to a resolution of any kind; "conflict habituated," I think it's called. They'd been together since seventh grade and were apparently addicted to the dark side of love.

"He's never going to leave her," Vera said.

"That's probably true, too, but who gives a shit?"

"You do and you know it."

"No, I don't," I said. "I'll tell you the truth. I really don't have room in my life for much more than I've got. I don't want a big, hot love affair. Jonah's a good friend and he comes through for me often enough…"

"Boy, are you out of touch."

"I don't want your rejects, Vera. That's the point."

"This is not a reject. It's more like a referral."

"You want to make a sales pitch? I can tell you want to make a sales pitch. Go ahead. Fill me in. I can hardly wait."

"He's perfect."