Billy Straight

“Exactly.” He stood up. “Now, if you don't mind, it's a little late-”

“Sure,” said Petra, smiling and rising, too. He waited by the door again, and as she passed close she smelled him. Heavy fruity cologne and sweat.

Out in the front room, she said, “Oh, one more thing. Cart's maid Estrella Flores. Any idea where she went?”

“Cart told me she quit without notice. How's that for loyalty? I got him a new girl.”

“Through the same agency?”

“Yup.”

“Remember the name?”

“Of the agency? Some place in Beverly Hills- the Nancy Downey Agency.” He shot a cuff and looked at his watch.

“I appreciate your time, Mr. Balch.”

Before she left the office, she glanced at the wall of photos. Two young guys striking poses. Players. Next to the pictures, Balch did look old.

36

She drove to a gas station pay phone, got the num- ber of the Nancy Downey Agency, and called it, though it was well past business hours. No machine. Something to wake up for tomorrow.

Taking Laurel Canyon back to the city, she reviewed the interview with Balch.

Nothing dramatic, but he had provided a possible lead to Estrella Flores, and had offered evidence of friction between Lisa and Ramsey.

She went off on him all the time.

Consistent with what Kelly Sposito had said about Lisa's sarcasm.

Impotent ex-hubby; sharp-tongued wife. Ramsey said she had a habit of shoving him. Had she finally pushed him too far?

How much did Balch know? Had he heard Ramsey leave the house during the early-morning hours? Go into the car museum and pull out the Mercedes? Or the Jeep?

How far would the lineman go to protect the quarterback?

Players. Actors. What was real, what was scripted?

Time to talk to the night guard who'd been on shift Sunday. Then she thought of something. RanchHaven. A place that big, smack in the fire zone, there'd have to be a second way out for safety. If so, was it guarded too? Or was there some way for residents to exit without tipping off the security staff?

Too many question marks. Not quizzing the guard right away had been amateurish; she felt like a blind painter.

Was it worth a ride out to Calabasas right now? She'd been going all day, and if she didn't let go of it, she wouldn't sleep and wouldn't that be pretty- one groggy, impaired D mucking things up further.

Tomorrow morning her artwork would appear all over the news and leads about the boy in the park would start pouring in, most of them useless. The whole thing was a distraction. And something about the boy's eyes bothered her- he'd already seen plenty. She didn't even want to think about an eleven-year-old witnessing something like that.

She thought about him. Eating di

She zipped across Sunset and checked her watch. Seven forty-six. Barely enough time to get to Katz's, let alone freshen up and change.

The guy would be forced to stare across the table at a hag.

Big deal; this was no real date.

What was it, then?

She made it at three minutes to, paid for parking in a nearby lot, and walked into Katz's corned-beef air. Greeted with a wide, false smile by a dyspeptic waitress who remembered her cop tips, she took a booth toward the back, ordered a Coke, headed for the ladies' room to wash up.

In front of a soap-specked mirror, she fluffed her hair and disapproved of her face. Definitely haggard, every bone showing. Paler than usual, too, and something seemed to be tugging her mouth down- some cruel god sketching in the wrinkles that would soon be engraved there? At least the black pantsuit of the day was holding up okay- let's hear it for viscose.

When she returned, the drink was there and Banks was walking through the front door. She waved him over.

He smiled and sat down. “Good to see you again.” His hands settled on the table, fingers drumming. Unfolding the paper napkin, he placed it on his lap. His hands kept moving.

“Hit much traffic coming over?” she said.

“Not bad.” He looked different. A stranger.

As opposed to? She was sitting across from a stranger- an uncomfortable stranger; look at those hands. Straining for conversation when a hot bath would have proved celestial.

The waitress brought a bowl of sour-pickle slices and Petra took one. Defining the ground rules right from the start: garlic on the breath; don't think of getting close. That seemed to relax Banks and he reached for one, too.

“These are great,” he said. “Never been here.”

“Good place.”

“Sometimes I go to Langer's, on Alvarado. People are getting shot over at MacArthur Park and they're still lining up for pastrami at Langer's.”

“Been there,” said Petra. “I'm kind of a deli freak.”

“No cholesterol worries?”

“Good genetics,” she said. “Cholesterol-wise, anyway.”

He laughed. Why did he look so different? Younger, even more boyish than at Ramsey's house. Despite being dressed more formally- navy double-breasted suit, pale blue shirt, maroon tie. Nice. Had he somehow found time to spruce up?

Then she realized what the difference was. The mustache was gone. She remembered it as a smallish, blond-gray thing, no big soup-strainer like his partner's. But its absence made a difference. No gray in his head hair; losing the 'stache took off years. He had a pleasant face- a little narrow, the nose a little off-center, but the eyes were well placed. Hazel. Long lashes. The now exposed mouth yielding, but not in a weak way. Hairless hands. Young skin. She saw him as someone who'd gone through puberty late, would preserve well.

The mouth turned up slightly at the corners- a perpetual smile that might have gotten him into trouble as a schoolboy: Banks, stop smirking.

She realized she was staring; touched her upper lip and arched an eyebrow.

“Got rid of it last night,” he said, almost apologetic. “It was an experiment. My daughters didn't like it, said it tickled. I shaved it off right in front of them. They thought it was hilarious.”

“How many daughters do you have?”

“Two. They're five and six.”

Knowing he'd carry pictures, she asked if he had any.

“As a matter of fact…” he said, pulling several from his wallet.

Two pretty little things, both dark-haired but with fair skin, somewhat Latina-looking. Big brown eyes, long hair styled into ringlets, identical pink, frothy dresses. No obvious resemblance to Banks, though she thought she saw something in the younger one's smile.

“Totally adorable. What are their names?”

“The older one's Alicia and the baby's Beatrix. We call her Bee, or Honeybee.”

A and B. Someone liked order. She handed the photos back to him, and he took a peek before slipping them behind his credit cards.

The waitress stomped over and asked if they were ready.

Petra knew what she wanted, but she picked up her menu to give him time.

The waitress's foot tapped. “I can come back-”

“No, I think we're okay. I'll take the pastrami-coleslaw combo. With fries.”

“And you?”

Banks said, “Smoked turkey on a kaiser roll. Potato salad.”

“Something to drink?”

“Coffee.”

Alone again, she said, “How often do you get to be with them?”

“They live with me.”

“Oh.”

“Their mom's Spanish- from Spain. She trains horses, teaches riding. She went back to work at a resort in Majorca and gave me custody. She visits every few months, is still trying to figure out where she's going to live.”

“Must be tough,” said Petra.