Dating Is Murder

“You’re saying you’ll only find her if she’s dead?”

“Or robs a bank.” He paused. “Having second thoughts? You only want the happy ending?”

I saw myself telling Mrs. Glück to come collect her kid in the county morgue. Or in twenty years, after her release from prison. I gazed at my decaf cappuccino. “No. Yes, I want the happy ending, but mostly I want to know. I just-I’m not sleeping well.”

“I don’t suppose you have money to hire a private investigator?”

I smiled. “If I scrimp, I can just about cover the double espresso you ordered.”

“You’re not paying for my espresso. I’m paying for your-whatever that is.”

“That’s not how it works, Detective. I was the one who asked to meet.”

“At the station. Where the coffee would’ve been on me.”

“Well, anyway,” I said. “Your paying would make it like a date.”

“No, when it’s a date, you’ll know it.”

I studied my hands. They had paint on them around my nails. Green. I was experiencing a combination of pleasure and alarm. “Actually, I don’t. Date.” Except on national TV.

“Everybody dates. You’re not married, right? Not that that’s always a deterrent, but some people are put off by it. I’m not married either, in case you’re interested.”

I was interested. How interesting. “The thing is, I’m behind on a job I’m doing involving amphibians, I’m working every other spare minute on my greeting cards-”

“You don’t date public servants.”

“No, I like public servants.” I looked at him. “Okay, the real thing is, I was engaged. Recently. Well, three months ago. So I’ve been-depressed and I need to-”

“Eat bad food, rent videos. I can help you with that-what’d you think I had in mind? The philharmonic?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, laughing. “You’ve got to impress girls. At least at first.”

“For how long?”

“Depends on the girl. Anywhere from an hour, hour and a half, to seven years.”

Cziemanski cleared his throat. “I was counting on wowing you with my police sca

“Okay, fine,” I said. “We’ll meet late at night and drive around looking for criminals. Meanwhile, though, I found A

Finally. He went for a pen. “A what? Fossil?”

“It’s a brand. Fun. Affordable.” I finished my cappuccino as he wrote on the back of A

“What?”

“Doom.” I looked down, ill at ease. Cops, with their civil codes and case numbers, probably didn’t deal much in doom. I studied the sticky white residue in my mug. I recalled how Ruta, my childhood babysitter, would read the future in her coffee cup. She’d used an old tin pot that left grounds everywhere. “Anyway, I just want you to know.”

Cziemanski’s cell phone rang, giving me the chance to go to the counter and pay our tab. He gave me a hard time about that a minute later, but I told him to consider it a bribe. “I’m grateful for whatever effort you put into this,” I said, and pulled a business card out of my portfolio. “Call me anytime, day or night, I’m always up. These days.”

“I am calling you. You owe me a date.” He looked at my card, then slid it into the inside pocket of his beige windbreaker with A

Cziemanski and I parted ways in front of Grounds, he heading to his car, me turning left, toward Larrabee Street. He apologized for not walking me to my door, being in a hurry to get to some top secret detective-type meeting, but I told him the chances of me being accosted in the six and a half minutes it would take me to get home were slim to none.

I was wrong.

13

As soon as I turned up Larrabee, I became aware of him, the sound of his shoes on the sidewalk. The back of my neck tingled. My shoulders tensed. I speeded up. This made my own footsteps louder, so I focused on walking softly. Yes, there they were. Shoes. Hard soles on concrete.

I dropped my backpack, then crouched to pick it up.

His footsteps stopped. I turned.

He was ten yards behind me.

Waiting.

I froze.

What to do? My apartment was blocks away. My fingers unfroze, working the clasp on my backpack, searching for keys, feeling for the roundish one that unlocked the building-

Don’t go home. Then he’ll know where you live.

Ruta’s voice. It was the kind of thing she would think of, having spent World War II in Poland, hiding. Okay, Ruta, so what should I do?

Be still, like a little mouse.

I felt like a mouse, crouched on the sidewalk. Breathing fast, panting, trying to be still. What did he imagine I was doing, crouched like this? Could he tell I was watching, or was it too dark? Maybe he thought I was tying my shoe.

Why didn’t he approach me?

Was it the man from Hot Aloo? The blue-eyed man?

Or one of the men from Westside Pavilion? No, I didn’t want it to be them. And how many stalkers does one person need, anyway?

But was he stalking? He could be some guy with a perfectly good reason for lurking on Larrabee, wondering why a woman was crouched like a mouse on the sidewalk ahead.

Maybe the thing to do was walk over and say, “Hello, can I help you?” Joey would do that. Fredreeq would stand up and yell, “What the hell are you looking at, freak?” and have the whole neighborhood waiting for the answer.

I tried a whisper, to see if I could pull it off. “Hello.” It was a tiny, wispy sound. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello.” Not much better.

He was looking at me. My eyes were adjusting to the dark. He wore a hat.

To confront, or not to confront? What were the guidelines? You didn’t confront an alpha male gorilla. Same with grizzly bears. I knew from experience not to confront a mentally disturbed person, or a violent drunk, usually. But with thieves, certain rapists, and serial killers, I’d read, you stand tall, look aggressive, and at the slightest provocation scream, “I have Mace!”

But he wasn’t provoking. He was standing, and if I screamed, “I have Mace!” I risked death by embarrassment. How could fear of making a scene rival fear of being murdered?

We were close to Santa Monica Boulevard, enough that people would hear if we struggled. But would they rescue me? And that meant going toward him. Sunset was where I wanted to go, the other way, north. But Sunset was far. I was in okay shape, but ru

A couple emerged from the darkness, probably from Betty Way. I’d always liked Betty Way.

I stood. I walked toward them. Their faces registered suspicion. They were women, each nearly a foot shorter than me. “Can I walk with you guys?” I said. “There’s a man following me.”

Suspicion disappeared. With words of reassurance, each woman took an arm, and we set off, toward Santa Monica Boulevard.

Something flashed as we passed. A gun, a knife, catching the light?

He called to me. A single word. It was just about the last word I wanted to hear from a stranger in the dark, and I kept walking, even when he said it again.

“Wollie.”

Book ’Em, D’Agneau was what its owner, Lucien D’Agneau, subtitled “A Literary Emporium” on the sign. Like many of the neighboring establishments, it kept odd hours. My rescuers left me at the door, inviting me to join them at Girl Bar should I need an escort home.