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Grown men lusting after nubile babysitters is a cliché, but clichés are clichés because they happen so often. Gene Qui
I pulled the Führungszeugnis out of the pink file, stuffed it in my backpack, and called the Qui
In some cultures-Japanese, for instance-frogs presage good fortune. In others, they’re a symbol of the devil. I assumed that Rex and Tricia took the benign view, since they’d commissioned the mural, but there’s a difference between tree toads hopping about and the visual assault of a West African goliath of biblical proportions.
I stood in the foyer of the Mansion and peered down the long hallway at my amphibian. It’s not like Rex wouldn’t pay me if he and Tricia hated the mural. Rex was a good egg. I’d dated him briefly, so I knew this. He’d pay me, then pay the painters to paint over the kitchen, then spend the rest of his life never inviting me for di
I couldn’t look at the West African goliath. Looking at him made me want to futz with him. I turned my back on him and set to work on my horned frog, the Chaco. My cell phone rang.
“Hi,” a voice said. “We met last night at the gas station. I take it you got home?”
My pulse rate increased. Standing still, I could feel it. “Is this the first time you’ve called me, or have you called before and hung up?” I asked.
There was a pause. “First time. What’s that in the background?”
“Croaking frogs.” I considered turning down the CD player, and decided not to.
“Would you mind telling me where you are right now?”
“You’re slipping,” I said. “Yes, I would mind. A good stalker shouldn’t have to ask.”
“And if I were to ask you to go straight home when you’re finished there?”
“Then I’d assume you know where I live, and since you’ve misplaced me, you want me to return to ‘Go,’ ” I said. “Look, if it’s this tough for you to keep track of me, maybe you should try a different line of work. Or practice on something simple, like a city bus. They’re harder to lose.”
“I’m not going to lose you,” the tall man said.
Slowly, I hung up. I stared at my frogs for a long time. Then I put away my paints, cleaned up the kitchen, cleaned up myself, and drove to Encino.
“Miss Maizie no home.” Lupe, the housekeeper, held an apoplectic Mr. Snuggles in her arms. She stood in the doorway of the big house, feeding the dog a steady stream of treats from her apron pocket. “You want talk to Mrs. Grammy?”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “Is Mr. Qui
“Lupe!” called a high-pitched voice. “Where my ice cream?”
“Coming, m’hija!” She threw a look over her shoulder, then turned back to me. “Mr. Gene in the studio. You know where is it?”
“Yes, I know. Thanks.” What luck.
I skipped down the porch steps, icicle lights twinkling at me, and followed the flagstone path to the back of the house. I kept an anxious eye on the grounds, but no crazed goose appeared to torment me. When I reached the studio, I knocked. Twice. After a moment, I went in.
A man sat at the worktable, his back to me, stuffing envelopes. AM talk radio played loudly, which was probably why he hadn’t heard my knock. I cleared my throat.
“Gene?” I said. “I’m Wollie Shelley. I dropped by to return a file to Maizie.”
He turned, lowered his reading glasses, and reached for a remote. “Who?”
“Wollie. Shelley.” I moved farther into the room. “Maizie lent me this file on A
“She’s at one of her classes. Sushi or sausage or something.”
Pastry, I could’ve told him, but he was already back to his envelopes. Gene Qui
“No. Maizie.”
“It’s so quiet.”
“Sound-studio insulation. Blocks out the kid and the dog. Goddamn racket.”
But not the cat. The big tabby sat on top of the refrigerator, looking down on us. He was silent, which was perhaps why he was tolerated. “Doing a mailing?” I said.
“Valley secession.”
This took a minute to process. What election was it, when the San Fernando Valley voted against splitting off from Los Angeles to become its own city? It had not been a close vote. “Is it-back? The secession issue?”
“It will be. Were you for it?”
Gene didn’t ask me to have a seat, but I took one. “I didn’t formulate an opinion. I’m sorry. I don’t live in the Valley, so it wasn’t on my ballot.” I saw Gene’s glimmer of interest fade, and added quickly, “What an art form, staging a comeback.”
“It’s a march. I’m a foot soldier.”
“Like a second job, a project like this. You must be passionate about it.”
Gene licked an envelope. “The Valley’s a bastard child, sucked dry to pay for every spendthrift social program L.A. comes up with.”
I’d probably voted for every spendthrift social program he had in mind. “You know what I liked?” I said. “The proposed names, if secession had won. My favorite was Valley City. There’s a city in North Dakota named Valley City.”
Gene licked another envelope. “I liked Camelot.”
“Camelot, California,” I said, envisioning a change-of-name greeting card. “Yes, that was… alliterative.”
Gene kept licking. Another minute and he’d turn up the radio and I’d have to leave, or come up with a darn good reason for staying.
“Gene, any ideas what happened to A
“Who?”
“A
“Oh, Jesus.” He tossed a stuffed envelope onto a pile. “Don’t get me started.”
“Why?”
“Look at this. Think I like doing it? This was one of her jobs, ungrateful bitch.”
I nearly gasped. I could think of no one less bitchy than A
“These babysitters have you by the short hairs. Oh, excuse me. Na
I made a vague noise of sympathy, which spurred him onward.
“You’ve got to budget time for that,” he said. “We did not budget time. Or money. She should’ve helped herself to a few thousand bucks on her way out, that’s what we shelled out this week, hemorrhaging money, and for what? Someone to serve peanut butter and jelly to a two-year-old.”
“Oh.”
This aria had made Gene red-faced. He went back to licking envelopes with a vengeance, having worked up a good supply of saliva. I thought about the gadget that wets envelopes and stamps, but maybe it was too pricey for his budget. I mumbled good-bye and let myself out. Gene was already reaching for the stereo remote.
Not only could I not imagine A
I was walking past the main house toward my car when the back door opened. Grammy Qui
“Yes.” I stiffened, seeing the unpleasant man’s mother. But she was dressed in purple leggings and a pink Donald Duck sweatshirt, which discouraged harsh judgment.