think he’s much of a detective, though.”
“Why not?” Trace asked.
“Not mean enough. He’s got the look of the kind of person who trusts people.”
“Yeah, Sarge, that old demon trust. It’ll get you in trouble every time.”
“It will if you’re a detective,” the old man said. “I never trusted anybody. Not partners, not superiors, not suspects, lawyers, prosecutors, anybody. Twenty-five years and I was never indicted.”
Trace thought to himself that not having been indicted was a pretty small merit badge to wear for twenty-five years of policework.
But instead, Trace said, “Listen. Suppose I got Mom a lover. What would you think about that? Some dancer or something. Maybe an acrobat.”
“Well, for a couple of days I think it’d be wonderful. Get her off my back. I’d have to kill him, of course, before I left town.”
“Hell, I don’t think I can get anybody to do it if he knows he has to die,” Trace said.
“Try,” his father urged, then looked glum again. “No. Never mind. I’m just doomed. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“Your father’s drinking too much,” Chico said.
“Funny. I’m the one who’s going to be forty and he’s the one who’s got the midlife crisis.”
“That’s now. Wait until Thursday when the big four-oh comes. I’ll tell you how it’ll be. First, you won’t be able to get out of bed. What for? Another dismal day like all the rest? So you’ll stay in bed. Your body will ache and you’ll think of a cup of tea. With lemon. And honey. I’ll parade through the room naked, but I won’t get any response because you know if you use it all up right away, it’ll be another week before you can do it again. You’ll start riding buses, instead of walking, and you’ll think about answering ads in the sex columns. ‘Beautiful horny young woman looking for generous elderly bachelor. Please write Lulu LaTour. Send photo. All letters answered.’ I tell you, Trace, I don’t envy you. Your pop’s all right. He’s just depressed, but he’ll get better when he gets home. For you, it’s the end of the line.”
“The only thing that keeps me going is knowing that you’ll be there with me in my sunset years,” Trace said.
“Hah. All these years you’ve been abusing me?” Chico said. “Now it’s my turn. From now on I flaunt my lovers in front of you. Eighteen-year-old bellhops. Valet parking attendants. Carry-out boys from the supermarket.”
“You don’t go to a supermarket,” he said.
“I’m going to start. I’m going to all the supermarkets. A different one each day. And I’m going to have them all deliver. You can lie in bed rusting and hear the squeals of pleasure from the living room. We’ll be on the rug.”
“It’s nylon. I hope it scratches your butt and he gets knee burns. If he turns his back, I’ll club him with my cane.”
Chico didn’t answer. She was looking from the doorway toward the sofa where Trace’s father sat, still looking at his drink. Mrs. Tracy was next to him, her jaw moving continuously. “Your father’s quite a man to have let her live,” Chico said.
“I know. I wish there was some way to bail him out. You know, that’s what my marriage was turning into?” He stopped as Bob Swenson came into the room, holding two glasses. He saw Chico and Trace, gave the bartender the glasses to fill, and walked over.
“How’s it going?” Trace asked.
“I’ve got her now. I’ve got her convinced that she’s Ingrid Bergman, Pola Negri, and Lillian Gish all rolled up into one.”
“Even better than them.” Trace said. “She does an animal act.”
“That was in the past. A youthful indiscretion,” Swenson said. “From here on in, it’s only serious acting. She and I are discussing her career plans right now. She needs an older, wiser man to rely on. A mentor. I shall be her mentor.”
“You’re really a disgusting vulture,” Chico said with a smile.
“You’ve driven me to it,” Swenson
“Why not?” Trace asked.
“Not mean enough. He’s got the look of the kind of person who trusts people.”
“Yeah, Sarge, that old demon trust. It’ll get you in trouble every time.”
“It will if you’re a detective,” the old man said. “I never trusted anybody. Not partners, not superiors, not suspects, lawyers, prosecutors, anybody. Twenty-five years and I was never indicted.”
Trace thought to himself that not having been indicted was a pretty small merit badge to wear for twenty-five years of policework.
But instead, Trace said, “Listen. Suppose I got Mom a lover. What would you think about that? Some dancer or something. Maybe an acrobat.”
“Well, for a couple of days I think it’d be wonderful. Get her off my back. I’d have to kill him, of course, before I left town.”
“Hell, I don’t think I can get anybody to do it if he knows he has to die,” Trace said.
“Try,” his father urged, then looked glum again. “No. Never mind. I’m just doomed. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“Your father’s drinking too much,” Chico said.
“Funny. I’m the one who’s going to be forty and he’s the one who’s got the midlife crisis.”
“That’s now. Wait until Thursday when the big four-oh comes. I’ll tell you how it’ll be. First, you won’t be able to get out of bed. What for? Another dismal day like all the rest? So you’ll stay in bed. Your body will ache and you’ll think of a cup of tea. With lemon. And honey. I’ll parade through the room naked, but I won’t get any response because you know if you use it all up right away, it’ll be another week before you can do it again. You’ll start riding buses, instead of walking, and you’ll think about answering ads in the sex columns. ‘Beautiful horny young woman looking for generous elderly bachelor. Please write Lulu LaTour. Send photo. All letters answered.’ I tell you, Trace, I don’t envy you. Your pop’s all right. He’s just depressed, but he’ll get better when he gets home. For you, it’s the end of the line.”
“The only thing that keeps me going is knowing that you’ll be there with me in my sunset years,” Trace said.
“Hah. All these years you’ve been abusing me?” Chico said. “Now it’s my turn. From now on I flaunt my lovers in front of you. Eighteen-year-old bellhops. Valet parking attendants. Carry-out boys from the supermarket.”
“You don’t go to a supermarket,” he said.
“I’m going to start. I’m going to all the supermarkets. A different one each day. And I’m going to have them all deliver. You can lie in bed rusting and hear the squeals of pleasure from the living room. We’ll be on the rug.”
“It’s nylon. I hope it scratches your butt and he gets knee burns. If he turns his back, I’ll club him with my cane.”
Chico didn’t answer. She was looking from the doorway toward the sofa where Trace’s father sat, still looking at his drink. Mrs. Tracy was next to him, her jaw moving continuously. “Your father’s quite a man to have let her live,” Chico said.
“I know. I wish there was some way to bail him out. You know, that’s what my marriage was turning into?” He stopped as Bob Swenson came into the room, holding two glasses. He saw Chico and Trace, gave the bartender the glasses to fill, and walked over.
“How’s it going?” Trace asked.
“I’ve got her now. I’ve got her convinced that she’s Ingrid Bergman, Pola Negri, and Lillian Gish all rolled up into one.”
“Even better than them.” Trace said. “She does an animal act.”
“That was in the past. A youthful indiscretion,” Swenson said. “From here on in, it’s only serious acting. She and I are discussing her career plans right now. She needs an older, wiser man to rely on. A mentor. I shall be her mentor.”
“You’re really a disgusting vulture,” Chico said with a smile.
“You’ve driven me to it,” Swenson
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