fine.”
“Room 621.” She turned and walked prettily back down to the tomb.
As I watched her recede, a vision blossomed full-blown in my head. Amanda and I would assuage each other’s pain by making love all night long. She would cry in my arms, and I in hers. I would kiss away her tears.
Ridiculous. Brenda not in the ground ten minutes, and already I was planning her sisters seduction.
But the vision, insensitive to my guilt, persisted. Amanda would light a cigarette. “For Brenda,” she would say, and we would share it. In the morning I would leave, never to see her again.
“You’re having one of your sex fantasies,” Gina said.
I whipped my head around. She stood a few feet behind me, grinning like a maniac. “How could you tell?”
“Your nostrils were flaring and you licked your lips.”
“I did not.”
“Did. You gonna go?”
“Of course. She could be valuable to our investigation.”
“Valuable to your sex life, you mean. But, hey, why not? She
is
kind of cute, in a Midwestern corn-fed sort of way. Nice eyes. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
We left the mourners behind, made our way up past the natural wonders on the hill, found our vehicles. “Now what?” Gina asked.
“I’m supposed to go see Dick McAfee. Want to come?”
She followed me to Dicks place. He and Hope lived on Warren Avenue in the nice part of Mar Vista, near Santa Monica Airport. Huge evergreens overhung the street; their invasive roots buckled the asphalt. It was a nice block, a family block. Kids rode bikes. Couples walked dogs. A gardener trimmed the eugenias at the house next door.
I’d taken off my jacket and tie when we left the funeral, but the suit pants and dress shirt were still too confining. I reached into the truck bed and grabbed the gym bag with my everyday clothes. I could change in Dick’s bathroom.
We walked up the driveway and onto the front porch. Dick had festooned it with pots of big barrel cacti. A foot-wide ferocactus was in bloom, though its purple flowers were closing up for their evening’s rest. A gigantic
Boweia volubilis
—a climbing onion—sent its shoots twirling around a pillar all the way to the roof.
I rang the bell. The strains of “La Cucaracha” resonated inside. After a decent interval I rang again. This time it was the first few notes of “Lara’s Theme.”
“Ring it a few more times,” Gina said. “See if you can get the macarena.”
“Maybe he’s in the back.” I pressed my face up against a window, shaded my brow with my hand. A dining room. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Yeah, let’s go try the back.”
We clomped off the porch, followed the driveway along the house, went through a big wooden gate. A giant sycamore dominated the backyard, its branches spreading from one property line to the other. The spiny brown fruits—we called then “itchy balls” when I was a kid—littered the ground.
Dick didn’t have a greenhouse, though shade cloth protected several tables full of plants. An eight-foot wood fence ringed the yard. In the back, sugar-snap peas clung to green mesh. Passionflower vines covered one side; on the other he’d planted a pereskia, a primitive leafed cactus resembling a climbing rose more than a denizen of the desert. He must have kept it trimmed; it formed a nice neat hedge. Unchecked, I knew from painful experience, pereskia would cover the side of a house in no time.
“Dick?”
“He’s not here,” Gina said. “You’ve been stood up. Come on, let’s go get some ice cream.”
“He’s got to be here. Dick is the most responsible man I. know. Maybe he’s in the garage.”
“Fine. Go look in the garage. When you don’t find him we’ll go to Baskin-Robbins.”
The side door to the garage was ajar. I poked my head in and flicked on the light. He had an old Buick in there—early fifties was my guess—that he was restoring. Scraps of fabric and pots of glue were scattered about. I walked in and took a quick look at
“Room 621.” She turned and walked prettily back down to the tomb.
As I watched her recede, a vision blossomed full-blown in my head. Amanda and I would assuage each other’s pain by making love all night long. She would cry in my arms, and I in hers. I would kiss away her tears.
Ridiculous. Brenda not in the ground ten minutes, and already I was planning her sisters seduction.
But the vision, insensitive to my guilt, persisted. Amanda would light a cigarette. “For Brenda,” she would say, and we would share it. In the morning I would leave, never to see her again.
“You’re having one of your sex fantasies,” Gina said.
I whipped my head around. She stood a few feet behind me, grinning like a maniac. “How could you tell?”
“Your nostrils were flaring and you licked your lips.”
“I did not.”
“Did. You gonna go?”
“Of course. She could be valuable to our investigation.”
“Valuable to your sex life, you mean. But, hey, why not? She
is
kind of cute, in a Midwestern corn-fed sort of way. Nice eyes. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
We left the mourners behind, made our way up past the natural wonders on the hill, found our vehicles. “Now what?” Gina asked.
“I’m supposed to go see Dick McAfee. Want to come?”
She followed me to Dicks place. He and Hope lived on Warren Avenue in the nice part of Mar Vista, near Santa Monica Airport. Huge evergreens overhung the street; their invasive roots buckled the asphalt. It was a nice block, a family block. Kids rode bikes. Couples walked dogs. A gardener trimmed the eugenias at the house next door.
I’d taken off my jacket and tie when we left the funeral, but the suit pants and dress shirt were still too confining. I reached into the truck bed and grabbed the gym bag with my everyday clothes. I could change in Dick’s bathroom.
We walked up the driveway and onto the front porch. Dick had festooned it with pots of big barrel cacti. A foot-wide ferocactus was in bloom, though its purple flowers were closing up for their evening’s rest. A gigantic
Boweia volubilis
—a climbing onion—sent its shoots twirling around a pillar all the way to the roof.
I rang the bell. The strains of “La Cucaracha” resonated inside. After a decent interval I rang again. This time it was the first few notes of “Lara’s Theme.”
“Ring it a few more times,” Gina said. “See if you can get the macarena.”
“Maybe he’s in the back.” I pressed my face up against a window, shaded my brow with my hand. A dining room. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Yeah, let’s go try the back.”
We clomped off the porch, followed the driveway along the house, went through a big wooden gate. A giant sycamore dominated the backyard, its branches spreading from one property line to the other. The spiny brown fruits—we called then “itchy balls” when I was a kid—littered the ground.
Dick didn’t have a greenhouse, though shade cloth protected several tables full of plants. An eight-foot wood fence ringed the yard. In the back, sugar-snap peas clung to green mesh. Passionflower vines covered one side; on the other he’d planted a pereskia, a primitive leafed cactus resembling a climbing rose more than a denizen of the desert. He must have kept it trimmed; it formed a nice neat hedge. Unchecked, I knew from painful experience, pereskia would cover the side of a house in no time.
“Dick?”
“He’s not here,” Gina said. “You’ve been stood up. Come on, let’s go get some ice cream.”
“He’s got to be here. Dick is the most responsible man I. know. Maybe he’s in the garage.”
“Fine. Go look in the garage. When you don’t find him we’ll go to Baskin-Robbins.”
The side door to the garage was ajar. I poked my head in and flicked on the light. He had an old Buick in there—early fifties was my guess—that he was restoring. Scraps of fabric and pots of glue were scattered about. I walked in and took a quick look at
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