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.
“It is. I'm trying to tell them Mommy loves them, cares about them, but what they know is she isn't there. It's been really tough. I just got them into therapy; hopefully it'll help.”
Most cops ran from anything psychiatric unless they were filing for disability. Banks's easy admission interested her.
She watched him eat another pickle. Narrow hands; the free one continued to drum. The fingers long but sturdy. Impeccable nails.
He chewed slowly. Everything about him seemed slow and deliberate. Except the hands. All his tension filtered down to his fingertips. “She was always after me to grow a mustache. My ex. Said it was muy macho.” He laughed. “So after she's gone, I do it. Guess a therapist would have something to say about that. Anyway, she's still trying to find herself. Hopefully, she will soon.”
“How long's it been?”
“Final decree was just over a year ago. I'm able to feel sorry for her now, see her as someone with serious problems, but- Oh, by the way, I talked to the Carpinteria sheriff and he said Lisa Ramsey never filed any DV complaint on Ramsey there, either. They've got no calls to the house, period.”
Whiplash change of subject. He knew it and blushed, and Petra groped for a way to rescue him.
The waitress solved that problem, setting down his coffee hard enough to slosh the saucer and barking, “Your food's coming up.”
She hurried off, and Petra said, “Thanks for checking, Ron.”
“Least I could do.”
The two of them worked on their drinks. The restaurant was almost full, the usual mixture of soup-sipping old folk and Gen-X depressives showing they didn't care about dietary fat. Behind the stocked case, countermen sliced and wrapped and cracked jokes, the briny aromas of herring and cured meat and stuffed derma yielding to sweetness as fresh rye loaves came out of the kitchen on steel trays.
Suddenly, Petra felt hungry, a little more relaxed.
“How about you?” said Banks. “Been married?”
“Divorced two and a half years ago, no kids.” Getting that out of the way before he could ask. “So you've got them full-time. Must be challenging.”
“My mom helps out- picks them up from school and baby-sits when I have to work late. They're great girls, sweet, smart, into sports- Alicia does soccer, gives the boys a run. Bee's not sure if she likes soccer or T-ball, but she's pretty coordinated.”
Sports dad. Her father had gone that route with all five kids. Football for the boys, softball for Petra. Every Sunday, into a hideous uniform. She hated the entire experience, faked enthusiasm to please him, stuck with it for three summers. Years later he told her she'd done him a big favor quitting; he'd yearned for some free time on weekends.
Single father- was that why she'd gotten together with Banks?
He seemed so unguarded. What was he doing as a cop? She asked him how he got into law enforcement.
“My dad was a fireman- it was either that or police work,” he said. “Always wanted one of the two.”