“You tell lies.”
“When I have to.”
“That’s no excuse. I hope you confess to the priest.”
She was sucking noisily the last drops of Coke from the bottom of her cup.
He said, “Shall I drive you home now?”
“I haven’t finished yet. There are still things to tell.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Perhaps another Coke?”
Another Coke was provided. She was clearly enjoying the scene — the food and drink, the attention, the activity going on around her — and seemed in no hurry to end it.
“I should come here more often,” she said. “The Jasper house is so quiet, like someone died. I like a bit of noise, people laughing and music playing, even babies crying. Sometimes it’s a relief to hear the dog barking or Trocadero mowing the lawn or clipping hedges.”
“Quit stalling, Valencia.”
“Do you think we could come here another time?”
“Maybe.”
“That means no, doesn’t it?”
“It probably does.”
“Oh well, you’re too young for me anyway. And too Anglo. You even look Anglo with those horn-rimmed glasses of yours. Who ever heard of a Chicano wearing horn-rimmed glasses?”
“You’re stalling again, Valencia. Get back to the subject, whatever it is.”
“It’s Ted, of course. You weren’t the only one who telephoned him before he left the house. After lunch he had another call. I put him on and then I heard him say, ‘All right, I’ll be right there.’ Those were his words: ‘All right, I’ll be right there.’”
“That doesn’t sound very sinister.”
“Maybe not, unless you know who the caller was, or you think you know. It was her voice, Cleo’s.”
“Cleo’s?”
“Aha, surprised you, didn’t I? You didn’t believe me before when I said she liked that business with Ted. Now you’ve changed your mind, eh? She’s young and hungry, why should she not eat?”
“Did you inform Mrs. Jasper about this phone call from Cleo or a girl you thought was Cleo?”
“Never. It would start another big fuss. They treat me like a dog, I behave like a dog, I say nothing.”
“The rumor is that Ted has a number of girlfriends. It would be quite natural for him to move in with one of them after being kicked out of his own house.”
“The voice was Cleo’s. She asked him to meet her someplace and he said all right, he would. His car was already packed with his clothes and things because he had to leave before his father got home. The señora stood at the door, waving goodbye and crying. Silly woman. What’s there to cry about when a baby bird flies out of the nest? If he stayed on, now that would be good cause for crying.”
“What time did Ted leave?”
“Between one thirty and two.”
He recalled the picture of Ted as a senior in his high school yearbook, a baby bird already out of the nest even then. “Did he seem happy about going?”
“Why not? He’s a fine-looking young man with a fine car and money in his pocket. He’s a bit on the heavy side for my taste. I prefer the lean type like you. Lean men are often stronger.”
“I’m extremely weak,” Aragon said.
He figured it was time to drive Valencia home.
He let her off at the bottom of the Jaspers’ driveway. Through the trees he could see the house at the top of the hill. The main floor was dark but lights showed in some of the second-floor windows.
“If I were you, Valencia, I wouldn’t mention any of this to the Jaspers. It will only increase their burden.”
“It could very well increase mine, too. They might fire me. Chicanos are blamed for everything.”
“Things are changing.”
“Not for me.”
“You have a comfortable place to stay, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You have a room of your own, a radio and TV perhaps, regular meals.”
“The meals are tasteless,” she said. “And the room is lonely without a man. Perhaps you have an older brother? An uncle?”
“I come from a very small family of very weak men.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“I’d like to see you smile.”
“I never smile. I have a crooked tooth at the front. Besides, who’s there to smile at? Trocadero? He’s over seventy. The grocery boy goes to high school and the garbage man is black as coal.”
“When the right man comes along you’ll smile without even thinking of your crooked tooth. And the right man won’t even see it.”
“What a liar you are,” Valencia said, sounding pleased. “You’d better go see your priest.”
9
Drawford’s department store catered to the young ladies and the old money of the city’s North Side. Located at the head of a recently constructed shopping mall, it was built in the style of the string of old missions along the southern California coast. There were differences. Its bell tower clanged the hours only when the store was open for business, the taped music was soft and secular except at Christmas, and the thickly carpeted floors were not meant for the bare feet of padres. Bare feet were not, in fact, allowed at all. There was a sign to that effect on each of the four entrance doors.
The credit department was on the third floor. Its manager was on vacation but the assistant manager agreed to see Aragon.
She was a young woman who looked as if she’d been born and brought up in the store itself, nurtured on the skinny sandwiches of its tearoom, coiffed in its beauty salon, clothed in its designer dresses, perfumed and made up in the cosmetics section, educated in the pages of its chic, glossy catalogues. Aragon would scarcely have been surprised if she’d introduced herself as Ms. Drawford.
“I’m Mrs. Flaherty,” she said. “May I help you?”
Aragon gave her his card and she read it through jewel-trimmed glasses from the optometry department.
“Drawford’s is always happy to welcome an attorney,” she said with a well-practiced smile. “Especially if he’s on our side.”
“Thank you.”
“What can we do for you?”
“I’m trying to find out if the holder of a certain credit card purchased anything here during the past week.”
“I’m sorry but we cannot give out that information.” It sounded like a line from Drawford’s Training Manual for New Personnel.
“Does that mean under any circumstances, Mrs. Flaherty?”
“Almost any. It would be advisable if you’d wait for Mr. Illings to get back from his fishing trip in British Columbia. That will be in another week and a half.”
“That might be a week and a half too late. This is really important.”
Mrs. Flaherty threw away the manual. “Oh damn, I knew something like this was going to happen the minute he left. Right off the bat someone waltzes in, a lawyer yet, and asks for confidential information. What am I supposed to do?”
“Use your own judgment.”
“Okay. What’s the name of the credit card holder, the billing address and the number of the card?”
“Cleo Jasper. The bills are probably sent to her brother, Hilton Jasper, on Via Vista.”
“And the number of the card?”
“I don’t have it, sorry.”
“I’d really like to know what this is all about.”
“And I’d really like to tell you. But as any employee of Drawford’s must realize, rules are rules.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have to get her credit card number from our files, then run it through the computer and see what comes out.”
She was gone for five minutes, during which Aragon had time to examine her office. It was mostly chrome and glass, very neat and almost devoid of personal touches except for two small framed photographs on the desk, one of a baby and the other of a young man in football uniform who looked like Joe Namath. Drawford’s would probably not approve of an assistant credit manager having a photograph of Joe Namath on her desk, so Aragon assumed the picture was of Mrs. Flaherty’s husband, and the baby their joint effort.