“That’s for you to uncover, Detective.”
My first instinct was to track down Artie, break an arm and a few ribs. I hate bullies, and I hate rogue cops. But there was more than one way to skin a cat.
I left a note in her hotel room and then drove to a Dunkin’ Donuts and waited. She showed up an hour later. Haile hadn’t changed too much in the last ten years, but her eyes were even more cynical than they were in her youth. She slid into the booth across from me.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Typical call gal,” I said with a smile. “Sorry about that note, but I thought it’d be better than sneaking up on you in your hotel room again. So how are you?”
“Tired of being blackmailed by a disgraced ex-cop whom the world has abandoned,” she said with a sigh. “Excuse me, but I have to get a doughnut. Those sour creams are incredible. Want one?”
I admired her pluck. She came back a couple of minutes later with a cup of coffee and a doughnut.
“I’ve done my homework, Haile, and if you were going to spend a couple of years in jail for what you did the other day, I’ve managed to find some more stuff that will keep you in for a long time-the mail-fraud scheme in New Mexico; the old, wealthy trucker in Montana who died of a heart attack just a month after you married him; then we have your dealings with Chris Thomas, fencing off stolen artwork. I can go on and on.”
She continued munching on the doughnut, then smiled and said, “You’re going to have a hard time proving it though.”
“Maybe I can’t prove it, but I can make life very complicated for you.” She didn’t say anything, so I went on, “I need some info, Haile, and you’re the only person I know who can get it for me. Unfortunately it’ll probably involve screwing an older, greasy guy called-”
“You don’t have to blackmail me to screw a smelly old shit.” She paused. “I will of course charge my standard rate.”
I dropped an envelope on the table that had $400 in it and said, “I come prepared.”
16 R. L. Stine
She looked so right on the barstool, as if she belonged there. As if she were born there.
I spotted her long red hair from the doorway. Saw the dip of her shoulders as she picked up her glass. I watched her rattle the ice cube. She took a sip. Her expression didn’t change.
I realized she was eyeing me in the mirror behind the bar.
Artie, don’t get involved, I told myself. I wasn’t in the mood to be nice to anyone, or even pretend.
So why was I still there?
Why do I do anything?
I had that feeling of dread I wake up with every morning. You know. That cold, heavy rock in your chest that makes you pull the pillow over your head and scream into it until you can’t breathe.
Or maybe you don’t know that feeling.
Okay. She saw me watching her. I tried to study her reaction in the mirror. But the neon Sam Adams sign cast a flickering, blue glare over her face.
The drunk on the next stool bumped her arm. But she didn’t spill a drop of her drink. She turned her green eyes on him. Gave him a stare I’ve seen a few times. He raised his shirt collar as if he were suddenly cold and moved away.
Time for more lies.
That’s the way I approach the day.
What’s my favorite film? The Grifters.
Not sure what made me think of it as I stepped on my half-smoked Marlboro and walked toward the bar and its neon glow.
“Hi. Is this seat taken?”
She turned, and her eyes were cold. If I had a collar, I would’ve turned it up. But I was wearing a black turtleneck. Sort of my uniform.
“Is that the best you can do?” Her voice was deep and throaty, a smoker’s voice, but she didn’t turn away.
“I’m a slow starter. But I finish well.”
She lowered her eyelids and flashed a quick half smile.
She wore a designer suit, stylish. A navy-blue pinstripe number. Her legs crossed under the skirt. In the mirror, I saw the white blouse unbuttoned to reveal some skin.
Gave me a pang.
She set the glass down. It had her lip prints on it, a smear of red-brown.
I tried a smile while I studied her. Veronica Lake? Nicole Kidman? She had the looks and the moves, but something was missing.
Maybe I think that about everyone. My problem, right?
I slid down onto the stool next to her. Something about her was familiar, but maybe I think that about every woman I meet. Who knows? I motioned to her empty glass. “Buy you another one?”
She turned the green eyes on me. Green for go?
“You talked me into it,” she said, rattling the cubes.
“Yeah, that’s me. I’ve got a way with words.”
Artie, don’t sound bitter.
I waved to the bartender, a little blond number who looked about twelve.
That half smile again. “What else have you got a way with?”
I just laughed. It sounded strange to me. Guess I hadn’t laughed in a long time.
So, okay, we had a few drinks. Maybe more than a few. I’m a Jameson guy too. Maybe the only classy thing about me.
We were there a couple hours. And what was I thinking? I was thinking maybe I didn’t have enough to cover the tab. I was thinking about excusing myself to the little boys’ room and then cutting out the back door.
So imagine my surprise when she leaned against me and pressed her face to my ear. She smelled like oranges and flowers. “Can we go to your place?”
I didn’t move for a long moment. I wasn’t expecting that. Most women can pick up right away on what a loser I am.
I squinted at her, trying to decide if maybe she was a pro.
She shivered. “Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week, right?”
“But it’s Friday.”
Her lips brushed my neck. “Let’s pretend it’s Saturday.”
I don’t need this, I was thinking. But I’m weak. I’ll be the first to admit it. If a chick presses her face against mine, all soft perfume and whispers, what am I going to do? Say no?
And then we stepped out on Brannan Street and waved at a taxi.
As we climbed the stairs to my apartment, I was feeling a nice buzz, kind of warm and forgetful.
I closed the door behind us, clicked on the table lamp, and reached to take off her jacket. She glanced around. She was still in the shadows by the entryway, but I could see she wasn’t smiling. And I knew the word she was thinking. Shabby.
“Artie, you said you had a condo on the Embarcadero.”
“No lie,” I said, raising my right hand. “It’s being renovated.”
“And so you took this walk-up dump on Mission? It looks pretty lived-in to me.”
I forced a laugh. “Did we come up here to talk real estate?”
I tried to clear my head. I didn’t like the way this was going. I shouldn’t have had those drinks. I couldn’t think straight. I took a few steps back. You know. To assess.
She took off her own jacket and folded it neatly over the back of my ragged armchair. “Is your name really Artie?” Her silver bracelets rattled. She had like six or seven of them. Her hands clasped and unclasped at her sides.
“Yeah. My name’s Artie. Want me to show you my driver’s license?”
She actually said yes.
So I did.
She studied my license like she was gonna be quizzed on it, said, “Arthur Ruby. It’s got a ring to it.”
I shrugged.
She shivered again. Not from the cold, I guess. She took a step, snuggled against me.
That’s a little better, I thought. I wrapped my arms around her. She sighed as I raised my hands to her tits. And then… she started asking me questions!
And it’s weird ’cause I heard myself answering even though I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop and the room was spinning.