“On Ming, you moron! Check the phone book.”
We exchanged a few more pertinent details, and by the time I closed the salon door behind me, she had taken out a pack of sanitized instruments for the client who’d taken my place. At the desk, I was told the manicure was fifteen bucks and I kicked myself for not paying first and calculating the tip from that.
• • •
I was uneasy about meeting at the bar where Ethan’s band played on weekends, but Anna assured me the scene wouldn’t heat up until well after 10:00. In the meantime, she said the bartenders there knew her and we could talk without being hustled by a bunch of cheesy numbnuts (her words, not mine).
I left the salon and found a gas station, thinking to take advantage of the lull to top off my tank. While the attendant cleaned my windshield and checked the air in my tires, I loaded up on quarters and closed myself into a phone booth located near the ladies’ room.
I figured by now, Henry had fetched Rosie from the airport, dropped her off at the tavern, and returned to St. Terry’s. I had no idea how to find him. He’d be in range of the ICU, but I doubted they accepted long-distance calls, and the nursing staff certainly wouldn’t interrupt their work long enough to send out a runner. I dropped a couple of coins in the slot and dialed his home number. Sure enough, his machine picked up and I left a message indicating that my plans had changed. I told him not to look for me at all that night. Even if my meeting with Ellen ended at 9:00, by some miracle, I didn’t want to embark on a two-and-a-half-hour drive. I paid for my gas and then I cruised the downtown area looking for a motel. I passed a McDonald’s and circled back. While 5:30 wasn’t exactly supper time, I paused long enough to scarf down a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, accessorized with fries and a Coke. I was nearly cross-eyed with carbs and fat grams when I wadded up the wrapping from my QP and tucked it in the french fry box. Once back on Truxtun, already my favorite street in Bakersfield, I spotted a Holiday Inn. It looked like a palace compared to the Thrifty Lodge. Since at that point I’d denounced thrift, the rates seemed entirely reasonable.
As soon as I reached my room, I stripped down and took a shower, emerging from the bathroom fifteen minutes later with clean hair and a pure heart. I stretched out on the bed, thinking to close my eyes for twenty minutes while I worried about Felix. I had no idea what was going on. All I knew was the Boggarts had attacked him in retaliation for the raid on the camp. I woke with a start an hour and forty-five minutes later and had to scramble to throw on my clothes, retrieve the Mustang from the parking lot, and reach the Brandywine by 8:00.
The club was largely deserted at that hour, as Anna had predicted. I paused inside the door to get my bearings. Two bartenders were setting up, moving bottles and stemware, dumping ice from a plastic bucket into one of the wells. A waitress stood at one end of the bar, leaning on her elbows while she chatted with the two. The music from the jukebox played at a muted level. I picked up a portion of the sound track from Dirty Dancing, which I thought might bode well. The raucous thumping numbers would come later when I was gone . . . I hoped.
Since there was no sign of Anna, I sat down at a table in view of the front door. The main room was half dark and smelled of beer. The air-conditioning was turned up in anticipation of the crowd. Behind me and to my left, I could see the raised dais where the band would play. I’d make a point of being gone by the time Ethan arrived. I could hear billiard balls crack into one another smartly, and assumed there was a pool table in the back room.
I finally spotted Anna. She’d changed clothes. For her Friday-night attire, she’d selected a form-fitting red leather miniskirt, a glittering red sequined tank top, and four-inch heels. Her demeanor had undergone a transformation as well. Gone was the industrious shopgirl with her cuticle expertise. She was in hunting mode and dressed for the kill. Her eyes were lined in black and her lipstick was the same hot red shade as her nails. Her hair was still secured by a clip but arranged in a French roll instead of a tuft on top. She’d added long, dangle earrings that bobbed and sparkled as she moved. There was no sign of anyone with her.
When she slid into the seat across the table, she was accompanied by a subtle cloud of perfume. She made eye contact with one of the bartenders who knew what she was drinking without being told. A moment later, a waitress appeared with a martini on a tray. Three olives were submerged in the depths and the glass was frosted with a thin sheath of ice.
Anna glanced at me. “What are you drinking?”
“Chardonnay.”
The waitress made a note before she turned and walked away.
Anna picked up her glass. “End of a long week. Excuse me if I don’t wait.”
“I thought Ellen would be with you.”
“In a bit. Hank, too. His mom lives six doors down and she said she’d watch the kids. So what’s the plan? Staying over?”
“I have a room at the Holiday Inn.”
“Good for you,” she said.
“Is this where you spend your Friday nights?”
“Saturday nights, too. I date a guy who plays keyboard in Ethan’s band.”
“Is that how you met?”
“Other way around. I talked Ethan into hiring him when another guy dropped out. Where’re you from?” she asked, switching the subject as if the answer had slipped her mind. Ethan had probably unloaded anything and everything I’d said about myself.
“Santa Teresa.”
“Nice. How’s the club scene?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Bummer.” She took a sip of her martini, holding the glass by the rim. Her nails looked great and I checked mine by way of comparison. With me, she’d used a nail buffer instead of polish, but my nails still had a high shine, as though she’d coated them with clear polish. I remembered her remark about my slender fingers and arranged them on the table in what I hoped was an artful pose.
She moved a cocktail napkin closer and set the stemmed glass in the center with care. I wondered if she already had a buzz on. “Ethan says you’re a private detective.”
“This is true.”
She speared the top of an olive with a long red nail and held it up like a lollipop. “So what’s it take to get a job like that?” She closed her lips around the olive and chewed.
“Long apprenticeship. You work for a licensed PI until you’ve put in the hours you need.”
“Which is how many?”
“Six thousand. If you work a forty-hour week, fifty weeks a year, you’re talking three years.”
“Bet you need a college degree.”
“I don’t have one. I attended a couple of semesters of community college, but I didn’t graduate.”
“I never went at all. I’m the baby in the family. By the time it was my turn, Daddy was in prison and the money was gone.”
“What money?”
“From the house. Mom sold it when she married Gilbert and moved into his. They’ve built a new one. Three thousand square feet and a three-car garage. Looks just like Tara, from Gone With the Wind.”
I said, “What about Ethan? Did he go to college?”
“Nah. He had the chance, but he was busy with his career. You know what I got? A big fat zero. I mean, I get that Daddy left us nothing, but isn’t there some way you could borrow against the estate? I’d pay you back for sure.”
“At this point, the money isn’t mine.”
“At least Ellen has a husband,” she said, apropos of nothing.
“Does she have kids?”
Anna held up three fingers. “Same as my brother,” she said. “Remember that English writer, Virginia Somebody?” She snapped her fingers. “Woolf.”
“I’ve heard of her, but I’ve never read her work.”
“I was in this book club for a couple months? We read a novel by her about a day in the life of this lady who gives a party. Mrs. Dalloway’s the title of it. Like who gives a shit. Anyway, she committed suicide—the writer, not the hostess—and you know how she offed herself?”