Spook Page 4

  We were in the living room with a wood fire going, white wine for her and beer for me. Emily was in her room with Shameless the cat, her door shut and locked; she’d disappeared in there as soon as she and Kerry walked in. Fast hug, peck on the cheek, and she was gone. I figured she was either working on her costume for her school’s Christmas pageant next week, or wrapping presents. She’d been carrying a big sack and wouldn’t let either of us see what was in it.

  I drank some of my beer-flavored water. New Year’s resolution: Start treating myself to a better quality of beverage. The stores were full of local microbrews, among them some hoppy IPAs that people kept touting to me.

  “Did you find out what Emily wants for Christmas?” I asked.

  “Yes, she told me. Her fondest dream wish... her words.”

  “And?”

  “Her own cell phone.”

  “What? At her age?”

  “A lot of kids have them now.”

  “Ten-year-olds going around ringing and yacking in public? Who do they talk to?”

  “Friend’s, family. It keeps them connected.”

  “Connected,” I said. “When I was a kid, we didn’t need to be jabbering on the phone to feel connected.”

  “Did they have telephones when you were a kid?”

  “Hah. Funny.”

  “Well, you sound like an old fogey.”

  “Maybe I am. But most people of my generation... our generation... turned out just fine without portable phones and pagers and handheld computers and all the other techno gadgets they have nowadays.”

  “Times change, darlin’. Lifestyles change. Kids grow up a lot faster, and there’s a greater need for connection. It’s anything but a kind and gentle world out there, as I don’t have to tell you. Cell phones aren’t just for kids’ amusement, they’re for emergencies too. And to keep emergencies from happening.”

  No way I could argue with that. “Okay,” I said. “Still, those things are expensive.”

  “The one Emily wants is reasonable enough.”

  “You mean she’s got a specific brand all picked out?”

  “Oh, yes. The same kind Carla Simpson has. Nokia 3360, AT&T model. It comes with battery, charger, and headset, but she’s also lobbying for a couple of accessories.”

  “What kind of accessories can a cell phone have?”

  “A leather carrying case with belt clip, for one. And... let’s see... an extra face plate in either polar blue or Vesuvius red.”

  “My God.” I took another hit of watery beer. “Just how much does all of that cost?”

  “Under two hundred dollars.”

  “Under two hundred. A bargain.”

  “It’s not bad, really, at today’s prices. And it’s the only thing she’s asking for. I thought if you’d get the equipment, I’d pay the monthly rate for six months. If she doesn’t abuse the privilege, and consents to doing a few extra chores, then she can keep it for another six months. And so forth on that basis.”

  “So you really think we ought to do this.”

  “Well, it’ll grant her wish and teach her care and responsibility at the same time. Why not indulge her a little?”

  I thought it over. Kerry was right. After all Emily had been through in her young life, the tragic loss of both her birth parents and the knowledge that they’d been living a double life, and the restructuring of her entire existence, she was entitled if any ten-year-old was. For the first few months she’d been with us, even though she’d wanted the adoption as much as we did, she had been frightened, withdrawn — a state worsened by a shooting incident that had nearly cost me my life. Lately, with both my life and our home life back on an even keel, there’d been positive signs that she was emerging from the crisis period, like a butterfly from its cocoon. She had started to make friends among her classmates at her new school — she and Carla were inseparable these days — and her grades were improving as well. She smiled more often, was more communicative. And she’d stopped sleeping with all the lights on in her room.

  “Okay,” I said, “so we’ll play extravagant Santa this year. As long as she doesn’t expect to get expensive gifts every Christmas.”

  “I don’t think she will.”

  “What was that model number again?”

  “Nokia 3360.”

  “Right. Charger, headset, carrying case, and, uh, red or green face plate.”

  “Vesuvius red or polar blue. And the charger and headset are included with the phone. You’d better write it all down.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “No, you won’t. Write it down.”

  “Later,” I said. “Now, how about you?”

  “How about me what?”

  “What do you want for Christmas, little girl?”

  She smiled, then got up in that languid way of hers and came over and plunked herself down on my lap. “I already have everything I want, Santa,” she said.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m content.”

  “Must be something you need or would like.”

  She wagged her auburn head. “Your turn. What do you want for Christmas?”

  “You to stop picking on me.”

  “I don’t know, that’s a pretty tall order. What else?”

  “Easy. You for the rest of my life, just like this.”

  “Snuggled up in your lap?”

  “Until my bones get too brittle to support the weight.”

  “Well, I guess that’s do-able. Say another thirty years’ worth?”

  “I’d settle for twenty.”

  “Thirty, minimum,” she said and kissed me.

  The kiss started out light and tender, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Never does with Kerry and me. We went at it enthusiastically for awhile, hanging on tight, before we came up for air.

  And there was Emily, grinning at us from ten feet away.

  “Boy,” she said, “you guys. Carla’s parents don’t do that anymore and they’re a lot younger.”

  “Is that so,” Kerry said. “How do you know they don’t?”

  “Carla told me.”

  “And how does she know what her folks do when she’s not around?”

  “She heard them talking once in their bedroom. Arguing, I guess. Her mom said she was glad it happened because she was tired of being pestered all the time.”

  “Glad what happened?”

  Emily said matter-of-factly, “Her dad can’t get it up anymore. But don’t tell anybody, it’s supposed to be a secret,” and then went skipping off into the kitchen.

  Kerry and I looked at each other. She sighed and got slowly off my lap.

  “Kids,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

  4

  Tamara

  Horace laid his Christmas surprise on her that night at dinner, two weeks early.

  Long day and she didn’t feel like going to a restaurant, just wanted to veg out in front of the TV with the rest of last night’s pizza. But he kept after her till she finally gave in. He had the fidgets, even worse than the past few nights. Excited and nervous at the same time — always a sure sign there was something worrying around in that big head of his.

  So they went over to the Grotto on Lake Street, a couple of blocks from their flat on 27th Avenue. Usually Horace had a pint or two of IPA — man did love his beer — but tonight he ordered scotch, neat. Uh-oh, Tamara thought. Scotch meant this was a Big Deal; Scotch meant she would either love or hate whatever it was he was fixing to tell her.

  He didn’t waste any time. Slugged down half his drink soon as it came, leaned forward with his eyes all shiny, and covered her hands with both of his. He had the biggest hands. Soft hands. Slow hands that made her shiver every time he touched her, specially in bed. Large all over, that man. Two hundred and fifty pounds of dynamite, he’d said to her once, with a two-inch fuse. Hah. Two times four, just about.

  “Baby,
I have news. Major news.”

  “Already figured that much.”

  “I had an audition today. At the conservatory.”

  “Audition?”

  “With a symphony conductor. Mr. Davalino arranged it, had me play movements from two of the six Suites for Cello by Bach and Tchaikovsky’s Peter Ilyitch.” Big grin. “It went fine. The conductor said my sostenuto was the best he’d heard in a young cellist.”

  “Sostenuto. Singing tone, right?”

  “Right. If everything goes well now... just what I’ve been working for, praying for. A seat with a major orchestra.”

  “Oh, baby, that’s wonderful.” His excitement had flowed into her; she squeezed his hands. “But why didn’t you tell me about the audition? Must’ve been set up for a while. Auditions don’t just happen all of a sudden.”

  “Two weeks. That’s why I’ve been so stoked lately. I should’ve told you, I know, but I... well, I was afraid of jinxing it.”

  “Mr. Superstitious. Okay, never mind. Wouldn’t be the S.F. Symphony, would it? You tell me that, I’m liable to wet myself.”

  “No, but almost as good.” The grin flickered. He took another hit of his Scotch. “The conductor, Mr. Greenbaum, and his orchestra manager came up from L.A. just to hear me play.”

  “L.A. Philharmonic?”

  “No. They were there to see somebody about a donation. Mr. Greenbaum doesn’t usually do field auditions, but he’s an old friend of Mr. Davalino. They were at Juilliard together.”

  “Juilliard. That’s in New York.”

  “Yes, but that’s not where he lives now.”

  “Well, where does he live? Where’s his symphony?”

  “Philadelphia.”

  The excitement cooled in her. “Philadelphia,” she said.

  “He needs a cellist for their spring season. He wants me to start practicing with the orchestra right after the first of the year. All expenses paid for two weeks. If he and the principal cellist are satisfied, and he thinks they will be, the seat is mine.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Baby, don’t look like that. This doesn’t mean I’m leaving you.”

  “What else would you call moving to Philadelphia?”

  “You don’t understand. I want you to go with me.”

  Silent again. She wanted to pull her hands away, but she didn’t do it. Just sat there letting him hold on, looking at her all earnest and eager out of those fierce eyes of his. Two hundred and fifty pounds, ugly as sin... how could a man who looked so mean be gentle as a lamb, play classical music like an angel?

  “Tamara, listen... I’m asking you to marry me.”

  The words seemed to echo in her ears. She listened to the echo, let its meaning sink in — and burst out laughing. Couldn’t help it. Laughter just came rolling out, low and raw in her throat.

  It hurt him, she could see that, but at the moment she didn’t care. He said, “What’s so funny? I’ve never been more serious. We never talked much about marriage—”

  “Why spoil a good thing. Uh-huh.”

  “I never said that.”

  “No. I said that. Still saying it.”

  “If I’d proposed earlier, you’d have said yes. I know you would have.”

  “Then you know wrong.”

  “It’s not just because of Philadelphia that I—”

  “Like hell it’s not. Word marriage wouldn’t have come into your head, much less out your mouth, if it wasn’t for that symphony seat and we both know it.”

  Now he was flustered. “Yes, it would have... I wanted to ask you a dozen times but I was afraid you... Tamara, listen. I love you and you love me. That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”

  Everybody said there wasn’t any such thing as love at first sight, but she’d loved Horace from the first minute she set eyes on him — in psych class, opening day of the fall semester at S.F. State five years ago. Shamed her a little to think how aggressively she’d pursued him; to remember the fool thing she’d said to him the first time they went to bed, “Lord, I wish I was still a virgin for you.” They’d lived together four years now and she believed she knew him so well, as well as she knew herself.

  Wrong, Tamara. Nobody knows anybody, including themselves.

  “Isn’t it all that matters?” he said again.

  “No.”

  “What’re you saying? You’re not turning me down?”

  “I’m saying I don’t want to go Philadelphia with you, married or unmarried.”

  “Your career? Is that the reason?”

  “Pretty good reason.”

  “Baby, there’re plenty of detective agencies back east. Or... another profession, one with better opportunities. With your computer skills—”

  “What’s wrong with detective work?”

  “Nothing. I’m only saying—”

  “You’re saying start over, doesn’t make any difference what the job is. Well, it does make a difference. I told you enough times how much I like what I’m doing, how much a full partnership in the agency means to me. As much as being a concert cellist means to you.”

  “I understand that, but—”

  “No you don’t, not if you think I’ll just drop everything and walk out on the man after all he’s done for me, give up my chance to be my own boss — quit being Tamara Corbin and be Mrs. Horace Fields in fucking Philadelphia.”

  “Shhh! People are staring at us.”

  She glowered at him. “Let ’em stare.”

  “All right,” he said. “All right, maybe I was being a little insensitive—”

  “A little!”

  “I understand, baby, believe me I do. It’s just that the prospect of playing with a major symphony orchestra...”

  “Sure. Lot more important than being a private eye, right?”

  “No. No! That’s not it at all.”

  “Sounds like it to me.”

  His face got all scrunched up like a tantrumy kid’s. “Don’t be like this. We can work this out, I know we can.”

  “How? Get married and live three thousand miles apart, see each other for a weekend every few months? This child’s not made that way, you hear what I’m saying?”

  “If you love me—”

  “What’s that now? Try to make me feel guilty?”

  “No...”

  “If you love me you’ll go to bed with me. If you love me you’ll give up your career and move to Philly with me. Make the big sacrifice. That’s emotional blackmail, my man. That’s bullshit.”

  She could feel tears in her eyes. Tough Tamara Corbin, cop’s daughter, hip-hop girl, never took crap from anybody, hadn’t cried since she was about eight years old — and here she was about to bawl her eyes out in a public place. She jerked her hands away angrily. Looked off from him, across the crowded restaurant at nothing... at something that swam into focus.

  Christmas tree. Tall, lots of lights and tinsel, angel in a gold and red dress stuck up on top. Pretty, like the ones the folks used to have when she and Claudia were growing up. She’d always loved this time of year. Didn’t even care that all the trappings were for white family holidays, not black family’s. Carols, decorations, Santa Claus, sappy movies, Christmas eve, presents on Christmas morning... loved everything about it. All those Christmases in Redwood City, four fine ones since with Horace, and now this year... the 25th was less than two weeks away and she’d really been looking forward to...

  The lights on the restaurant tree blurred to misty yellow and red and blue halos. Ready to start bawling now. Except that she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not here. Not anywhere, dammit, not over a damn man.

  “I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m going home.”

  “... You’re right, it’s better if we talk this out in private—”

  “Nothing to talk out.”

  Got up without looking at him, hurried away through the tables to the front entrance. The woman at the cashier’s desk said, “Merry Christmas,” as she passed by, but Tamara bar
ely heard her and didn’t answer.

  5

  I was a few minutes late for the eleven-thirty meeting with Jake Runyon. Saturday mornings, downtown, in mid-December are a madhouse: clogged Sutter-Stockton Garage, clogged streets, clogged sidewalks, clogged stores. Piped Christmas music and sharp-elbowed shoppers chased me around Macy’s, which turned into an adventure in frustration. Macy’s didn’t sell the Nokia cell phone and accessories Emily coveted, they didn’t have Kerry’s favorite perfume or any jewelry I liked well enough to buy for her, they didn’t have anything I thought would appeal to Tamara. I went up to the women’s clothing department and wandered around looking at garments and trying to imagine them draped around Kerry’s slender body or Tamara’s rounder one. Nothing there, either. Next stop, the lingerie department. Poking around in there made me feel vaguely like a fetishist; I slunk away after ten minutes without buying anything.

  By this time it was ten after eleven and I’d had enough of shopping. How women can spend an entire day — hell, entire weekends — in malls and stores is beyond my understanding. Two hours of crowds, noise, indecision, and dissatisfaction was at least an hour past my endurance limit. Presents for the three women in my life could wait until I had time to hunt up a store that specialized in cell phones and another one or two that would solve the gift dilemma for Tamara and Kerry. I might even take Kerry at her word that she already had everything she wanted and forgo a present for her entirely... No, I wouldn’t. Not if I expected to enjoy the privilege and pleasure of marital relations during the first three months or so of next year.

  Runyon was waiting in his car when I finally got to O’Farrell Street. The car was typical of the man: a strictly functional dark gray Ford sedan with several years and no doubt a lot of miles on it, and still bearing Washington state plates. I said I was sorry for being late; he waved the apology away. “I’m used to waiting,” he said. “I didn’t even notice the time.” Also typical of the man, as I was learning.

  We went upstairs and I briefed him on the relevant points I’d noted during Friday evening’s interview with Steve Taradash. He asked a few cogent questions, wrote down the answers in a notebook not unlike the one I carry. The questions were tersely worded; he didn’t have anything to say that required more than a couple of sentences, and nothing at all that wasn’t business related.