Dating Dead Men (9 page)

chapter eleven

T
he horror of that phone call remained, killing my appetite for shrimp fried rice.

Joey, Fredreeq, and I had a standing Saturday lunch date at the table in front of the shop, going over the classified-ad guys for the upcoming week in between bites of Loo Fong's takeout. My journal was in front of me, open, awaiting my entries for the previous week's men, but I couldn't even look at it. Fredreeq was describing a new date she cryptically referred to as Rex Stetson, her chopsticks waving in the air to illustrate her points. I nodded as though paying attention, dying to blurt out that someone had just heard me invite my brother to confess to murder. But Fredreeq was not Joey. If she heard any part of the story, she'd demand to know all of it, and wouldn't like any of it. Her personal attire notwithstanding, Fredreeq was straitlaced about a lot of things. Felons, for instance. Dead people.

Who had been on the other end of the phone?

The cops, Mr. Bundt, or Mr. Bundt's industrial spy: these were the worst-case scenarios. The fact that I hadn't recognized the voice meant little. Four words weren't much to go on. I'd considered pressing *69, but what would that accomplish? So I'd stood there waiting for him to call again, at which point I would have answered in Spanish. He didn't call.

“Morgue,” Joey said.

Fredreeq and I turned to her. A gust of wind sent Joey's red hair swirling around her, Medusa-like. Her green eyes had a faraway look.

“Morgue?” Fredreeq said. “What do morgues have to do with anything?”

Joey's eyes snapped into focus. “Pork. I said pork.”

Fredreeq looked suspicious. “What about pork?”

“Didn't I order pork?”

“What are you talking about? You just plowed through a carton of spicy broccoli. Here, get out of the direct sunlight, you're too white, it's frying your brain.” Fredreeq made Joey switch seats with her, then pulled up her own yellow midriff top to expose her dark brown abdomen to noonday rays. “Oh, good, here's UPS.” Fredreeq waved at the truck pulling into the lot. “It's that driver with the bad weave. Let's see what Wollie's wearing for Rex.”

Each Dating Project subject was outfitted by Tiffanie's Trousseau. The national clothing chain sponsored Dr. Cookie's research, paying us five thousand dollars apiece upon the completion of forty dates, with an additional ten dollars per date for incidentals. In return, we wore the clothes they sent us, documented each outfit via Polaroid, and pasted it into journals, along with the vital statistics and our editorial comments on the men, which Tiffanie's Trousseau used for market research purposes. But the main benefit for Tiffanie's was its proposed advertising gimmick: when Dr. Cookie launched
How to Avoid Getting Dumped All the Time,
Tiffanie's would launch Hot Date fashions. The ad campaign would feature our journal entries superimposed over professional models wearing the corresponding outfit. Dr. Cookie, who couldn't possibly afford to pay the research subjects out of her own pocket, or even her publisher's pocket, called this a beautifully arranged marriage between science and commerce. Joey called it another sleazy example of corporate-infected media and Madison Avenue infiltrating our lives. Fredreeq called it a damn shame that the research subjects did not get to keep the clothes. Given the style of Tiffanie's Trousseau, I called that a blessing.

“I hope they sent something black for tonight,” Fredreeq said. “Black and bare.”

“Tonight?” I said. “Did you say tonight?”

“L'Orangerie with Rex Stetson, honey. Where've you been?”

This was bad news. I couldn't do two hours of labored chitchat at L'Orangerie, not tonight, not until I'd talked to both P.B. and Doc. I signed the UPS invoice while Fredreeq tore into the Tiffanie's Trousseau box. She held up a dress the boutique considered suitable for sipping Pouilly-Fuissé on Saturday night, black spandex with a sweetheart neckline.

“Gorgeous,” she said. Joey gestured with a napkin, signifying assent and a mouthful of broccoli.

“I can't wear that,” I said. “I'm having a big breast day.”

Fredreeq snorted. “Like that's a negative? If Rex Stetson has his own list, you can bet that Big Breasts are headlining it.”

“PMS.” The words caught in my throat. This was agony, lying to a friend.

Fredreeq returned the dress to its box. “Did Golda Meir cancel the Six-Day War because it was the wrong six days? She did not. She took Motrin and laid off the sodium.” Moving the soy sauce out of my reach, Fredreeq squinted at me. “Although I have to say—girl, you're wrecked. Are you getting any sleep?”

“I—” I turned to Joey for help.

“She had a rough night,” Joey said. “Go ahead, Wollie. Tell her about Dave.”

It worked. Fredreeq had strong feelings about transportation (number four, Has Car) and the idea of Dave sending me home in a taxi so appalled her, she gave me the night off. “And you
have
had seven dates in the last eight days,” she said, reaching for her cell phone. “We don't want you burning out. Rex will just have to do brunch.”

         

I
LEFT OUR
alfresco lunch to wait on a customer, and was restocking Easter cards when Joey joined me. “What was that about morgues?” I said. “You think I should call them?”

“No, I think I should. I'm a really good liar. You're really not.”

I couldn't argue that, although in her case, what she called lying I like to think of as improvisation; Joey had worked a lot as an actress before she'd acquired the scar on her face.

I went to greet new customers, members of the oldest profession, judging from their dress—micro-miniskirts, one paired with torn black stockings, one with thigh-high boots, both with bustiers. Not an easy look to pull off, but you have to give people credit for trying. One of them asked me to change a hundred-dollar bill.

When we got to the register, Joey was already on the phone, apparently to the morgue. “I'm on hold,” she said, and covered the mouthpiece. “Wollie, what city's
ER
set in?”

“Chicago,” the streetwalkers said, in unison.

“Thanks.” Joey moved down the counter and talked into the phone. “No problem. And what's your name?” Her voice really carried. I should have asked her to make the call from the back room, but too late now. “I'm a former staff writer for
ER,
” she told the morgue. “Ever watch it?”

The streetwalkers were riveted to Joey's conversation. I counted out twenties, tens, and ones for them and rang up two packs of gum, trying in vain to regain their attention.

“Sid, I couldn't agree more,” Joey said, her voice exuding an unusual degree of charm. She explained that she was surveying small to midsize morgues all over the country in the interest of getting an insider's view for an upcoming series called
Morgue
. “It's gotta be frustrating when you see your profession on TV and we get it all wrong—right?”

I turned up the easy listening music and the ladies of the evening left, with reluctance. I turned down the music and heard Joey ask how many bodies had been brought in lately and if this number was normal for a non-holiday weekend. She asked questions related to traffic accidents and heart attacks and talked so long about AIDS that I got interested myself and forgot what she was really calling about.

The shop's bell announced a woman of Wagnerian proportions, in heavy tweed. I turned up the music again and hurried over to ask if she needed help. She headed to the back wall with the air of someone who's done her reconnaissance work.

“These,” she said, holding up a set of wooden Winnie-the-Pooh bookends. “Too masculine for a newborn girl?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Winnie transcends gender. Even the name is ambiguous.”

She sniffed, leading me back to the register. “I don't care for ambiguous names. This gift is for an unfortunate child named Brie, like the cheese. Plus Ann. Brie Ann.”

Something about her disapproval brought to mind Mr. Bundt. She could have been his elder sister. Or, more alarmingly, his undercover agent. I moved around the counter, glancing at Joey, whose back was to us. Joey's outfit was innocuous enough, but her hair had matted itself into something approaching dreadlocks, giving her the appearance of an Irish Rastafarian.

“There's no accounting for taste, is there?” I said, turning back to my customer.

“No, there is not,” she agreed. “Gift wrap those, please. I was hoping to find some Engelbreit, but you don't seem to carry her.”

Joey was six feet away, the phone cord stretched its full length, but she was on a roll and her voice carried, winning out over easy listening. “If you're a fan, you know the kind of thing we love: choking on chicken bones, suicides, homicides, sudden infant death syndrome.”

My customer swiveled her head sharply to the left.

“We do carry Mary Engelbreit,” I said, willing her gray helmet of a hairdo to swivel back. “But T-shirts and mugs, primarily. Nothing appropriate for a baby.”

“Mary Engelbreit is a marvelous talent,” she said, returning her attention to me.

“With an unambiguous name,” I added.

Joey's voice came through again. “Let's move on to blood. Anyone dismembered or disemboweled this week?”

“Mary Engelbreit,” I said loudly, “does a beautiful boxed notecard. Let me just show you. For my money, her paper products are groundbreaking.” I came around the counter, indicating the back wall, and by sheer force of will got my Wagnerian lady to move toward it.

Unfortunately, Joey's healthy laugh carried across the shop. “Great, Sid,” she said. “Now give me your best gunshot.”

         

“W
OLLIE, WHY WOULD
Mr. Bundt send a spy who
looks
like the Gestapo? It defeats the purpose. She's gone, forget her.” Joey handed me the Kitten Cuddles notepad covered in notes. “Our man was brought into the Ventura County morgue this morning. A dead-on shot, from a nine millimeter. The bullet had an eggbeater effect: it ricocheted off the clavicle, went through a lung, and ended up in the abdomen. Not very distinctive, I'm afraid.”

“It sounds distinctive to me,” I said, unnerved.

“Yes, the
wounds
. I meant the bullet. I was hoping for something more conclusive.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, a .222 slug from four hundred yards. Or a Teflon bullet. Or a Black Talon, the exploding round, which—okay, never mind. The idea being, something that says ‘professional' rather than ‘patient who got hold of a gun.' A hollow point, for instance, could indicate an assassin. Of course, it could also indicate a cop—my brothers both use them—so they're not exactly rare, but at least they're interesting. A nine-millimeter, half the customers who walk in here—the Gestapo lady included—could be packing them in their purses.”

I put on a smile for an incoming customer. “Hi,” I called. “Let me know if I can help you.” The woman, in unseasonal shorts and halter top, smiled back and nodded.

Joey lowered her voice. “Time of death was put at between five and seven last night. We got lucky. It was a trainee on the phone, and a very talkative one.”

“The shooting must have come after the six
P
.
M
. shift change,” I said, “or else someone would've seen the body in the road. But if nobody heard the shot, does that mean a silencer was used? Because they're not common, are they?”

“Not common, because not legal. Good point.” Joey ran a finger down her face, tracing the faint line of her scar, an unconscious habit. “Theoretically, if P.B. could get hold of a gun, he could get hold of a silencer, or even make one, but it doesn't sound like him. It sounds like a hit man after all, doesn't it?”

I nodded, happy. Who'd have thought the words “hit man” could sound so lovely? Not that I'd ever heard of hit men outside of TV. Did they really exist in everyday life? Then I remembered the
L.A. Times
article.

Yes. They did.

         

I
GOT
F
REDREEQ
to finish out the day and close up shop, and went back to my apartment to liberate Margaret from her new metal house. Then I picked up the phone.

P.B. was over in physical therapy, but due back any minute, according to his roommate, the elderly gentleman I'd seen sleeping the night before. The roommate had not noticed anything unusual at the hospital—a murder investigation, for instance—being too preoccupied with the condition of his prostate and his recent eighty-ninth- birthday party, the details of which he was eager to share with me. I managed to get a word in edgewise and impress upon him how vital it was that P.B. call me the moment he came in.

I'd wait ten minutes and try again. Tuning the radio to news, I grabbed a sketch pad and settled on the floor near Margaret, who terrorized the legs on my daybed.

I stashed sketchbooks and pens in my apartment, car, and shop, with different greeting card projects in each sketchbook. This one was a line of Good Luck cards: Good luck on coming out, both gay and lesbian versions; Good luck with your lawsuit, your in vitro fertilization, your plastic surgery. I now had another, inspired by recent events: Good luck with your parole hearing. The Good Luck line, in black and white, was too avant-garde for Welcome! stores, but my first set had sold so well in local independent shops, I knew I could turn a profit, if I got my marketing act together and went national. Once I won the Willkommen! upgrade, I'd have time for all the things I'd been putting off: Life. Art. Maybe even love, I decided, and let my thoughts drift toward Doc. His dark eyes. His deep voice.

I was sketching a penitentiary when the phone rang. Finally, I thought, and turned down the radio so it wouldn't scare P.B. If only I could turn off call-waiting.

It wasn't P.B.

“There's something I've been dying to do all day,” Doc said, his voice husky.