Hard Rain (13 page)

“Talk.”

“In person.”

Jessie pressed the button cutting the connection. Then she got Dick Carr's home number from information and dialed it. She wanted him with her when she saw DeMarco. DeMarco didn't have his arrest warrant yet. There was time to stop him. But no one answered at Dick Carr's house.

Jessie drove to Venice by herself. It was still night when she pulled into Pat's driveway. A fat moon the color of a sodium lamp shone on the oblong of black ocean at the end of the street.

Jessie didn't see any police cars. The house was dark, the door locked. She opened it and went in.

“DeMarco?” she called.

No one replied. Jessie switched on the lights and searched the house. She found some changes; the plants were turning yellow and the goldfish floated upside down in the tank in the front hall; someone had left a cheap cigar smell in the house and an El Producto butt in the kitchen sink; someone had closed the copy of
Jane Eyre
in Kate's room; the bag of white dust and the little mirror were no longer in the drawer of the night table on Pat's side of the bed. The silk Clinique bag was gone too. DeMarco had made a tidy job of it, but Jessie still thought of male dogs pissing on their territorial borders.

She went into the front hall, scooped the goldfish from the tank. “Christ.” Why hadn't she fed them? She threw the goldish in the garbage and tossed the cigar butt in after them. She was watering the plants in the front hall when her glance fell on the table: no mail. Hadn't there been a pile of unopened mail there before? And no letters lay on the floor under the mail slot. That meant Pat had received no mail in the past two days or DeMarco had taken it.

Jessie climbed the stairs to Kate's room. She opened the window and waved the cigar smell out of the room. The sodium moon had sunk from sight; the ocean was turning blue. A boy in a wetsuit walked quietly toward it, a surfboard under his arm. Jessie drew the curtains. She sat on Kate's bed. She put her feet up. She lay down with her head on Kate's pillow. She pulled Kate's quilt on top of her, the one with the puffy clouds. Outside a squeaky wheel came closer, stopped, moved on. Jessie gazed at the gorillas and orangutans on the wall. Their liquid eyes gazed back. She closed her eyes. She was sure she smelled the sweet smell of Kate's hair after a shampoo.

Jessie slipped toward sleep. Far away, someone was crying, very faintly. The smell of Kate's hair drifted away, replaced by the smell of water. It grew stronger and stronger.

“Shit.” Jessie sat up. She didn't want to be in dreamland. She got off Kate's bed and went downstairs. She dialed a number on the hall phone.

“Appleman and Carr,” answered a voice.

That threw her.

“Hello?” said the voice.

“Is Dick Carr there?” Jessie asked.

“No. Who's calling please?”

“Do you know where I can reach him? I tried his house and there's no answer.”

“Mr. Carr is in Sacramento till Saturday. He'll be calling in. Is there a message?”

“No.”

Jessie hung up. She stood motionless in the front hall, her hand on the phone, her eyes on the empty fish tank. She almost didn't notice the mail coming through the slot.

Letters fell softly on the floor. Jessie hurried to the door, opened it. The mailman was walking away.

“Excuse me,” Jessie said.

The mailman stopped and turned. He had a toothpick in his mouth and water in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I notice you brought some mail today.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“It's funny there hasn't been much this week.”

“Huh?”

“Mail.”

The mailman's eyes narrowed a little, as though she were accusing him of something. He shifted the toothpick in his mouth. “Depends what you mean by much, don't it? Some gets more than others.”

“I suppose, but we didn't get any this week.”

The mailman blinked again. Then he looked at her carefully, chewing his toothpick. “Listen, lady, I don't know what you're saying, exactly, but I delivered mail to this house every day this week. If you didn't get it, don't blame me. I handed it to the maid, in person.”

“The maid?”

“Yeah. Who sweeps up the steps.”

Jessie moved closer to him; he backed away, keeping a constant distance between them. “Something funny's going on,” she said. “But it has nothing to do with you.” The mailman stopped backing away. “Do you remember what this maid looked like?”

“Sure. Kinda big. Heavy. Grayish hair, kinda.”

“What else?”

“Hard to say, exactly. She was always wearing sunglasses.”

“Sunglasses?”

“You know. Wraparounds.”

Jessie glanced down the street. There was no one to see but the surfer, walking back with his board. She turned back to the mailman. “I see,” she said. “Thanks.” She went into the house and picked up the mail.

There was a menu from a Chinese takeout on Montana and three letters: a bill from American Express, something from a Dodge dealership and a letter addressed to Pat in purple ink. Jessie opened it.

Dear Pat,

Just a little note to say how much I enjoyed the other night and I mean that. I was sort of hoping you'd call and such but I've been out a lot (working double shifts at the club I'm going to be rich!) and maybe you've been trying to reach me (you can always call at the club you know—they don't mind a bit the number's 962-7011).

Pat, I just loved the way you played those old Beatle songs. You made me understand for the first time how amazing those times must have been. You're so lucky to have been there really been there at the time. With Hendrix at Woodstock!

And about afterwards please try to understand. I mean I got a bit shy it's not like me at all I haven't got hangups about that kind of thing. I think it was the c—. It really hit me in a funny way. It wont be at all like that next time if you dont mind me saying next time. So dont forget the winding road that leads to my door.

Yours very, very truly,

Tania

Jessie folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. She felt a sliding in her stomach, as though she'd just flown into an air pocket. Swift justice: her punishment for reading other people's mail. She went into the kitchen and drank a glass of water.

Then she sinned again, opening first the American Express bill—Pat owed $927.85 for eating at restaurants, mostly in Hollywood, and buying a shirt at Giorgio's in Westwood—and then the letter from the Dodge dealership.

Dear Mr. Rodney,

Thank you once again for purchasing your new Dodge Ram-Van at Buddy Boucher's Dodge and Dodge Trucks. We appreciate your business and promise the utmost in service and satisfaction. Enclosed please find your entry ticket for this year's Buddy Boucher Win-a-Week-in-Bermuda Sweepstakes. The draw will be held next June 1. Good luck!

All the best,

Buddy Boucher

Jessie read the letter again. And again. The paper began to shake, very slightly, in her hands. That was due to two facts. Buddy Boucher's letter was dated and postmarked on Monday, three days before. Solid fact one. Solid fact two: Buddy Boucher's Dodge and Dodge Trucks dealership was located in Bennington, Vermont.

Jessie picked up the phone.

“Information for what city please?”

“Bennington, Vermont.”

“Go ahead.”

“Buddy Boucher's Dodge and Dodge Trucks.”

A machine took over the other end of the conversation: “732-8911,” it said.

Jessie dialed the number.

“Buddy Boucher's,” said a man.

“Is Buddy Boucher there?”

“This is Buddy. What can I do you for?”

Jessie struggled to frame her question. Static buzzed on the line.

“Hello there?” said Buddy Boucher.

“Yes. I—I just got a sweepstakes ticket in the mail and—”

“The draw's not till June, sweetheart.”

“I know. It's just that my husband seems to have bought a car from you recently, and I thought maybe you'd know where I could reach him.”

“Where you calling from?”

“Los Angeles.”

“You Mrs. Rodney?”

“Yes.” Silence. “Do you know where he is, Mr. Boucher?”

“No. I haven't seen him since he came in and bought the van on Monday.”

“Monday?”

“Check. Right after lunch. Boom. Couldn't have been here for more than twenty minutes.”

“Was he alone, Mr. Boucher?”

“Nope. He had a friend with him. And his niece.”

“His niece?”

“Little girl.”

“Can you describe her, Mr. Boucher?”

There was a pause. “Why are you asking all this stuff?”

“It's very important, Mr. Boucher. It's—it's about an investment opportunity that's just come up.”

“Oh.” Pause. At the end of some long wire, a woman laughed, almost beyond Jessie's hearing. “Then why,” Buddy Boucher continued, “did you want to know about the niece?”

“Just curious. Pat's got a few nieces back there.”

“Yeah?” Buddy Boucher blew out his breath; it sounded like a faint explosion. “Well, this one's about ten or eleven, I guess. Cute little girl. Kind of shy, maybe. Didn't say boo. Ring a bell?”

“I think so. What color was her hair?”

“Dark brown. Frizzy.”

Jessie felt the blood pounding in her fingers, wrapped around the phone, and in her lips, millimeters from the receiver. “Do you think he's staying with his friend?” she asked.

“Maybe. I didn't actually meet his friend. Wasn't feeling well. Stayed in the car the whole time.”

“What car?”

“Why, your husband's BMW. It's still on the lot. He said he'd be back for it later this week, but he hasn't been in yet.”

“He didn't trade it in?”

“On a Dodge? Never happens, Mrs. Rodney.”

“How did he pay, then?”

Buddy Boucher cleared his throat. “Are you separated or something like that?”

“Nothing like that.” The lie came without hesitation. Some instinct told her she couldn't put Buddy Boucher in the position of feeling like a traitor to his sex.

“Then I guess it's all right. He paid in cold cash. A bit unusual, but not as unusual as it used to be. Hope it wasn't the grocery money.” He laughed.

When his laughter trailed off, Jessie said, “Would you do me a favor, Mr. Boucher?”

“Depends what.”

“When he comes in tell him to call me. That's all.”

“Easy enough,” said Buddy Boucher.

Jessie gave him her number and hung up. Then she couldn't stay still. Her body moved her: out the door, onto the sidewalk, down to the boardwalk, back and forth. But no expenditure of energy could stop the trembling.

Jessie went back into Pat's house. She considered calling DeMarco. But why? DeMarco had been right. Pat was on a toot, tripping down memory lane with some old pal from Vermont, right back to the sixties, singing Beatles songs, throwing money around and snorting his fucking c—.

Calling DeMarco would lead to telexes crisscrossing the country and lots of waiting and maybe Vermont state troopers descending on some dope fest with drawn guns. Vermont was five hours away, eight with the time change. Eight hours was nothing, measured against days of waiting.

Jessie found Bennington on a map. Then she booked a flight to Boston. The next available plane was the red-eye, leaving at midnight. She'd be in Boston Friday morning, in Bennington by noon. If she got there before Pat returned to Buddy Boucher's for the BMW, it would be easy; if not, it might take a little longer, that was all. Jessie's mind drew a picture of Kate and her on the Friday-night flight back to L.A. She didn't rub it out.

Jessie ran upstairs and got
Jane Eyre
, in case Kate wanted to read on the plane. Then she bounded down the steps of Pat's house and hurried home to pack
Jane Eyre
, the Reeboks with the blue stripes and the few things she herself would need for a day or two in Vermont.

13

Jessie stripped off her black dress and left it on the bathroom floor: a funerary heap like the remains of the Wicked Witch of the West. Then she scrubbed herself under a hot shower, shaved her legs, washed her hair with shampoo that had enough protein in it to keep an Ethiopian family going for a week. Hair, body, and now, in front of the mirror, face: a black line or two around her eyes, a touch of gloss on the lips. Jessie seldom wore makeup, but how could it hurt, especially on a traveling day?

She packed:
Jane Eyre
, the Reeboks, a red sweater for Kate, a blue one for herself; jeans, underwear, socks, a suede jacket in case it was cold; comfortable old loafers; Buddy Boucher's letter. She checked her wallet. Fifty-two dollars. Wouldn't do. In the bank she had just enough to cover the next mortgage payment. And the return airplane tickets would put her over her credit card limit. She thought of Mrs. Stieffler's check.

Mrs. Steiffler's check was a problem. She should have torn it up and scattered the pieces in Mrs. Stieffler's wake, but she hadn't, and the check was still lying on the big table in the basement. Five hundred dollars. Hold your nose and cash it, Jessie told herself; wasn't that the American way? This lightheadedness surprised her. Tone it down, Jess. Barbara hasn't even been in the ground for a day.

Jessie took the check to her bank. Thursday afternoon. Long lines. They didn't bother Jessie. The world reopened before her eyes. She listened to normal conversations: the couple in front of her worrying about 10 percent take-backs, the women behind her talking about soft weights. When her turn came, she endorsed the check and handed it to the teller. “Twenties will be fine,” she said.

That was wishful thinking. Mrs. Steiffler had stopped payment.

The women behind Jessie forgot about going for the burn; the bank fell silent in speculation. Jessie restored normality by withdrawing two hundred dollars—she'd worry about the mortgage later—and going home.