The Last Good Kiss Page 4

“Folks don’t understand about kinfolks anymore,” she said.

  “World’s too big for that,” I said. “I guess I’d best head for town to see if my other client is still alive and kicking.”

  “Want a road beer?”

  “Sure,” I said, then went to the john to make room for it.

  When I came back, she leaned over the bar to hand me the beer and said, “You’re a drinking man yourself.

  “Not like I used to be.” “How come?”

  “Woke up one morning in Elko, Nevada, emptying ashtrays and swabbing toilets.”

  “But you didn’t quit,” she said.

  “Slowed down before I had to quit,” I said. “Now I try to stay two drinks ahead of reality and three behind, a drunk.” She smiled with some sort of superior knowledge, as if she knew that the idea of having to quit drinking scared me so badly that I couldn’t even think about it. “Would you keep an eye on- Mr. Trahearne’s Cadillac?” I asked.

  “Get the rotor,” she said, “and I’ll let Fireball sleep in it after I close nights.” After I removed the rotor from the distributor and closed the hood, Rosie nodded at my Montana plates and asked, “Don’t it get cold up

  there?”

  “When it does, I just drift south,” I said. “Must be nice.” “What’s that?”

  “Goin’ where you want to,” she said softly. “I ain’t been more’n ten miles from this damned place since I went to my momma’s funeral down in Fresno eleven years ago.”

  “Footloose and fancy-free ain’t always all it’s cracked up to be,” I confessed.

  “Neither’s stayin’ home,” she said, then smiled, the wrinkles etched into her face softened and smoothed, some of the years of hard living fell away like happy tears. “You take care, you hear.”

  “You too,” I said. “See you the first of next week.”

  As I climbed into my El Camino, a carload of construction workers in dirty overalls and bright yellow hardhats skidded into a rolling stop beside me, the transmission clanking loudly as the driver jammed it into park. The men scrambled out, laughing and shouting at Rosie, goosing each other in the butts, happy in the wild freedom of quitting-time beers, and they charged into Rosie’s open arms like a flock of baby chicks.

  I knew the men were probably terrible people who whistled at pretty girls, treated their wives like servants, and voted for Nixon every chance they got, but as far as I was concerned, they beat the hell out of a Volvo-load of liberals for hard work and good times.

  3••••

  WHEN I ARRIVED AT HIS HOSPITAL ROOM, TRAHEARNE HAD been sedated into a deep rumbling sleep from which it would have been a crime to awaken him. I found the emergency-room doctor who had treated him, and the doctor suggested that Trahearne would live in spite of himself. He wasn’t as sure about Oney and Lester, though. After their wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, they had split, heading back to Rosie’s for another- beer or two. As the doctor walked up the hallway, shaking his head, I finally used my dime to call the former Mrs. Trahearne collect. As usual, she sounded distantly reluctant to accept the charges.

  “Well,” I said more brightly than I meant to—1 blamed it on the whiskey—“I finally ran the old devil to the ground.”

  “Finally,” she said coldly. “In San Francisco?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “In a great little beer joint outside of Sonoma.”

  “Isn’t that quaint,” she murmured. “In what condition did you find him?”

  “Drunk,” I said, not specifying which of us.

  “I assumed that, Mr. Sughrue,” she said sharply. “What is his physical condition?”

  “Right.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I stalled. “He’s fine, he’s all right, he should be out of the hospital in three or four days, and he’ll be as good as new.”

  “It may seem presumptuous of me to ask,” she said smoothly, “but if he is in such wonderful shape, why then is he in the hospital?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “Isn’t it always?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re being unnecessarily obtruse, Mr. Sughrue,” she said. Her voice sounded pleasant and refined, but accustomed to command.

  “Yes, ma’am.” “So?”

  “Well, he had a little accident.”

  “Yes?”

  “He fell off a barstool and strained his back,” I said quickly.

  “How absolutely delightful,” she said. “Perhaps that will teach him a much-needed lesson.” Then she laughed, deep and elegant, like the rich susurruses of a mink coat being casually dragged down a marble staircase. “But nothing too serious, I hope.”

  “A minor sprain,” I said.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “I expect you to remain by his side until he is released from the hospital, and then stay with him during his postmortality binge.” - “Ma’am?”

  “Violated flesh will insist upon wallowing in flesh,” she said. “Particularly in Traheame’s case.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “He will insist on a drunken debauch as soon as he is released from the hospital,” she said. “You know— wine, women, and song—expensive whiskey, high-class hookers, and finally the same old sad song of regret. I expect you to take care of him during those few days.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  “I’m sure you will,” she said. “And when he is ready to return home to lick his wounds, I expect you to see that he does so.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, hoping Trahearne was supposed to lick his wound only figuratively.

  “Perhaps if you inform him that his beloved Melinda is once again in the fold, throwing pots or whatever it is she does all through the night, then he may want to cut his debauch short.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, though I didn’t have any idea who or what she was talking about. I didn’t have any idea what Traheame would think about my presence after his accident. Or my accident. The accident.

  “Also, I’ll expect a full report upon your arrival,” she said. “Thank you and good night.”

  “A report of what?” I asked. But she had already hung up the telephone. “Only a crazy man works for crazy people,” I told the dead wire, and a harried nurse hurrying past agreed with a quick nod.

  Since it wasn’t my money, and since I knew where I would probably spend the next night, I checked into the best motel in Sonoma, ordered a huge steak and some of that expensive whiskey the former Mrs. Traheame had mentioned. Then I drove back out to Rosie’s, got stupid drunk with Lester and Oney, and slept on the pool table.

  “Where in the hell have you been?” Trahearne growled as I stepped into his room at ten o’clock two mornings later.

  “A guest of the county,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Jail.”

  “Why?”

  “After the sheriff took my statement yesterday, he held me as a material witness. Just to see if I had a different version of the shooting after a night in a cell,” I said.

  “Can they do that?”

  “No,” I said. “But if I had complained or called a lawyer, they would have found some minor crap to charge me with.”

  “Bastards.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve been in jail before.” Jails are jails, and there’s never much to talk about when you get out.

  “Well, now that you’re here,” he said, “You can run some errands for me.” I reached into my hip pocket and pulled out a half-pint of vodka. “Oh my god,” he whispered as he took the bottle from me. “You’re a saint, my friend, an absolute saint.” But before he could break the seal, a tall, nicely rounded nurse came briskly through the door.

  “That will not do,” she said as she snatched the bottle from his huge, trembling hands. “This will be returned upon your release.”

  “Now, see there, Mr. Trahearne,” I said quickly. “I told you they didn’t allow drinking in the hospital.” Then to the nur
se: “I’m really sorry, ma’am, I told him I shouldn’t do it, but you know how it is, since I’m just a hired hand.” Trahearne’s face glowed red and greasy with sweat, and his chest rose half out of bed. He looked like a man intent on murder.

  “Just so it doesn’t happen again,” the nurse said.

  “No, ma’am, it won’t,” I said as I touched her lightly on the arm. “And if he gives you any trouble, just give me a call. I’m at the Sonoma Lodge.” She smiled, nodded, and thanked me again, then carried her nicely molded hips out the door with quick, efficient steps. “Anytime,” I said to her back.

  “Son, I don’t mind you making time, but not on my time and not at my expense,” Trahearne grumbled. I lifted another halfpint out of my windbreaker pocket and handed it to him. “You’re not a saint, boy, you’re prepared for emergencies,” he whispered, then had a quick snort. “My god, it’s even chilled,” he said, and had another. “You may be worth all the money you’re costing me.”

  “I was under the impression I was working for your ex-wife.”

  “It’s all the same pocket, boy,” he said, staring at the clear liquor. “One a day?” “Two.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You certainly don’t look like any of the others,” he said as he looked me over.

  “Others?”

  “They all looked like unsuccessful pimps,” he said, ”pastel leisure suits and zircon pinky rings. You look like a saddle tramp.”

  “I see you’ve had dealings with other members of my profession,” I said.

  “You’re the first one who ever found me before I wanted to be found,” he said. “How’d you do it?”

  “Professional secret.”

  “The damned postcard, huh?”

  “You have no idea how many dogs hang out in bars,” I said, and he grinned.

  “You mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “What’s a good ol’ boy like me doing in a business

  like this?”

  “Something like that,” he said. “I’m a nosy son of a bitch,” I said. “Me too,” he said, and grinned again. “Maybe we’ll get along.”

  “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, Mr. Traheame, not be your faithful Indian companion,” I said.

  “Horseshit.”

  “And gunsmoke?” “You’ll do,” he said. “How’s your ass?”

  “Getting better,” he said. “I’ve survived worse. Of course, I was a younger man at the time. But the Marine Corps didn’t have vodka deliveries.”

  “Glad to be of service,” I said.

  “It’s the boredom that’s hard,” he said. “I need a couple of favors.”

  “I’m yours to command.”

  “I’d rather it be a favor.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Get me some reading material,” he said. “Paperback novels and popular magazines by the pound—I go through them like a kid through potato chips— whatever you pick up off the shelf will be fine. Also, it would be wonderful if you could arrange to have my dinners delivered. I don’t care if it comes from McDonald’s, just so it isn’t hospital food.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What about the dancing girls and a marching band?”

  “I like a man who knows how to entertain,” he said. “If I’m stuck here too long, maybe you can arrange for a working girl interested in oral gratification. But no bands. Maybe a string quartet.”

  “I’ll look into it,” I said, “but I can’t promise anything. I’m out of my territory.”

  “If you can’t work that foot-shuffling, hayseed, ma’am routine,” he said, “I’ve got several interesting telephone numbers in San Francisco.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you.” He stopped grinning. “It won’t interfere with your errands.

  “What sort of favor?” he asked quietly.

  “Seems that Rosie has this runaway daughter,” I said, “and I told her I’d look into it while you were in the hospital, if it was all right with you.”

  After a moment, he said, “It’s all right with me. I like to see a young man trying to get ahead in the world.”

  “I don’t know if I qualify as a young man anymore,” I said, “and I don’t give a shit about getting ahead. I like the old lady and I said I’d do her the favor. If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind,” he answered.

  “Probably a waste of money and time,” I said.

  “How much money?”

  “Eighty-seven dollars,” I answered, and he grinned again.

  “Hell, how much time can you waste for eighty-seven

  dollars?”

  “Whatever time I spend will be wasted,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “The daughter ran away ten years ago, and that’s too-“

  “By god, I seem to have some drunken recollection of Rosie telling me that,” Traheame said quickly, then shook his head. “I’m afraid this is my fault.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid that I told her that a private eye would come sniffing down my cold, cold trail,” he said, then hit the bottle, “and suggested that she hire him. Thought that it might divert whomever Catherine sent for a few more days.” He laughed. “So how can I mind?” he added. “How do you go about this missing person business?”

  “Depends on who’s missing and how long,” I said, “but mostly I just poke around.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a method.”

  “If you want method, you hire one of the big security outfits,” I said. “They’re’ great at method. Straight people don’t know how to disappear, and crooks can’t because they have to hang out with other crooks.”

  “And where do you fit in?”

  “I’m cheaper,” I said, “and my clients usually still 39

  believe in the small, independent operator. They’re usually romantics.”

  “You must be working all the time,” Trahearne said with a chuckle.

  “And every year I have to tend bar more often,” I said.

  “By god, boy, I knew right away that there was something I liked about you,” he said.

  “Everybody likes bartenders,” I said. “By the way, your ex-wife asked me to tell you that Melinda was home, throwing fits or something.”

  “Pots.”

  “What?”

  “My wife,” he explained. “She’s a potter and a ceramic sculptor.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can see by your face, boy, that you aren’t aware of my situation,” he said grimly. Since I wasn’t, I didn’t say anything. “We all live together—or nearly together—my mother, my ex-wife, my present wife, and me on a little ranch outside Cauldron Springs.” Trahearne stared at the institutional beige wall as if it were a window overlooking the mountains, as if he could see himself standing in a crowded postcard scenic view. “One little happy family,” he said quietly.

  I knew I would have to listen to the story of his life eventually, but I preferred later to sooner, so I excused myself. As I turned to leave, his large hand wrapped around the small bottle as if it were his only hope of salvation.

  There’s no fool like a fool who thinks he’s charming. On the way out, I stopped by the nurses’ station to say hello to the tall nurse again. I asked her about having Trahearne’s meals delivered, and although she didn’t seem pleased about it, she promised to check with the doctor.

  “And what are you doing about dinner tonight?” I asked.

  “Fixing it,” she said as she held up a banded finger.

  “I’m not,” a perky voice said behind me.

  Before I picked up the line, I turned around to see who had dropped it. She was shorter than the other one but rounder, with a pert, snub-nosed face framed by curly blond hair and a solid, muscular body. She had bowlegs, but what the hell, so did I.

  “Is that a date?” I asked her.

  “Only if you want it to be,” she answered quickly, her blue eyes brightly smiling.

&
nbsp; “Eight o’clock,” I said, “in the bar at the Sonoma Lodge?” I’m not a monster but I’ve got a beer gut and a broken nose, and strange women never pick me out of a crowd for blind dates, but gift horses and all that. Also, she had a small mobile mouth, and the straightforward approach of a bedroom lady.

  “Wonderful,” she said, then extended a square, no-nonsense hand. “Bea Rolands,” she added. “Are you a writer too? Like Mr. Trahearne?”

  “Not exactly like Trahearne,” I admitted, holding on to the hand as things became clearer. The only writer around was out of action, and I had read enough books on bored afternoons in Army gymnasiums to fake it, maybe even pick up Trahearne’s slack. “I do research for him, sometimes, and take care of his affairs,” I said with a leer.

  “Isn’t he a wonderful writer?” she gushed. “I just love his books. I have them all, you know. Hardbacks. Even his poetry. And I’ve seen all the movies, three or four times, and I just love them, too. Do you think he’d mind if I asked him to autograph them for me?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “He’s really shy, you know, and that sort of thing embarrasses him, but why don’t you bring them along tonight, and I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

  “Oh thank you,” she bubbled, bouncing on her heels. Her small firm breasts bounded about quite nicely in the thin bra she wore beneath her uniform.

  “See you at eight,” I said, finally releasing her hand. “And thanks for saving me from a solitary dinner.”

  “Oh the pleasure’s all mine,” she answered, giggling.

  Walking out of the hospital, I decided that Traheame was all right. At least he wasn’t boring. Things happened around him: blood, gunfire, a night in jail, and now a devoted fan with sexily bowed legs. I found myself hoping he would run away again. Soon. And often. Once every five or six months. Maybe he could just stop by and pick me up on the way, then we wouldn’t have to waste all that party time while I busted my ass hunting for him.

  4••••

  AT THE SUPERMARKET, I ASKED THE CHECK-OUT LADY FOR a receipt for the fifteen pounds of magazines and paperbacks, then flashed a deputy sheriff’s badge— obtained under extremely suspicious circumstances— from Boulder County, Colorado. I told her I was investigating the material for hidden pornographic meanings. She didn’t turn a single artfully tousled hair. Which was one of the things I had always liked about California: Everybody’s so crazy, you have to be really weird to get anybody’s attention.