Write Me a Letter (Vic Daniel Series) Read online

"So take a buck off my bill," I said. "Let me ask you this, Mr. Wise Guy. How do you pay for the booze?"

  "Meaning what?" said Mr. Lubinski, looking slightly baffled.

  "I mean do you pay the caterers a flat rate per head, or do you pay them a flat rate per head just for the food and then, on top, pay for whatever booze was drunk?"

  He shrugged. "Who'd pay for undrunk booze?" he wondered. "Also, what caterer in his right mind would give you a flat rate for food and drink ahead of time, anyway, is he suddenly Bet-A-Million Bates? So he wins if he's catering the Pasadena Grandmother's Bridge Club, but what if the party's for the twentieth anniversary of the Private Investigator's Social Club? You pay by the empty bottle—my wife's out there now counting them up with the barman."

  "Yeah," I said. "That's what I thought."

  "So?" said Mr. Lubinski.

  "So this," I said. "I knew a barman once."

  "No!" exclaimed my darling. "Did you ever!" She and Annie shook their heads in disbelief.

  "The owner of the bar where he worked personally supervised the delivery of all booze, that was like once a week. So then all he's got to do, at the end of the week before reordering, is count the number of empty bottles, multiply by the number of shots in a bottle, and multiply that by the price per shot, and that's how much money he wants in the till. OK, roughly. The barman can't sell a bottle of his boss's booze and then chuck out the empty in the garbage because the boss is going to say, Where's the empty that belongs in this case of empty Johnny Walkers?"

  "Good question," said Mr. Lubinski.

  "Gee, it just slipped out of my hands and got broke," said Evonne. "I always been a butterfingers."

  "I gave it to an old lady who wanted to make a lamp out of it," said the other comedienne, who then hiccupped delicately behind one palm.

  "You two probably finished it off yourselves," I observed.

  The ladies giggled.

  "So what the guy does," I went on, "is bring in his own bottle of booze, bought at Cut-Rate Charley's Cheap Booze Emporium, and pours the customers' drinks out of it. He chucks out the empty and pockets the difference between his cost at Charley's and what he nets selling it at a buck and a half a shot, and unless the owner's got a permanent spotter in the place making sure that every drink sold gets rung up in the till, there's not much he can do about it."

  "Aw," said Annie. "The heart bleeds."

  "So?" said Mr. Lubinski again.

  "At a gala soiree like this," I said, "there's no percentage in the barman bringing in his own booze, because he's not the one who gets paid for it. But when we were parking outside, I spied with my little eye something curious. I spied two guys, a little guy and a big guy. Each was carrying a case of champagne. Guess which one was having the most trouble?"

  "The big guy," said my beloved. "I saw him, too."

  "And the little guy wasn't a secret weight lifter, either," I said, "because all he was wearing was a T-shirt and Mr. Universe he wasn't."

  "So what if what he was carrying was a case of empty champagne bottles, right?" said Mr. Lubinski. "Which my good wife is out there counting and which will be charged to Nathan at forty bucks a bottle, right?"

  "It could be," I said. "There's no way we can prove it now one way or the other, but next time tell your good wife to count the bottles on the way in, too."

  "You better believe it," said Mr. Lubinski grimly. "You better believe it's the last time we use that caterer, too. So what else did anyone notice although I hate to ask, a pickpocket maybe, a blackmailer?"

  "One of the musicians," Annie said. "The guitarist. I saw him wandering around the living room."

  "Me, too," said Evonne. "Only it was up on one of the sun roofs."

  "Me three," I said. "Only it was out back by the garage."

  Mr. Lubinski sighed and rolled his eyes skyward.

  "Curiouser and curiouser," Evonne said. "Eh, gang?"

  "What's so curious?" said Mr. Lubinski. "That little momser was—what's the expression, casing the joint?"

  "That's the expression," I said, "Could be. We'll have to find out for sure. What I don't like is, he was out by the garage, which is often easier to break into than the house, which it is often connected to. He was also up on the roof, which can be another comparatively easy way in."

  "So what'll you do?" asked Mr. Lubinski.

  "Maybe I'll have to case the momser's joint," I said.

  4

  I went out into the living room and took a quick look at where the band had been set up. They must have unset themselves because they weren't there anymore. I hastened back into the den and asked Annie to get me Frank on the phone pronto. When she did, I said, "Frank?"

  "Yep."

  "Any of the band still on the premises?"

  "There equipment van hasn't shown yet," he said.

  "If it shows before I do," I said, "don't let it out. Tell whoever's in it they got a surprise bonus coming or whatever, but don't get them all het up. Got it?"

  "Yep. Anythin' else?"

  "Nope." We both hung up. I turned to Evonne, who was exchanging some girlish confidence with Annie in a whisper. Oh, darn, there I go again, being male and chauvinistic; maybe they were discussing philosophy, maybe even that hopeful remark by I forget who—"There is more felicity on the far side of baldness than young men can possibly imagine." Anyway, I turned to her and said, "I hate to interrupt but it's show time, babe. Let us be on our way."

  "I'm with you," she said. "What are we on our way to do?"

  "With any luck I'll think of something clever." I got out my wallet, dug out two hundreds, and passed them over to Annie. "For the hot-rodders. Tell them thanks from me. I don't want whoever's in that van to catch me paying them off. You might as well come with us, you're done here. Oh." I passed her over several more hundreds. "For you and Frank."

  She bounced out of her chair, kissed my chin, gave Mr. Lubinski a hearty handshake, then tucked her handbag, which was shaped like a twenty-six-inch TV set and only slightly smaller, under her arm, ready to go. I told Mr. Lubinski I'd let him know what happened as soon as something did. Evonne patted him on the cheek, said, " 'Night, you all, and thanks for the party," then patted him on the other cheek.

  "It started as a party," he said. "What it turned out to be was more like a Mafia reunion." He escorted us to the front door and watched us drive off.

  "What a swell party, what a swell party, what a swell party that was," Annie sang loudly as we tootled back down the drive toward the front gates. I patted my breast pocket to make sure I had a memo pad and pen; I did. I asked Evonne if she had one. She rummaged in her purse and held up her address book, the kind that has a small pencil attached.

  "Why?" she wanted to know.

  "Couldn't hoit," I said, "which is what Mrs. Rabbi said to me when I asked her if chicken soup was really any good for sick people."

  When we arrived at the gates, the equipment van was already pulled up on this side of them waiting for us. I parked behind it. We all got out.

  "See ya," Annie said, and bustled away to pay off the boys. Evonne and I strolled up to the front of the white Volkswagon van, on the side of which was painted in wavy blue script, "Ron's Rhythm Kings," with a few musical notes added here and there as decoration.

  There were two gents in the van, a chubby one with round granny glasses and a goatee, who'd doubled on sax and clarinet, and a large, fully bearded one, drums and the occasional backup vocal. The group's amps and speakers, mikes and instruments and coils of wire and whatnot were neatly arranged behind them in the body of the van.

  "Hi!" I said brightly to the one nearest me, the chubby one, "One of you wouldn't be Ron, by any lucky chance?"

  "I don't know how much luck is involved," said the chubby one, "but you are looking at Ron the Rhythm King himself."

  "Star of three continents," the bearded one said. "Iceland, Greenland, and Tasmania."

  "That unspeakably hairy thing there," said Ron, "is Rufus, and Buddy Rich he ain't." />
  "Don," I said, with a warm smile. "Don Upton. And this here living dream is the future Mrs. Upton."

  "Oh, Donny," said Evonne, fluttering her lashes. "You don't have to go round telling everyone."

  "Sorry to keep you good boys waiting," I said, "but, well, me and honeybun here were kinda looking for an orchestra to play at our wedding next month sometime . . . gee, I forget the exact date." Evonne rolled her eyes heavenward. "Just funnin', honey," I added hastily, and we all had a good chuckle.

  "Rufe," said Ron. "Take five. Go talk to the buttercups for a while, would you? This gentleman and I will shortly be discussing money, and I know how the subject distresses you."

  "OK if I look for mushrooms instead?" said Rufe. He clambered down his side, stretched, moved off slowly about twenty feet, collapsed under a tree, and apparently fell asleep immediately. Ron opened up the glove compartment, took out an exercise book, then he climbed down to join us.

  "What is that?" I inquired. "Your fake book?"

  He grinned. Evonne wanted to know what a fake book was. I said I'd tell her later, I didn't want to embarrass the mighty rhythm king himself in front of a lady.

  "It's my gig book," he said. "In which, as the name implies, are neatly listed all our gigs."

  I gave Evonne a deeply meaningful glance that she pretended not to see.

  "Gee!" she exclaimed. "Can I have a peek? I wonder if I know any people you've played for. Do you do a lot of weddings round here?"

  " 'A fair share,' he said with becoming modesty," Ron said. "Help yourself. Fill your eyes with our recent triumphs on the bar mitzvah circuit. All the incriminating details, like how much, are penned in my own private unbreakable code so the two members of the group who can actually read cannot figure out how much I am not paying them. Oh, dear, I've lost me testimonials, hang on." He got back up into the cab again.

  I nuzzled up to Evonne.

  "Names," I whispered between nuzzles. "Rough addresses. Starting a few months ago. Get all you can."

  "Oh, Donny, you're so masterful," she whispered back.

  Ron got down again and handed over three or four envelopes, bowing from the waist as he did so.

  "Me testimonials, monsieur, and if I do say so myself, rave reviews every one." I gave them to Evonne.

  "You have a look, buns," I said. "Business is a-calling me, and the maestro here." We strolled off over the sward. I asked him what he charged for an event like a wedding reception. He said it depended on the size of the group. I said, did it not take the same amount of playing whether he was playing for a group of two dozen, or a hundred? He said, not the size of my group, the size of his group. He also said the price naturally depended on the number of hours they played. I asked him if a deposit was required. He allowed that he would not take it adverse in the slightest. I asked him if he charged more for playing some types of music rather than others.

  "You better believe it, my man," he said. "Polkas cost double."

  "And naturally," I said, "as consummate artists in your field, your orchestra members would expect to be treated as such and be fully wined and dined."

  "And boozed," Ron said. "Don't forget that." I saw, over his shoulder, the satisfactory sight of the future Mrs. Upton scribbling away furiously in her address book.

  After a spot more badinage and a smidgen more bargaining, we amicably settled on a price for the would-be Upton wedding reception, discussed briefly the contents of the intended musical program—no polkas, no punk, no Mexican hat dances—then we headed back toward the van.

  "One thing," Ron said apologetically on the way. "I of all people do not want to seem pushy, greedy, or indeed, needy. I am a musician, after all. I do have a certain reputation to uphold. But was there not some talk of, ahem, a bonus of some modest kind?"

  "Golly," I said, slapping my leg. "I forgot all about that, Ron. Did you meet your host, by any chance? Nathan Lubinski?"

  "Briefly," he said. "He came up to thank us all when we were packing up. It was his missus who took care of all the details, including the main one—the big payoff. Isn't he like a jeweler?"

  "Is he ever," I said. "Miss me, Precious?" Precious blew me a kiss. I pretended to catch it and tuck it away in a pocket. She simpered back at me.

  "He's got a lot of class, too, old Nate," I said. "He gave all the ushers gold cuff links with their initials on them and the usherettes gold charm bracelets and his daughter and new son-in-law a car with their initials on it, and moreover, he must be tone deaf is all I can think of, he wants to send all you musical vagabonds silver tie clips or something, with all your initials on them."

  "A thoughtful gesture," said Ron.

  "Indeedy," said I. "So. If you and the boys actually happen to have homes these days and aren't still sleeping out on Manhattan Beach, let me have the addresses, please, and Nate'll have them made up and have them hand-delivered in his own company van"—nonexistent, needless to say—"which is not a tarted-up old Volks, either, like some I could name."

  Ron was only too happy to oblige. He retrieved his gig book from Precious, flipped to the back pages, copied out the names and addresses of his brother musicians on a pad I happened to have at the ready, then dug out one of his business cards to cover himself.

  "Which one was the guitarist?" Evonne asked him ingenuously. "He was cute as all get-out. I loved his riffs."

  "You keep your hands off his riffs," I said sternly.

  "That one," said Ron, pointing to one of the names. "D. Gresham the Third. Also known in the trade as 'Finger-Lickin' Good.' "

  Evonne let out a trill of high-pitched laughter. Ron penciled in his book what he thought was my name and what he thought was my address, plus a phone number that wasn't mine, under the appropriate date. I said I'd get on to him within a day or two about a definite commitment and that the deposit check was practically in the safe hands of the U.S. Postal Service already.

  "All right already!" he said to me. We exchanged high fives. "Adiós for ahora, sweet madam," he said to Evonne.

  "Adored your testimonials," she said to him.

  Ron climbed up into the driver's seat, started up the van, then shouted out the window, "C'mon, Rufe, you'll miss the bus."

  Rufe came, Frank opened the gates, and off they drove, giving us a farewell toot-toot on the horn.

  " 'Bye!" waved Precious.

  As soon as they were out of sight, she dived into her purse, got out her address book again, and began scribbling furiously again, muttering under her sweet breath as she did so. When she finally came up for air, Frank and Annie had wandered over to join us.

  "What was that all about?" Annie asked me.

  "Kim," I said. "She was being Kim."

  "In what movie?" she said.

  "Not that Kim," I said disgustedly. "Haven't you ever read any higher literature?"

  "He has," she said, referring to her hubby. "He gets Guns and Ammo every month." Frank looked away sheepishly.

  "Rudyard Kipling's Kim," I said. My pop loved Kipling. He had his complete works, along with those of O. Henry. Otherwise, his only other literary interests, as far as I could recall, were The Saturday Evening Post, the Police Gazette, Look, and Life, although once, in the basement, I came across a tattered copy of something called Sun 'n' Sport, which surprised me because I never knew my pop was at all interested in ladies' volleyball.

  "Kim," I said, "was some English kid who trained to be a spy in India by practicing memorizing. His teacher would lay out thirty or forty assorted items on a tray and the kid would have say thirty seconds to try and remember them all. And that is what Precious was doing, remembering all the ones she didn't have a chance to write down."

  "Oh," said Annie. "That clears that up, I don't think."

  "Sure you do," I said. "Frank told me he caught you thinking only last week."

  "Did not," said Frank.

  "So how did you do, Precious?" I said.

  "You tell me," she said airily. She showed me her address book; two whole pages w
ere full of entries like, "Jacobson, BH"; "Martin, WH"; "Tuaber, BA"; "Hall, SO"; "Flint, PA"; and so on. I quickly deduced that the letters stood for Beverly Hills, West Hollywood, Bel Air, Sherman Oaks, Pasadena, and so on; the little dumpling had managed to list about thirty names altogether.

  "Brilliant," I said.

  "Thank you," she said. "I naturally didn't bother with any of the ballrooms or restaurants or clubs the band played in."

  "Excellent," I said.

  "Now what, Donny-poo?"

  I shrugged. "We'll have to see. Frank, you know anybody working out of Robbery? I used to know this midget lieutenant, he was about the size of Little Orphan Annie in flats, but he moved to Vice last I heard."

  "What about Jasper?" said Annie. "Jasper Johnson."

  "Yeah, right," said Frank. Jasper turned out to be a cop Frank had once shared a patrol car with who'd since made detective; he worked out of the same LAPD station downtown as did my beloved brother Tony, but Tony toiled in the basement in Records, and Jasper would be up on the fifth or sixth floor somewhere. Anyway, there was nothing more to be done right then, in the line of business, that is, so we made our farewells and went our separate ways into the not-so-gentle California night. On the way back I told Evonne what a fake book was—a book containing basic chord charts for hundreds of standards, for use in emergency by unprepared bands. Too bad the same thing didn't exist for unprepared PIs.

  And aging Casanovas.

  5

  I cannot, nor will not, say I slept like the proverbial top that night. When I awoke not too early the following A.M., my sheets were soaked through and so was I. Luckily for Precious, I was in my own little bed; I'd driven back to my place to sleep because, although it happened from time to time, Evonne wasn't completely comfortable with my staying over at her garden apartment, and if there is anything worse than waking up to soaked sheets, it's waking up to sheets soaked by someone else. Evonne did not seem to mind spending the occasional night of love and laughter chez moi, though; she'd' even recently taken to leaving the odd bit of clothing or makeup behind. I wondered if it meant something Freudian, like she left articles behind to give her a reason for returning, but then I figured she already had good reason—my sweet and practiced caresses.