As She Rides By (Vic Daniel Series) Read online

  So I made my calls, one to Evonne saying I couldn't see her that night or Tuesday night, and expressing my deep desolation at the idea. I did not tell her I was instead going to be sharing candlelit suppers, to say nothing of his spare room, with Flora by Phineas. Then I left a message for Tom 'n' Jerry at their hotel saying everything looked kosher so far. Then I left a message on the telephone answering machine of one of my regular security clients saying I'd be a day or two late dropping around for their monthly inspection. Then I put a .32 cal. Police Positive in its lightweight holster, strapped it to my right shoulder, as I was (and still am) a lefty, then cleared my desk of everything of value including phone, Apple 2, floppy disks, and matrix printer, locking everything up in the big safe that took up most of the small bathroom out back, told King, "Walkies," snagged his bowl, and off we went to arrange Bewitched, Tropicana, and Angel Face. I couldn't wait.

  Chapter Five

  But I don't need no crazy dream, I know what I'm waitin' for,

  And that's a $200 check from my old pal Samuel D.

  AS IT TURNED OUT, I didn't do a lot of arranging, in fact I did none at all, but I did do a lot of sitting around being conspicuous. And many was the glance that was directed my way, but Phineas's employees, who all obviously adored him, were all too polite or too discreet to openly query my presence. They didn't half make a fuss about King, though, especially when they realized from his dignified behavior that he wasn't going to go careening about the boutique knocking over tubs of Tibetan bamboo. And some "humble" boutique it was too—-there was the store itself, which was huge, on three levels, and included a waterfall and small pond, Phineas's commodious office at the back, then behind that a large workroom, and behind that, a lengthy greenhouse. In the parking lot out back, along with the assortment of vehicles belonging to us and the employees, were three tastefully decorated delivery vans. The employees totaled eight that I could see—two girls in green smocks serving out front, a chap in green overalls taking care of the cash and wrapping and phone orders, two young drivers in green livery who popped in from time to time between assignments, two girls working on arrangements out back, and an ancient Japanese gentleman who spent all his time in the greenhouse, and who firmly refused to let my dog stick even his moist nose inside.

  The day passed. I watched thirty bouquets in wicker baskets of Duet, Bewitched, Honor, and so on, being built up by the two girls, Susan and Melody, and their boss. Although I became intimately familiar with the whole process, I will at this juncture merely pass on a few tricks of the trade, as we professionals do like to keep some small portion of our hard-won lore to ourselves. So remember, ladies, remove all thorns and foliage that will be below the moisture level, to prevent rotting. Make your new stem cut at as sharp an angle as possible. To promote longevity, us pros then plunge the stem into hot water, and then, when it cools, into the fridge goes the bloom for a few hours. Of course, if you use florist's foam, do remember to soak it thoroughly first. And, as my final tip, try a sprinkle of 7-Up or Sprite in the water.

  With the soaking up of such arcane tidbits did I pass the hours. Also with the taking out for several walks of King, which gave me a good chance to take a hard look around. I saw nothing that looked particularly frightening, except the prices in some in the store windows and a white poodle with a diamond-studded collar and shocking-pink toenails, the same hue as its owner's. Adorable. Some of the shoppers looked scary, too, but maybe I was just jealous. Maybe. At first I didn't see anyone who looked like what I thought Phil and Ted might look like, then I began suspecting every male I passed, even the ones in knee-length shorts, but that I put down to either paranoia or the fact that I was in Beverly Hills, after all, where one could rightly suspect the inhabitants of almost everything.

  The boutique closed at seven; shortly thereafter, Phineas switched on what security devices he had, which weren't many, by my expert reckoning, but I knew Beverly Hills was notoriously well policed and anyway, who's going to break in to steal a couple of dozen Hypericum patulum? (Saint-John's-wort to you.)

  I couldn't see anyone following us when we drove in convoy around the corner, where Phineas made a night deposit at his bank—of a hefty sum, too, I might add, because I'd watched him total it up—nor could I observe anyone tailing us north on Rodeo Drive to Hartford Way and then onto Pamela Drive, where Phineas resided, and then into his one-car carport by the side of the house.

  We dined at home, although not by candlelight, and not even in the dining room, but perched on stools in the kitchen. Not before, however, I'd made myself highly conspicuous again by walking the dog around the house several times, then taking him up and down Pamela Drive for a couple of hundred yards each way. And, amigos, you'd better have a dog when you go for a stroll in those parts, and a local address you either are living at or visiting, because sure as shooting you'll be stopped by local fuzz asking you politely but firmly to please assume the position, and then questions will follow.

  They would be equally suspicious of any vehicle with two men inside parked out on the street for hours at a stretch, but unfortunately for us there was a legitimate spot to park just in sight of Phineas's maison, which King and I'd investigated during our stroll. Beverly Hills isn't only Rodeo Drive and film stars' mansions, it's also hills. Hence the name, one might say. Our street led to the top of such a hill, on which was a small park, a wooden gazebo, and a little lookout affair, and as it was open to the public, the public could park there for as long as they wanted if they didn't litter, play loud music, or tamper with the flora, or so the sign said.

  Anyway. We dined on leftovers. I should have such leftovers in my icebox—salmon mousse, chicken à la something served with green mayonnaise and white asparagus, a choice of six flavors of Häagen-Dazs ice cream, and then coffee and twelve-year-old Armagnac for them that wanted, and we both did. King had to suffer with a plate of cold roast beef. Naturally, we left the dirty plates in the sink for the maid.

  Afterwards, I watched sports, with the sound low, on one of those TV screens that are about three feet by four and that you find mostly in bars, while Phineas, close by, perused a slim volume that was not only a play but in French, too, if you can believe it. He did have to look up a word once, though, I noticed. King dozed the while at my feet. From time to time the phone tinkled. I'd suggested I answer all calls, just in case one came from Phil or Ted, so I did, but none did.

  Before retiring, we had a brief discussion of where I should sleep. Now, now, I didn't mean it that way, I meant would it be smarter for me and King of the frozen north to curl up on a mattress outside Phineas's bedroom door or, say, sleep on the couch downstairs, or crouch under the lilac bushes out back all night. In any case, I wasn't happy.

  "I'm not happy," I said.

  "About what?"

  "About being sitting ducks," I said. "About being on the defensive generally. We've got to make some decisions."

  "Goody goody," he said. "Nothing I like better." He yawned, closed his book, got up to put it on the shelf he'd taken it from, then collapsed into his chair again.

  "You're just too vulnerable," I said. "That is your problem, if you don't mind my saying so."

  "Well!" he exclaimed. "Hath not a gay eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick us, do we not bleed?"

  "Quote those Froggy playwrights all you like," I said. "I mean your store-boom. Your abode, likewise. Your car. You, despite my close attendance. It's impossible for one man, no matter who, to cover you as you whirl from hither to yon if the opposition is really determined. All right, blowing up your oh-so-humble boutique might not put you on crutches, especially if you weren't in it, but it might frighten you."

  "How little they know," he said.

  "OK," I said, "but so they might think. What I've been thinking of is how can we ensure that you and your real estate and your employees, for that matter, remain in one piece until Wednesday noon."

  "If I did take a trip," he said after a moment'
s thought, "that would ensure it."

  "Exactly," I said. "But you don't want to take a trip to anywhere but the courthouse downtown. But what if they thought you were going on a long, long trip? Wednesday morning, say? And then you actually appeared to?"

  "Voilà!" he said, blowing a kiss my way. "Know what? I bet this is the place where we all gather 'round, then you say to us, 'Now here's my plan, gang.' "

  "Now here's my plan, gang," I said. "So gather 'round."

  King and I wound up sleeping in the spare bedroom, with the door open, me on chocolate-colored silk sheets, he under the bed. I thought it safe enough; there was no point in Phil and Ted getting violent unless they absolutely had to, because of the risk involved, so it made sense for them to wait until the last minute, or close to it, anyway.

  As it happened, the night passed peacefully. King woke me up early the following morning to be let out. I let him out. When I let him in again, Phineas put in an appearance wearing a bathing suit that consisted of a piece of string and an eye patch, the kind of wardrobe muscle builders wear to perform in. He took one look at me in my jockey shorts, shook his head sadly, then said, "Follow me, if you dare." I put aside the morning paper I was perusing.

  "Lead on, McBuff," I said. I followed him down beside the small pool to a wooden cabana which contained a junk room for gardening tools and pool cleaning equipment and deck chairs and two surfboards, then next to it a workout room, with assorted weights and dumbbells and a bicycle exerciser, and next to that, a sauna. We worked out, then we saunaed, then we swam, then we ate—healthily, except for the strong espresso—then we went upstairs to attire ourselves. Phineas reappeared wearing, among other natty items, a white leather cap pulled raffishly down over one eye, and huge, wraparound sunglasses. Then the V. D. master plan commenced.

  Step One: I called a film producer pal of mine—who lived just down the hill, by the way—Lew Lewellen. His lovely wife said he was at the studio already, and could she help?

  "I remember one time when I was baby-sitting Lew," I said, "and at about three in the morning we drove out to some property he'd just bought and listened to the tide come in. He said you were going to build a bungalow there and maybe a guest house and get stairs put in leading down to the water and maybe a little dock of some kind to swim off of and tie a boat to, if you ever got a boat. What's the state of affairs there now, darling?"

  She laughed. "Well, the stairs are in," she said. "And the foundations and about three feet of walls are up, the part that's natural stone, and that's it. Lew's doing his nut, of course, there's just been one hold-up after another. Oh. Did I say the road's been graveled, too?"

  "No," I said. "Sounds like my kind of place. Can I borrow it for a few hours later in the week?"

  "Honey, you could probably buy it for $2.95," she said. "Borrow it all you want, although goodness knows what you want it for."

  "I don't suppose," I said, "you've gotten around to putting up a big gate at the entrance or anything like that?"

  "So what's to protect?" she said. "We were out there last week with the architect, there's just that thing sticking up at the side of the road, like what they let down when a train comes through."

  "Perfect," I said. "Love to Lew, thanks to you, and hello to that extremely well-brought-up son of yours."

  "We like him too," she said, and rang off.

  Step Two, immediately thereafter: On his telephone answering machine, Phineas left the following message: "Hi! Phineas here, dears. Guess who's going cruising, and I don't mean in West LA, I'm talking on the briney, sailors, I'm talking following winds and salt spray against the cheek, foreign ports and exotic lands, starting Wednesday and ending . . . but who can read the future? Not even I, Phineas . . . "

  "Perfect," I said when he was done. "Wish I had a flair with words like you, but I went to the kind of school where even the teachers played hookey." We grinned at each other, then said hello to the pretty Mexican maid who had just come in (I said, "Buenos días"), then we collected King, who didn't take much collecting as he was already waiting by my car, and off we drove to work.

  Next Steps: As soon as we arrived at the boutique, I had a word with the cashier-wrapper-telephonist, whose name turned out to be Derrone. I asked him to (a) spread the word to all concerned, callers and employees, that Phineas was about to hoist anchor for a few days, and also to please make up a sign for the door, which he then proceeded to do, using a much more graceful and artistic penmanship that I was capable of. In ten minutes the sign was duly up. It read, "Although the boss is off Wednesday on an extended sea trip, we humble slaves left behind will endeavor to struggle on without him and to fulfill your every (floral) need." During this time, Phineas, at my suggestion, was phoning the officer in charge of the case and reassuring him that, appearances to the contrary, he, Phineas, would, indeed be in court at the appropriate hour.

  Then, as I couldn't think of any other way of spreading the word except hiring a skywriter to spell it out in smoke puffs, I retired into the workrooms where Susan, Melody, and Phineas were filling up seven hanging baskets the size of TV dish antennas with such blossoms as Busy Lizzie, Sweet Alyssum, and that perennial favorite, Wandering Jew. After contributing a useful tip or two, I took my leave, as per the master plan, of Phineas, at great length, outside his front door, just in case anyone happened to be interested. I couldn't see anyone particularly interested in me, but a slim young gent in gold lamé jeans who chanced to be passing eyed Phineas with considerable interest. Well, he was a handsome devil, with a beautifully muscled body, the rat, and intelligent much? I'd enjoyed our time together; he told me he'd originally planned to be an architect but he'd taken up arranging posies, after much thought, because he figured it was the one occupation that would irritate his father the most. Who wouldn't like a guy like that?

  When I got back to the office, it was just on ten o'clock, the time the sign on my door said I opened for business Mon. to Fri., so I did, after poking my head around the corner to see if Amos 'n' Andy had made any progress while I was gone. They had; the whole lot was now completely encircled with an eight-foot-high chain-link fence. I made a mental note to myself—purchase sturdy metal snips pronto.

  As I couldn't give the dog a run next door, I let him out in the back alley instead while I checked the sports pages in the LA Times I'd picked up on the way back. The Dodgers were six and a half out, tied with the ever-hopeful Giants, behind the Reds, of all the unlikely teams. Pittsburgh was ahead in the East; I hoped Phil and Ted were baseball fans, they would soon be in dire need of cheerful news if V. D. had any say in it.

  August 27 was the date. Scorching the temperature already, noxious the atmosphere, and the United States of America was preparing for war. Good for it. So was V. Daniel, let it be said. War against Ted and Phil, for starters, then against the puny Pussycat Adult Cinema Co. I hadn't called out my reserves yet, though, as the U. S. had just done, but they were there awaiting one call on the hot line, my doughty helpers, my loyal team. And what a team, amigos. There was all five-foot-six of Benny the Boy, cunning charlatan and man of a million faces, all pretty much like his own. There was Sara the total nerd, a walking, talking misery, skinny as a salted twiglet and the worst poet since Barry Goldwater.

  Which reminded me—there lying unopened on my desk was an envelope containing, undoubtedly, another of her "reports," as the envelope had a hand-drawn stamp on it, one of her many childish trademarks, and said, "SECRET!!!" in large red letters in the upper left corner. Not without an inward sigh, I opened it.

  Report No. 43

  August 24, 1990.

  For: V. D. (ha ha). From: Agent S. S.

  When the west wind howls,

  Moist as a freshman's greedy kiss,

  Then the agent prowls

  To the edge of the abyss

  And beyond! To Inglewood, yet!!

  Where, not even for a hefty bet

  Would this chil' normally make her way—

  What is the world comin
' to today?

  A motel, in Inglewood, in silty rain—

  Sky the color of pork chow mein—

  A gloomy place for a lovers' tryst,

  'Ceptin' the sadomasochist

  If you ask me. But nobody does,

  OK. I attest, I also affirm,

  The 12:20 arrival of the hus,

  That slithy creep, that slimy worm,

  The 12:30 arrival of Suspect B

  In hopeful Frederick's finery—

  The furtive look, the timid knocks—

  And the spy amid the hollyhocks.

  OK! I affirm and also attest

  To the license plates and all the rest—

  The time they left, the name he used—

  Frankly, dear, I was not amused.

  (Under separate cover, expenses and bill)—

  I am too low, too drear, too ill

  Too mean of wit to count the cost

  Of lunchtime love and deserts lost.

  "Deserts" lost—she probably misspelled desserts, knowing her, at least they have something to do with lunch. But no amateurishly padded "expenses" and inflated "bill" included—there's a first for you, pards. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with her. Well, I don't really wonder I know—she's got twice the brains and three times the guts I had at her age. Out of kindness, however, I wouldn't dream of ever telling her so. She derived so much pleasure from her cantankerous attitude, who was I to try and soften her up. Anyway. Where was I? Ah yes—my A-team. There was Willy, the mad inventor, who once invented and prototyped and then had marketed a game that took 58 million years to do. If you made a mistake, of course, it took even longer. Then there was his living-dead brother, the only photographer I ever met who could develop color prints sound asleep. And there was Willing Boy, the Evel Knievel of the messenger services, a heartthrob on a Honda, but due to his disgraceful behavior in Montreal that time when he not only shattered Sara's heart but left the bits strewn by the road in the slush . . . but why rake up old gossip? John D., of course, handsome owner and prop. of the Valley Bowl, was always game for a game, his kind or mine, and was there not also Phil the Freak, waiting in the wings out there in deepest Glendale, up to his scabby elbows in advanced electronics and homemade dial-a-bombs? And if you counted the bartenders I knew, the list was almost endless.