Write Me a Letter (Vic Daniel Series) Read online

  I parked down the street aways out of view of 947½ and had a brief ponder. I prefer pondering in dimly lit establishments that have signs in front of them that flash on and off like Fats' but that say COCKTAILS instead, but I can ponder in other locations if I put my mind to it. My problem was I wanted to put the wind up William's mother, or sister, or both, slightly. Not too much, not too little. I came to the honest conclusion that if I, V. Daniel, put in a personal appearance, there was no chance Mom or Sis or both would be scared only slightly; even, say, in parson's garb, reciting Proverbs IV:2 in a hushed voice, I'm hardly a reassuring sight. There's my size, of course, and then there's no denying Time had left its brutal traces on my once fair-complected visage, someone else a couple of scars, and several someone elses a broken nose.

  So, although reluctant as a small boy being dragged in the direction of soap and hot water, I decided it looked like a job for punk power, or ex-punk power, yet again. OK, I'll give you that the lamebrain was useful from time to time, but how much suffering can a guy take, even in the course of justice? I did amble back to 947½ to check if there was a listing for Gince in the register of tenants beside the intercom-buzzer affair; there was. On the way back to my side of town I stopped at a hamburger stand for two chili dogs and a root beer, then I called the twerp.

  The twerp was in. Not only in but hovering over the phone; she answered it almost before it started ringing.

  "Hello?" she said eagerly.

  "Hello yourself!" I said warmly. "Waiting for a call, were we? From anyone special?"

  "Oh shut up," she said.

  "How are we this fine afternoon?"

  "Bored out of my skull," she said. "And you're not helping."

  "What?" I exclaimed. "Are we not working? Are we not laboring over some sonnet writ in the Italian mode? Or leafing busily through our rhyming dictionary trying to find the perfect rhyme for pepperoni pizza? What is it, dear, writer's cramp?"

  "No," she said. "And it's block, stoopid, not cramp."

  "Pardon me ever so," I said. "I knew it was writer's something. I thought it might be knee. Anyhow, as you're not doing anything, how about meeting me at the office in a half-hour or so, I just might be able to put you out of your misery, for a while, at least."

  "I'll think about it," she mumbled, then hung up. I did likewise. She'd show up, all right, like spring in springtime, like a crowd at a disaster, she was probably already circling over my office like a vulture waiting to dive on some hapless baby gazelle. And why not? Even doing simple chores for me must be more fun than scribbling odes in her bedroom; anything must be more fun, even eating beets.

  Sure enough, she was sitting on the bench outside Mr. Amoyan's shoe repair establishment when I turned in and parked in front of the office. Mr. Amoyan was beside her, taking a breather and casting his experienced and appreciative Armenian eye on everything feminine that passed; his store was next to the laundromat that was next to Mrs. Morales' Taco-Burger counter joint. For some obscure adolescent reason Sara professed not to notice me although I both waved and called out "Yoo-hoo" as I passed.

  I opened up. I looked up William Gince in the phone book; there was no entry for him. Nobody was in the L.A. phone book, I'm surprised they keep putting one out. After a while, in her own good time, the twerp meandered over and came slouching in, then sat on a corner of my desk, then gave my locks a tousle, two things she knew got my goat.

  "What's up, Prof?"

  "A small job," I said. "Just a trifle. I'd do it myself but you know how I like to give work to the needy and unemployed, and try and find a better definition of a poet than that."

  "Doing what?"

  "What I tell you," I said, "for once, and without any of your brilliant improvising, either."

  "So tell," she said. "What am I, a mind reader?"

  "No, but you're curly as a little lamb today," I said, running my hand over her head for a change. She'd had all her hair cut off a while back, in the line of duty, I must admit, and it had grown back in its natural color, Guinea pig white, in a tangle of tight curls. It didn't look that bad, actually, and anything was better than the way her hair shrieked during her long, tedious years of punkness. As for the rest of her, she was about five foot high on tiptoes, skinny as a billiard cue, with about the same number of curves, and tough as dried beef jerky. Her eyes were bright blue and cheeky, her mouth small, with an ironic twist at one corner. She had the usual number of ears, noses, teeth, and limbs, and the latter of which were attired in tight short-shorts and a pair of those Spanish rope-soled sandals, with red laces that came up and tied behind the ankles. Over a T-shirt that was clean, all in one piece, and that didn't say anything insulting, unlike the old days, she wore a man's zip-up suede jacket, borrowed without a single doubt from Willing Boy's cupboard. In case anyone from Gentleman's Quarterly is interested, I was attired in my usual workday outfit of cream cords, a Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt not altogether lacking in striking pigmentation, socks that matched, and brown moccasins that did likewise.

  "We're looking for a skip," I said. "Which is someone who has skipped, and I don't mean rope, I mean town."

  She raised her eyes heavenward for some reason. Seeking the poetic muse, no doubt.

  "He could be anywhere," I said. "Narrowing that down, he could be far away or he could be not far away, but still not here."

  "That's a big help," Sara said.

  "If he isn't that far away," I went on patiently, "I don't want to frighten him into taking off on a camel overland to Timbuktu. Which is probably what will happen if I drop in on his mother or sister or both, who seem to still reside where our skip, one William Gince, resided until a few days ago when he took off with a lot of money that didn't belong to him. Anyway, that's the story, although I think there's more to it than that."

  "How would your visiting his mother and sister frighten him?"

  I sighed.

  "It's called the telephone, dear," I said. "Which they use the moment I leave, saying the heat is on."

  "Presuming he's got a phone number and they know it," she said.

  "I've got to presume something," I said. "I've got nothing else to go on."

  "Also presuming they know why he split and that they connect you with it."

  "Also presuming," I agreed.

  "What if they write him instead of phoning?"

  I shrugged.

  "I'll try something else," I said. "Look. Let us assume they know where he is. Let us assume they will call him, given sufficient reason. I can give them sufficient reason, or you can give them a less-sufficient but still-sufficient-enough reason. Either way, he gets called. And if he gets called from his old apartment, I can find out where he is now."

  "How?"

  "You'll find out, maybe. If he's already in Timbuktu, it doesn't matter who goes calling, me or you. We still win because we've found out where he is, assuming what we've assumed, and can take it from there. But what if he's somewhere relatively close like San Diego or Disneyland? Last thing in the world we want to do is frighten him into taking the first plane out, we want him right where he is, close. And that, noodlehead, is where and why you come in."

  "I get it, I get it," she said. "You don't have to go on and on forever. I drop in instead of you. I've got no connection with the reason he split, but I do give them some other reason for calling him. Like what, for instance?"

  I told her.

  She groaned theatrically. "Is that the pathetic best idea you could come up with?"

  "Hers is the tale you spin the ladies," I said. I told her the tale. "And here is what I want you to do while you are talking to them, and after you have finished talking to them." I told her that, too. "OK? All clear?"

  "Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "When does all this happen?"

  "As soon as you go home and don some apparel more suitable for the job," I said. "Not that you don't look most fetching in what you have on, which is a welcome change."

  "It gives me the creeps just thinking about w
hat you probably wore back in the twenties when you were my age," she said. "So what should I put on?"

  "How do I know what sartorial splendors lurk in your walk-in closet," I said. "Something respectable."

  "You gonna drive me down there?"

  "No way," I said. "I got a small sum, a token, really, up front for expenses, it should just about run to a cab for you."

  "Both ways," she said.

  "Of course!" I said. "Really, Sara, you do disappoint me sometimes. Don't forget to get a receipt."

  "Get the big spender suddenly," she said. "How about something up front for my expenses?"

  I handed over forty dollars without further ado.

  "And there's fifty more when you come up with the goods," I told her. "Hell, make that seventy-five."

  She whistled in mock amazement and rolled her eyes.

  "Are you sure you're feeling OK?" She leant over and touched my forehead, then blew on her fingers as if they were red hot.

  "Now that we've had our little laugh at ol' Vic's expense," I said, "can we get on, lambie-pie, unless you'd like to pop round to the pharmacy, steal a rectal thermometer, and double-check my temperature." I remembered to scribble the Gince's address down and passed it over. She grinned, gave my specs, which I was wearing, an unnecessary wiggle, then hastily removed herself from the premises before I could retaliate by tickling her, which she hated, or whatever. As if I'd even bother.

  She came back into my life late that afternoon, it would have been about five-thirty. I was still in the office running a chess program for beginners Benny had given me, on the computer. For beginners—I like that, most amusing. I did actually know that bishops moved one way and the guys on horses another. I switched off speedily when Sara appeared, wanting to forestall any comments she might have about grown men wasting their time on silly games. She handed me the following, hot off her typewriter, then paced around nervously as I scanned it. Writers can be such a pain sometimes, if not usually.

  April 5, 1988

  Confidential Report No. 17.

  From: Special Agent SS.

  To: V.D. (ha-ha)

  Homeward I bound

  Suitable gear I found

  Trousers top low heels and granny glasses

  (Men seldom make passes

  At grannies in glasses

  And hair that's rinsed bright blue

  Except maybe old farts

  With lonely cold hearts

  Who have to wear glasses too)

  Called a cab

  Stow the gab

  I sed to the loquacious driver

  And there's an extra fiver

  If you hang around for me

  The driver he say sí

  With worried look on face

  White lies all in place

  Buzzed le buzzer of le family

  Explained my needs most humbly

  Was told direct my feet

  Back out into the street

  No not back into the cab

  T'were so the girls could grab

  A look at me through a third-floor pane

  Then the buzzer buzzed again

  The front door ope'd to let me in

  In went the erstwhile heroine

  Up went the plucky Sybiline

  Pumpin' lotsa adrenaline

  If 'tis St. Elmo who protects the tars

  If 'tis St. Christopher those in motor cars

  St. Veronica the gallant matadors

  Who

  Watches

  Over

  Those who go a-tap-tap-tapping

  At locked unfriendly doors question mark

  "I like that bit," I said to the twerp, who was by then reading it with me over my shoulder. "About the doors." She went pink with delight. What the hell. My mother always used to say a lie isn't really a lie if is gives someone (other than the liar) pleasure. With a concealed sigh, I resumed:

  Mother and sister awaiting I

  Mother and sister awaiting by

  Their open porte inside I go

  Inside I spin my tale of woe

  Of the end of innocence

  Plucked by that dastard Gince

  At the garage where I cashiered

  And where toiled he and how I feared

  A girl alone what's she to do

  Does not the père have duties too

  They are surprised They look askance

  Could their Willy had led me such a dance

  And now he's gone suddenly

  Without a word suddenly

  Without farewell without a final kiss

  Surely surely it would not be amiss

  For the ladies to put me in touch

  Would that really be asking so much

  An address, phone number, PO box would do

  Somewhere I could sent him a tear-stained billet doux

  Sorry, sed the ladies

  Sorry, sed the girls

  Lying through their twin sets

  And their imitation pearls

  No way Nada Forget it Blow

  Don't get up I sed I'll go

  Exactly where I do not know

  So out I went into the snow

  The time she was precisely 4:22.

  Their phone number is 477-2063.

  The cab cost $44.50—receipt available.

  $44.50 (cab

  $40.00 (advance)

  $4.50

  + $75.00 (wages)

  $79.50 (balance owed me)

  Luv,

  Sara

  "Well?" she demanded as soon as I was done.

  "It won't do, Sara," I said. "It just won't do. You can't leave out all the punctuation in the desperate hope it'll make it appear more poetical."

  "That's not what I meant by 'Well,' " she said.

  "Ah," I said. "Well, it was a commendable piece of investigatory work."

  "Not that 'Well,' either," she said. "Well, what about my bread?"

  I extracted the required sum from my wallet and handed it over without further comment, although I did remark to her that I happened to be extremely familiar with the old cab receipt ploy—you got the cabby to give you a receipt for ten bucks more than it cost, and split it with him—and she'd better not even think of trying it on me.

  "And fifty cents," she said.

  I gave her fifty cents, mostly in nickels. Then and only then did the suspicious, grasping creature hand over the receipt.

  "What were the ladies likes?" I asked her.

  "Ordinary," she said. "Not a lot of life to them. They looked and dressed alike, they could almost have been sisters."

  "Were they relaxed, were they frightened, what?"

  "They sure weren't relaxed," she said. "As for frightened, maybe."

  "Good," I said. "Any pictures of William around?"

  "Yeah," she said. "A big one of him and his sister. Only trouble is, it was taken when they were like two."

  "Ah well," I said philosophically. "You can't win 'em all." I gave the twerp's curls an affectionate rub. "But you did pretty good, pal." She looked pleased. "Now watch a real pro in action."

  I retrieved an innocuous-looking scrap of paper from one of my desk drawers, the one under the one where my firepower was whenever I was in the office, otherwise it went into the safe out back. Written on the paper in my untidy scrawl were a seven-digit number with two other numbers tacked on, a five-digit number and one of four digits.

  "What's that, Prof?" the twerp wanted to know. "The combination to the safe?"

  "In a way," I said. Telephone companies, including the one that sent me my bill every month, Pacific Tel, have a special number. If you're fuzz or belong to one of several other accredited law enforcement agencies, which includes me out, and call that number and identify yourself correctly, you can obtain, among other things, a read-out of a suspect's phone bill for whatever time span you require. Unfortunately, the procedure for obtaining unlisted phone numbers is more complicated, which is why I'd asked Curly to obtain the Ginces'. I dialed the special numb
er, then asked to be put through to the appropriate extension. A lady answered. She said her name was Miss Hanoran and wanted to know how she could help me. I read off my brother Tony's shield number and the code number he'd been assigned by the telephone company, which I happened by mere chance to stumble across at his place one day. I forget just where, in some drawer or his wallet or wherever.

  I asked the helpful Miss Hanoran, if her computer worked that fast, could she tell me of any long distance calls that had been made after 4:22 that afternoon from the Ginces' number. I was hoping, of course, that wherever William was, it wasn't in a motel just around the corner.

  "Just one sec," said Miss Hanoran. After slightly longer than that she was back on the line, saying, "At four twenty-four a call was placed to four-one-six seven-eight-seven-four-one-one-two." I repeated the number to her, writing it down.

  "Four-one-six," I said. "Where's that?"

  She told me.

  "Oh, merde," I said. "I mean, merci for everything."

  "Bonjour," said Miss Hanoran.

  "Well?" the twerp said eagerly as soon as I'd hung up.

  "I'll give you a hint," I said. "It's worse than Timbuktu. I'll tell you if you tell me what 'Sybiline' means."

  "Like a oracle or fortune-teller," she said.

  "Montreal," I said. "Go get down that cheap atlas you gave me and let's see if it's even on the map."

  8

  Now don't get your dander up, all you Eskimos and Frenchies and wheat farmers and canoe paddlers, all you Malamuts, pea soupers, Hans Brinkers, and Newfies north o' the border, I was just having my little joke. Everyone knows Montreal is not only on the map but it's also on a big river, the name of which escapes me at the moment. It could be the Mackenzie. And as all sports lovers know, Montreal also has a huge cement igloo that cost the earth and then some where the ever-hopeful Montreal Expos try and play baseball. And speaking of which manly pursuit, remind me to pass by Fred's and put a goodly sum down on the Dodgers winning the World Series, even Tim'll have to give me at least a hundred to one. And I better do it afore I go, it is hard counting out greenbacks one by one when you've lost half your fingers from frostbite.*