Gumshoe, page 34
“That from Kayla?” Dallas asked, looking at the expression on my face.
“Yeah. She’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry, Mort.”
“Uh-huh.”
I was still tired. Dallas hung around a while longer, made me eat a little soup, then she left.
* * *
In time, however, and it didn’t take all that long, considering, the entire business took on something of a dreamlike quality. I think that was because it was so weird, the whole thing. The horror of it softened to something resembling a well-remembered nightmare—frightening as hell, but unreal. I could deal with it. At times I could even shut it off, forget it for full minutes at a time. I could even watch Leno and laugh. Jonnie had died very badly, maybe worse than he’d deserved, Milliken too, but people die badly every day and too many of them are innocent children, so I didn’t shed a tear for Jonnie, per se, just for the sick horror of it all. Mostly, I tried to forget.
A week went by. I was in the shower and fairly well recovered from my wounds when the doorbell rang. Perfect timing. God must arrange these things to see what’ll happen. So, not wanting to disappoint, I got out—dripping—thinking now was my big chance to run some hotshot media buzzard from my doorstep all the way to the sidewalk by the seat of his chinos. The sutures had been removed. It would be a good test of my shoulder and basic arm strength. I wrapped a towel around my waist. One glance at a clock told me it was seven o’clock in the evening.
Rachel was at the door. Rachel. Wow. I had a flashback, a sudden smell of meat and cheese, a vision of Skulstad’s bean counters hunched over their desks. She had a paper sack in one hand. She looked good, very statuesque, wearing a clingy sleeveless dress that came to eight inches above her knees, neckline so low it took all I had to keep my eyes from drifting.
At my attire, and the puddle forming at my feet, she gave me an apologetic smile, then took a single step into the house so I could close the door. I caught a whiff of perfume. “It was Iris,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Iris Kacsmaryk? She left one day after you gave that menacing little speech of yours, which Betty repeated for me. Betty Pope, if you remember. Lady with the big hair. Since then, things have been fine. We hired a new girl yesterday.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
“I just thought you’d like to know.”
I’d solved bigger cases since then, so her news amounted to small potatoes, but I didn’t tell her that. “Thanks,” I said.
She smiled awkwardly. “I, uh, brought over some food. It’s from Sardina’s, over on Mira Loma. Rigatoni and lasagna, garlic bread. It’s still hot.”
Smelled good, too.
Behind me, Jeri said, “Hi, I’m Jeri.” She was wearing a towel that matched mine. And, like me, she was dripping all over the floor. I’d told her to stay put, I would handle it, whatever it was, but…hell, she never listens.
Rachel said, “Oops, uh, I’m Rachel. A friend.”
I said, “Jeri, Rachel. Rachel, Jeri.”
“Guess I’ll be on my way,” Rachel said. She put the bag in my arms, backed out the door, and said, “Enjoy, Mortimer, Jeri.”
“Mort,” I said.
Rachel left. I shut the door, then turned and looked at Jeri. She smiled, water dripping into her face from sopping hair full of those wonderful deep-red highlights.
“Hey, look,” I said. “Food.” I held up the bag.
“Delivery girls are getting prettier all the time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Uniforms are cut kinda lower, too.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You never mentioned that one before.”
“Uh-huh. It’s not my fault that girls flock to me like pigeons to a statue.”
Jeri unwound the towel and let it hang from one hand. She stood hipshot and looked me in the eye. “How about you put that stuff in the kitchen. We were interrupted. You’re needed in the shower.”
“Yes, ma’am…uh, boss,” I said. “Right away.”
Rob Leininger, Gumshoe
