Читать книгу Healthy, Wealthy, and Dead - Gregg Ward Matson - Страница 7

I took the information and more questions to my office. No lissome blonde was hanging around, so I got back to work. I spread the paperwork over my desk, hoping for some revelation to pop up before my eyes. All I got was the name of the coroner’s deputy who signed off on the death certificate: Sidney Ohls. I looked up the Coroner’s Office number and called.

“Coroner’s Office.” The receptionist was efficient, and friendly enough, considering the workplace.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Ohls, please.”

“I’ll see if he’s available. Who may I say is calling?”

“My name is Marvin Kent. I’m a private investigator, looking into the affairs of the late Aaron Carlisle.”

“Just a moment.”

I waited, doodling. I drew several lines, long, curving, soft yet with substance. I was wondering what a shrink would make of that when he came on the line. “Yes, Mr. Kent, how may I help you?”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Ohls. I’m making some inquiries on behalf of the estate of the late Aaron Carlisle. I have your signature on the death certificate, and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions.”

“Yes, I would be happy to meet you for a drink this evening. Is Harlow’s all right? Seven-fifteen?”

“I’ll be there. Thank you.”

“Certainly. I look forward to the meeting. Good day.”

I thanked him again. New information that must be delivered after office hours is always suspicious. Reminding myself that I still had nothing, I threw away the doodle sheet, wrote down the appointment, grabbed my coat and shot out the door.

For a change, the rain was letting up a bit. I stopped at Rodney’s and bought several packs of light cigarettes and caught the next bus going east. The public transportation system is under-funded in California, because everybody’s dependent on cars. But downtown it’s not that hard to grab a ride. It gives me a chance to observe people, and to think. And I save on gas.

I recognized the driver, she recognized me, and we nodded affably as I slid my ticket into the meter. I got a transfer from the driver and went back, keeping my balance, to a seat in the middle of the bus.

The bus was about half full of the kind of people who have the time and reason to be riding a bus between rush hours: all races, all ages--retired, unemployed, working poor. Old folks going to the doctor, mothers with young children doing business with public agencies, teenagers cutting class and looking for adventure. No yuppies—one of the nice things about sitting on a rickety old machine and gulping diesel fumes while lurching back and forth through manic traffic.

There were five or six places downtown where I could soak up gossip, innuendo, rumor, and once in awhile some good information. My favorite was Java City. I got off the bus there.

Java City was one of the town’s original Parisian-type coffee shops. Why not? We have a lot of trees just like Gay Paree. We have claims to wanting to be a center for arts and the intellect. Might as well have world-class sidewalk bistros too. Here was an ideal setting: classic red brick, single-story, situated at the edge of midtown, hard by downtown, on a forested street still lined with old Victorians, a street that used to be the main U.S. highway through town.

There was always an interesting crowd there, if you didn’t get involved personally in the soap opera lives. Besides the same crowd you’d find riding the bus, you’d see gentrified midtown yuppies, bikers, and State workers seeking local color. People soaked up coffee with exotic names, served in fancy styles, and sampled a slice of life, which was mainly, each other.

The rain had stopped. Already some of the regulars had gone outside, sitting around sodden tables, out from under the dripping narrow awnings, and were reveling in the weather change, smoking in the open air. My friend was one of them.

He had his wheelchair in a central location. Being well liked he needed to engage in several conversations at once. Stuart Franklin had been around, he kept his eyes and ears open. He didn’t gossip, but he was a great talker. He knew everybody in that particular swirl.

“Look at what the rain dropped,” he rasped loudly, with a hearty laugh despite the oxygen tube just beneath his nose. His blue eyes twinkled.

“How’s things going, Stu?” We shook hands.

“Good as they ever get,” he shrugged. “Been cooped up in that apartment too long. Had to get out. Of course, I don’t want to get overexposed.”

“Sure.” Nodding at the people around him, I said, “Say, Stu, can I talk to you alone for a minute?”

“No problem, let’s go to my office. Excuse me, folks, gotta talk some business.” He pressed a button on his wheel chair. On came a click, then a whirr, and he wheeled a few yards over, to the edge of the iron railing separating the coffee house from the sidewalk. He wheeled around facing the street, I leaned against the wet rail. We caught about a bucketful from the branches overhead, and he said, “Who’s on your shit list now?”

“You know a guy named Len Boscombe? Tall guy, dark hair, mustache.”

He grimaced. “What do I look like, a gambler?”

“So that’s his problem. He’s famous, huh?”

“So they tell me. I don’t hang with that damn looney. I know who he is. That’s all. Look, I drank like a goddam sponge for thirty-five years. Been smoking like a wet campfire for damn near fifty. Just got out of the hospital. Let a friend crash on my couch. He had a slight cold, which he forgot to tell me about. He shook it off, I picked it up. You know me. It turns into pneumonia right off the bat, and the next thing, I’m in the ambulance headed for intensive care. After I got out, I didn’t smoke for two weeks. Then the birds started to chirp and I listened. What can I say? Not too bright. But don’t make me a gambler too, okay? I have to have some virtues.” He laughed loudly, stifled a cough. “Your friend’s in some kind of trouble?”

“He could be. He works for the County, and we think he’s been screwing around with the death records.”

“He would. A guy like him gets desperate enough to do anything.”

“He come here often?”

“Nah. The action here’s not fast enough for him. He’d order a latte, then give odds it’d come back with milk. He goes where the bright lights shine.”

“You know where he lives?”

“No, and I don’t want to. Anyway, chances are he’ll be living somewhere else tomorrow.”

“I want to talk to him before he cuts out.”

“Be careful. Last time I did see him he was hanging around with some very bad boys.”

“Know them?”

“Not personally. I do know the look, though.”

“Thanks.” I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the three cigarette packs. “What’ll it be?”

“Doesn’t matter. As long as they’re lights. I gotta slow down and take care of myself, in my old age.” He laughed, until he had to stifle another cough.

I left him all three packs.

I rode the bus around downtown and midtown, stopping at three more gathering places, but my contacts weren’t there. The trail was still fuzzy. I wouldn’t be getting anywhere until I could find Boscombe. The business involves a flurry of activity, followed by a lot of waiting around.

From a phone booth I called Loralee Carlisle’s number, thinking to give her an update, maybe get some more information…I really wasn’t sure why I called. Clarissa told me they would be available at 2:30 that afternoon. They. I found that curious. Of course I’m always curious about something. I had a hamburger, wondering if Loralee would approve, wondering why it mattered. Here I was at fifty, still trying to please everyone I met.

I had plenty of time. Unbelievably, the sun was still out. In the warmth and light I found myself simply enjoying the day. I walked to her house, and vowed to take more pleasant long walks.

When I arrived, right on time, Clarissa answered the door, breathless, in a dark blue sweat shirt and sweat pants, her face a robust pink, smiling. “Come in, come in,” she panted. “Follow me.”

She led me briskly up the stairs, into the big room. Once inside she threw off her sweat clothes, showing a body marvelous as Loralee’s, in a sheer white body suit, and there was Loralee in a dark corner of the room, in the same revealing outfit.

There was music playing, a Bach harpsichord piece. Both of them skipped nimbly into the center of the room where they began (resumed) dancing. They would join together, cavort around each other, then part. They moved all over the room, graceful, sensual, slender, strong. I tried desperately to watch without feeling like a voyeur. I failed.

While I was feeling lust, I was also feeling totally inadequate to express it. Here I was, full of candy, hamburgers, and milkshakes, wearing a ludicrous checkered sports shirt and wrinkled slacks, carrying a damp old overcoat, thinking I had done well just to walk a few blocks. Here they were, healthy and agile, moving gracefully in shimmering, tight outfits that were perfectly legal, yet kept no secrets. Blood rushed down from my brain. I found myself making plans.

They danced together a little while longer, time I couldn’t keep track of. I wondered why I was getting the privilege of watching. I wondered what gave me the moxie to have the fantasies I was having. I was glad to be having those fantasies.

When the music stopped they laughingly donned their sweat suits. “Sorry to make you wait, Marvin,” Loralee smiled, her eyes again delving inside.

If she was fishing she didn’t need much bait. “Keep me waiting like that any time.”

Still smiling she looked over at Clarissa. They both giggled. “We’re just a couple of old ladies trying to dance like we used to. But I’m glad you liked it. Let’s go downstairs.”

We sat on the green chairs in the front room. Clarissa disappeared momentarily, then returned with several cold plastic bottles of spring water.

“We need to stay hydrated,” Loralee said, opening a bottle and lifting it in a toast. “Help yourself.”

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

“We’re rehearsing for a dance troupe I underwrite. Since I’m paying, they’re kind enough to let us perform a number.”

Another fishing expedition? “If you want my opinion, you’re both real pros.”

Clarissa giggled. “Let’s keep him.”

Loralee smiled. “Thank you. But you wouldn’t believe how entrancingly--well-trained, young dancers can move."

“Well, I liked what I saw.”

“Did you notice the sensual tension?”

I nodded, weakly.

“That’s what art looks for. To get us to face up to our inhibitions, to match them with our needs and desires. To take the base instinct of procreation and bring it into focus with the universal drive to unite the yin and the yang, and the recognition that we can only achieve that goal by recognizing the divine beauty we all possess.”

“You two got it.”

“Thanks again. But believe me, Marvin—if I didn’t pay, we wouldn’t play.”

“I learned this morning that Aaron’s file is back in the Hall of Records.”

“Oh.” She frowned, thought for a moment. “That’s good, right?”

I shrugged. “I would guess it means that somebody wanted to tamper with Aaron’s record, and got it done. I’m meeting with the coroner who signed the death certificate this evening. He seems to have something to discuss that can’t be said in an official setting.”

“So we’re getting somewhere?”

“Let’s say I’m starting to share your hunch. But all we’ve got is still just a hunch. By the way, do you know someone named Boscombe? Len Boscombe?”

“Perhaps. Clarissa, does that name sound familiar to you?”

“Did he sell Vita Green for awhile? One of Bobby Waldsten’s people?”

“Could be.”

I asked, “Do you have that on file?”

“Maybe somewhere,” Loralee said, warily. She waved her hand backward. “You know, in all that crap.”

Clarissa snickered.

Loralee shot a smirk Clarissa’s way. “All right, Sweetie, that’s enough.” To me she said, “Clarissa finds my organizational skills quite amusing.”

I said, “Maybe you have A.D.D. too.”

She shook her head. “Had it checked out. I’m just a scatterbrain. Cultural A.D.D., I could cop to.”

“Well, how come I don’t have it, then?” Clarissa teased. “I live in the same culture.”

“Because, Clarissa,” Loralee responded in the same teasing tone, mocking a grown-up talking to a smart aleck child. “You’ve somehow managed over the years to avoid the tensions of living in this culture.”

“Yay for me!”

Both laughed, and Clarissa slid off her chair and began tumbling around the floor.

I said, “This Boscombe is tall, dark-haired, has a mustache. The brooding type.”

Clarissa sprang to her feet. “Lurch!”

Loralee’s mouth popped open, her eyes rolled back. “Of course! That was him.” She turned to me. “A very strange character. He didn’t last long.”

“But his memory lingers.”

“Bobby Waldsten was never too particular about who he recruited. But to sell our products, or anything, you have to like people at least a little bit. This guy couldn’t even pretend.”

“Waldsten gets more interesting all the time.”

“That he is,” Clarissa laughed, tumbling again.

“Good luck,” said Loralee.

I stood. “I should get going. If you come up with anything more on Aaron’s research into substance abuse, let me know.”

“Okay. Clarissa, do you remember anything?”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

Loralee laughed. “You do that.”

“I’ll keep you posted.” I stepped over Clarissa. I went outside, walking in the sunshine, wishing I hadn’t given away all my cigarettes.