poetry, dance, music, painting, theater. I do it all. I have nothing to do but explore what’s going on inside.”
“Well, it seems to suit you. You look great, Loll-Loralee.”
“Thank you. You have many opportunities for self-expression when both your husbands have died and left you a fortune.” She didn’t seem overly happy about that.
“I see.” The machinery chugged to a start again.
“And now I’m dating a man who is even richer than my late husbands. Filthy, obscenely rich.” She didn’t seem any happier.
The machinery stalled again. I smiled. “Good seeing you again, Loralee. After all these years. You do look great.”
“Thanks. Good to see you too.” She stepped forward to hug me. In California you can hug women even when you don’t know them very well, and I try not to turn a hug into a grope. Still, fifty isn’t that old.
When the hug was over we exchanged the customary look and smile, and for just a sliver of a moment she closed her eyes and opened her mouth and looked like she was ready for a kiss. Then she opened those bright blue eyes, gave me a jolly look as she let go and stepped back. “By the way, what is your fee?”
That was a shock, but I recovered. “Three-hundred a day, plus expenses. And a fifty-dollar a day charge for things I can’t itemize. If I don’t spend it I give it back.”
“How do I know you’re honest?”
“If you’re honest you’ll know.”
“That’s awfully cheap.”
“I don’t often hear that. Usually they howl like they’re being disemboweled. Even rich folks. Especially rich folks.”
“I suppose if you worked full time you could do okay. Do you work steadily?”
“Not always.”
“Do you have a card? I might have some business for you.”
“Sure.” I handed her my card, which she took with long, thin, graceful fingers, put it into a billfold made of some kind of leather that wasn’t cow. “Give me a call,” I said.
“I think I will. Take care.”
“You too.” With another smile and nod, we went our separate ways. I made sure we didn’t run into each other after we’d parted. I assume she did the same.
The Sanctuary
Loralee called about a month later. It was January. Raining hard.
I got to my office about 9:30, having no reason to show up earlier. I had done some insurance work and a little research for a lawyer, but overall, the month had been slow. In the holiday season, even people who are out to screw each other tend to mellow out on rich food and good liquor.
My office was in the 926 J Building, fiftteen stories of brick. When it was built in the twenties, it was one of the highest things in the Valley. By the nineties, shiny new high-rises had dwarfed it. Across the street was Wino Park, now officially called Cesar Chavez Park. Before that the official designation was Plaza Park—I suppose to make Sacramento seem like one of those glorious centers from old Spanish days, like Portola used to visit there all the time. But that ruse was as shallow as a vernal pool around Labor Day. From Sutter on up, the town has been a chessboard for real estate developers. And the park has always been called Wino Park.
My office building used to have a flashy brass revolving door, but they took that out after I moved in. The rent wasn’t bad and I could walk to work.
There was only junk mail and not much of that: one for a Mervin Kemp and another for a Marvin Kentmar. At the moment I had no sense of humor so I tossed them. There was a message on my telephone. I dialed my password. It was dated that morning, eight o’clock, from Loralee Carlisle.
Hoping it was not business but suspecting it would be, I listened. Her voice was cool and affable, like someone wanting to discuss painting the house. She wanted to meet me as soon as possible. She left her number.
I called, talked to a maid or secretary, who told me the address and that 2:30 that afternoon would be a convenient time for Mrs. Carlisle.
I left the office and walked home. I took a shower, shaved, and put on after-shave, cologne, and deodorant. I put on my navy blue silk shirt, and over it my neat gray herringbone with maroon highlights, and my wine-blue tie. I found my gray wool slacks and checked them carefully for food stains from the last wedding or funeral I’d attended, made sure I had black socks that matched, then polished the shiny shoes I rarely wear. I even made sure the clean underclothes I put on were free of holes, though I really didn’t know why that would matter. I grabbed my new Stetson fedora and was nearly out the door when I looked at the clock and saw it was barely 11:30. I took off my coat, draped it carefully over a kitchen chair, got a towel and wrapped it around my shirtfront. I made a sandwich and listened to the jazz station while I read a little Vonnegut. At a quarter-to-two I brushed my teeth, put on my coat and overcoat, grabbed my umbrella, and went downstairs to my car.
My studio apartment is over a basement garage. The gate opened slowly to let me out and I was, at last, on my way.
Loralee’s address was in that narrow band of posh houses between H and T Streets, and between 38th and 50th. Until the late fifties, it was the neighborhood. The mansions stood amid blocks of well-kept, plebian houses. On some blocks the size and style of houses varied—a reminder that Sacramento was once a democratic little burg, where the aristocrats and proles at least had the chance to know one another. Many of the old-line aristocrats still lived there, although with time that would of course change. Urban center rot was encroaching on all sides, and it wouldn’t be long before the remaining gentry would pick up their money and flee to safer havens in the hills.
Along Loralee Carlisle’s street, all the houses were huge, with large, manicured yards. In summer the sycamores and elms would form druidic arches over the streets, but now they were just thick boles of deep gray or eggshell, reaching up to scratch a gray sky. What few cars you saw on the streets this time of day were Cadillacs, Lincolns, or Mercedes’. Most of the houses were shiplap or brick colonial, with enough Spanish and classical designs here and there to vary the architecture.
I parked on the street in front of one of the colonials, two-storied with a window on a third, which somehow looked out of place. It was greenish-gray with deep green around the windows. Cool and inviting in the summer. An old sycamore grew in the front yard, with a circle of tilled dirt around it. Near the sidewalk were stumps of the standard three birch trees; back about twenty feet were three new birches, about ten or fifteen years old judging by their height. The rectangular flowerbeds were inlaid with healthy evergreen hedges of escalonia, privet, and photinia, and a couple lemon bushes, all trimmed into domes. The driveway was lined on both sides by tree roses. It was like the “Father Knows Best” house.
I walked up to the porch. It had only enough room for one person standing. The mat had no inscription. I rang the bell. Looking at the green door I was reminded of the song, which I tried to get out of my head as soon as it came in.
A woman answered the door: a little above average height, with short, curled blond hair and very light gray eyes. Pretty, thin, strong even underneath that neat, starched white blouse and long blue dress, dark stockings and blue oxfords. Hard to tell her age. She smiled
