Lindsey found a quiet restaurant near the campus. It was in an old building, had the atmosphere of a monastery’s refectory. He had a good meal, treated himself to a glass of red wine, and strolled back to the garage for the Avenger. Minutes later he was settled in his hotel room. He had a soothing view of San Francisco Bay, a big screen TV, and an internet connection.
He had nearly finished writing up his notes for the day, preparatory to sending them to SPUDS headquarters in Denver, when he heard the knock. He put his laptop to sleep and crossed the room.
For a breathless moment neither of them said a word or moved a muscle. Then they moved simultaneously, he toward her, she toward him. Then they were in his hotel room, the door closed behind her, their arms around each other. To Lindsey’s astonishment he found himself crying.
Then they dropped their arms as if embarrassed. Was it embarrassment, Lindsey wondered, or something else? What else? He had no idea. He was not an emotional man. Since his enforced early retirement from International Surety he had lived quietly in the house where he had grown up. His mother had remarried. The former Mrs. Joe Lindsey, widow, was now Mrs. Gordon Sloane. She lived with her husband in a senior community in the town of Carlsbad, California, near San Diego. Lindsey had spent his time reading, watching old motion pictures, filling his mental Rolodex with trivia about the entertainment world of Mother’s era, tending a modest garden, and waiting for middle age to turn into old age so he could move into a senior community near San Diego.
Instead—instead—he was breathless.
The two of them crossed the room hand in hand, like children taking courage from each other in the darkness, except that this room was by no means dark. They sat on a characterless hotel-room sofa holding hands.
Lindsey studied Marvia Plum. Her hair was cropped short. Her face—she might have gained a few pounds but her face was hardly changed.
She wore civilian clothes. Nothing to draw the eye, nothing to attract attention to the outfit or the person. A lightweight jacket, a plaid shirt with a button-up front and a button-down collar, moderately faded jeans, flat shoes. In a town like Berkeley you passed a hundred Marvia Plums in an afternoon and didn’t really notice one of them. The only place where she’d be noticed was a town where anybody with black skin is noticed.
When they spoke they spoke at once.
“Dorothy Yamura told me you were looking for me.”
“Dorothy Yamura told me you were still on the force.”
“It’s funny.”
“It’s funny.”
Finally she put her hand on his mouth to stop him from speaking, to caress her onetime lover. He leaned forward, pressed his cheek to her head. He wasn’t as tall as he might have been, but he was tall enough to do this. After a moment he straightened.
“Hobart, it’s been a long time since we worked together.”
“That arms collector in Marin.” She’d dropped her hand back to her lap.
“What’s this about the Simmons homicide?”
“It’s an insurance matter.”
“Same as always.”
“What about—” he started to say us but his courage failed and instead he said, you. “What about you and your family? Your mother? Tyrone and Jamie?”
She managed a laugh. “My mother’s gone. Died two years ago. I warned her to calm down. She was a perfect candidate for a stroke and she had one. At least she went fast, that was a mercy. She could never have coped with being disabled.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “We never got along, you know. I think she was frustrated. I think she had dreams as a girl, wanted to—I don’t really know, Hobart. I’m not sure that she knew herself. But those were the old days. There wasn’t much chance for a black woman. She got out of the ghetto, made a decent living. She had a good husband. But forty years shuffling papers in a rabbit warren—she wanted more. I think so, anyway. And she laid her hopes on me.”
She made a funny sound, half moan and half grunt. “Do you have anything to drink, Bart?”
“You mean alcohol?”
She made a positive noise.
“I’ll call room service.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Let’s go out, then.”
“Yes, let’s.”
In the elevator Lindsey said, “I don’t really know this town. Not any more. Where should we go?”
“What’s your pick, noisy or quiet?”
He thought about it. “Noisy.”
She drove a battered Ford Falcon.
As Lindsey climbed in he said, “Your brother still in the mechanic business?”
“He’s got a shop on San Pablo. Takes customers only by referral, and there’s a waiting list.”
She tapped a button on the dashboard and the car was filled with the sound of a Bach harpsichord piece.
She guided the Falcon under the freeway and parked at a converted railroad station. The sign over the entrance said, Brennan’s—Since 1959. Marvia had told the truth. It was noisy. The bartender, a woman with short-cropped hair and a welcoming smile, greeted Marvia. Marvia introduced Lindsey and the bartender shook his hand. She had a warm, firm grip.
The bartender poured a straight shot for Marvia and shot an inquiring look at Lindsey. He said, “I’ll have the same.”
Marvia grinned at him. “Well, you’ve decided to drink like a man.”
He lifted his glass, they clicked them together and each tossed back a shot.
The bar was full. The air was heavy with the odors of alcohol and food. Lindsey looked for the source of the latter and spotted a serving line. He asked Marvia if she was hungry and she said she wasn’t. Neither was Lindsey.
When the bartender refilled their shot glasses Lindsey held his at eye level. Observed through the amber fluid, the scene at the bar looked like a moment in a film noir, an odd sepia print. In his mind’s eye the drinkers were transformed into William Bendix, Lizabeth Scott, Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer. The bartender was Mercedes McCambridge.
He lowered the shot glass and shook his head to clear it of the image. He said, “I’m glad Tyrone’s all right. I still remember that old Volvo he upgraded for me. Sometimes I wish I still had it but I decided to sell it when I.S. sent me to Europe.”
Marvia’s eyes widened. “Europe?”
“Had to go to Italy. Nasty case. One of my colleagues was murdered.”
“In Italy?”
“Sorry. No. In New York. Of course the police
