Ben toys with the hot turkey sandwich, mushing it around on his plate. “Another thing I don’t get, then, is how she managed to keep the birth of this child a secret for so many years. Especially if she had it in as public a place as CHOMP.”
CHOMP, the Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula, is high-profile because it’s the initial hospital visiting celebrities go to for care.
“First of all,” I say, “she never went anywhere for prenatal care. Marti was into alternative methods of healing, and she knew her body really well. Also, when she went in to deliver the baby, she went through emergency. And paid cash.”
“Cash? That must have set her back a lot.”
“I helped her,” I say, shrugging.
“Ah. That explains it.”
He tastes the sandwich and makes a face. I knew he wouldn’t like it; Ben loves turkey like a Pilgrim, but hates gravy with too much pepper in it. Besides, they’d made it with toast. He prefers mushy white bread.
“Still,” he says, “with computers being what they are, or were even in the eighties, you’d think there would have been a record of the birth.”
“There was a record. For a Maria Gonzalez, from Salinas. You know how many Gonzalezes there are in Salinas? Marti told them she was here in Carmel working as my maid when she went into labor.”
“And she passed? As Hispanic?”
“She had brown hair, brown eyes, and she was dark from all the years of working as a photojournalist below the equator. Plus, she spoke the language. She passed.”
The truth is, most busy doctors and hospitals don’t really look at people as people, anyway. Especially when they’re named Gonzalez and have no insurance.
“I confirmed that she was my housekeeper,” I say, “and the closest thing she had to family.”
“And, of course, since she—or you—paid cash, no one asked too many questions.”
“Right. We figured this would be better than if she went to the county hospital. She’d have had a harder time disappearing into the system there, given the way the government keeps an eye on things. And she might not have had as good care.”
“Your wiles continually astound me.” Ben shakes his head, turning his attention to a hot, chunky slice of garlic bread.
“Send it back,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Send the turkey san back. Tell them the gravy’s too heavy on the pepper and you don’t like it on toast. They’ll give you something else.”
“Nah, I don’t want to bother them.”
“They’re good about those things here, they’ll fix you whatever you want.”
He pushes the plate away. “I’m not really hungry, anyway.”
“We should have gone to the Bully III.”
He gives me a look. But truth be told, I’m not hungry, either. When the waitress comes by again and asks how things are, we tell her they’re pretty good. She takes our plates away and brings us another round of drinks, which suits me just fine.
After dinner we walk south along Sixth Street till we come to the park with the sculpture of an elderly man and woman sitting on a bench side by side, like an old married couple. He wears wingtips, she an old-style hat. The sculpture was donated to the city by an art gallery, after much dissension as to whether or not it was good enough to be put there. Which goes under the heading Only in Carmel.
“You know what pisses me off about them?” I say.
Ben looks at me with obvious surprise. “These old people? What?”
“They look perpetually happy. Nobody’s perpetually happy.”
“Well, maybe they give us something to aim for,” he says, defending the bronze duo.
“Hmmph.”
“You know what you are?” he says. “A curmudgeon. A thirty-eight-year-old curmudgeon.”
“Gee, thanks. I love being compared to William F. Buckley and Andy Rooney.”
He puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me down to a bench across from the old couple. There he nuzzles my neck.
“Careful now,” I say. “What will people think?”
“It’s dark here. Besides, nobody’s looking. They’re all satiated from their own dinner and wine, and they’re heading back to their inns to make love by a nice cozy fire.”
“Sounds like a plan to me. Are you finished interrogating me yet?”
His lips slide up to mine. “I guess I could think of a few more fine points to explore.”
“Well, get on with it, then, young fella. I’m aging pretty fast.”
“Feeling better?” Ben asks as we begin walking again, along Ocean Avenue. Most of the shops are closed, but brightly lit restaurants line the block. At one count, probably not the latest, there were eighty-seven restaurants in the square mile of Carmel Village, and more than a hundred art galleries.
“Better?” I ask. “Could you clarify?”
“Than you were when you were sitting at home alone, thinking.”
“Oh, that. Sure. You’ve wined and dined me like all get out. Why wouldn’t I feel better? Like a fattened calf, in fact.”
“Funny, you don’t look like a fattened calf.”
“Yeah? Then why do I feel like some ax is about to fall?”
“I never can fool you, can I?” my lover says.
“Just remember that. So, what is it?”
“I didn’t quite tell you everything.”
“I never for a moment thought you did. Okay…so what is it?”
“Mauro and Hillars. They want to talk to you again.”
“Oh, God.” I groan, holding out my wrists as if for handcuffs. “What a way to end a day.”
He contains a smile, but I see it toying with his lips. “Not now. I just wanted you to know that they mentioned it. Said they’d be in touch with you.”
“Ben, what the hell is going on? Why the Secret Service?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“Abby, I swear, they won’t tell any of us what they’re doing here. Between you and me, it’s driving me nuts. I thought maybe when they talked to you again, you might get some clue.”
“Ah,
