Ask for Me Tomorrow

Gilly picked up the letter that was separate from the others and handed it to Aragon. It was heavy. The envelope — addressed to G. G. Lockwood, 1020 Robinhood Road, Santa Felicia, California — was expensive bond paper, engraved Jenlock Haciendas, Bahía de Ballenas, Baja California Sur. The grade of paper and the engraving were obviously meant to impress, but the handwriting inside ruined the effect. It was like that of a child not accustomed to the use of pen and ink or the discipline of forming letters.

Aragon said, “Are you sure this is B. J.’s handwriting?”

“Pretty sure. He never learned to write decently and he forgot to take along his typewriter.” She smiled wryly. “I guess it’s one of the things you tend to overlook under the circumstances... Can you make it out?”

“I think so.”

“Read it aloud.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to hear how it sounds coming from a stranger. Maybe it’ll give me a few laughs.”

“If it’s very personal, you might want to reconsider your decision.”

“There are no torrid passages, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“I’m not worried exactly. I’d simply like to spare you any embarrassment.”

“Is that what they teach you in law school, not to embarrass people? Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.”

“Smedler, Downs, Castleberg, McFee and Powell,” Aragon said, “only hire stuffed shirts.”

“Really?”

“To protect their image.”

“Well, I don’t give a cow chip about their image. And you won’t either when you find out what it is.”

He already had and already didn’t, but he wasn’t eager to admit it, especially to one of Smedler’s golden oldies.

“Why are you staring at me?” she said, frowning. “Haven’t you ever heard the word ‘cow chip’ before?”

“Sure. About every half-hour from my old man, only he said caca de toro. Otherwise my old lady wouldn’t have understood. She never learned English.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Here. I was born in the barrio on lower Estero Street.”

“What’s a barrio?”

“A Mexican ghetto.”

“Good. You’ll be able to deal with these people on their own level.”

“And what level are these people on, Mrs. Decker?”

“Oh hell, don’t get fussed up over some silly little remark. The Tula Lopez incident gave me kind of a prejudiced view of her whole race.”

“I’ll try to correct that,” Aragon said. “I think we’ll get along fine.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I’m being paid to think so.”

“Why, that’s downright cynical. Did you learn such stuff in your boy scout manual? That’s what Smedler called you, you know, a real boy scout.”

“It’s an improvement over some of the things I’ve called him. In private, of course, like between you and me.”

“I see. The lawyer-client relationship works both ways.”

“Ideally, yes.”

“Smedler also told me you were a very nice young man. That worried me because I’m not a very nice old lady. I wonder if we’ll have any common ground. Do you have a sense of humor?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, read B. J.’s letter and let’s have a few laughs. Or didn’t you believe that about me getting some laughs out of it?”

“No.”

“You could be wrong. Laughter, as Violet Smith says, is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe this time I’ll behold it funny. Go ahead, read it.”

Four