Double

“I know.” I felt a rush of pride and affection for my big brother, who just might grow up after all. “Listen, Ma says the cioppino’s almost ready. Are you coming up for some?”

“Nope. I’ll stay here and drink. It’s my last chance — tomorrow I look for a job.”

I thought of Charley Valdene, the private-eye enthusiast Wolf had been staying with. Valdene was also a painting contractor, Wolf had told me. “I may have a lead on a job for you,” I said. “Talk to me when you’re sober.”

“Tomorrow.”

I grinned and started up the steps, thinking about how funny male-female relationships could be sometimes. Now that they were divorced, John and his wife would probably end up being better friends than when they were married. And then there was Don and me...

He’d called last night after he’d heard about me on the news — the hourly broadcast after his talk show, no less. Ma hadn’t let him talk to me, though, so I’d called him back this morning. Don had been anxious, solicitous, and had offered to fly right down. I said no, he shouldn’t; I didn’t want him to see me in this condition. Then I remembered unfinished business and said, “Besides, how can you leave Laura?”

“Who?”

“Laura. Your cousin.”

There was a long silence. “Oh, that. Babe, I’ve got a confession to make.”

I waited.

“I don’t have a cousin Laura.”

“I know. So who was that on the phone the other day?”

“Well... promise you won’t get mad?”

I didn’t say anything.

“I know how you disapprove of this kind of thing. I know you think a man should be self-sufficient and all that. You’ve always said you would never need anyone to—”

“Don, get to the point.”

“Well, I waited until you were out of town and then sneaked out and did it. I’m not proud of that. I–I hired a cleaning woman.”

“You what?”

“I know I should be able to take care of a one-bedroom apartment by myself, but it had gotten to be such a pit.”

“That doesn’t explain why you were in the shower while she was there.”

“That’s the worst part of it.”

“Go on.”

“Laura isn’t a very good cleaning woman. She couldn’t get the hang of scooping the ashes out of the fireplace, so I had to show her. And I got all dirty.”

I believed him. Nobody — especially Don — could make up a story like that. I started to laugh, and so did he. We must have laughed away a good half-minute of my parents’ long-distance money. Then I said, “Look, Don, I don’t care if you need somebody to clean for you — as long as it’s not me. If Laura’s n; good, I’ll help you find somebody better when I get back.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Maybe we can find somebody to work for both of us — cheap.”

“Great. Terrific. But one thing...”

“Yes?”

“Will you tell Laura she’s fired?”

Still grinning at the memory of our conversation, I stepped over the broken-down fence of the canyon and crossed the yard toward the house. Halfway there, I turned and looked back. I’d never liked that canyon, ever since our black cat had disappeared into it, but if you looked at it right, with the birds hopping through the tree branches and the sunlight playing on the leaves, it wasn’t so bad after all.

44: “Wolf”

The McCone kitchen was bright and shiny and full of noonday sunshine. It was also full of the rich smell of crab cioppino, and of the cheerful humming of Sharon’s father, who was puttering around outside. It was also full of Mrs. McCone, which wasn’t quite as pleasant as the sunshine and the crab cioppino and Mr. McCone’s humming. Not that I disliked Mrs. McCone; she was a very nice lady. The problem was, she thought I was very nice, too, and not only because I had saved her daughter’s life. She kept smiling at me and giving me appraising and speculative looks. She kept asking me questions. And worst of all, she kept talking about how much Sharon needed a husband — “a nice mature man who’d take care of her, keep her out of trouble.”

I was sitting at the table, where she’d told me to sit, and drinking the bottle of beer she’d put in my hand, and wishing I was outside puttering and humming with Mr. McCone. Or already on my way back to San Francisco and Kerry. Mrs. McCone made me uncomfortable. She reminded me of my own mother, which meant I couldn’t be rude to her because my mother had never tolerated rudeness and I had been raised to be obedient and respectful of motherhood. So I sat there and listened and drank and twitched.

“Spending the night with a dead body,” Mrs. McCone was saying, “and a crucified body at that. Horrible. And then getting shot. Shot in the... shot, for heaven’s sake. My little girl. Horrible.” She did something to the crab cioppino and then looked at me again. “Have you ever been shot?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You have? Then why are you still a detective?”

“It’s what I do.”

“Wouldn’t you like to have another job where your life wouldn’t be in danger all the time?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

She sighed. “I suppose that’s how Sharon feels too. I suppose she’ll keep right on being a detective.”

“I suppose she will.”