False Conception Page 4

  I stuffed the garbage back in the can and the can back in the trunk and returned it to its home behind the little fence, then found a rest room at the Owl and Monkey Café and removed the grit and the grease and the germs as best I could. When I still didn’t feel clean, I considered buying some cologne and sprinkling it liberally over my person, but I’d rather smell like garbage than a gigolo, I guess. Which was why my nose was twitching from odd odors, and I was envisioning swarming maggots and deadly bacteria as the possible source of the smell as I waited to make my next move.

  After Greta had a chance to get settled in, I went to the door and examined the intercom system. There were eight apartments listed, next to the appropriate call buttons, with names beside all but two of them. I copied the names in my notebook, including the name of the manager and the phone number on the FOR RENT sign, then returned to the car to wait.

  What I was hoping was that Greta would emerge after dinner and go where I could observe her inclinations more closely, and maybe even eavesdrop or strike up a conversation. But three hours went by without any sign of her, so I started the car and drove home, plotting a less subtle inspection for the morning.

  CHAPTER 5

  I was back on the block by 7 A.M. Just in time, too, because I was still on my first cup of thermos coffee and the second page of the Chronicle’s Green Sheet when Greta Hammond came out of her building and started down the street, skipping off to her daily labors. Her route was indirect; her rate of speed suggested she was eager to get where she was going; her expression suggested life was a festival or a fairy tale.

  She was swathed in shiny white again, an identical outfit to the day before, except for the thin gold chain that was looped around her neck; today she didn’t think she’d need her sweater. I got out of the car so I could follow on foot, bringing my newspaper with me.

  She strolled blithely down Ninth Avenue, browsing in a sidewalk bin of books, waving to the boys in the body shop across the way, her first stop a drugstore on Irving Street to buy what looked like rubber gloves. Her next destination was back the way she’d come—a small café called Leo’s. When I backtracked to where I’d last seen her, the smells of bacon and fried spuds that oozed out of the café opened the spigots in my mouth full force, so I tucked the paper under my arm and shoved my way inside, eager to combine business with pleasure.

  The interior was dim and artless, with fake flowers on the tables and a photo montage of the regulars the primary decoration on the mirrored and paneled walls. Greta Hammond was seated at the U-shaped counter in the rear, holding a menu in her left hand as she chatted amiably with a waiter standing on the other side of the counter in front of her. The man was swarthy and muscular, a decade older and twenty pounds heavier than he hoped he looked. He wore a torn black T-shirt and a stained white apron that bulged like a jib as it bypassed his belly. The tattoo that wound around his forearm looked to be a cobra; the thing in his mouth was a match.

  “Took Marie up the hill yesterday,” the waiter was saying as I strolled in. “Gout. Couldn’t work her shift last night, she had so much pain.”

  “Marie’s too old to wait tables, Leo,” Greta said softly. Her voice was low and well modulated, and just a little sexy, as if she and Leo were old hands at the game of double entendre.

  “That may be,” Leo answered. “But she’s also too poor to retire.”

  “Isn’t there something else she could do?”

  “Not in here, there ain’t. And if Clinton makes me stick her on a cockamamie health plan, I can’t keep her on to do tables.”

  Greta smiled with the grace of a nun. “You couldn’t fire Marie and you know it.”

  “Won’t have to. When she sees what it’s doing to the books to keep her on, she’ll quit to save me from bankruptcy.”

  As Marie’s fate was being forecast, I took a seat at the counter three empty stools down from the one that Greta was perched on. When Leo looked my way without displaying much interest in my nutritional requirements, I ordered a coffee and danish.

  “Apricot’s all we got; we’re out of the prune.”

  “Apricot’s fine.”

  “Heated?”

  I shook my head.

  Greta glanced at me idly as I placed my order, then looked at the menu without seeming to read it. After Leo brought her a bowl of oatmeal that was sprinkled with bananas and raisins, she started in on breakfast. As she swallowed a heaping tablespoon without much enthusiasm, I decided she had come to the café more for companionship than Quaker Oats.

  I waited till I had my coffee, then opened my paper to the classifieds and took out a pen. I’d already circled three listings by the time Leo returned with my danish, which, contrary to my order, he’d heated to just below boiling. My guess was he did it on purpose.

  He was about to head back to the kitchen when I stopped him with a quick question. “I don’t suppose you know of any apartments for rent around here,” I asked hopefully. “Cheap but decent,” I amplified when he didn’t seem to be giving my query much thought. “I’ve got a boy. Ten. So it can’t be too scuzzy.”

  Leo looked me over long enough to make me think he was serious about his answer. “How cheap is cheap?”

  I gestured toward the newspaper. “According to this, cheap seems to come at about five hundred a month. Which sure as hell isn’t cheap where I come from.” I looked at Greta. “Excuse my French.”

  Leo was shaking his head. “Five hundred’s not cheap; five hundred’s impossible. If you want decent.”

  “Five hundred will get you a studio,” Greta chimed in the way I’d hoped she would. “But a studio’s not big enough for three.”

  “Two,” I said quickly.

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “Not for two, either. You’ll have to go six for a one bedroom, and that won’t get you anything you’d run to get home to.”

  Leo was warming to the subject. “That’s what you got, ain’t it, Greta? One bedroom?”

  She nodded.

  “A studio’s too small; you’re right,” I said. “I mean, the boy’ll need privacy as he gets older. Girls and stuff.” I tried to look embarrassed, then thoughtful and concerned. And then I tried to look hapless, which is the best part I play. “But it’s probably worse with girls. The privacy thing, I mean. Do you have children?”

  Her eyes hooded for just a moment, the way they do when you’re leery or lying. “I did, but she died.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right. It was a long time ago.”

  She looked at me long enough for me to know that she’d remember me the next time we met. Which meant I might have made a mistake by following her into the café, since it was going to be tough to tail her any longer. On the other hand, since what I needed to know had more to do with mental than physical geography, tailing her wasn’t going to get the job done.

  I must have passed inspection. “There’s a unit for rent in my building,” Greta said with surprising kindliness. “One bedroom, floor below me. She’s asking six-fifty, but you might get her to come down to six. It’s been listed for two months—cuts into the net in a big way when it’s vacant.”

  “Nice place?” I asked.

  “It’s all right. Nothing special, but handy. Streetcar. Bus. That kind of thing.”

  “Parking?”

  She shook her head. “Not that it bothers me—I don’t own a car.”

  “Laundry?”

  “When it’s working.”

  “Security?”

  “Just the basics.” She smiled. “The door has a lock and the landlady has a cat.”

  I looked at her uniform. “Are you a nurse?”

  “Aide.”

  “Does that mean there’s a hospital nearby?”

  She laughed again. “You must be from pretty far out of town, mister.”

  “Redding,” I said.

  “Well, the University of California Medical Center is up on that mountain back there. Hospital, medical scho
ol, psych institute—you got anything wrong, they can fix you up.”

  I looked at Leo. “Only if I can pay for it, I imagine,” I said with a shrug, indicating I couldn’t pay for anything more serious than the sniffles.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Leo proclaimed expansively. “Clinton’s gonna fix that, too. Trouble is, by the time he gets everything fixed, we’ll all be in the poorhouse.”

  “Give him a chance, Leo,” Greta chided. “At least he’s trying to do something.”

  “Yeah,” Leo groused. “But nothing’s a lot cheaper.”

  “Not in the long run,” Greta decreed with a tease, then looked at her watch, then gobbled a last spoonful of oats. “Got to run,” she said after she wiped her lips on a napkin and slid some money toward Leo. “Tell Marie I’ll come see her tonight.” She looked at me and smiled. “Good hunting.”

  “Thanks. Where’s your building, by the way? Maybe I’ll go take a look.”

  She shrugged and gave me the number.

  “Are you going to be home tonight?” I hurried on. “Maybe I could call and get some dope about the schools in the area, and programs for kids and that kind of stuff. Any tips I can get will be a big help.”

  She hesitated, then looked at Leo, then recited her number in the shade of his massive frown. “I don’t know too much about that sort of thing, but I’ll be home after seven if you’ve got any questions.” She slid off her stool and was gone.

  Leo and I watched her go. “Foxy lady,” he said huskily, with a hitch in his tone that was both paternal and predatory.

  “Seems to be,” I agreed. “What does she do at the hospital?”

  “Most everything the nurses do, except she gets paid like the janitors.”

  “I take it she’s not married.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Nope. Not that she brings around.” Leo’s eyes narrowed to the width of Kleenex. “You don’t want to mess with her, friend.”

  I held up a peaceable hand. “Hey. I’m just looking for a place to live.”

  Leo made a fist and gave the cobra some exercise. “I better not hear you tried for anything more, or I come looking for you.”

  He gave me one last look at the spreading hood of the reptile that lived on the flesh of his forearm, then walked to the end of the counter and punched a key on the register the way he would undoubtedly punch me if I brought any grief to Greta.

  CHAPTER 6

  After I’d downed my danish and paid my tab and bid a meticulous good-bye to Leo, I strolled through the neighborhood for almost an hour, looking for a way to accumulate information on Greta Hammond without word of my snooping getting back to her. When I couldn’t think of a guise that would fool anyone over the age of eight, I began to feel better about having approached her directly, even though it meant foreclosing most of my other options: there weren’t many options, anyway.

  At nine o’clock I walked up to Greta’s building and punched the button next to the manager’s name. The wait was long enough to make me afraid she’d gone out for the day, but the speaker finally popped and wheezed, then a voice flew at me like a startled sparrow. “What is it?”

  “I’m interested in the apartment for rent.”

  “Six-fifty. One bedroom, no parking.”

  “I’d like to take a look at it.”

  “You got cats?”

  “No.”

  “Kids?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. I’m number four in the back. If there’s samples or coupons out there, bring them with you.”

  A buzzer opened the security lock and I dragged open the door with the round window. The foyer was neat and dark and elemental—chair, sand urn, table and lamp, and a phony photoprint of Paris. I didn’t see a coupon or a cat or a kid—the landlady was going to be disappointed.

  The hallway was dark, carpeted with a threadbare runner that was stained in several spots and ripped from its anchors in others. The only source of illumination was a single globe halfway down the corridor, as dim as a full moon over San Bernardino. The air was a mix of mildew and cat pee and Pine-Sol but compared to the stinks I’d been immersed in the day before, it was comparatively pleasant.

  I knocked on the door to four. It was opened by a tiny gray woman carrying a giant gold cat. Both the cat and the woman were more oval than oblong, and both sported a tuft of white whiskers. The cat was wearing a sweater made with one of those knitting machines promoted on late night TV; the woman was wearing a sweat suit that fit her so snugly and was so aptly dyed to match it was hard to tell where flesh ended and fleece began.

  The cat was asleep and the woman had obviously been in the same state within the past hour. She regarded me through a pair of sunglasses that gave her a jaunty aspect, as though she were off to a casting call. “I’m Mrs. Hapwood. I own the place outright; Mr. Hapwood’s passed on. I get headaches from the TV,” she added as my glance lingered on her spectacles’. “These cut the light to where it don’t hurt. You the one looking for a place?”

  I nodded.

  “Just you?”

  I almost repeated my error at the intercom. “I’ve got a boy. Ten.”

  “You told me no kids.”

  “I thought you meant babies.” I shifted with embarrassment. “I don’t think of Jason as a child anymore, I guess. Ever since his mother left us, he’s been more like a close friend than a son. If you know what I mean.”

  She looked at me so long I was afraid she’d seen through my facade, as if there were some indelible imprint of parenthood that fathers bear and impostors are lacking. But all she said was, “First and last up front, plus five hundred against damage and security. That’s eighteen hundred all told.”

  I took time to measure it against an imaginary bank balance. “The deposit sounds high.”

  “You had shag carpet cleaned lately, mister? Or bleached stains out of porcelain?”

  I was shaking my head before she finished.

  “If you had, you’d know it’s not high enough. But you leave it like you found it, you get your money back. I shoot straight on that score.”

  “I’m sure there won’t be a problem; I’m a very responsible tenant.”

  “Last one told me that tried to make wine in the bathtub; looked like something got butchered in there. I suppose you want to see it.”

  I nodded. “But first, maybe you could tell me about the other tenants. I work at home a lot, plus the boy needs his rest. I want to make sure everything is sufficiently … orderly before I make my decision.”

  I expected her to be offended by my fussiness but she didn’t seem capable of it. “In one you got old Mrs. Shifter. Widow; seventy-eight; hip replacement last March. Never goes out—gets Meals on Wheels and watches the TV with a hearing do-jingy so it don’t bother anybody.”

  “Sounds like a considerate lady.”

  Mrs. Hapwood didn’t second the sentiment. “Cat had fleas so I made her get rid of it. In two you got Marvin Gleaner. Never here. Drives a rig long-haul; don’t know why he pays rent on a place he never uses. Used to think he was up to something but now I think he’s just stupid. Three’s the one that’s empty—that’s across from me.” She patted her hair to become a more presentable neighbor.

  “Sounds fine so far,” I said.

  “Upstairs, in five and six, you got students at the doctor school. Two males; two females—all they do is study except the night after final exams when they drink too much and yell a lot.” She shrugged. “It’s twice a year; one of them did CPR on Mrs. Shifter last Christmas—would have croaked without it, they said—so I put up with it.”

  “Handy,” I said. “The medical students, I mean. In case of emergencies.”

  We still weren’t connecting. “In seven is Miss. Hammond. Very nice; very quiet. Too quiet; Greta needs to get out more. She’s up the hill, too, but a maid, not a doctor. And eight is Albert. What Albert does I have no idea. Could be a ghost, for all I knownever see him, though I he
ar him once in a while. Goes in for that opera-type music, but if you bang on his door, he stops. For all I know he’s Italian—they’re the ones that do opera, ain’t they?”

  I said I thought they were. “Which apartment is above number three?” I asked her.

  “That would be seven.”

  “And that’s …?”

  “Miss Hammond.”

  “And she works at the hospital?”

  She nodded.

  “During the day?”

  “Generally. Does nights to fill in, is all.”

  “Does she entertain men friends very often? I’m not a prude, but in my experience women with active social lives can be rather boisterous.”

  I’d gone too far. “There’s none of that with her at all,” Mrs. Hapwood said stiffly. “Only people who come see her come by in the early evening, and even then it’s seldom men. Other than the fellow asking for her last month, I can’t remember the last time I heard a man up there. You want to see the unit or not?”

  “Miss Hammond was entertaining a man last month?”

  She shrugged. “She never laid eyes on him, far as I know. He come around asking about her for some sort of insurance thing, he claimed, though Greta said she didn’t know nothing about it when I told her. Probably the government.” She made it sound like a rash.

  “Was it an older man or a young man?”

  She squinted. “Younger than you, that’s for certain.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  She frowned. “Why would you need to know that?”

  I shuffled. “No reason. I’m just extra curious, I guess.” When I asked to see the unit, she led me across the hall.

  The apartment was like a thousand others in the city—too much carpet, too little wood; too much Formica, too little tile; too much plastic, too little glass. The windows were the size of postage stamps; the ceiling was sprayed with gold glitter as if that would make it palatial. I’d lived in half a dozen places like it in my time, during my school years and during my early days as a detective. I didn’t want to live in another one.