When Elephants Forget (Trace 3) (2 page)

She took his hand and put it on her breast. He could feel her nipple, hard and puckered, through the thin eggshell-colored silk of her blouse.

“Think about this for a while,” she said.

“Will it make me deep?” he asked.

“Very deep.”

“I hope so,” he said.

“If it doesn’t, I will,” Chico said.

In their dark bedroom, Trace smoked a cigarette and let lazy plumes of smoke drift upward toward the ceiling. He thought that cigarettes had no taste in the dark. You had to see the smoke to taste the flavor. Maybe someone, he thought, should invent a cigarette for people who liked to smoke in bed in the dark. He thought about this for a while and decided that, for safety reasons, it would probably not have much market potential. He thought about coupling the sale of those new cigarettes with a fire extinguisher for when the bed, inevitably, caught on fire.

He finally rejected the idea. That was all right, he thought. He had a lot of good ideas.

Chico said softly from alongside him, “I’ve got a deal for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“You still drink too much,” she said.

“I’ve virtually stopped.”

“You’ve virtually stopped drinking when I’m looking. So instead of drinking a fifth of vodka a day, you’re drinking a gallon of wine and I don’t know how much vodka.”

“Don’t forget the Polish beer. It may be my new favorite drink,” he said.

“You drink too much and you smoke too much,” she said. “You should exercise. You’re forty years old and you look all right, but your heart and lungs have to be ready to give out.”

“Does this conversation ever assume a cheerful direction?” Trace asked. “Or do we start taking bets on how many days I’ve got left?”

“You don’t have to lift weights,” she said. “But a little running wouldn’t hurt. A little calisthenics. Anything to get your heart pumping and your blood flowing.”

“That’s why I have sex,” he said. “If it doesn’t get the blood flowing, what good is it?”

She ignored him. “I think you should try to get your life going in a new direction,” she said.

“As soon as you propose one that I don’t find totally repulsive, I’ll be glad to,” Trace said.

“You should talk to your children. They’re growing up, Trace, and you haven’t spoken to them in two years.”

“Don’t tamper with success,” he said. “I haven’t talked to What’s-his-name and the girl for two years and they’re still thriving. Leave well-enough alone.”

“Here’s my proposal,” Chico said.

“Go for it.”

“We go to New York. You really slow down on the drinking. You cut down to one pack of cigarettes a day. You exercise some every day.”

“You mean, besides sex?”

“Yes. And no casual extracurricular sex.”

“This is really getting nasty,” Trace said.

“Do you think you could do those things?”

“Of course. If I wanted to.”

“You do it, and I’ll give you five hundred dollars,” she said. “A five-hundred-dollar bet.”

“If I lose, I give you five hundred dollars?”

“No. If you fail, before we leave New York, you call your children and talk to them.”

“I’d rather give you five hundred dollars,” he said.

“Is it a deal?” she asked.

“Who’ll be the judge of whether I win or lose?”

“I will. But you’ll be on your honor.”

“I’ll take the bet,” he said instantly.

“No cheating,” she said.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said.

“Too late.”

“I don’t have to join Sarge in the detective agency?”

“No,” she said.

“I don’t have to think big thoughts?”

“Only if you want to,” she said.

“Can I cook?” he asked.

“As infrequently as possible,” she said.

“You’ve got a deal,” he said. “Shake.” A moment later: “I meant my hand.”

Trace did not like the flight to New York. He decided he had better get into training for his bet with Chico, so instead of ordering vodka to drink, he ordered beer. That annoyed him.

He did not like either of the dinner choices on the menu and he asked the stewardess if he could whip up a batch of his Green Pepper Veal Surprise for everyone on the plane.

“Sorry, sir, we don’t have any veal,” the stewardess said.

“That’s all right. I don’t need veal. That’s one of the surprises.”

Chico shook her head at the stewardess.

“Well, I don’t really think so,” the stewardess said. “Regulations, you know.”

“No wonder airlines are going broke,” Trace groused. “You’ve lost your spirit of adventure.”

“That’s right,” chipped in a bald-headed man seated across the aisle from Trace. “Everything’s dull and the same. Take off and land. Take off and land. Take off and land.”

“Sounds good to me,” Chico mumbled. “I kind of like an unbroken pattern of take off and land when I fly.”

“Quiet, woman,” Trace said. The stewardess walked down the aisle. Trace said to the man in the opposite seat, “That was a good offer I just made. I’m a gourmet chef, you know.”

“Really?”

“That’s right. I’m a private detective. We’re all great cooks.”

“I didn’t know that,” the man said.

“You probably don’t read enough,” Trace said. “Right from Nero Wolfe on. We’re all good cooks. Hell, even Sherlock Holmes. Except he mostly cooked up cocaine.”

“I read Mike Hammer. I don’t think Mike Hammer ever cooked,” the man said warily.

“Well, that was Mike Hammer. What did he know? I’ll tell you. If he cooked, he’d still be going strong. Instead of being reduced to beer commercials.”

“I heard you ask the stewardess for beer before. What kind was that?”

“You’ve heard of Miller High-Life?”

“Yes.”

“That was Polish Low-Life. They didn’t have it, though. I only drink imported beers. It’s part of my image as a big private detective.”

“Trace, will you be quiet?” Chico said, pulling on his sleeve.

“I pump iron too,” Trace told the man. “And I run forty-seven miles every day. Wear out a pair of track shoes a week.”

“That’s a lot of miles,” the man said. “How long does that take you?”

“About sixteen hours,” Chico interrupted. “That’s why he’s not a very successful detective. He’s always either running or sleeping.”

“She’s just on the snot because they wouldn’t let her bring her wok on the plane to cook for me,” Trace explained, and winked at the man. “But I’ll calm her down. You know women.”

“Sure do,” the bald man said.

“I’ve been well served by many women. But this one is the best,” Trace said. He tried to put his arm around Chico, but she slapped it away.

“What’d you do that for?” he asked.

“What was that supposed to mean?” She imitated him. “‘I’ve been well served by many women.’”

“Oh, that. I heard a big mystery writer say that once on television. I didn’t know what the hell it meant either, but I thought it had a ring to it.”

“Yes. A stupid sexist ring,” Chico said.

“There you go, bringing sex into it. Sex, sex, sex. I’m tired of sex all the time.”

“Remember that,” Chico said. “When I am being well served by many men. None of them you.”

Trace was still grouchy when they landed at Kennedy Airport in New York. He put on a terrible fake French accent when they got into a taxicab, trying to convince the driver that he was a French diplomat. He whispered to Chico, “Then he’ll try to charge us a hundred dollars for the trip into the city and I’ll have the bastard arrested for gouging.”

The driver charged them twenty-one dollars and fifty cents.

Trace gave him twenty-five dollars.

“Give him another five for his honesty,” Chico said.

When the driver pulled away, Chico said, “I guess he wasn’t fooled by your accent. Better luck next time.”

“Next time, I’ll try Japanese,” Trace said. “Maybe they only gouge Orientals.”

Trace left Chico behind to unpack, bathe, and unwind, and he took a taxi to the office that retired Police Sergeant Patrick Tracy had opened above Bogie’s restaurant on West Twenty-sixth street.

On the second-floor landing, he saw a door on which a white oak-tag sign had been inscribed with black plastic stick-on letters from a hardware store. In block capitals, it read:

TRACY DETECTIVE AGEN Y

Trace found the missing letter C on the floor and stuck it back onto the sign, then walked inside, The office was one large room that had once been an efficiency apartment. Off to the side was an open bathroom door. Sarge was sitting, facing the door, behind a small desk that looked as if it had been used in a kindergarten class. A beaten-up green metal filing cabinet was behind the desk. The walls had three
Playboy
centerfolds and a calendar. Trace was about to say that the calendar was open to the wrong month when he saw it was also for the wrong year.

Against the wall next to the door was an old brown velvet sofa. Most of the velvet’s nap had worn away and white threads were visible.

Sarge got up as Trace entered.

“Nice place,” Trace said. “Trezz chick.”

“Hi, son,” Sarge said cheerily, and shook Trace’s hand. “It’ll be nicer when I get some money to decorate. When’d you get to town?”

“Just now. Mother leave yet?”

“This morning,” Sarge said.

“Praise be,” Trace said, extricating his hand from his father’s viselike grip. Trace, at six-foot-three, was two inches taller than his father, but the older man was broad and muscular. His hands looked like small canned hams. He had a thick pile of white hair and there was a faint road map of Irish bars imprinted lightly in the skin on his nose, but hidden mostly by his healthy tanned complexion.

Trace looked around the office and said, “I’m surprised.”

“About what?”

“I thought you’d have a waiting room filled with women with legs from here to here,” Trace said.

“That’s only in books,” Sarge said. “Truth is, women with legs from there to there don’t have problems. Least, not the kind that detectives can solve.” He went to a closet, removed a folding chair for his son, opened it, then brushed dust off it with a handkerchief. “Took this from the basement,” he said. “You’ll be the first one to use it. Want a drink?”

“No.”

“You sick?”

“No,” Trace said. “How long have you been here?”

“Just since Monday,” Sarge said.

“Any action yet? Any cases?”

“Not yet, but I’ve got all my old friends in the department keeping an eye out for me. They’ll be sending me stuff after a while. I printed business cards.”

He took one from his wallet and handed it to Trace, who read aloud, “Patrick Tracy, Private Investigator.” The card gave the office’s street address and telephone number.

“Good. Looks professional,” Trace said. “So your old cop friends are going to help?”

“Well, cops run into a lot of stuff where people can use p.i.s. Maybe.” When Trace sat in the folding chair alongside the desk, stretching his long legs, Sarge sat down too. “Only trouble with old friends is that…well, they’re old. A lot of them retired. A lot more are dead. There aren’t many guys working in squad rooms anymore that I remember or who remember me. Most of my friends are deputy chiefs or captains, just hanging around waiting to retire.”

“They can still help,” Trace said hopefully.

“They deal with papers now, not cases. They’re all freaking statisticians,” Sarge said. “Reading computer reports and stuff. No wonder nobody ever goes to jail in this town anymore.”

“What does Mother think of your office?”

“She hasn’t seen it,” Sarge said. “I told her it was in Harlem.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want her here trying to decorate. I like it the way it is. Well, maybe a little bit better, but pretty much like this. Anyway, so I told her it was in Harlem. I knew she wouldn’t pester me that way.”

“She’s going to find out,” Trace said.

“I know. But this way, at least I got some peace and quiet until she does.”

“You’ve only been open since Monday. You’ll get some cases soon,” Trace said.

“I expect so. Anyway, I like this place. The rent’s only a hundred and fifty a month, the restaurant downstairs has a good bar and they send up food when I want it. So are you going to be my partner?”

“I don’t know yet, Sarge. I’ve got to think about it.”

“What’s to think about? You apply, take your test, get your license, you get to carry a gun, you can’t beat the hours.” He stood up and pulled back his jacket to show a large Police Special revolver inside a shoulder holster. “You know how good it feels to carry this gun again? Anyway, you can handle all the stuff in the West. After a while, when I get a reputation, I’ll be getting a lot of work all over. And I can handle the stuff in the East.”

“I know. But it’s a commitment. I don’t like commitments,” Trace said.

“I’ve noticed,” the white-haired man said dryly.

“I was an accountant and I didn’t like it, so I walked away. Then I was a degenerate gambler in Las Vegas, and when I got tired of it, I walked away. Now, I work for the insurance company when I feel like it, and when I stop feeling like it, I’ll walk away. I think if I get involved with you, I won’t be able to walk away. That scares me some. How do you walk away from your own father?”

“Same way you walked away from your ex-wife and two kids?” Sarge asked.

“You going to start on me too?” Trace said.

“Not me, pal,” Sarge said. “Anyway, I can’t browbeat you into it. But it’s something I always thought would be good. You and me together.”

“Give me a chance to think about it some more.”

“All right. Is Chico in town?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you staying?”

“We’re at the Plaza. With Mother out of town, why don’t you come up and we’ll have dinner later?”

“A drink anyway,” Sarge said.

They agreed to meet at five P.M. When Trace left, Sarge told him, “Hang on to that business card. It’s the only way you’ll get this phone number. It’s unlisted.”

“An office phone, unlisted?” Trace asked. “How come?”

“If I list it, your mother will find it out,” Sarge said.

“How’s Sarge?” Chico asked.

“Depressed.
I’m
not drinking and
he’s
depressed.”

“Why? Your mother’s out of town.”

“It’s more than my mother. It’s the agency. He opened up on Monday and he hasn’t gotten a case yet.”

“He’s just started, for crying out loud. What’s he expect?”

“Sure,” Trace said. “That’s logical, but it’s got to be scary anyway. He’s had this dream for years about opening up his own agency, and now his dream’s coming true and it might turn out to be a nightmare. I don’t like it. When your dreams die, sometimes you die along with them.”

“Is that another one of your big thoughts?” she said. “Should I say, ‘Gee whiz, that’s deep,’ and pretend that you’re really an intellectual?”

“No, it’s really the way I feel. Sarge is sixty-seven and he’s healthy as a horse—”

“He’d have to be, to live all these years with your mother,” Chico interrupted.

“But people can get old fast when bad things happen to them.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Chico asked.

“I don’t know,” Trace said.

“Yes, you do,” she said. And uncharacteristically, she kissed him.

They were supposed to meet Sarge at five P.M. in the Plaza’s Oak Room for cocktails. Trace took a leather shaving kit into the bathroom. From it, he took a small tape recorder, not much larger than a pack of cigarettes. Into it, he plugged a two-foot-long wire on whose other end was the replica of a small golden frog, an inch high. The frog figurine’s mouth was open, and the gap was covered by a thin golden mesh, behind which was a small powerful microphone. Trace inserted a cassette into the tape recorder, and taped it to his right side with long strips of surgical adhesive. When he finished dressing, he pulled the wire around through his shirt button and connected the frog figurine to it as a tie clip.

Through his shirt, he pressed the small tape device’s “record” button and said, “Lawrence Welk, with you, for New Year’s testing. And a vun, und a two, und a tree…” He stopped the tape, rewound it, then pressed the “play” button. He heard his test message repeated clearly. He turned off the recorder, put on his jacket, and went outside.

Chico was sitting naked in front of the bedroom mirror, putting on her makeup.

“Why don’t I go downstairs and meet Sarge?” Trace asked.

“What time is it?”

“Ten to five.”

“I’ll be ready,” she said.

And she was. It was one of the many nice things Trace liked about her: she was always ready on time. Putting on makeup took her five minutes when she was dawdling, sixty seconds when she was in a hurry, and the result of the two sequences was indistinguishable. She made up her mind what she was going to wear even before she opened her closet, and then she wore it. No last-minute looks in the mirror and suddenly deciding that a dress that she had worn and looked wonderful in for three years suddenly was just “not right” for her.

They left the suite at three minutes to five and arrived at the same moment as Sarge at the lounge.

Sarge greeted Chico effusively, hugged her, then demanded a table “pronto.”

When the waiter seated them, Trace and his father ordered beers, and Chico, whose body could not metabolize alcohol, ordered Perrier water. “Make it two rounds right away,” Sarge told the waiter.

“No special Polish brew?” Chico asked Trace.

“No. I’ve given that stuff up. It was making me dumb.”

“Sure,” she said. “And why spend the money on that when plain water would work just as well?”

“If we play our cards right,” Sarge told her, “maybe we can get him liquored up, and you and I can go off cavorting.”

“I’m ready anytime,” Chico said “Let’s play kneesies.”

“Good idea,” Sarge said. “You know I’m a big private detective now. I carry a gun and everything. You can be my moll.”