Read Online Obit Delayed by Helen Nielsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen Nielsen
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a form attired in a long tailed blouse and a jaunty beret. “Portrait of the lady, señor? In a few moments I can capture her beauty forever.”
Such a pitch deserved consideration. And even if it hadn’t, there wasn’t much to be done when the young man pulled up an extra chair, set up his sketch pad on the table, and began measuring Norma’s face with an outthrust crayon.
“How can you capture anybody’s beauty in the dark?” Mitch demanded, and the wide grin returned.
“A beautiful lady, señor, gives off a radiance of her own. However, if you’re not using this—” A flick of the lamp shade brought Norma’s face out of the shadows. The light was kind. It brought out her eyes and softened her mouth until those tight little worry lines didn’t show at all. She started to protest, but the young man’s fingers were already flying over the sketch pad and it was just the kind of diversion needed to shake the ghost of a bad day. When a whispering tenor with a background of guitars took over on the bandstand even Mitch began to feel mellow.
But this woman was Frank Wales’s wife. That didn’t make any more sense than the pair of mismates in that 1936 wedding picture, because Frank hadn’t found a gold mine and operating a motor court was no life of leisure. Mitch could picture Norma in plaid shirt and Levi’s, with her days full of laundry lists and a night life consisting solely of late tourists who couldn’t read the “No Vacancy” sign, and the thought made him melancholy. But it was security, a thing women prize highly. It
was
security—but not since Virginia lost her trophy in the finals.
“How about a portrait of the gentleman for the lady?”
The sketch artist worked too fast. Mitch was just getting interested in his reverie when the boy fired the question. He was already scratching a hen-track signature in the lower corner of the finished sheet.
“The lady doesn’t want a portrait of the gentleman,” Mitch growled.
“You haven’t asked her, señor.”
“I know without asking. And you can drop that ‘señor’ business, Joe. Ruiz, isn’t it? Valley City High, class of ‘51.”
The grin came back wider than ever. “Not so loud,” the boy cautioned, “you’ll ruin my business. I couldn’t get four bits for a sketch in Valley City.” Then he sobered and squinted at Mitch from across the shadowed table. “Now I know you,” he said. “You run that newspaper in Valley City that didn’t need a cartoonist last year.”
“That’s right. What do I owe you?”
“You don’t need a cartoonist again this year, I suppose?”
“Right again.”
“In that case—two dollars.”
Mitch was reaching for his billfold when he caught hold of an idea. Ruiz hadn’t just wandered into the club. He must work the place regularly like the camera girls up north, and know the more colorful patrons by sight. “How would you like to try for five?” he suggested. “Do you know Dave Singer?”
“I’ve seen him a few times,” Ruiz admitted.
“Recently?”
Ruiz was gathering up his equipment, but the bill in Mitch’s hand seemed to fascinate him. “What is all this about Singer?” he puzzled. “I haven’t seen him for weeks, but there’s a tanked-up blonde at the bar asking the same questions. You two should get together.”
The suggestion alone was worth the five dollars.
It had to be Rita. Rita had a weakness for both Dave Singer and liquor, and couldn’t seem to hold either one. She was putting up a losing battle with some horrible concoction in a frosted beaker when Mitch appropriated the next stool and invaded her solitude. “Mind if I buy the next round?” he suggested.
The words were all right, but she seemed to resent the company. “Get lost!” she said.
“Like Dave?” Mitch queried.
“What makes you think Dave’s lost?”
“He must be. You’re looking for him and I’m looking for him. Either he’s lost or we are.”
Mitch wasn’t really prepared for the
Such a pitch deserved consideration. And even if it hadn’t, there wasn’t much to be done when the young man pulled up an extra chair, set up his sketch pad on the table, and began measuring Norma’s face with an outthrust crayon.
“How can you capture anybody’s beauty in the dark?” Mitch demanded, and the wide grin returned.
“A beautiful lady, señor, gives off a radiance of her own. However, if you’re not using this—” A flick of the lamp shade brought Norma’s face out of the shadows. The light was kind. It brought out her eyes and softened her mouth until those tight little worry lines didn’t show at all. She started to protest, but the young man’s fingers were already flying over the sketch pad and it was just the kind of diversion needed to shake the ghost of a bad day. When a whispering tenor with a background of guitars took over on the bandstand even Mitch began to feel mellow.
But this woman was Frank Wales’s wife. That didn’t make any more sense than the pair of mismates in that 1936 wedding picture, because Frank hadn’t found a gold mine and operating a motor court was no life of leisure. Mitch could picture Norma in plaid shirt and Levi’s, with her days full of laundry lists and a night life consisting solely of late tourists who couldn’t read the “No Vacancy” sign, and the thought made him melancholy. But it was security, a thing women prize highly. It
was
security—but not since Virginia lost her trophy in the finals.
“How about a portrait of the gentleman for the lady?”
The sketch artist worked too fast. Mitch was just getting interested in his reverie when the boy fired the question. He was already scratching a hen-track signature in the lower corner of the finished sheet.
“The lady doesn’t want a portrait of the gentleman,” Mitch growled.
“You haven’t asked her, señor.”
“I know without asking. And you can drop that ‘señor’ business, Joe. Ruiz, isn’t it? Valley City High, class of ‘51.”
The grin came back wider than ever. “Not so loud,” the boy cautioned, “you’ll ruin my business. I couldn’t get four bits for a sketch in Valley City.” Then he sobered and squinted at Mitch from across the shadowed table. “Now I know you,” he said. “You run that newspaper in Valley City that didn’t need a cartoonist last year.”
“That’s right. What do I owe you?”
“You don’t need a cartoonist again this year, I suppose?”
“Right again.”
“In that case—two dollars.”
Mitch was reaching for his billfold when he caught hold of an idea. Ruiz hadn’t just wandered into the club. He must work the place regularly like the camera girls up north, and know the more colorful patrons by sight. “How would you like to try for five?” he suggested. “Do you know Dave Singer?”
“I’ve seen him a few times,” Ruiz admitted.
“Recently?”
Ruiz was gathering up his equipment, but the bill in Mitch’s hand seemed to fascinate him. “What is all this about Singer?” he puzzled. “I haven’t seen him for weeks, but there’s a tanked-up blonde at the bar asking the same questions. You two should get together.”
The suggestion alone was worth the five dollars.
It had to be Rita. Rita had a weakness for both Dave Singer and liquor, and couldn’t seem to hold either one. She was putting up a losing battle with some horrible concoction in a frosted beaker when Mitch appropriated the next stool and invaded her solitude. “Mind if I buy the next round?” he suggested.
The words were all right, but she seemed to resent the company. “Get lost!” she said.
“Like Dave?” Mitch queried.
“What makes you think Dave’s lost?”
“He must be. You’re looking for him and I’m looking for him. Either he’s lost or we are.”
Mitch wasn’t really prepared for the
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