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Authors: Gay Hendricks and Tinker Lindsay
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the hood.
Charlotte had hated that color.
“How about I give you a ride in it sometime?” I said. “You could even drive it if you like.”
I regretted the words the moment they slipped out.
“Deal,” Julie said. “How about I reciprocate by cooking you dinner?”
“Uh, deal,” I said.
“I’m here at least through the weekend,” she said.
We stood there a little awkwardly.
“It’s just a dinner, Ten,” Julie said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let Martha order the wedding invitations quite yet.”
She walked away, laughing quietly.
C HAPTER 8
Ding!
I jarred awake, heart pounding. Something had invaded my dreams. An alien sound. Was it from outside?
My phone dinged a second time from the bedside table. I groaned. A text message, at one in the morning. Mike, being Mike. Why couldn’t he keep daylight hours like the rest of us humans?
I rolled over and closed my eyes. Gently invited my breath to deepen and slow down, my hammering heart to return to …
Who am I trying to kid?
Rather than spend the next hour doing battle with my curiosity, I sat up, turned on the light, and grabbed my cell phone. I squinted at the glowing screen.
The first text read, ZB’S #, followed by a 503 number, which I assumed was Oregon. XPECTING YR CALL .
I moved to the second message.
NOW .
I glanced at the clock. Now? Really? I pictured Mike snickering, his goateed features rendered ghoulish by multiple light-emitting diodes emanating from all the electrical apparatuses in his office-cave. He loves to yank my chain.
Ding!
R EALLY , I read.
Apparently retired musicians and computer wonks keep similar hours. (Also reluctant lamas on long retreats, but that’s another story.)
I used my landline. Cell reception can be sketchy at best up in my canyon. Sure enough, one ring later, I heard Zimmy Backus’s distinctive drawl, graveled by long nights of nicotine and howling into mikes.
“Tenzing Norbu, as I live and breathe. Your man said you were looking for me. What’s the word?” He sounded the same—hoarse, but openhearted. I remembered how much I liked him.
“Good to hear your voice, Zimmy. You doing okay up there?”
“More than okay, my friend. Jilly and I, we have a baby now. Named him Burroughs, after the Beat writer, may his subversive soul rest in peace. My life today? It’s better than my wildest dope-induced dreams. I should be long dead. Instead, I got me a wife, a kid, a dog—the whole enchilada.”
“Plus a pear farm, right?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t actually grow those suckers myself. I just own the land they’re on. Somebody else does the growing. I do think good thoughts about them a lot, though.”
“That counts.”
We both chuckled. If we lived closer, we’d probably be friends.
A shadow passed over my heart.
“Did Mike tell you why I wanted to talk to you?”
“Nope. Just that you did. What’s up?”
I explained that I was no longer with the LAPD, that as of this week I was a private detective.
“Cool,” Zimmy said. “How’s that working out for you, then?” If he was impatient for me to get to my reason for calling, he didn’t show it.
The truth is, I was stalling.
I took a deep breath.
“Zimmy, you had a visitor here a few days ago. She didn’t know you’d moved. Barbara Maxey.”
Zimmy barked with laughter.
“Barb? I don’t believe it. I was just thinking about her the other day, swear to God. I’ve been trying to track her down. I owe her an apology, you know, amends. Barbara Maxey. Talk about a flash from the past. How the hell is she? How can I reach her?”
This was getting harder, not easier.
“You can’t … She’s not … I’m so sorry, Zimmy. She’s dead.”
The silence was heavy and dark. Then I heard soft sobs. I waited. Said nothing as he tried to pull himself together.
“What happened? Did she OD?”
I guess that’s the first place fellow addicts go, recovering or not.
“No. At least I don’t think so,” I said.
For the third
Charlotte had hated that color.
“How about I give you a ride in it sometime?” I said. “You could even drive it if you like.”
I regretted the words the moment they slipped out.
“Deal,” Julie said. “How about I reciprocate by cooking you dinner?”
“Uh, deal,” I said.
“I’m here at least through the weekend,” she said.
We stood there a little awkwardly.
“It’s just a dinner, Ten,” Julie said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let Martha order the wedding invitations quite yet.”
She walked away, laughing quietly.
C HAPTER 8
Ding!
I jarred awake, heart pounding. Something had invaded my dreams. An alien sound. Was it from outside?
My phone dinged a second time from the bedside table. I groaned. A text message, at one in the morning. Mike, being Mike. Why couldn’t he keep daylight hours like the rest of us humans?
I rolled over and closed my eyes. Gently invited my breath to deepen and slow down, my hammering heart to return to …
Who am I trying to kid?
Rather than spend the next hour doing battle with my curiosity, I sat up, turned on the light, and grabbed my cell phone. I squinted at the glowing screen.
The first text read, ZB’S #, followed by a 503 number, which I assumed was Oregon. XPECTING YR CALL .
I moved to the second message.
NOW .
I glanced at the clock. Now? Really? I pictured Mike snickering, his goateed features rendered ghoulish by multiple light-emitting diodes emanating from all the electrical apparatuses in his office-cave. He loves to yank my chain.
Ding!
R EALLY , I read.
Apparently retired musicians and computer wonks keep similar hours. (Also reluctant lamas on long retreats, but that’s another story.)
I used my landline. Cell reception can be sketchy at best up in my canyon. Sure enough, one ring later, I heard Zimmy Backus’s distinctive drawl, graveled by long nights of nicotine and howling into mikes.
“Tenzing Norbu, as I live and breathe. Your man said you were looking for me. What’s the word?” He sounded the same—hoarse, but openhearted. I remembered how much I liked him.
“Good to hear your voice, Zimmy. You doing okay up there?”
“More than okay, my friend. Jilly and I, we have a baby now. Named him Burroughs, after the Beat writer, may his subversive soul rest in peace. My life today? It’s better than my wildest dope-induced dreams. I should be long dead. Instead, I got me a wife, a kid, a dog—the whole enchilada.”
“Plus a pear farm, right?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t actually grow those suckers myself. I just own the land they’re on. Somebody else does the growing. I do think good thoughts about them a lot, though.”
“That counts.”
We both chuckled. If we lived closer, we’d probably be friends.
A shadow passed over my heart.
“Did Mike tell you why I wanted to talk to you?”
“Nope. Just that you did. What’s up?”
I explained that I was no longer with the LAPD, that as of this week I was a private detective.
“Cool,” Zimmy said. “How’s that working out for you, then?” If he was impatient for me to get to my reason for calling, he didn’t show it.
The truth is, I was stalling.
I took a deep breath.
“Zimmy, you had a visitor here a few days ago. She didn’t know you’d moved. Barbara Maxey.”
Zimmy barked with laughter.
“Barb? I don’t believe it. I was just thinking about her the other day, swear to God. I’ve been trying to track her down. I owe her an apology, you know, amends. Barbara Maxey. Talk about a flash from the past. How the hell is she? How can I reach her?”
This was getting harder, not easier.
“You can’t … She’s not … I’m so sorry, Zimmy. She’s dead.”
The silence was heavy and dark. Then I heard soft sobs. I waited. Said nothing as he tried to pull himself together.
“What happened? Did she OD?”
I guess that’s the first place fellow addicts go, recovering or not.
“No. At least I don’t think so,” I said.
For the third
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