Whos the woman in the picture? I said.
Jillian.
Jillian who? I said. I still had my official tone.
Jillian Zabriskie, she said with no inflection. I seen the name on a TV show.
She related to you?
Daughter, she said. There was a sound in her voice that I hadnt heard before. It was weak but it might have been pride. I looked around the oneroom shack where Vera Zabriskie lived. She saw me look around. I saw her see me. We stared for a moment at each other, like two actual humans. For a moment a real person lurked inside the mask of alcohol and defeat, and peered out at me through the rheumy blue eyes. For a moment I wasnt a guy pumping her for information.
Youre not close with your daughter, I said.
Vera suddenly heaved herself up out of the rocker. She put the cigarette in her mouth and put the bottle
on the chipped enamel table. She opened the drawer in the table and rummaged with both hands, and came out with another picture.
It was framed in cardboard, like the picture of Jill, only this one was a school picture. Vera handed it to me. It was a picture of a little girl, maybe ten. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and a clear resemblance to Jill Joyce.
Whos this? I said. Granddaughter, she said.
Jillians daughter? I said.
Yuh.
I looked at the picture again. In the indefinable way that pictures speak, this one was telling me it wasnt recent.
How old is she now? I said.
Jillian?
No, your granddaughter.
The burst of humanity had drained her. She was back in the rocker, with her bottle. She shrugged. Her gaze was fixed on the blank picture tube. I slipped the picture out of its holder and put it inside my shirt. Then I folded the cardboard and put it back in the drawer.
You see her much? She shook her head. She live around here?
She shook her head again. She drank a little Southern Comfort from the bottle.
Far away? She nodded. Where?
L.A., Vera said. Her voice was flatter than a tin shingle.
She with her dad? I said. Sincere, interested in Veras family. Youre in good hands with Spenser. Vera shrugged.
Whats her dads name?
Greaser, Vera said clearly.
Odd name, I said.
Told her stay away from that greaser. Took my granddaughter.
What did you say his name was?
Spic name.
Un huh, I said helpfully.
Told her not.
Whats his name? The helpful smile stretched across my face like oil on water. I could feel the tension behind my shoulders as I tried to squeeze blood from this stone.
Victor, she said. Victor del Rio.
And he lives in L.A.
Yuh.
You know where? She shook her head. You ever see your granddaughter?
She shook her head again. She was frowning at the blank television, as if the fact of its gray silence had just begun to penetrate. She leaned forward in the rocker and turned it on. Then, exhausted by the effort of concentration, she leaned back in the rocker and took a long pull of her Southern Comfort. The talk show had given way to a game show; photogenic contestants frantic to win the money, a faintly patronizing host, amused by their greed.
I stood silently beside the seated woman lost in her television and her booze. She was inert in her chair, occasionally dragging on the cigarette, occasionally pulling on the bottle. She seemed to have forgotten I was there. I had other questions, but I couldnt stand to ask them. I couldnt stand being there anymore. I turned and went to the door and stopped and looked back at her. She sat motionless, oblivious, her back to me, her face to the television.
I opened my mouth and couldnt think what to say and closed it, and went out into the putrid weed smell and walked back out Poltons Lane, trying not to breathe deeply.
Chapter 23
FROM the Hyatt in Mission Bay, I called Mindy at the Zenith Meridien production office in Boston.
The trail, I said, leads to L.A., sweetheart.
Are you doing Cary Grant? she said.
You got some smart mouth, sweetheart. No wonder youre not an executive.
Its not a smart mouth that gets a girl ahead in this business, big guy.
Cynicism will age you, I said.
So will you. You want a hotel in L.A.?
Yes, please.
Zenith always puts people up at the Westwood Marquis, Mindy said. Okay with you?
Ill make do, I said.
Okay. Corner Hilgard and LeConte, in Westwood Village.
Ill find it, I said.
Super sleuth, she said, and hung up.
I checked out of the Islandia and headed back up the freeway. Having a production coordinator wasnt bad. Maybe I should employ one. I needed a hotel reservation and airline bookings every two, three years. In between times she could balance my checkbook.
The drive from San Diego to L.A. is not much more interesting than the drive from L.A. to San Diego. While I drove, I thought about what I was doing. As usual I was blundering around and seeing what I could kick up. So far Id kicked up a child and another significant other in Jill Joyces life.
So what?
So I hadnt known that before.
So hows it help?
How the hell do I know?
The Westwood Marquis had flower gardens and two swimming pools and a muted lobby and served tea in the afternoon. All the rooms were suites. Zenith Meridien must be doing okay.