Fadeout: A Dave Brandstetter Mystery

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1 52 He even slept. Knocking woke him. He still sat propped against thin pillows and a hard headboard . His neck and shoulders ached. Th'e scripts had slid off his knees. Now, when he straightened his stiff legs under the thin, machine-made Indian -style blankets, the scripts slithered to the floor. The lamp glowed sickly in the daylight. Wincing, he switched it off. In the glass that wasn't glass the dregs of whiskey lurked like a neglected friendship. He made a sound, cleared his throat, tried again. "Who is it?" "Coffee, Mr. Brandstetter." "Good." He wanted that. He flapped into the bathrobe. Under his feet the floor felt clammy. He opened the door. Beyond the heavy white arches the rain-drenched leafage of the patio garden sparkled in sunlight. He squinted. Between him and the dazzle, a young Japanese smiled and held out a black tray painted with Mexican flowers and birds. On the tray steamed a painted pottery jug. There was a cup to match, a spoon, packets of sugar and powdered cream. Dave didn't take the tray. He said, "Your name's Ito, isn't it?" "Yes, sir." Dave jerked his head. "Come in. I want to talk to you." The boy came in and put the tray down on a coffee table that had patterned tiles set into its top. Dave shut the door. "You worked for Fox Olson once, right?" Dave's portable typewriter stood in its case on the floor by the coffee table. The boy looked at it, then at him. "Are you a reporter?" he asked. "I can't tell you much. I only worked for him one day." "I'm an insurance investigator." Dave picked up the crumpled cigarette pack from the bedside stand. He held it out. The boy shook his head. Dave set a cigarette in his own mouth. "Last Christmas, was it?" "That's right." The boy took a matchbook from his white jacket and lit the cigarette. Quick and graceful. "Mrs. Olson hired me. As a surprise for him." "Thanks." Dave bent and poured coffee from the jug. It smelled great. "Was he surprised?" "Very." The boy grinned. He had beautiful teeth. "He almost fell down." "But he wasn't pleased? Look, if you get another cup ... " "It's okay," Ito said. "I've already had enough coffee to surf in." He had no Japanese accent. Strictly California. He blinked thoughtfully. "He seemed pleased. Mrs. Olson told me he was. That was Christmas Day." He raised his 53 shoulders, held his hands out palms up. "Next morningbop ! You're fired." "No reasons given?" Dave sat down on the edge of the bed, blew at the coffee, sipped it. "No reasons." Ito smiled. "Just a very fat check. Not two weeks' wages. Two months'. Mrs. Olson said she was very sorry, she'd made a mistake. She'd thought Mr. Olson would want me working for him. He didn't." "Whose check? His?" The ashtray was full of butts. When he tapped ashes into it, Ito took it and emptied it into the frayed Indian basket by the dresser. "Hers," he said, putting the ashtray back. "She handled the money. I heard somebody talking about that, Christmas Day." "What else happened that day?" The boy shrugged. "They had a lot of people in. It was a beautiful day. Clear and sunny like this. Only dry and warm. I was really happy. I mean, it's a nice house, beautiful surroundings. The kitchen was perfect. That's what bugged me worst. I never got a chance to cook a real meal there." "You like to cook?" Dave asked. "You don't cook here." "No. But it's a good job. I'm saving my chips. When I get enough I'll open my own restaurant." "The Olsons paid you well?" "Better than any job I ever had. And I liked them. Especially him. He was somebody else, man. Always, like, 'If it's convenient' and 'Don't go to any extra trouble' and 'When you have time' and 'Aren't you getting tired? Would you like a break? I can look after things.... ' Always jumping 54 up to help me whenever I came in sight with a tray. They were mostly out in the garden and around the pool. Even if he was singing or something, he'd take time to ask me if...