Fadeout: A Dave Brandstetter Mystery

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JD 80 Three hours later, at San Fernando, he caught up with the rain again. It hissed under the tires as he curved along the freeway into Hollywood. He hadn't eaten and he needed to. He had lost too much weight. Traffic on Sunset was heavy and slow. When he reached Romano's it was late. There were only a couple of cars left in the parking lot. Reflecting neon signs, the puddles he stepped through were like paintings drowning in ink. The familiar stained-glass windows smiled welcome. He pushed into steamy warmth, good smells of cheese and garlic. Fat Max was there to take his coat. Big smile full of gold fillings. "Mr. Brandstetter. You're a stranger. Where you been? Where's Mr. Fleming?" "Dead, Max. Cancer." And when the old Italian's good-natured face crumpled with shock and pity, Dave turned fast for the bar. "Make it lasagne with sausages tonight. Garlic toast. Big salad. Vino. Give me twenty minutes." "I'm-a so sorry about Mr. Fleming. We'll miss him." "Thanks." The bar, dark woods and leathers, stainedglass lanterns, was not big but it was nearly empty. Rain could do that to business in L.A. There was only one other customer. A woman. He noticed her without looking at her. The bartender he didn't know. That was good. He wouldn't have to say it again, about Rod. It wasn't martini weather but that was what he ordered, hoping it would make him hungry. He started a cigarette and went to work on the drink. Then the woman slid onto the stool next to his. This could happen at Romano's? Still, he'd never sat here alone before. Rod had always been with him. He picked up the martini and had one foot on the floor when he smelled her perfume and knew who she was. The scent was Russia Leather, had been for twenty years. The woman was Madge Dunstan, had been for forty-five years. Old friend. She had introduced him and Rod to Romano's in 1948. He turned back. "Madge," he said. Her smile was gently reproachful. "I've been worried about you. I phoned every day as I said I would." At the funeral she'd told him she didn't expect him to answer. She'd rung the bell to let him know she was there and caring. "Then I thought I'd better look at you in the flesh and I drove to your house and your car was gone and I started worrying." "I should have told you. That was rude as hell. I went back to work." A cigarette hung in the comer of her wide humorous mouth. He lit it for her. "A policyholder disappeared up in San Joaquin Valley. I'm only down here now to follow up a lead." 81 Freckled and bony, her hand squeezed his. "I'm glad you're all right." "I'm not all right," he said. "I'm working at it but I'm a long way from it." "You're terribly thin," she said. "I'm counting on Max to cure that." He drank and looked at her. "What are you doing here so late? And alone. Where's the golden girl?" He didn't remember the girl's name. She was sun-toasted and had smooth boy features and muscular legs and strong white teeth and a loud laugh. But so did most of Madge's girls. He had watched maybe a score of them come and go. She took away her hand and poked at the ashtray with her cigarette. Her mouth tried for a wry smile. "Gone. Not with the wind. With the rain. And I?" She had a husky laugh that often turned to a cough. It did so now. She shook her head ruefully. "I'm sitting here going through the motions of feeling sorry for myself and lonely and forsaken. Repeating a ritual I began too many years ago to count, and perfected through a number of farewell performances . But actors wear out roles. I've worn out this one. I can't do it anymore. The sketch wasn't hard when I understood it was fifty percent fake. When I was young enough to know at the back of my mind there'd be another girl soon and, if that one...