Fadeout: A Dave Brandstetter Mystery

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J3 He hung up the wet coat on the dark service porch, mopped up the rain puddle with a big pink cellulose sponge, then made himself a drink, lit a cigarette and stood telling himself he had to eat. He didn't feel like driving to Romano's. Too far in the drizzle. He opened the big copper-toned refrigerator. The white emptiness inside was dazzling . He looked into cupboards. A dusty can of artichoke hearts. He'd shut himself up here too long with his grief. Nothing left to eat. He closed the cupboard. Behind him a voice said, "There's a place that barbecues chickens on Melrose. You want me to go?" The only light burning in the kitchen was a dim fluorescent tube over a built-in range deck. An edge of the brick chimney kept it from touching whoever it was who had parted the shutter doors from the dining space. But it was a very young voice. With a trace of Mexican. He knew it. 107 "Anselmo?" he said. The boy stepped grinning into the light. Mop of black hair. Face round, brown, smooth as an Aztec pot. Five feet six. Hip-hugger pants of cream corduroy, printed with tiny pink and blue flowers. Fringed yellow calfskin boots to the knees. Puff-sleeved paisley shirt open damn near to the navel. Singlegold crescent earring. Loops of beads. A strong and dusky smell of incense. "I got my Yamaha outside." "Your Yamaha will rust," Dave said. "What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?" "Madge Dunstan was in the shop today. She told my mom you were making the scene again. I wanted to see you. I been wanting to ever since . . . a long time. I tried to call you at your officebut the line was always busy. They said leave a number but I didn't have no number to leave. I was allover. I have this gig, delivering stuff. Then I thought I'll just come here and wait for you. Rod gave me a key one time, you know, to get something for him for the shop--" "And you forgot to give it back?" Dark lashes lowered, head lowered, voice lowered. "I didn't exactly forget." "No? Look, what's this all about, Anselmo? I'm kind of tired tonight." He was. It had been a long, discouraging day. He felt old. Yet now, inside him, something young and very alert got to its feet. He knew why, and was surprised and not pleased. "Some other time?" "Aw ... " The black eyes begged. "You got to eat. You're hungry. I'm hungry. I been waiting here a long time. If I get the chicken, we can talk while we eat." 108 Dave sighed. It was a mistake and he knew it was a mistake but he took bills from his wallet and laid them in the small, brown, not very clean hand. "You win. Get french fries too, and anything else you think might taste good." "Si. Okay. Ten minutes, I'll be back." The boots went away soft and quick. The front door closed. Outside, the motorbike spluttered into life and snarled off. Then there was only the whisper of the rain. For a moment Dave frowned at the place where the boy had stood. Then he finished his drink in a long swallow, set the glassdown, and began assembling the coffeemaker. . . . Anselmo's mother had worked for Rod for a long time. A scrawny little woman with a bad temper, who refused to speak English, she could do anything with a power sewing machine. Fast and right. Sometime she'd had a husband. And six kids. All were gone now except Anselmo, a late arrival, his mother old enough to be his grandmother. She brought him with her to the shop, where he would spend the day dressing himself up in scraps of bright cloth. He'd been four, five, six then. Big-eyed, solemn. His mother had rattled Spanish abuse at him when he got underfoot. Rod had ignored him. It wasn't that Rod disliked children. He never saw them. They didn't exist. In those days, ten, twelve years ago, Dave had enjoyed dropping in at the shop. It was a fine place to be. Rod's ideas had begun to catch on. There was excitement, happiness , promise in the air. There...