Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“Hey,” said Nyquist, “sounds like he’s got a cold.”

“Naw, he’s just chicken,” said the redhead.

“Vitamin C’ll do something for that. And B-12- crush it up and put it in his chow.”

“Who’s this, Todd?” said the blonde. “A new friend?”

“Friend of the landlord’s.”

“Oh,” said the redhead, smiling. She looked at the blonde, then at me. “Gonna raise Todd’s rent?”

I smiled.

Nyquist said, “One sec, Doc,” and bounded over to the girls. Putting his arms around them, he drew them in, as if for a football huddle. They seemed surprised but were pliant. He muttered to them, smiling all the while. Rubbing the back of the blonde’s neck. Massaging the redhead’s waist. The dog nosed his ankle but he ignored it. The girls looked uncomfortable but Nyquist seemed oblivious to that, too. Finally, they drew away.

Nyquist held on to their wrists for a moment, let go, stretched his grin, patted both their rumps as they ran off. The dog followed, lumbering.

He came back. “Pardon the interlude. Got to keep the wenches in line.”

Aiming for sexual bravado but coming across too strong- almost caricaturist. It reminded me of his interaction with Gina a couple of days ago. Nuances of tension that I hadn’t thought much of at the time.

I could handle a Pepsi, Mrs. R. Or anything else you got that’s cold and sweet.

I’ll get Madeleine to fix you something.

Older woman, young stud? Tennis for hubby, other kind of lessons for the lady of the house?

Hardly original, but people so seldom were when they transgressed.

I said, “Any idea where Mrs. R. might be, Todd?”

“No,” he said, scrunching his face. “It’s really a mystery. I mean, where could she go, being afraid and all that?”

“She ever talk to you about her fears?”

“No, we- not at all. But hanging around someone’s house you just pick stuff up.” He glanced toward the house. “Wanna have a beer or something?”

“No, thanks. Got to be heading back.”

“Bummer,” he said, but he looked relieved. “You look in pretty good shape. What do you do in terms of workout?”

“Bit of running.”

“How much?”

“Six to ten miles a week.”

“Better watch it- running’s ultra high-impact. Four times your weight every stride. Bad for the joints. Bad for the spine, too.”

“I’ve got a cross-country ski machine now.”

“Excellent- the ultimate aerobic. If you alternate that with some muscle-lengthening weight-training, you’ll be doing yourself the ultimate favor.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“No prob. If you’re interested in some one-on-one training, give me a call. I don’t have any cards with me but you can always get me through Mr. and Mrs.- through Mr. R.” Shaking his head. “Shee, that was dumb. Sure hope they find her- she’s a real nice lady.”

I walked back to the Seville and took a few moments to look at the ocean. The windsurfer was out of view but the pelicans had returned and were swooping and retrieving. Seagulls and terns followed in their wake, content with the leavings. A couple of oblong gray cigars were visible floating atop the horizon. Oil tankers making their way up the coast. I wondered what it would be like to live at sea. To be reminded, constantly, of insignificance and infinity.

Before I could take that any further I heard engine noise, then happy shouts that turned into “Hey! Mr. Landlord!”

A white VW Golf with the top down had pulled up next to me. The blonde from the beach was behind the wheel, a cigarette fuming between her fingers. The redhead sat next to her, eating from a box of Fiddle Faddle and holding an open can of Coors. Both girls had put gauzy white shirts over their bathing suits but had left them unbuttoned. Bernie the dog sat in the back seat, panting and lolling and looking motion-sick.

“Hi,” said the redhead. “Neat old car. My dad had one just like it.”

I smiled at the thought of the Seville as an antique. Ten years old. The day I’d bought it, these two had probably been in third grade.

“Do you, like, garage it?” said the blonde.

“Uh-huh.”

“Neat.”

“Thanks.”

“You really with the landlord? ’Cause Traci and me are looking for a place closer to the beach. We’re across PCH, now, down at Las Flores, and the beach there isn’t a keeper- too wet, lots of rocks. We’re willing to work- light au pair, babysitting, whatever, like for a trade? Todd said he’d help but we figure we can talk for ourself.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I do know Todd’s landlord but I’m not in the real-estate business.”

The blonde’s face managed to turn ugly while retaining its beauty. “What a firp! Told you, Mar, it was total bullshit!”

The redhead wrinkled her nose and looked injured.

I said, “What’s the matter?”

“Todd,” said the redhead. “He bullshat us royal.”

“How?”

“Said you were a real-estate stud and if we were nice to him, he’d talk to you about finding us a place here on Broad. We used to live here- au pair ing for Dave Dumas and his wife when they rented last summer, so people think we still live here and don’t hassle us when we come down, but we want to be right here all the time, or at least somewhere dry.”

“Dave Dumas the basketball player?”

“Yeah. Mr. Stretch.” Shared giggles.

“We took care of his kids,” said the blonde. “Really big kids from a really big guy.” She laughed some more, then turned abruptly serious.

“We’d really like to get back here to Broad- the beach is a total keeper and the concerts at the Trancas CafÉ are heating up. Last week Eddie Van Halen showed up to jam.”

“We’re willing to work,” said the redhead. “Todd said he could get us a trade.”

“Fag-wuss!” said the blonde. “Last time we’re nice to him.” She gunned the Golf’s engine. The dog jerked in alarm.

I said, “What exactly did he want from you?”

“He was, like, act like we thought he was hot. Let him touch us in front of you.” Turning to the redhead: “Told you, Mar. I was like, sure, Todd, you might ever be. ”

“Todd’s not hot in real life?”

Giggles all around. The redhead picked a piece of popcorn out of the box and handed it back to the dog.

“He likes it,” she said. “Bernie’s got a sugar thing.”

“Enjoy, Bernie,” I said, walking over and petting the dog. His fur was matted and clogged with salt and dirt. As I rubbed his neck, he whined with pleasure.

“So Todd’s no keeper,” I said.

A wary look came into the blonde’s eyes. Up close her face was hard, ready to age, already starting to leather from too much sun and risk-taking.

“You’re not like a good friend of his or anything?” she said.

“Not at all,” I said. “I do know the people who own the house. But I only met Todd once before.”

“So you’re not, like-” The blonde smiled, gave an arch look, and raised her wrist limply.

“Tra-ace! That’s like so ru-ude!”

“So?” said the blonde. “ He’s the one who does it! He should be embarrassed!”

I said, “Todd’s gay?”

“For sure,” said the redhead.

“A muscle-fag,” said the blonde.

“Wasted buff,” said the redhead. The dog coughed. She said, “Don’t stress out, Bern.”

“That’s why it was rank,” said the blonde. “Using us to make like he’s into girls- I mean, maybe he’s got a buff body but his head’s not buff, that’s for sure.”

“How do you know he’s gay?” I said.

“Well,” said the blonde, laughing and gunning the engine again, “it’s not like we go around watching him do it or anything.”