Sue Grafton - I is for Innocent

"That's right. I forgot. Well, that should be an adventure. How long will he stay?"

"I agreed to two weeks, longer if I can stand him. It'll be a pain in the ass. Physically, he's recovered, but he's been depressed for months. Really down in the dumps. Lewis says he's totally self-obsessed. I'm sure Lewis is sending him out here to get even with me."

"What did you do to him?"

"Oh, who knows? He won't say. You know how parental Lewis gets. He likes to have me think about my sins in case there's one I haven't told him about. I stole a girl from him once back in 1926. I think this is to retaliate for her, but maybe not. He's got a long memory and not a shred of beneficence." Henry's brother Lewis was eighty-six. His brother Charlie was ninety-one, and his only sister would be ninety-four on the thirty-first of December. "Actually, I'll bet it wasn't his idea at all. Nell's probably throwing William out. She never liked him that much and now she says all he does is talk about death. She doesn't want to hear it with a birthday coming up. Says it's bumming her out."

"What time's his plane get in?"

"Eight-fifteen, if it doesn't crash, of course. I thought I'd bring him back here for salad and lasagna, maybe go up to Rosie's for a beer after that. You want to join us for supper? I made a cherry pie for dessert. Well, actually, I made six. The other five go to Rosie to pay off my bar tab." Rosie's is the local tavern, run by a Hungarian woman with an unpronounceable last name. Since Henry's retirement from commercial baking, he's begun to barter his wares. He also caters tea parties in the neighborhood, where he's much in demand.

"Can't do it," I said. "I've got an appointment at seven and it may run late. I thought I'd grab a quick bite up at Rosie's before I head out."

"Maybe you can catch us tomorrow. I don't know how we'll spend the day. Depressed people never do much. I'll probably sit around and watch him take his Elavil."

The building that houses Rosie's looks as if it might once have been a grocer's. The exterior is plain and narrow, the plate-glass windows obscured by peeling beer ads and buzzing neon signs. The tavern is sandwiched between an appliance repair shop and an ill-lighted Laundromat whose patrons wander into Rosie's to wait out their washing cycles, chugging beer and smoking cigarettes. The floors are wooden. The walls are plywood, stained a dark mahogany. The booths that line the perimeter are crudely built, destined to give you splinters if you slide too fast across the seat. There are eight to ten tables with black Formica tops, usually one leg out of four slightly shorter than the rest. Mealtime at Rosie's is often spent trying to right the wobble, with the endless intervention of stacked paper matchbooks and folded napkins. The lighting is the sort that makes you look like you've been abusing your Tan-in-a-Bottle.

Dinner was uneventful once I knuckled under and ordered what Rosie told me. She's a formidable presence: in her sixties, Hungarian, short, top-heavy, a merciless enforcer for the food Mafia. The special that night was called gulyashus , which had to translate to "beef stew."

"I was thinking of a salad. I need to clean up my act after too much junk food."

"Salad is for after. The gulyashus comes first. I make very authentic. You're gonna love it," she said. She was already penciling the order in the little notebook she'd begun to carry. I wondered if she kept a running account of all the meals I'd eaten there. I tried to peek at the page once and she rapped me with her pencil.

"Rosie, I don't even know what gulyashus is."

"Just hush and I'm telling you."

"Tell me then. I can't wait."

She had to get herself all settled for the recital, like a concert violinist with her feet placed properly. She makes a point of speaking lumpy English which she apparently thinks contributes to her authority. "In Hungarian, the word gulyas means 'herdsman.' Like a shepherd. This dish originate in ninth century. His very good. The shepherd cook up these cubes of meat with onion, very little moisture. No paprika then so I don't use myself. When all the liquid is boil out, the meat is dried in the sun and then stored in this bag made of the sheep's… how you say…"

"Balls?"

"Estomach"

"Previously digested. Very tasty. I'll take it. I don't want to hear the rest."

"Good choice," she said complacently.

The dish she brought was actually what my aunt used to call "galoshes," cubes of beef simmered with onion and thickened with sour cream. It really was wonderful and the tart salad afterward was the perfect contrast. Rosie allowed me to have a glass of mediocre red wine, some rolls and butter, and a cheese tray for dessert. The dinner cost only nine dollars so I couldn't complain. Dimly I wondered if, for total obedience, I'd sold out too cheap.

While I drank my coffee, she stood by my table and complained. Her busboy, Miguel, a sullen lad of forty-five, was threatening to quit if she didn't give him a raise. "Is ridiculous. Why should he get more? Just because he learned to wash a dish like I teach him? He should pay me."

"Rosie!" I said. "The man started washing dishes when Ralph quit six months ago. Now he's doing two jobs and he ought to be paid. Besides, it's nearly Christmas."

"Is easy work," she remarked, undismayed by the notions of fair play, justice, or seasonal generosity.

"It's been two years since his last raise. He told me that himself."

"You taking his side, I see."

"Well, of course I am. He's been a good employee. Without him, you'd be lost."

Her look was stubborn. "I don't like men who pout."

The Adult Education facility where Rhe Parsons was teaching was located on Bay Street, on the far side of the freeway about two blocks from St. Terry's Hospital. Once an elementary school, the complex consisted of some offices, a small auditorium, and countless portable classrooms. Room ten was at the rear of the parking lot, an oversize art studio with a door on either end. Light poured out onto the walkway. I have a natural aversion to educational institutions, but drawing seemed benign-unlike math or chemistry. I peered in.

The interior was unfurnished except for easels and a few straight-backed wooden chairs. In the center of the room there was a low platform where a woman in a bathrobe, presumably the model, was perched on a tall wooden stool, reading a magazine. Students milled about, their ages ranging from late thirties into the seventies. In Santa Teresa, most adult education courses are offered free of charge. In a lab class like this there might be a two-dollar fee for materials, but most enrollment is open and costs the students nothing. I stood in the back of the studio. Behind me, cars were still pulling into the parking lot. It was 6:52 and people were still arriving, chatting as they entered the classroom. I watched as several women dragged additional easels from a small supply room. A coffee urn had been set up and I could see a big pink bakery box, probably filled with cookies to have with coffee during the break. A tape of Kitaro's Silk Road was playing, the sound low, infiltrating the room with a seductive tone. I could smell oil paint and chalk dust and the first bubbling evidence of strong coffee perking.

I spotted the woman I assumed to be Rhe Parsons emerging from a small supply closet with a roll of newsprint and a box of pencils; jeans, a denim work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pack of cigarettes visible in her left breast pocket. No makeup, no bra. She wore heavy leather sandals and a hand-tooled leather belt. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a French braid that extended halfway down her back. I placed her in her late thirties and wondered if she'd been at Woodstock once upon a time. I'd seen clips of the concert and I could picture her cavorting barefoot through the mud, stark naked, with a joint, her hair down to her waist and daisies painted on her cheek. Growing up had made her crabby, which happens to the best of us. She set the pencils on the counter and carried the newsprint to a big worktable where she began to cut off uniform sheets, using an industrial-size paper cutter. Several students without sketch pads formed a ragged line, waiting for her to finish. She must have sensed my scrutiny. She looked up, catching sight of me, and then went on about her business. I crossed the room and introduced myself. She couldn't have been more pleasant. Perhaps, like many habitually cranky people, her irritation passed in the moment, to be replaced by something sunnier.