Clandestine

He smiled broadly, and his features relaxed into infectious warmth. "Well, Mr. Walker," Doc Harris said, "Marcella had a knack for attracting lonely people and making them ridiculous promises that she had no intention of keeping. Be frank with me, please, Mr. Walker. What have you discovered about my ex-wife so far?"

"To be candid, Mr. Harris, that she was promiscuous and an alcoholic."

"No man has to lie when he talks to me," Harris declared. "I give and expect complete candor. So how can I assist you?"

I leaned back and folded my arms. It was an intimidation gesture, and it didn't work. "Mr. Harris—" I started.

"Call me Doc."

"All right, Doc. I need names, names, and more names. All the friends and acquaintances you can recall."

Harris shook his head. "Mr. Walker—"

"Call me Fred."

"Fred, Marcella picked up her lovers and her entourage of friends, if you can call them that, in bars. Bars were the sole focus of her social life. Period. Although you might try the people at Packard-Bell, where she worked."

"I have. They were evasive."

Harris smiled bitterly. "For good reason, Fred. They didn't want to speak badly of the dead. Marcella hit bars all over L.A. She didn't want to become familiar in any one place. She had a tremendous fear of winding up as a slatternly bar regular, so she moved around a lot. She had, I think, several arrests for drunk driving. What's the name of this phony claimant?"

"Alma Jacobsen."

"Well, Fred, let me tell you what I think happened: Marcella met this woman at some gin mill, drunk. She bowled her over with her personality and her nurse's uniform, and showed the woman, who was probably also half-gassed, some official-looking papers. Marcella then told the woman how desperately alone she was, and how she needed someone to carry on her anti-vivisectionist work in ease of her death. Marcella was a big animal lover. Marcella, in her alcoholic effusion, then probably made a big show of getting the woman's name and address and made a big show of signing the papers. Marcella was a superb actress, and the woman undoubtedly went for it. When Marcella's death made the papers, Alma thought she had herself a gravy train. Sound plausible, Fred?"

"Completely, Doc. Lonely people will do strange things."

Harris laughed. "Indeed they do. What do you usually do, Fred?"

I made my laughter match Harris's perfectly. "I look for women. You?"

"I've been known to," Doc laughed.

I got serious again. "Doc, could I talk to your son about this? I think your theory is valid, but I want to touch all bases in the report I file. Maybe your son can tell me something that will disprove this Jacobsen woman conclusively. I'll be gentle with him."

Doc Harris considered my request. "All right, Fred. I think Michael is up at the park with the dog. Why don't we walk up there and talk to him? It's only two blocks from here."

It was three, and it wasn't much of a park; it was just a vacant lot overgrown with weeds. Doc Harris and I talked easily as we trod through knee-high grass looking for his son and his son's dog.

When we did find them we almost tripped over them. Michael Harris was lying on his back on a beach towel, his arms outstretched in a crucifixion pose. The beagle puppy I had seen in the yard on Maple Street in El Monte was chewing grass by his side.

"On your feet, Colonel!" Harris bellowed good-naturedly.

Michael Harris got to his feet, unsmiling, brushing the grass from his blue jeans. When he stretched to his full height I was astounded—he was almost as tall as I. The boy looked nervously at his father, then at me. Time froze for a brief instant as I recalled another brown-haired, fiercely bright boy of nine playing in the desolate back lot of an orphanage. It was over twenty years ago, but I had to will myself to return to the present.

". . . And this is Mr. Walker, Colonel," Doc Harris was saying. "He represents an insurance company. They want to give us some money, but there's a crazy old woman who says your mother promised it to her. We can't let that happen, can we, Colonel?"

"No," Michael said softly.

"Good," Harris said. "Michael, will you talk to Mr. Walker?"

"Yes."

I was starting to feel controlled, manipulated. Doc Harris's manner was unnerving. The boy was intimidated, and I was starting to feel that way myself. I had the feeling that Harris sensed I wasn't on the up-and-up. Intellectually, we were evenly matched, but so far his will was the greater, and it angered me. Unless I asserted myself I would only know what Harris wanted me to know.

I clapped Harris hard on the back. "Jesus," I said, "it's hot here! I noticed a drive-in down on Western. Why don't we go get cream sodas? My treat."

"Can we, Dad?" Michael pleaded. "I'm dying of thirst."

Doc didn't lose a second's worth of his considerable aplomb. He clapped me on the back, equally hard. "Let's go, amigos," he replied.