Double

The apartment building was two-tiered, with iron balconies over which a number of beach towels were draped. I went up a concrete stairway at one end and along the top floor, avoiding a tricycle, a surf board, and an assortment of sand toys, to the apartment number that had been noted in Elaine’s book. Already I’d begun to doubt that Rich James was the man Wolf had seen with my friend in the Cantina Sin Nombre. This place had a seedy air that didn’t match the sharp dresser he’d described.

The door to the apartment stood open, and from inside I could hear the dull beat of rock music. I pounded on the doorframe and a few seconds later, a young man with a fluffy blond beard appeared. He wore cutoff jeans and had a dishtowel tucked into his belt.

“I’m looking for Rich James,” I said.

“Sure. Hi. That’s me.”

Disappointed, I said, “I’m Sharon McCone, a friend of Elaine Picard’s—”

“Oh, yeah, Elaine. Look, can you come in?” Without waiting for my answer he turned and disappeared into the gloom beyond the door.

I followed him into a sparsely furnished living room. The drapes were pulled against the sunset’s glare and two little boys, around six or seven, sat on a lumpy rattan couch watching a TV program whose sound competed with the stereo. Newspapers were scattered on the threadbare carpeting, and pop and beer cans sat on every available surface. When the little boys saw me, they stared for a moment, then exchanged a solemn, knowing look. One of them said, “Daddy, we’re hungry.”

“Supper’s coming up any minute now. It’s just got to heat.” To me, he added, “Come on out to the kitchen. I’m cooking. Weekend father, you know.”

I followed him into the kitchen, a tiny, airless room at the rear of the apartment, on the side that faced the street. He picked up a can and dumped its contents into a pot on the stove. “Franco-American spaghetti,” he said, holding up the can. “It’s not much, but I never learned to cook. Mama didn’t tell me it would be like this.”

I glanced around, noting the dirty dishes and the trash that overflowed the wastebasket. A pizza box sat on the counter, full of gnawed crusts. Mama hadn’t taught him to clean up, either. Mentally I shuddered, thinking of my brother John. Would it be like this when he got his own place and took the kids on weekends? What if, by some strange quirk, he managed to get permanent custody of them? Would they live like this all the time?

“So you’re a friend of Elaine’s?” Rich James asked, extending a beer can toward me.

“Yes.” I took the can, eyeing it suspiciously and wishing there were a polite way of wiping off its top before drinking from it.

“What’s wrong this time — the water heater?”

“Huh?”

“Well, the last time she called, it was on the fritz. I replaced the pressure valve, but you never know with these cheapo things they’re installing these days.”

I frowned, beginning to understand.

“She did send you about something for me to fix around the house, didn’t she? I told her I’d had the phone taken out.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’m a compulsive caller, especially when I’ve had a few. And everybody I want to call seems to be long-distance. So I had the thing disconnected.”

“You’re Elaine’s handyman,” I said.

“Yeah.” Now it was his turn to frown. “Who’d you think I was?”

“I take it you haven’t seen the news.”

“Nope. The kids like to watch reruns of Cannon and Quincy on Saturday. That station doesn’t have news until seven. What about it?”

“Elaine’s dead. She fell from one of the towers at the Casa del Rey this morning.”

His face went slack with surprise. “Jesus, that’s terrible!”

“Yes, it is. I’m locating her friends, trying to find one in particular, named Rich. Your name was in her address book.”

“Friends? I wouldn’t say we were exactly that. I’m a buddy of her nephew Jim’s. We lived in the same apartment complex over in Lemon Grove, until the wife booted me out. When I moved over here, Jim suggested maybe Elaine could use someone to help around her new house. And she sure could — water heater, electrical, plumbing, you name it — everything went wrong. That lady sure knew how to pick them.”

“I guess you spent a lot of time over there, then. Did you ever meet any of her friends?”

He shook his head. “Elaine didn’t seem to have many. Oh, there was this blonde fox that came around sometimes, Karyn somebody-or-other. But no men, if that’s what you mean.”

“I see. Was Elaine close to your friend Jim?”

“Not really. I mean, he liked her and all, but he thought she was strange, the way she kept to herself. I doubt if he knew her any better than I did.”

“And you don’t know anyone else named Rich whom she might have been close to?”

“Sorry, I don’t—” There was a bubbling noise on the stove, and the spaghetti boiled over. “Damn!” Rich snatched the dishtowel from his belt and began mopping at the orange-colored mess.

“I’d better be going,” I said, setting my unopened beer on the counter. “It looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”