Double

I remembered how reticent about her private life Elaine had always been. A number of the other security guards at Huston’s had speculated that she existed only for her work, but I had never bought that theory. She was too good-looking and vital not to have attracted someone equally dynamic and successful. Still, she had to be forty-seven by my reckoning, and she’d never married or — as near as I knew — even lived with someone.

“Tell me about this boyfriend,” she said.

I grinned broadly, always glad to talk about Don. “His name’s Don Del Boccio. He was a disc jockey in Port San Marco, where I met him while I was working on a case there. Last spring he moved to San Francisco. He’s still a d.j., but in addition he has a talk show, interviewing celebrities.”

“It sounds serious, him moving up there.”

“As serious as I’m about to let it get right now.”

“He doesn’t live with you?”

“No. He lives with a baby grand piano, three thousand records, a set of drums, and a full complement of gourmet cooking equipment.”

“My God, what an assortment.”

“He claims it’s all absolutely essential to his health and well-being. In college he trained as a classical pianist. And he’s an excellent cook — Italian, primarily, as you can tell from the name.”

“Ah, yes. Lasagna. Veal parmigiana...”

“You’ve got it.”

Elaine sipped her wine, looking pensive once more, and I had the feeling that she was suddenly far away. I glanced over in the direction she was staring and saw a few occupied tables, but no one notable at any of them.

Finally she said, “I take it you’re staying with your family?”

“Of course. All Souls certainly wouldn’t spring for the Casa del Rey when I had free bed and board available. Actually, it’s good I am staying there — as usual, there’s a crisis.”

She smiled. She probably remembered the McCone family crises, which involved anything from grease fires on the stove to my two older brothers’ frequent scrapes with the San Diego cops. “What now?”

“Oh, John — that’s my oldest brother — is getting divorced. He’s decided he wants custody of the kids, even though his wife is willing to give him very reasonable visitation rights. My mother has tried to talk him out of it — she knows who would end up raising them — and tensions are abuilding.”

“And you think you can ease them?”

“I can try. John and I have always been pretty close.” I looked at my watch. “And speaking of that, I have to be going. There’s a big family barbecue tonight, in honor of my presence, and it starts in an hour.”

“Are you coming back for the program tonight?”

“Later, if I can.”

“Good. But please don’t wait for me now. I’m going to have another drink, and then I have some work to catch up on.”

“When can we get together again? I’d love to see the security setup here.”

“I have a breakfast meeting in my office tomorrow — the executive committee of the San Diego Professional Women’s Forum — but then I’ve got an hour free before I have to chair a panel.”

“Which panel?”

She smiled wryly. “‘Modern Techniques of Hotel Security.’ Eleven o’clock. It’s on your program. Why don’t you come by the office about ten? I’ll give you the grand tour.”

I agreed, thanked her for the drinks, and left. On the way out, I noticed Wolf seated alone at the bar with a beer and the convention packet spread open in front of him.

“Hiding in dark bars already?” I said in passing.

He looked up and I waved at him in the back-bar mirror.

4: “Wolf”

I got out of the convention room before long; the damned place, with all those people and all that electronics stuff, gave me claustrophobia. A cold beer was what I needed and a cold beer was what I went looking for.

The hotel bar was off the lobby, at the rear. A sign over its entrance said that it was called the Cantina Sin Nombre, but like the rest of the place it didn’t have much of a Spanish motif. Heavy dark wood paneling and furnishings, with a bank of windows at the far end to admit some natural light. The windows looked out on a terrace strewn with white wrought-iron furniture, and the beach beyond, and the ocean beyond that. It was cool in there, but not an icebox like the lobby, and not too crowded, and I thought that I would probably be spending a good portion of the weekend tucked away in here.

I was halfway to the bar and beer when I noticed that I wasn’t the only conventioneer who’d fled to this sanctuary: Sharon McCone was over at one of the tables near the windows, deep in conversation with a stylishly dressed older woman I’d seen earlier in the convention room. Well, at least she’d found somebody else to talk to. I considered going over and joining them, but they seemed to be enjoying each other’s company and I had never been any good at rolling in as a third wheel for polite chitchat. I kept on going to the bar and plunked myself onto a stool and ordered a Miller Lite from the barman. It came ice cold, along with a frosted stein. Score one for the Cantina Sin Nombre.