Chapter Nine

The bookstore remained closed on Thursday. I was a model prisoner.

By now I was getting the morning routine down to a science: I weighed myself, took my temperature, checked my blood pressure and heart rate, inspected the ugly incision on my chest. Everything indicated I was recovering right on schedule. And I did feel more cheerful, despite the daunting array of medications I was still on.

I did my tai chi, had breakfast — forcing myself to eat a bowl of oatmeal — opened my e-mail, promptly closed it again, and decided to go for a stroll.

As I walked, I couldn’t help noticing how loud and busy and smoggy the city was. It had never bothered me before. Now I felt…vulnerable, and the noise and crowds unsettled me in a way they never had before.

Reluctantly, I thought of the house in Porter Ranch — and the pool in the backyard. It would be nice to swim again. Nice to lie in the sun and enjoy the peace and quiet of the surrounding hills. And it would be good for me. Lisa was right about that.

But the house was far too large for one. Too large for two, really — although if it were two people used to needing their own space…?

I walked for about twenty minutes, stopping only to buy a couple of CDs — The Essential Glenn Miller and The Very Best of Cole Porter — came home, put Cole Porter on, and fell asleep listening to Carmen McRae’s version of “Every Time We Say Goodbye.” I woke reenergized, went downstairs, and opened my e-mail for real — this time dealing with about half of it.

On impulse, I sent off an e-mail to the Thomas family website asking Todd to get in touch with me.

That did wonders for my morale, and I spent the rest of the afternoon upstairs working on the third Jason Leland mystery, A Deed of Dreadful Note.

This was my third novel about a gay Shakespearean actor and amateur sleuth. When I’d left college, I had fond dreams of writing for a living. The plan was even parent approved. Perhaps that was the problem. Or perhaps it was simply that I didn’t have much to write about at that stage in my life. I’d liked the idea of writing more than the actual writing. Now I enjoyed writing, but I didn’t kid myself that it was ever going to be anything other than an enjoyable diversion. I took pride in selling books. In fostering literacy. I loved talking books and writing to people. I appreciated the absence of deadlines in my life and the fact that I was my own boss. I was successful, but not so successful that it was an obsession. There was still room in my life for other things. Like…writing. And murder.

There was no question Leland was a much better amateur sleuth than I. Granted, he was lucky in the amount of clues that conveniently fell into his lap.

The first book in the series, Murder Will Out, had even been optioned briefly for film, though that had fallen through. And how.

I worked on the novel, pushing words around, and then I took another brief walk around the block, came back, and made myself a salad for dinner. Food was kind of a problem for me. The second day of cardiac rehab, I’d met with a nutritionist and received a brochure to go with the lecture on what I should and shouldn’t eat. Which was fine. I wanted to eat the right things, but I wasn’t particularly hungry, and I’d never been much of a cook.

I showered and dressed for my — I didn’t really want to call it a date — with Mel. Appointment sounded a tad medicinal, though, and rendezvous seemed to require passports. In the end I settled on a clean pair of Levi’s — I didn’t want to overdress in case it looked like I was taking this outing too seriously — and a blue jacquard short-sleeved shirt. I experimented, turning this way and that to see if the scar below my collarbone showed, and it did at certain angles. If Mel and I achieved those angles, clearly the shirt would be coming off anyway. And I really couldn’t picture that.

I filled in the time waiting for Mel to pick me up by surfing the Net, looking to see what I could find on a club called the Tides. Unexpectedly, there was a quite a bit of information. In fact, for a brief time in the 1950s, the Tides had been the place to go for a romantic evening.

I studied the black-and-white photos of smiling Hollywood starlets and Korean War vets, of couples dressed in cocktail dresses and dinner jackets dancing in front of giant picture windows that offered panoramic views of the Southern California coast from Santa Monica to Palos Verdes.

I peered at photographs of different bands. Tommy Reynolds, Si Zentner, Annie Laurie, the Johnny Long Orchestra — most of these names were unknown to me, but there were other names that I did recognize. Benny Goodman, Ella Fitzgerald, Peggy Lee. The Tides owner, Dan Hale, had brought in the best and the brightest.

There were a number of passing references to “house band” Jay Stevens and the Moonglows.

On a site describing now-defunct jazz clubs, I read a description of the Tides.

Set back a few yards from the pier was the cobalt blue door of the Tides. A short, narrow flight of steps led to a long, wide room with picture windows facing the ocean. The room featured tiled mosaics of the sea, zigzagging wood inlays, and undulating wrought-iron handrails. Playful, ocean-themed shapes popped up everywhere in sconces, moldings, and upholstery. The large, polished dance floor could easily accommodate one hundred couples, while latticework sculptures of sea life caught in nets of dark wood stretched across the ceiling.

Mel rang to say he was waiting outside. I turned off the laptop and went to meet him.

He was standing beside a silver rental car. I remembered that he had owned a classic BMC Mini when we had been together. I wondered what he drove these days. Knowing Mel, he probably still drove a Mini. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

“History would seem to dispute that.”

“No, but I’ve only just heard about the skeleton in your attic.”

“Third-floor bedroom, but…right. An upgrade the Realtor forgot to mention.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t put this place on the market yet. It’s the first thing I’d have done.”

“Are you kidding? I’m the envy of every mystery-bookstore owner in the country.” I was turning, still smiling, at the sound of a car engine down the alley. My smile faded at the sight of Jake’s black Honda S2000.

I was surprised I recognized it, given how rarely I’d been invited to ride shotgun in its comfortable bucket seats.

“Who’s this?” Mel inquired. Something in my expression must have told him what he needed to know. He said in a different tone, “Oh.”

The Honda rolled up beside us. Jake rolled down the car window. His expression was impassive as his hazel gaze flicked from Mel to me. “Sorry. I should have called first.”

He should have, of course. I was surprised he hadn’t. “No problem,” I said automatically.

There was a beat — or more of a dropped beat — and I said reluctantly, “Jake, this is Mel Davis. Mel, Jake Riordan.”

Mel was on the other side of his car, and Jake hadn’t got out, so nothing more was called for than a nodding of heads and minimal greetings — and that was exactly the extent of it.

“Nice to meet you,” Mel said.

“Davis,” Jake returned. Since I couldn’t believe that Jake remembered the name of my ex, the terseness had to be merely his natural charm shining through. His gaze met mine, and by some quirk of the fading light, his eyes looked green. “I found Nick Argyle.”

“You did?”

His mouth quirked. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No, only I figured even odds he’d be sitting at that big sergeant’s desk in the sky by now.”

“Nope. I hope I sound that sharp at seventy-plus. I’ve got a meet with him tomorrow. I thought you might want to tag along.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded.

I didn’t have to think about it. Today’s taste had been all the solitary confinement I could swallow. I’d be going stir-crazy before long. “I’d like to, yeah.”

“Eleven o’clock in the morning. Will that work for you?”

“Works for me. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Don’t mention it.” By now it had dawned on all three of us that Jake hadn’t had to drive over to the bookstore to deliver this news.

Mel said, “We’ve got to go, Adrien, or we’ll be late.”

Jake’s expression was totally blank.

Too much drama in my life, as Natalie would say. I was irritated to hear the note of apology in my voice. “Mel and I are going to catch a film-noir double feature at LACMA. You know the film series the County Museum of Arts puts on?”

“You’ll enjoy that.” He inclined his head politely to Mel. “Have a great evening.” The window of his car slowly rolled up.

He nodded to me through the glass and put the car into reverse, making the neat, tight half circle in the alley with the ease of long practice.

Mel and I got into his car.

“So that was the cop?”

“That’s Jake, yes.”

“He’s…a presence, that’s for sure.” Mel was smiling, curious. “Not what I would have pictured for you.”

“What did you picture for me? Clearly not yourself.”

“Yeeouch.” Mel was still keeping it light. “I can see why you’re having doubts. He seems like a roughneck.”

“A roughneck?” To hide my illogical irritation — illogical, because who was I kidding? Of course I was having doubts — I returned lightly, “Well, you know what they say about opposites attracting.”

“I’ve never believed that.”

Neither did I, actually. I said, “I may have done something unfair. Jake’s working as a PI now, and I hired him to look into the weird stuff that’s been happening at the bookstore.” I filled him in on the second break-in. Before I’d finished, he was reaching for his antacids. I’d forgotten what a worrier Mel was.

“Anyway, I thought it would help both of us. Jake needs the work, and I need the security breaches to stop.”

“And he’s misinterpreting your gesture?” When I didn’t answer, Mel asked, only half joking, “Or you are?”

* * * * *

The evening went better than I expected. It helped that Mel and I had always seen eye to eye on film — and that these classics were two of my favorites. The Big Sleep with Humphrey Bogart was pretty much the film everyone thought of when they thought of Chandler, and The Blue Dahlia was the only script Chandler wrote for the screen. Everything else was mostly adapted from his stories.

It was a pleasure to see the films again and under such primo conditions — and these were primo conditions. The county museum’s Leo S. Bing Theater was equipped with an amazing sound system — three amazing sound systems, if you wanted to get technical — and it looked as good as it sounded, though that was really Mel’s realm of expertise rather than mine. I was all about story. Mel was more into technique. Even if I wasn’t an expert, I appreciated seeing the movies on the big screen again.

“It’s going to be a shame if they lose this,” Mel said during the intermission.

I agreed.

The forty-year-old LACMA weekend film series was still relatively unknown, which was a shame, considering the role Hollywood and the film industry played in shaping Southern California. In recent months, dwindling audiences and lack of funds had put the program in jeopardy, but the city — and the film community — stepped up to the plate. For now, the weekend film series was saved.

I admit I was very close to dozing off at the last bit of The Big Sleep, and in fact, Mel did razz me about life imitating art.

“Would you like to stop somewhere for coffee or a drink?”

I shook my head. “As much as I’d like to, I’m bushed.”

“Another time?”

“Sure.”

“How about dinner tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night?”

Mel said. “I don’t want to play games. I enjoyed tonight more than I’ve enjoyed any night in a long, long time. I want to see you again. I hope you feel the same way.”

“I enjoyed tonight, no question,” I said. “I just…”

Mel filled in the blank. “Don’t want to see me again?”

I stared at him.

“No, definitely not that.”

He leaned forward, and we kissed. His mouth was warm and pliable and disconcertingly familiar. Uncomplicated. Nice. Safe.

Our lips parted. I said, “Definitely not that.”