Both Ends of the Night Read online

  “You’re back!” he exclaimed, as if my arrival were a minor miracle. Ted had taken to obsessing every time I flew, certain that some evil force of nature or my own ineptitude would overcome me. I’d never be able to convince him that the twenty-minute flight from Los Alegres to Oakland had been blissfully uneventful, compared to the forty-minute rush-hour drive on the freeway and bridge.

  “I’m back. Any messages?”

  “Your sister Charlene wants you to call her. And Mick’s still in his office, if you need him for anything.”

  “Okay, thanks. What’s this stuff, anyway?” I nudged one of the cartons with my foot.

  “Decorations that Neal and I culled from our respective collections.” Neal Osborn was a used-book dealer and Ted’s new partner; they shared an elegant apartment in an Art Deco building on Telegraph Hill.

  “Why’d you bring them to the office?”

  “I thought I might salvage some for the contest.”

  “What contest?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you ever read the memos I put in your in-box? The tenants are staging a decorating contest, and we, my dear, are going to take first place.”

  I glanced into the box at my feet. A demented-looking ceramic goat with a holly sprig in its mouth and little legs that dangled down from its chunky body leered up at me. “Not with this stuff, we aren’t.”

  Ted ignored the comment. “Who’s your young friend?” He motioned through the door, to where Zach leaned over the rail of one of the catwalks that crossed to the other side. In spite of the dizzying drop, the kid was relaxed, kicking one foot back and forth between the uprights and whistling tunelessly.

  “Somebody I’m hoping to stash with Anne-Marie and Hank for the weekend.”

  “Bad timing—they left for Tahoe an hour ago. Habiba’s stashed with Rae and Ricky.”

  “Damn!” Well, maybe Zach could stay there too. Hy and I had been invited to dinner tonight, to make plans for the Christmas Eve from hell, so I’d just bring him along. Which reminded me, I was running late. I handed Ted a photograph of John Seabrook that Matty had given me. “Would you mind dropping this with that photographer on Howard Street on your way home?”

  “No problem. Duplicates?”

  “A dozen.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks. Have a good weekend.”

  “Wait!”

  “Now what?”

  “About the contest—you’re right; we can’t use most of this crap. So I’m taking up a collection to buy new stuff.”

  “I am not made of money, you know.”

  “Scrooge.”

  I sighed. “How much?”

  “For the agency’s owner, twenty seems reasonable.”

  “Twenty!”

  “You want to uphold our honor, don’t you?”

  “If I give you twenty, you’d better buy some damned good decorations.” I fished the money from my bag and reluctantly handed it over. “What’s the prize for winning?”

  “A contribution by the losers to our favorite charity.”

  I snorted in a manner that would have done old Ebenezer proud and went to see Mick.

  “Sure,” my nephew said, “I’ll get started on the Seabrook business tonight.” He was lounging on the base of his spine in his swivel chair, long legs propped up on his wastebasket, one hand resting on his PowerBook. I’ve always considered his relationship with what is, after all, only an assemblage of silicon chips and plastic to be quite unnatural, but I do appreciate the results he gets with the infernal device.

  Suddenly it occurred to me that this was an unusually late hour for Mick to be at the office, particularly on a Friday. “How come you’re still here?”

  “Just haven’t gotten around to wandering down the street yet.” He subleased Rae’s former condo at BayCrest, a short distance along the Embarcadero.

  “You’re not seeing Keim tonight?” Charlotte Keim was my most recently hired operative, and the older woman in Mick’s life—twenty-six to his nineteen, but he, as she put it, “played older.”

  His mouth twitched, and he looked down at the notes he’d taken on John Seabrook till all I could see was the top of his blond head. “Lottie’s out with somebody else.”

  “Who?”

  “How the hell should I know? She’s her own woman, she does as she pleases.”

  “Mick, are you okay?”

  “Get lost, Shar.”

  “No, really—”

  “I’m okay—all right? If I made it through all the shit that came down on the family last summer, I sure as hell can make it through a little game playing on Lottie’s part. Now get out of here so I can work.”

  “You’d be upset too,” my sister said, “if your ex-husband had just walked in and made off with two of your kids.”

  “Charlene, calm down.” Ricky, snatch the children? Why would he? He and Charlene had joint custody. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  A hissing intake of breath, then silence. Charlene was smoking dope—something she’d vowed to give up, since Vic didn’t indulge. I waited impatiently.

  “Okay, he was in L.A. for most of the week, staying at the Zenith condo.” Zenith Records was the label Ricky and two associates had formed earlier that year.

  “And?”

  She was sucking on the joint again. I tapped my fingers on my desk and smiled distractedly at Zach, who was sitting in the armchair under my potted schefflera.

  “And,” she went on, “he was too damn busy to see the kids. So this afternoon he shows up here, cheerful as can be, and says, ‘Who wants to fly to San Francisco with me?’ And the next thing I know, Molly and Lisa are packed and out the door.”

  “So why’re you calling me? Do you want me to tell him to return them?”

  “God, no! It’s peaceful around here for a change. I just called up to bitch about how high-handed he was.”

  “Well, this way you and Vic can have a quiet weekend—”

  “Vic’s in New York.”

  “Ah.” Now I understood. During her marriage to Ricky, my sister had spent entirely too much time alone while he traveled; with her new husband on the East Coast, she must have been experiencing an unpleasant sense of déjà vu.

  She added, “I guess what really pisses me off is that Jamie and Brian wouldn’t go too. Ever since she went up to visit Ricky in October, Jamie’s been an absolute little… asshole. And Brian… well, Vic bought him a new computer—which he’s yet to thank him for—and since then he’s been out there in cyber-world. I don’t think he even noticed his father was here. If only they’d gone along too, I’d be on a plane to New York right now.”

  Instead, she was feeling sorry for herself and getting loaded on dope. I knew the impulse, only my drug of choice was white wine. “When’s Vic coming back?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Well, then.”

  “I know, you think I’m making too much of this. But dammit, Shar, Ricky breezes in here, all happy because he’s going home to Rae, and promises the kids a plane ride and fun things to do on the weekend, and in the meantime I’m just… stuck.”

  “It hurts to provide the day-to-day care and then get upstaged. All I can tell you is to hang in there.” A divorce involving children, I was learning, was a complicated and sad proposition, no matter how satisfied the parents were with their new lives.

  I set down the receiver and motioned to Zach. “We’re out of here.”

  At least I now knew he was sure to be welcome at Rae and Ricky’s, where one more child would scarcely be an imposition. And the property was equipped with a very good security system.

  “… in my checking account. Seventy thousand more than I thought I had.”

  “What!” I transferred my cellular phone to my left hand and steered through the stone pillars of Seacliff. “Take it slowly, from the beginning,” I said to Matty, glancing at Zach—who had gone silent on me again—and hoping he wouldn’t intuit how upset she was.

  “Okay, here
it is: I was on my way to the airport when I realized I was low on cash. So I swung over to Lucky Store, where they’ve got a branch of B. of A., and hit the Versateller. I get a hundred bucks, the card and the transaction report come out, and I check my balance. There it was—seventy thou. I damned near died on the spot. Now, those machines, you know how you can take a look at your account activity? I did. Seventy thou, all right, deposited yesterday.”

  “How? By whom?”

  “Don’t know. If I were going to be here tomorrow, I’d go to my branch and find out.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “The airport. Plane’s all fueled and ready to go.” She paused. “What d’you think, McCone? Does this have something to do with John, or is it just some computer glitch?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Is there any way you can look into it while I’m in Sacramento?”

  “I think I’d need power of attorney.”

  “Well, no time for that; I’m supposed to be up there at eight for dinner with my corporate sponsors, and I’m going to be late as is.”

  “When will you be at the motel number you gave me?”

  “After dinner. Eleven, latest.”

  “Let me think about this. I’ll get back to you.”

  When I flipped the phone shut, I saw Zach watching me, his face serious and a little scared. “Something’s wrong with Matty.”

  “Not wrong—she’s just confused.” I put my hand on his shoulder. At first he recoiled from my touch, then changed his mind and leaned into it. “Not to worry, kiddo,” I said, automatically adopting Matty’s term of address for him. “But since we’re almost at my friends’ house, I think I’d better warn you: try to look at this weekend as an interesting experience with a somewhat primitive culture.”

  High-pitched Little-Savage screams erupted as Hy opened the door of Rae and Ricky’s red-wood-and-glass house on the bluff above China Beach. I’d suspected he’d already be there when I saw his Citabria in the tie-downs at Oakland, and the curbside presence of his ancient Morgan, which he garaged near the airport, had confirmed it. His wild-eyed, desperate look and the way he raked his fingers through his dark blond mane told me he wished he’d remained at his ranch.

  I hadn’t seen him in weeks, and I wanted to twine my arms around his neck and press close to his tall, lanky frame; wanted to kiss the lips that at the moment were pulled taut with displeasure beneath his shaggy mustache. Instead, I introduced him to Zach.

  Hy shook the boy’s hand and told him he was an old friend of Matty’s. He was about to add something, but a shriek interrupted, and running feet thundered across the entryway behind him. Shortly after the sound faded, Rae appeared, leaning around him. Her freckled face was flushed, and her long auburn curls straggled down from a comb that was supposed to be holding them off her shoulders.

  She said, “Little Savages is the name for them, all right.”

  Zach and I moved inside, and I managed to introduce her to him before two towheaded girls—aged eleven and nine—galloped in from the living room and through the archway to the kitchen, calling out to me as they passed. My nieces, Molly and Lisa.

  Rae put a hand to her forehead and regarded Zach with alarm, as if she expected him to join in the chase. His quiet manner seemed to reassure her, and she said, “Lisa and Molly have discovered that the open floor plan makes a great racetrack. I’ve got a headache, and Ricky’s into the gin, so you know how the evening’s going.”

  “How’s Habiba coping with all this?”

  “Sitting very still and observing, as if it’s her first trip to the circus and she’s pretty sure she doesn’t like it.”

  Hy had headed for the kitchen. By the time we got there, he’d opened a beer—and not his first, judging from the number of empties in the recycling bin. The room was spacious, with handcrafted tiles and a hardwood floor, centered around a butcher-block workstation. Ricky leaned against it, clutching a glass that contained a generous martini. Habiba, who had adopted him as one of her father figures, sat close beside him on a stool; when he moved to hug me, she reached out and hooked a finger through his belt loop, as if she was afraid he might go away. Beneath her slash of black bangs, her dark eyes were somewhat glazed.

  Ricky’s eyes duplicated Habiba’s expression, and his thick chestnut hair was as disheveled as Rae’s; his handsome features were set in long-suffering lines, and when a scream echoed in the living room, he shuddered. In spite of his discomfort, I couldn’t help but smile. Mr. Savage, superstar, had apparently gotten himself into something he now regretted. I turned from him and hugged Habiba, who clung unusually tight.

  Nine-year-old Habiba and I were good friends, sharing a closeness that transcended our thirty years’ age difference. Sometimes that happens when you go through an ordeal with another person and learn what she’s made of. The little girl was finely crafted of good, courageous stock—the best there is.

  I’d just gotten Zach introduced all around when another wave of rampaging little girls broke on the kitchen floor. Hy, Habiba, Zach, and I winced.

  Rae looked desperately at Ricky: Do something! He looked back so helplessly that you’d have thought he’d never fathered a child, let alone six. And then Rae threw up her hands and completely lost it.

  “That’s enough!” she yelled.

  Lisa froze, one foot in the air. Molly, the elder and thus the leader, slid to a stop, planing on the polished boards. She slewed around and demanded, “What?”

  “I said, that’s enough! You’re driving us all crazy with that running. You’re to stop it right now!”

  Molly glanced at her sister. A dark look of complicity passed between them. Then she drew herself up in a haughty, naughty manner that brought back to me vivid images of Charlene at her age.

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” she announced. “You’re not my mother!”

  Oh, hell, I thought, expecting Rae to burst into tears and flee the room.

  But she surprised me—surprised us all. As Ricky pushed away from the butcher block, intent on grabbing his daughter by the scruff of her neck, Rae motioned for him to stop and looked sternly at both girls. Then she drew herself up in an exact imitation of Molly and, from the slight advantage of her full five-feet-two, loomed over her.

  “I may not be your mother, young lady,” she said, “but I am the alpha woman in this house. And that gives me the right”—she paused ominously, raising her arms as if to pounce—“to torture you!”

  Before Molly could move, Rae grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around, pinning her arms. My niece doubled over, screaming in outrage. Rae held her so her feet were off the floor and kicking. Then the screams became interspersed with giggles; Rae was tickling her.

  I glanced at Lisa. She had drawn back against the cabinet behind her, her face a study in betrayal and envy.

  Rae noticed her reaction, too. “Come on, Lisa,” she called. “Help me out here. She might”—she held out a hand and let go of Molly, who scrambled for the living room—“she might escape!”

  For a second Lisa hung back. Then she grinned and grabbed Rae’s hand. Together they set off in hot pursuit.

  Ricky closed his eyes. “God help us all.”

  Three pairs of feet thundered across the living room. More shrieks and squeals filled the air. Then, from the room’s far end, Rae announced, “Okay, I win! Downstairs with you—to the dungeon!”

  More screams, and then a door slammed, muffling them.

  Silence. Blissful silence.

  “Dungeon?” Habiba said, eyes wide. Zach, I saw, was exhibiting similar horror.

  Ricky ruffled Habiba’s hair, grinning at Zach. “No instruments of torture, guys. Just the lower floor; it’s soundproofed on account of my rehearsal studio. A good place for those two to have their bedrooms, don’t you think?”

  Habiba smiled self-importantly. When she stayed over, she got to sleep in one of the upstairs guest rooms.

  Zach folded his arms and leaned against the but
cher block next to Habiba, trying his best to act nonchalant. To me he said, “Primitive culture—yeah.”

  I went over to Hy and briefly rested my forehead against his shoulder. “So,” he asked, smoothing my hair, “what’s new at McCone Investigations?”

  I knew he was wondering about Zach, whose presence I’d yet to fully explain. I shook my head, meaning I didn’t want to discuss it in front of the kids, and said, “Not much.” To Ricky I added, “Charlene called me earlier.”

  “To complain about me making off with Lisa and Molly, no doubt.”

  “More to complain about the others not going along too. She called Jamie a little asshole.”

  He smiled faintly. “Charly’s never been one to mince words, has she? Jamie’s taking the divorce harder than anybody, and I feel for her, but I’ve exhausted all the ways of getting through to her. That time she came up here in October—you and Red were on that case up in Oregon—I offered her my American Express card, told her to buy whatever she wanted for her room. She said she didn’t need any ‘shit’ because she was never coming back, and proceeded to sulk in front of the tube the whole weekend.”

  Hy asked, “And Brian?”

  “Lost in cyberspace—his way of coping—and I can’t reach him, either.”

  “Well, Molly and Lisa seem okay, even if they are a little… well…”

  “Hy, you don’t need to be tactful where they’re concerned. They’re absolute hellions, but I love them anyway. And, yeah, they will be okay, now that they’re discovering Red isn’t a wicked stepmother—or whatever you call your daddy’s significant other. I sort of thought that would happen, which is why I’d hoped to get all four kids up here this weekend. It would’ve saved a hell of a lot of wear and tear on everybody at Christmastime.”

  While Ricky and Hy were talking, I’d been watching Habiba. An open jar of olives sat on the butcher block, and her hand moved stealthily toward it. She sneaked one, popped it into her mouth, and glanced up at Ricky. In a moment she sneaked another. He pretended to discover what she was up to, frowned fiercely, then winked. Habiba waited till he turned his attention back to Hy, then sneaked two and offered one to Zach. After a brief hesitation, he took it.