"TV?" he bellowed. "They do TV shows about pimply kid-doctors named Boobie or Doobie or something! When I die I want my ashes mixed with toxic waste and dropped on Burbank Studios!"
"Let's go find a table, Nelson," Lynn suggested. "I can't bear too much sound and fury tonight."
This time they avoided the old warbler who was at her favorite table, joining in when the piano player played a few bars of "Sentimental Journey." They spotted an empty table for two beside the used-brick fireplace that hadn't been lit for a decade.
"Let's grab that deuce," Lynn said, pointing to the table. "My aching knees could end the California drought."
When they were safely seated, Nelson asked, "Do you actually like this place?"
"It's all these old actors," Lynn Cutter said. "I don't feel like such a failure when I'm around them. Far as all the other old geezers, I don't feel so old when I'm around them. Far as lawyers, I definitely feel morally superior when I'm around them. So I guess The Furnace Room satisfies a lotta needs."
"Pretty strange crowd," Nelson said.
"We got lotsa power lines out by Highway Ten that could produce mutants, which might explain this joint. But it's kinda strange to hear you call people strange."
Changing the subject, Nelson Hareem asked, "Where ya gonna live, Lynn, when your house-sittin jobs run out?"
"I honestly don't know, Nelson."
"Gonna be a private eye like Breda after your pension starts?"
"She's not making enough money to keep her in Kibbles, which is what I been eating lately. And the work's sleazier than the state legislature."
"You and Breda'll each have a pension. Half your salary each adds up to one full salary."
"What're you saying, Nelson?"
"You could work together and maybe be housemates. I saw the way you looked at her, Lynn," Nelson said, wrinkling his nose. "And the way she looked at you."
"Why, Nelson, ain't you the little matchmaker!" Lynn said, draining the last of his Scotch. But then, "How did she look at me?"
"Same way you looked at her."
"I don't have a freckle on my lip."
"What?"
"Nothing. Breda and me'll be housemates when Salman Rushdie opens a laundromat in Tehran."
"I think she likes you more'n you think," Nelson said. "I could read it in her eyes."
"I could read the Rosetta Stone easier," Lynn said. "Think we should have another drink?"
"I'll buy," Nelson said.
"Oh please don't, well all right," Lynn said, just as Breda Burrows and Jack Graves entered the smoky saloon looking for them.
"Over here!" Lynn called out. "Next week, Wilfred's receiving his first order of used Israeli gas masks!"
After they sat down, Nelson shook hands with Jack Graves, who described the successful resolution of The Unicorn job, saying, "If Riegel found out how the bartender was doing him, the guy'd be discovered out on the desert next week. Or part of him would, the rest having passed through some coyote's bowels."
"That's a complete gag-me-to-the-max trick," Lynn said. "No wonder I didn't spot it."
"I've decided Jack might be able to help us on the Clive Devon case too," Breda said to Lynn. And then, seeing concern in Lynn Cutter's eyes, she added, "Of course, you and I still have our original arrangement."
Lynn was satisfied that she'd decided to pay Jack, but there was a little something else going on in his own head that Lynn didn't like. Breda was saying in effect that Jack Graves was a better cop! Lynn felt another stab when she smiled at the gaunt man. She'd never looked at him like that.
Son of a bitch! Lynn thought. I'm jealous!
Breda said to Lynn, "Jack's gonna watch Clive Devon tomorrow from the moment he gets up till he goes to bed. I presume Nelson's going to give you back to me soon?"
"Day after tomorrow," Nelson said, nodding agreeably, and Lynn had a sudden urge to reach over and grab the little cop by the throat, except he was certain that Nelson would just look at him with disappointment and never understand. You hated to strangle somebody unless they knew why.
"I been thinking, Nelson," Lynn said. "Maybe the guy really is a Spaniard. Is Seve Ballesteros playing in the Bob Hope Classic? Your guy may be a super Seve fan."
"If I can offer an opinion," Jack Graves said quietly, "Breda's told me what you're doing and I been wondering if the guy's a Colombian. You know, with all the heat in Miami, they been running all the cocaine from Peru, Bolivia and Colombia through Mexico to southern California. Why not a Mexican load-plane full of Colombian cocaine?"