Fugitive Nights(52)

"Come on, Lynn, take a cold shower and let's jam," Nelson said. "I got some new ideas."

When Lynn lurched past a huge gold-leafed mirror in the foyer of the massive house, he looked at his reflection and said, "I'm puffing up like a pigeon. I got MFB."

"What's that?" Nelson asked.

"Massive fluid buildup. I'm horny enough to do the tailpipe of a Studebaker, but it's no use. My sex life's history!"

When they were out on the road in Nelson's Wrangler, with the desert wind in their faces and Lynn nursing a sick head, Nelson put in a tape. "I know you don't like country, but wait'll you hear this guy. It's Clint Black. Listen for the cryin harmonica."

Lynn groaned and said, "Got any Furnace Room music? You know, Snookie Lanson's greatest hits?"

"That house you're livin in is the most fantastic place I ever seen," Nelson said as he downshifted, causing Lynn to lurch forward painfully.

"Yeah, it's cozy, like the Kremlin, except the owner has the taste of a Manila pimp. I gotta line up another house-sitting job real soon or I'll be begging a bed from a rich Indian I did a favor for one time. He might take me in. He lets his horse sleep on the patio. I could maybe do his gardening, trade in my gun for a weed-eater. Except his goats do it better. They live on his tennis court."

"How do ya get house-sittin jobs, anyways?"

"Used to be, it was easy. There was always some millionaire looking for a Palm Springs cop to sit his house for a few weeks or a few months. We provided very cheap security for rich guys. But like always, some cop screwed up the deal. One a the house-sitting gigs turned into Animal House Revisited-a party for about twenty cops and two thousand and twelve beauticians, cocktail waitresses and masseuses. The rich guy's dune buggy ended up in the swimming pool. When he got back from Aspen he had to be real careful with his swan dives and back flips. The word got out that cops're unreliable house-sitters."

"You're right," Nelson said with disgust, "there's always a cop that'll screw up the good things for all the others. Some stupid selfish moron"

"That's what everybody called me all right," Lynn said. "For the longest time."

Breda opened her office very early and used the quiet time to write checks, both personal and business. She looked through the local paper to see if there was any appropriate office space for rent that she hadn't already called. There wasn't. She started to make coffee but decided she'd had her morning limit. The fact was, it was too damn early to be in the lonely office. Early birds and worms had nothing to do with her business. She was wondering if there were enough clients in Palm Springs for the number of P. I.'s.

Breda looked at her watch. Most physicians opened up at 9:00 a. M. In that Clive Devon's urologist was either stonewalling or knew nothing, she decided to take a shot at his G. P.

The medical building wasn't far from Desert Hospital. In the days of Gable, Tracy, the Marx brothers, Garbo-in Palm Springs' golden age-the hospital had been the city's finest resort hotel, El Mirador.

The receptionist in the G. P.'s office wore a nameplate with only a first name, much like those worn by cocktail waitresses. And indeed she looked like a drink-wrangler. The nameplate read "Candy."

"Good morning." Breda was pleased that there was only one patient in the waiting area, an elderly man who had more than urinary problems; his face was alive with skin cancer.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to talk to Doctor Gladden. It's about my husband."

"He's not with you?"

"No, he's not willing to come in yet," Breda said quietly, glancing at the old man, who was busy reading Palm Springs Life.

"Do you wanna make an appointment for him?"

"No . . . yes. I mean, I'd like to talk to the doctor. You see, I'd like him to take a semen sample."

"A fertility check?"

"We're pretty sure he's okay in that regard," Breda said. "Actually, we're considering in vitro fertilization with a surrogate. For now, we'd like to have my husband's sperm stored at whatever sperm bank you use."

"Doctor Gladden's seventy-three years old," Candy said. "He's semiretired and almost never takes a new patient. He's never done anything involving sperm banks in the two years that I been here."

"Really? We have a friend, Clive Devon, who's a patient of Doctor Gladden. I thought he had it done here, the taking of the sample, the storage, all of it."

"We haven't seen Mister Devon in over a year," Candy said. "Doctor has very few patients these days. If Mister Devon's done something like that it musta been with another physician." Then the young woman said doubtfully, "Are we talking about the same Mister Devon? He's getting on in years, the one we know. A sperm bank?"