"Do you have any aspirin, Wilfred?" Lynn Cutter asked, and now he was talking to the clock. It was contagious.
"I heard you'd have hairline fractures and hickeys on your knees after a date with Rita," Wilfred said. "I could tell you something she said to me on location one time, but you wouldn't believe it."
"Sure, I always believe you, Wilfred. Like I believed Saigon Suzie when she swore she loved only me."
Taking the cigarette holder from his mouth, Wilfred Plimsoll said, "It's too bad you're not old enough to remember the great movie palaces, Lynn. The Golden Age it truly was!"
"Yeah, I'm barely potty-trained at forty-five," the cop moaned, "but my liver's eighty-five so maybe my liver remembers. The aspirin, Wilfred!"
Finally, Wilfred Plimsoll seemed to understand that Lynn Cutter had a sick head. He said, "We don't have aspirin. Take another drink and it'll go away." He poured a Chivas for the unprotesting cop.
Another old actor named Reginald Orlando-one of those who never made it trying to impersonate Gilbert Roland-was eavesdropping, and said, "Ah yes, the movie palaces. How I remember Lon Chaney in Hunchback of Notre Dame. Ruining his body with a hunchback harness-device for the sake of his art. Nowadays, Warren Beatty couldn't even bring himself to put putty on his beautiful nose to look like Dick Tracy."
Just then a woman's voice behind Lynn Cutter said to Wilfred Plimsoll, "A glass of your best Chardonnay and another of whatever Mister Cutter's having. Over at the corner table, please."
Lynn turned and, headache or not, felt a little rush. His favorite combination: lustrous and abundant earth-brown hair, and eyes so blue the gloom couldn't hide them. Cobalt blue, the kind that go electric when the owner turns them on. She wore a tailored houndstooth jacket and a slim black skirt, a bit wintry for such a hot day. He'd expected her to look matronly. He'd heard about the new P. I. in town who'd retired from LAPD, and he knew that LAPD cops could draw their twenty-year pensions as young as forty-one. She'd been in Palm Springs several months, so she had to be at least forty-two, he figured.
Twenty years of police work in the big city hadn't done much to the outside, but who could tell about the inside with babes like this? "I thought you'd be older," he said.
"I am." When she parted her lips and smiled she looked even younger.
"Somebody musta set your odometer back," Lynn said. Jesus, she had long legs and incredible calves! All buffed up like she played soccer or something. He knew he wouldn't have a chance, so he might as well act as cranky as he felt, after he'd gotten his free drink.
They sat at a table in the corner under a series of wall photos of former and present Palm Springs residents: Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, Ginger Rogers, William Holden, Dinah Shore, Steve McQueen, Lucille Ball, Truman Capote, Kirk Douglas, Ruby Keeler, Red Skelton, Liberace.
What they all had in common is that they wouldn't have set foot in The Furnace Room for the deed to Mount San Jacinto, which loomed two miles high over the city, throwing blue shadow over Palm Springs long before sunset.
"I imagine I'm close to your age, Lynn," she said, as he plopped down in his chair. "I ride a bike at least a hundred miles a week to keep fit."
Lynn said, miserably, "Yeah, well I just had a checkup and I got the stool of a much younger man."
Wilfred Plimsoll, with a fresh cigarette in his holder, put a drink in front of Lynn and jauntily poured a taste of Chardonnay for Breda Burrows. Then, with his best leading man flourish, he adjusted his ascot and said, "Would m'lady wish to let it breathe for a bit?"
"Just pour it, Wilfred!" Lynn said testily. "CPR couldn't resuscitate the crap you serve!"
After Wilfred said "Tut tut!" and returned to the bar, Lynn said to Breda, "Well, you got him talking like the Queen Mum so I guess you're accepted in The Furnace Room. He might even buy you a drink for Valentine's Day, but not this one."
"How about lunch?" Breda asked. "The food okay?"
"The roaches thrive on it," Lynn said. "That's why they're big enough for choker collars and don't die from a single bullet wound. You might try the chili but I'd rather lick a toad. Now can you tell me what's on your mind and how you got the number of the place I'm house-sitting?"
"Sure," she said. "The number came from your lieutenant. I knew his brother when he worked LAPD. The reason I wanted to meet you is because I'm having trouble getting my business going in Palm Springs."
"Well, you came to the right guy," Lynn said. "I got enough banking acumen to be George Bush's son. Here's what I know: The tourist season goes from New Year's to Memorial Day. That's five months. And some people think May's only a wash, so you're down to four. Yet just because it's so nice in the winter everybody with enough bucks to lease four walls and a roof thinks he can make a living twelve months a year. Restaurants're the worst. Guys keep opening restaurants in the same spot where ten other guys failed. They go over the cliff one after another, dumber than a herd a lemmings. That's it for my knowledge of commerce. So what do I got to do with your business problems?"