Angels in Heaven

were coming up in front of one judge, no jury,
where evidence would be put forward for said judge to decide] whether to take
it further, i.e., put the sneaky creeps on trial for grand theft.
    Which is exactly what happened after
I put forward my evidence in my customary courtroom manner, low-keyed but
decisive, as did Mel’s client and as did Mel, who had all the relevant
documents, or rather lack of them, from City Planning. Mrs. Harrison was
well-spoken and so seemingly contrite that I almost but not quite hated to do
it to her.! Mr. Harrison was so much the What Makes Sammy Run,! California Mark
II, type—open-necked shirt, gold medallions and chains nestling in curly chest
hair not even gray yet,; blow-dried locks, pebbled moccasins, silver Navaho
belt buckle—that I adored doing it to him. It all did take a while; we were
down at County over three hours, and my part of the proceedings took a mere six
minutes, but what the hell there were plenty of attractive visuals. Just for starters,
there? were innumerable bored cops in rumpled suits waiting their turns and
going over their lies under their breath, and then there were the antics of the
legal professionals as they plea-bargained and car-name-dropped—always
fascinating to the discriminating beholder. Their wardrobes alone are a trip. I
    When we finally emerged into what
passes for sunlight in that part of the world, Mel took me for a late lunch at
an Oriental ricery he knew in the nearby Little Tokyo, which was just north of
him, more or less. Japanese restaurants always make me slightly nervous. It
isn’t the raw fish; I’m always afraid they might ask me to take my shoes off on
the way in.
    Back at the office I bit-and-pieced
away the rest of the afternoon. I billed Mel for my time in court and the
traveling time involved, plus mileage. I finished up an estimate for a security
system for one of Elroy’s apartment units. My computer let me know my pal John
D., owner and prop, of the Valley Bowl, was late with his monthly contribution to
the Daniel Exchequer, so I wrote him a dignified, polite reminder: “Pay or you
die, punk. You have been warned. The Black Hand.” I addressed and stamped
envelopes for all the above and popped them into the mailbox on the corner. I
sat on a wooden bench for ten minutes with Mr. Amoyan, looking at girls. I
disassembled, cleaned, oiled, and then assembled again both Police Positives. I
tinkered with the printer but still couldn’t get it to work, so I asked Mr. Nu
to have a look and he got it going in two seconds.
    “You like?” He grinned at me on his
way out.
    “I love,” I said, marveling at the
way a line of dots under another line of dots under another line of dots
suddenly became clear dark letters—and with serifs, even. (For those of you
lacking my classical background, serifs are those little decorative flourishes
at the top and bottom of letters, especially capitals, which make them look
classy.) I was still marveling when Evonne drove up, parked right outside, and
came in. She was not alone. Following her was Doris Day Jr.
     
     
     

CHAPTER
SEVEN
     
    Doris Day Jr. was wearing a simple
white short-sleeved dress, cinched at the waist by a wide black belt. Doris Day
Jr. was also wearing holeless light-gray pantyhose with a little row of
diamond-shaped decorations running up the rear seams, or where the seams would
have been if pantyhose had seams. Simple, medium-heeled black pumps. Doris Day
Jr.’s hair no longer stood straight up like a lot of candles on a birthday
cake; it was arranged in a soft page boy, like Evonne’s, who f had obviously
taken Doris to her own hairdresser. The color I of hair was no longer screaming
yellow, but blond, like Evonne’s. Around Doris Day Jr.’s skinny neck was not a
luggage strap or a man’s tie or a pajama sash but a single- f strand necklace
of small pieces of blue glass, the same blue as the barrette in her hair. Doris
Day Jr. was wearing just a hint of lipstick—not black, not Day-Glo orange, not
lime green, not blue on the top and white on the bottom, but a light frosted
pink. As a matching accessory, Doris carried a small dark-gray shoulder bag,
not a World War II map case or a tin lunchbox, or an old clarinet case or a
cardboard Tide soap flakes box dangling from a length of red wool.
    I rose to my feet.
    “Evonne!” I said. “My precious!” I
moved out from ; behind the desk and gave her an affectionate buss on one
cheek. “And who is this with