Angels in Heaven

disturb.’ ”
    “Do your patients sometimes keep real
money or valuable valuables in their rooms, or do you keep them locked up in a
safe somewhere?”
    “Both,” he said. “But like I said,
nothing’s ever been taken but a few bucks cash.”
    “Hmm,” I said. “Let me reflect
awhile.”
    I sat in the sun and reflected.
Doctor Don closed his eyes and stretched out his legs and once sighed deeply
with pleasure.
    “I don’t think it’s staff,” I said
after several peaceful minutes had ticked past. “I can’t see a staff member
who’s already making good money risking his job for a few measly greenbacks,
although I must admit it’s been known to happen. A lot of petty pilfering and
shoplifting is motivated by needs other than financial ones.”
    “Boredom,” the doc said without
opening his eyes. “Like boredom, like wanting to shock a spouse or a parent out
of his or her real or imagined neglect—same as a very mild suicide attempt.
There is something cheap and easy— and cheap and easy is what I have founded my
reputation on—that you might try. What you do is buy an ink pad and a stack of
filing cards at the stationer, and then you dream up some reason—I don’t know
what, some new law, a new requirement for old age pensioners, some new red
tape, maybe even a game—for having to fingerprint all the mobile patients and
maybe lesser staff, like any cleaners who have access to the patients’ rooms. I
don’t expect the thief to go all white and break down sobbing and confess when
you try to print him or, more likely, her, nor do I expect the thief to make a
big deal of standing on his rights and refusing to let you take his prints, which
would be a little obvious. But most civilians place great trust and belief in
the power of fingerprinting, unlike most pros, who rarely find them useful for
anything but identification purposes. Chances are your amateur crook will be
scared stiff, thinking you’re already closing in for the kill, and will lay
low. If that doesn’t work— and I can think of a lot of good reasons why it
might not, so spare me—give us a call and I’ll see what else easy and cheap I
can come up with.”
    “Worth a try,” said the doc, getting
to his feet. He walked me back to my car, my ’58 pink and blue Nash
Metropolitan beauty. Feeb hoisted herself out of the rocking chair and came
down to join us.
    “Take care of Mom,” I said.
    “What else?” he said. He watched us
drive away.
    I drove back to our part of town, Studio City, thanked Feeb for all she had done, went upstairs to the empty apartment,
showered, then went into my bedroom for a snooze. I realized I had a spare room
now. Maybe I could use it as an office and save on my office rent. Or rent it
to someone else’s mom. Or get a large dog or start growing mushrooms at
home—the possibilities were endless. I could move to a smaller place. Or move
to another town even. Jesus, there was an idea, another state even. There was
nothing keeping me in the San Fernando Valley anymore, yippee. I could visit
Mom every other weekend, say, from anywhere almost. Paris, Venice, Rome in spring, Bangkok anytime ... suddenly the world beckoned. Of course there was my
business, such as it was. And there was Evonne, such as she was, which was
sensational. Plus a pal or two or three. Sara I could probably just live
without. Fancy old Mom having all that money all that time, amazing. The last
thing I did before visiting the Land of Nod was to blow a loud vulgar raspberry
in the general direction of downtown L.A. and in the specific direction of Mel
The Swell’s ex-employer. V. Daniel, of the Davenport Daniels—no
forelock-tugging, servile, flunky, door opening yes-man he.
    At least not yet, amigos.
     
     
     

CHAPTER NINETEEN
     
    $4,752.15.
    That tidy sum, my computer had just
informed me, was the cost of that imbecilic paperweight adorning my desk— and
that only to date. Still to come were whatever millions of pesos Benny and
Doris squandered on riotous living back on Isla Mujeres, where they were headed
when we parted company, plus doctor bills for her, no doubt, and probably
plastic surgery for her later at the Mayo Clinic.
    It was latish Monday morning, and I
was in my office sorting through the pile of mail that had accumulated and also
sorting through the pile of memories I had recently accumulated, with the
accent on the particularly aggravating ones, i.e., those in which a large
outlay of funds was involved. I