Write me a Letter

ain’t so, Ruth.

3

    I muddled through the rest of the day somehow, and gradually my fears began to recede somewhat. Ruth Braukis mixed up with Nazis—ridiculous, almost as ridiculous as me being involved with those nightmare goose-steppers. Anyway they were all dead years ago or else hiding out in Brazil cloning new baby fuhrers from strands of his pathetic mustache or else down in Argentina tossing the bolas and gauchoing across the pampas. Grow up, Daniel, and about time, too.
    So it was a moderately carefree and footloose PI who locked up the office, drove home, changed into suitable finery, including dress holster and .38-caliber revolver, caught the day’s news on TV and then, just after seven o’clock, headed over to a certain blond-tressed secretary’s apartment to pick her up for our date. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t always tote the armament when I went out with gorgeous women, I could defend myself perfectly adequately with my bare hands, it was just that our date was only half a date, the other half was business.
    My friend and near neighbor, Mr. Aaron Lubinski, of Lubinski, Lubinski & Levi, family jewelers for over twenty years, had, as a partner, his cousin Nate Lubinski. The lugubrious Nathan had an equally gloomy, unlovely daughter, Rachael, whose oft-postponed marriage, it appeared, had finally taken place that afternoon, to her family’s intense relief and, no doubt, hers as well. Every few months, for years now, it seemed like, I’d get a call from Aaron Lubinski to see if (a) I had a presentable suit, (b) if it was clean, and (c) could he book me to attend the wedding reception, partly as a guest and partly to keep an eye on both the family silver and the wedding presents, which, given the business he, most of his family, and many of his friends were in, would be of considerable value. As would, no doubt, the bijoux some of the guests would be wearing.
    As I recall, the nuptials were once postponed when the groom ran off to join a kibbutz in the Negev , once when he ran off to try and teach Cambodian peasants to grow potatoes instead of opium, and once when he just ran off. Anyway, it looked like Rachael had finally snagged her man, or maybe his legs just gave out. And that is why Evonne and I, attired in our wedding-reception best—Mr. Fashion Plate in a stunning ecru Indian-cotton suit with complementary accessories, her in something white, silk, and clinging—were on our way, via the San Diego freeway, to Bel Air and smoked salmon on toast instead of West Hollywood and sauce Alfredo on fettuccini at Mario’s. And if I didn’t look like your typical wedding-reception guest, I didn’t think I looked like a typical security type either, especially with Evonne on my arm, so maybe it would all even out. It was the first time I’d ever been on any kind of a job with her along; she’d offered to help once or twice in the past but it hadn’t happened, mainly because I always came up with a good enough excuse to prevent it happening. She had been in on the tag end of one escapade, though, and had seemed to enjoy herself.
    Bel Air. Lots of money in Bel Air, which is just west of Beverly Hills , which, as we know, is not without a few bucks of its own. Both the residences and the fortunes tended to be older in Bel Air, but one could find the occasional upstarts, like the Lubinskis, installed there in the green hills behind ten-foot, barbed-wire—topped walls and heavily barred front gates.
    Aaron and Nathan had adjoining properties on St. Cloud , which is off Bel Air Road . We located the right house without any trouble, as there were three uniformed valet parkers, hired by me as part of my chores, waiting patiently outside the front gate to take care of the overflow once the interior driveway and parking spaces in front of the house were full. On the way there I did not mention a word to Evonne about the Israeli Trade Center, agents not only licensed, but encouraged, to kill Gestapo swine, or come to think of it, Miss Ruth Braukis. Yet more proof, if indeed it be needed, that I have not as yet lost the last of my marbles, amigos.
    I pulled up outside the gate, got out, traded friendly quips with the youthful carhops, complimented them on their neat appearance, warned them severely against any teenage antics like drag racing or playing chicken with the visitors’ wheels, then strolled through the now-open gate to have a word with the guard who came out of his little hut to greet me.