"To make off with hubby's fortune, yeah, I think I heard of that happenin' once or twice around L.A. And... you want me to do what, exactly?" He found the paper bag he'd brought his supper home in and got busy pretending to scribble notes on it, because straight-chick uniform, makeup supposed to look like no makeup or whatever, here came that well-known hardon Shasta was always good for sooner or later. Does it ever end, he wondered. Of course it does. It did.
They went in the front room and Doc laid down on the couch and Shasta stayed on her feet and sort of drifted around the place.
"Is, they want me in on it," she said. "They think I'm the only one who can reach him when he's vulnerable, or as much as he ever gets."
"Barea** and asleep."
"I knew you'd understand."
"You're still trying to figure out if it's right or wrong, Shasta?"
"Worse than that." She drilled him with that gaze he remembered so well. When he remembered. "How much loyalty I owe him."
"I hope you're not asking me. Beyond the usual boilerplate people owe anyone they're f**ing steady--"
"Thanks, Dear Abby said about the same thing."
"Groovy. Emotions aside, then, let's look at the money. How much of the rent's he been picking up?"
"All of it." Just for a second, he caught the old narrow-eyed defiant grin.
"Pretty hefty?"
"For Hanco*k Park."
Doc whistled the tune of "Can't Buy Me Love," ignoring the look on her face. "You're givin' him IOU's for everything, o'course."
"You f**er, if I had known you were still this bitter--"
"Me? Trying to be professional here, is all. How much were wifey and the B.F. offering to cut you in for?"
Shasta named a sum. Doc had outrun souped-up Rollses full of indignant smack dealers on the Pasadena Freeway, doing a hundred in the fog and trying to steer through all those crudely engineered curves, he'd walked up back alleys east of the L.A. river with nothing but a borrowed 'fro pick in his baggies for protection, been in and out of the Hall of Justice while holding a small fortune of Vietnamese weed, and these days had nearly convinced himself all that reckless era was over with, but now he was beginning to feel deeply nervous again. "This..." carefully now, "this isn't just a couple of X-rated polaroids, then. Dope planted in the glove compartment, nothin' like 'at..."
Back when, she could go weeks without anything more complicated than a pout. Now she was laying some heavy combination of face ingredients that he couldn't read at all. Maybe something she'd picked up at acting school. "It isn't what you're thinkin', Doc."
"Don't worry, thinking comes later. What else?"
"I'm not sure but it sounds like they want to commit him to some loony bin."
"You mean legally? Or a snatch of some kind?"
"Nobody's telling me, Doc, I'm just the bait." Come to think of it, there'd never been this much sorrow in her voice either. "I heard you're seeing somebody downtown?"
Seeing. Well, "Oh, you mean Penny? Nice flatland chick, out in search of some secret hippie love thrills basically--"
"Also some kind of junior DA in Evelle Younger's shop?"
Doc gave it some thought. "You think somebody there could stop this before it happens?"
"Not too many places I can go with this, Doc."
"Okay, I'll talk to Penny, see what we can see. Your happy couple-- they have names, addresses?"
When he heard the older gent's name he said, "This is the same Mickey Wolfmann who's always in the paper? The real-estate big shot?"
"You can't tell anybody about this, Doc,"
"Deaf and dumb, part of the job. Any phone numbers you'd like to share?"
She shrugged, scowled, gave him one number. "Try to never use it."
"Groovy, and how do I reach you?"