Excerpt

Damn, his arm still burned. The discomfort usually went away by noon, but today every time Jack let the yoyo drop, he felt a fireball rush from his shoulder past his elbow and down to his fingertips. Yet, he kept at it. Sooner or later the pain had to go away, didn’t it?
 
The toy whined as it un-spooled and re-spooled itself. It made that sound whenever the Santa Anas blew. The winds had started last night, strong gusts hurtling down from the high desert through the canyons and passes. They dried out the twine, making it rub against itself. They did something fierce to his right arm, also.
 
He set the yoyo on his desk and peered out the horizontal blinds. Typical Santa Ana day: cloudless, harsh shadows, and temperatures climbing into the nineties. Probably reach triple digits on the other side of the Hollywood Hills. Across the street, a small boy splashed in a public fountain. His mother wafted herself with a limp magazine. Jack leaned over his rickety Western Electric fan but was rewarded with only a warm gasp. “I’m going to lunch,” he announced.
 
“Oh?” Gloria’s disembodied voice carried from the reception area. “Me and Archie planned to meet soon.”
 
“How long till you leave?”
 
“About ten minutes,” she said.
 
He’d been dreaming about a Coke and wanted to pull rank but thought better of it. “Bring me a large pop when you come back, will you Gloria? Maybe a Hires. With loads of ice.”
 
“Yes, Mr. Cornell, but we’ll be taking a bit longer today.”
 
“Uh, what’s the occasion?” Cornell asked.
 
“We’re giving blood. You know, for the war effort?”
 
“Yeah Gloria, I’ve heard about it.”
 
“Would you like to join us and donate, too? Everybody’s going to the Red Cross.”
 
Jack glanced instinctively at his elbow. Hadn’t he given enough already? Countless surgeries and a whole staff of army doctors prodding at him for weeks before finally pronouncing him 4-F. He told Gloria no thanks and picked up the yoyo, spinning it again. The wooden disks were painted bright orange with a sticker of Betty Boop, the cartoon flapper, on each side. Gloria could hear it groan through his open door. “Remember, the doctor says at least fifteen minutes.”
 
He paced while twirling it. The toy was a gift from Noriko, the last thing she’d given him. That was one of the reasons he kept it. Over time, he’d become reasonably skilled. If only there was a living to be made from yoyoing. At last, the pain began to subside. The stupid thing actually worked. That was the other reason he kept it.
 
Jack returned to the window as he spun, the blinds throwing oblique slashes over his stubble. He hadn’t slept well in days, nor eaten much. Christ, other than the damned yoyo what had he done well? Whiskey, perhaps. It helped him forget about Noriko while soothing the shredded nerves in his arm. Below, passengers boarded a bus at Ivar. One man hopped off late then scurried into the Brown Derby. Jack thought the joint was too gimmicky with its domed roof and waiters always pushing Cobb salad. He preferred his roofs flat and his meals medium-rare.
 
“I’ll be going now, Mr. Cornell.” Gloria stood in the doorway, purse straps draped over her arm. She had applied that glossy lipstick all the dollies were wearing and offered a cherry smile. “Do you want me to rub your arm first? Loosen it up?”
 
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said but she continued to regard him quizzically until he reconsidered. “Okay, but I’ll do it myself. Can you fish out the Ben-Gay?”
 
The phone rang before she could oblige him. Sheesh, the morning had passed without a single call but just as she was stepping out, the office had become Grand Central Station. Gloria grabbed it before the third ring, “Hello, Hollywood Detective Agency.”
 
“Yes, I’m replying to a message you left at Kresge and Associates.”
 
Wow, a return call. The woman had one of those big city voices that tried to look down on you even from out of state. Boston or maybe Philadelphia.
 
“Let’s see, Kresge… just a moment.” Gloria rifled through the scraps on her desk: recent obituaries, police blotters, and other assorted metro items. She found a Herald article that Mr. Cornell had circled. The caption identified Walter Kresge as a defense attorney, but Gloria couldn’t make out the rest without her eyeglasses. She stalled while she hunted them down, “I’m curious, ma’am, how many associates do you have there at Kresge and Associates?” 
“Excuse me, what?”
 
“How many associates? Is it a big place? I’m curious because my uncle was an attorney.”
 
“Oh, there’s just one associate at the moment, uh, counting Mr. Kresge.”
 
Well, we’re not so high and mighty now, are we? Gloria located her glasses and skimmed the article along with Mr. Cornell’s notes. “Here it is, my assistant just handed me the file. Thank you, Evelyn,” she nodded to an empty coat rack. “It’s come to our attention that you represent Belle Carmichael. It seems she’s in legal trouble again.”
 
“I’d say that’s rather common knowledge.”
 
“My employer, Jack Cornell, worked for the LAPD for many years. During that time, he had the pleasure of apprehending Miss Carmichael on four occasions, three of which led to convictions if I’m not mistaken–”
 
“Is this some kind of shakedown?” The big city voice now betrayed Brooklyn undertones.
 
“Not at all. Mr. Cornell is a state-licensed detective.”
 
“Defective?”
 
“Detective. As in private investigator.”
 
“Get to the point. What does your gumshoe want?”
 
“Assuming Miss Carmichael doesn’t want to be incarcerated yet again, it so happens that we have a discounted rate this month.”
 
“Of all the cockamamie scams, yours sure takes the cake.”
 
“Listen lady, if my boss says he can get her off, then you can count on it.” The line went dead. “Why don’t you set it in neutral and roll yourself off a cliff,” Gloria slammed the phone.
 
“I sure hope that wasn’t a prospective client,” Mr. Cornell said from his office.
 
“Me, neither. And I’m getting your liniment.” She went to the break room, opened his liquor cabinet— quite well stocked— and removed a tube of Ben-Gay rubbing cream. Something behind it caught her eye, something she hadn’t noticed before.
 
A small jewelry box. Here with the booze?
 
Curious, she opened it. There was a diamond ring inside! It must have been for Noriko. What else could it be? And the foolish girl had scorned Mr. Cornell’s proposal. The ring wasn’t showy, but perfectly respectable. Nothing a self-preserving Nisei should frown at, especially these days. Mr. Cornell would still be considered a solid catch, even at thirty-five. She thought he was quite handsome with prominent, dark eyebrows and a new business that would likely grow. If Noriko couldn’t see any of that, then Gloria figured it was better that she was out of his life.
 
“Here you go.” She set the cream on his desk without mentioning the ring.
 
“Thanks. You two have a good time. And don’t forget my root beer.”
 
“Don’t forget my telephone.”
 
“It’s my phone, Gloria.”
 
“Whatever you say, boss.”