Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(14)
“All right,” I said. “Back to the joys of paperwork.”
Jess’s voice followed me. “Nikki?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s good that you’re dating again. After what happened with Bryan, I was starting to wonder if you’d end up in a nunnery.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see. That’s still a definite option.” I started toward a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY but was stopped by another voice. I had been spotted by the ZEBRAS.
“Nikki, we need you to settle something.” The request was from Zach, a bearded Cal biology postdoc in his usual uniform of tortoiseshell glasses and army green cargo shorts. He waved his bagel at me to underline the importance of the approaching question.
“I’m busy, Zach.”
“Come on, it will just take a second.”
I turned toward the group, doing my best to pretend to look irritable. “Fine. What?”
“You’re on a cruise ship and people are getting knocked off one by one. You suspect the killer is on board. Who do you want in the cabin next to you: Hercule Poirot or Auguste Dupin?”
I considered. “Poirot. He’s got more of a track record. Besides, Death on the Nile proves he wouldn’t get seasick.”
“Not bad, but let’s go double or nothing,” said Laney Garber, silver bangles on her wrists clinking. She was a Berkeley native, owned an art gallery near campus, and was the only woman I’d ever met who regularly smoked a pipe. Whenever she was in the store, the fragrance of apple tobacco accompanied her. Much to her displeasure I didn’t let her smoke in the shop, but the pipe sat next to her even now, a beautiful hand-carved meerschaum that seemed to eye me resentfully for its lack of freedom. “Your great-aunt left you a fortune in rare gems but your loafing, good-for-nothing brother-in-law swiped it all and headed for San Francisco. You can’t go to the cops because they’re all crooked as hell. What’s Philip Marlowe’s street address?”
This time I didn’t hesitate. “Trick question. Marlowe works L.A. If that rotten, thieving bastard headed for San Francisco I’m calling Sam Spade.”
There were approving nods. Abe Greenberg looked up from spreading cream cheese, fingers working the knife across his bagel with the care of a violinist. He was the founder of the ZEBRAS, and, happily adrift somewhere in his eighties, probably the oldest. He’d had a long career as a physicist at the nearby Lawrence Livermore Laboratory and people said he’d forgotten more about nuclear research than most in his profession ever knew. When it came to mysteries, he seemed even more knowledgeable. “Okay, here we go, for all the marbles. You have to beat the goddamn Commies before they take over the world. George Smiley or—”
“Just stop right there. Smiley’s the only man for me. Now look, are you gonna buy some books or just sit around talking all day?”
Abe cheerfully ignored me as he cut lox into postage-stamp-size squares and applied them to his bagel as though plastering a collage. His blue eyes were bright under unkempt gray eyebrows and a corduroy beret. “Lisbeth, why so busy? Would you like to request use of our deducing abilities? We all need help sometimes.”
I ran a hand through my hair and tried not to smile. If I ever allowed Abe to suspect that I found him even the least bit charming he’d never leave me alone. “I can’t afford your rates, Abe. And stop calling me that.”
“Anything you need, Lisbeth, we’re here for you.”
“Just save me one of those bagels.”
“Sesame, right? Light schmear?”
“You know me so well.”
“He doesn’t ask what my favorite bagels are,” Laney put in.
“With all that pipe smoke fogging up the air you wouldn’t know a sesame bagel if it bit you on the tuchus,” Abe shot back.
“Okay, sadly some of us have to work,” I put in. The ZEBRAS moved at their own pace. When I had the time, I could easily spend an hour bantering as we tried to stump each other with esoteric mystery and detective references, but this wasn’t one of those days. “Speaking of which,” I added pointedly, “we’re closing soon.”
Abe threw me a wink and cupped an ear. “Going a bit deaf, I’m afraid. I didn’t quite catch that last bit.”
I shook my head in mock despair and went upstairs. The day almost at its end.
My upstairs office was plainly furnished with some chairs and a beat-up metal desk. In the corner was a steel safe, next to some struggling houseplants. I’d tried an aquarium once but the cat had gotten up there one calamitous morning. After that, we figured one pet was enough. The back window faced out to Telegraph, and a cube of four black-and-white television monitors sat stacked on a file cabinet. I liked to know what was going on. The only decorations were framed pictures and portraits of favorite authors: Thomas Hardy, Carson McCullers, Graham Greene, Flannery O’Connor, George Eliot. I liked looking at their faces. Some people prayed, went to synagogues or mosques or churches to find support. I had my writers. Wise men and women, even long dead. I liked to think they were capable of guidance nonetheless.
I slid a couple of inches of scotch into a mug. It was almost five and there was a seven o’clock showing of Double Indemnity. I’d finish up the time log and invoice for Brenda Johnson and then take off. My favorite Chinese restaurant was a block from the theater. I looked out the window, watching people pass on Telegraph. A couple holding hands. A homeless guy pushing a shopping cart. A group of laughing undergrads. A silver Tesla pulled up and parked across the street. The vehicles were all over San Francisco and Silicon Valley, but scarcer in Berkeley. Only so many people spending $100,000 on an electric car.