chicken tali, comes with rice, lentils, side vegetable, the works. The vegetable's okra. Which is usually about as appealing as snot on toast, but they do it good. Little mango chutney on the side, too.'
'Hi,' I said.
The shy woman brought a glass, poured me tea, and departed.
'Iced and spiced, lots of cloves,' he said, 'I took liberty there, too.'
'How nice to be nurtured.'
'How would I know?' He reached for a triangular pastry, muttered, 'Samosa,' and gazed at me from under heavily lidded, bright green eyes. Since Robin had moved out, I'd been trying to convince him I was okay. He claimed to believe me, but his body language said he was reserving judgment.
'No nurturance for the poor detective?' I said.
'Don't want it. Too tough.' He winked.
'How're you doing?' I said, mostly to prevent him from focusing on my mood.
'The world's falling apart but I'm fine.'
'Freelancing's still fun?'
'I wouldn't call it that.'
'What would you call it?'
'Bureaucratically sanctioned isolation. I'm not allowed to have fun.' He bared his teeth in what I knew was a smile; someone else might have taken it for hostility. I watched him toss another appetizer down his gullet and drink more tea.
Last year, he'd run afoul of the police chief before the chief retired, managed to play some cards, and ended up with a lieutenant's title and salary but not the desk job that came with promotion.
Effectively banished from the robbery-homicide room, he was given his own windowless office down the hall - a converted interrogation space, figurative miles from the other detectives. His official title was 'clearance officer' for unsolved homicide cases. Basically, that meant deciding which cold files to pursue and which to ignore. The good news was relative independence. The bad news was no built-in backup or departmental support.
Now he was working a fresh case. I figured there was a back story, and he'd tell me when he was ready.
He looked in good trim, and the clarity in his eyes suggested he'd stuck to his resolution to cut down on the booze. He'd also resolved to start walking for exercise, but the last few times I'd seen him, he'd griped about his instep.
Today, he had on a coarse, brown, herringbone sport coat way too heavy for a California spring, a once-white wash-and-wear shirt and a green polyblend tie embroidered with blue dragons. His black hair was freshly cut in the usual style: long and shaggy on top, cropped tight at the temples. Sideburns, now snow-white, reached the bottoms of his fleshy ears. He called them his skunk stripes. The restaurant's lighting was kind to his complexion, rendering some of the acne pits as craggy contours.
He said, 'The artist's name was Juliet Kipper, known as Julie. Thirty-two, divorced, a painter in oils. As they say.'
'Who says?'
'Arty types. That's the way they talk. A painter in oils, a sculptor in bronze, an etcher in drypoint. Paintings are "pictures" or "images," one "makes" art, blah blah blah. Anyway, Julie Kipper: apparently she was gifted, won a bunch of awards in college, went on for an MFA at the Rhode Island School of Design and attracted New York gallery attention soon after graduation. She sold a few canvases, seemed to be moving forward, then things tightened up, and she ran into financial problems. She
moved out here seven years ago, did commercial illustration for ad agencies to earn a living. A year ago, she got serious again about fine art, found herself gallery representation, took part in a couple of group shows, did okay. Last Saturday was her first solo show since she left New York.'
'Which gallery?'
'Place called light and Space. It's a co-operative run by a bunch of artists who use it mostly to showcase their own stuff. But they also support what they call distinctive talent, and Julie Kipper was deemed
'Hi,' I said.
The shy woman brought a glass, poured me tea, and departed.
'Iced and spiced, lots of cloves,' he said, 'I took liberty there, too.'
'How nice to be nurtured.'
'How would I know?' He reached for a triangular pastry, muttered, 'Samosa,' and gazed at me from under heavily lidded, bright green eyes. Since Robin had moved out, I'd been trying to convince him I was okay. He claimed to believe me, but his body language said he was reserving judgment.
'No nurturance for the poor detective?' I said.
'Don't want it. Too tough.' He winked.
'How're you doing?' I said, mostly to prevent him from focusing on my mood.
'The world's falling apart but I'm fine.'
'Freelancing's still fun?'
'I wouldn't call it that.'
'What would you call it?'
'Bureaucratically sanctioned isolation. I'm not allowed to have fun.' He bared his teeth in what I knew was a smile; someone else might have taken it for hostility. I watched him toss another appetizer down his gullet and drink more tea.
Last year, he'd run afoul of the police chief before the chief retired, managed to play some cards, and ended up with a lieutenant's title and salary but not the desk job that came with promotion.
Effectively banished from the robbery-homicide room, he was given his own windowless office down the hall - a converted interrogation space, figurative miles from the other detectives. His official title was 'clearance officer' for unsolved homicide cases. Basically, that meant deciding which cold files to pursue and which to ignore. The good news was relative independence. The bad news was no built-in backup or departmental support.
Now he was working a fresh case. I figured there was a back story, and he'd tell me when he was ready.
He looked in good trim, and the clarity in his eyes suggested he'd stuck to his resolution to cut down on the booze. He'd also resolved to start walking for exercise, but the last few times I'd seen him, he'd griped about his instep.
Today, he had on a coarse, brown, herringbone sport coat way too heavy for a California spring, a once-white wash-and-wear shirt and a green polyblend tie embroidered with blue dragons. His black hair was freshly cut in the usual style: long and shaggy on top, cropped tight at the temples. Sideburns, now snow-white, reached the bottoms of his fleshy ears. He called them his skunk stripes. The restaurant's lighting was kind to his complexion, rendering some of the acne pits as craggy contours.
He said, 'The artist's name was Juliet Kipper, known as Julie. Thirty-two, divorced, a painter in oils. As they say.'
'Who says?'
'Arty types. That's the way they talk. A painter in oils, a sculptor in bronze, an etcher in drypoint. Paintings are "pictures" or "images," one "makes" art, blah blah blah. Anyway, Julie Kipper: apparently she was gifted, won a bunch of awards in college, went on for an MFA at the Rhode Island School of Design and attracted New York gallery attention soon after graduation. She sold a few canvases, seemed to be moving forward, then things tightened up, and she ran into financial problems. She
moved out here seven years ago, did commercial illustration for ad agencies to earn a living. A year ago, she got serious again about fine art, found herself gallery representation, took part in a couple of group shows, did okay. Last Saturday was her first solo show since she left New York.'
'Which gallery?'
'Place called light and Space. It's a co-operative run by a bunch of artists who use it mostly to showcase their own stuff. But they also support what they call distinctive talent, and Julie Kipper was deemed
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