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John sat up in bed and stared at me. “Why?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Fine. It’s time for me to get up anyway.”
He dressed quickly and we were on our way to the airport about twenty minutes later. He drove, leaning forward into the steering wheel, basically opposite of the way I drove the Lunchbox, though probably just as uncomfortable.
“Could you not mention this to Ronnie?”
I could have told Ronnie I’d had a fender bender and my car was in the shop, but then he might try to take over and call our insurance agent. He was like that; always taking care of me. No, the less he knew, the better.
“Is your car having an affair?” John asked.
“No. I’m just not using it right now.”
“Did the two of you have an argument?”
“You mean me and my Jeep?”
“Of course, I mean you and your Jeep. If you had an argument with Ronnie, I’d know all about it. Junior would tell me.”
“Good to know you’re well informed.”
“Always.”
John dropped me off at the small Long Beach Airport. I told him not to wait. If I had trouble renting a car, I’d grab a cab. The airport was one of the few places in Southern California where you could get a cab without having to call first. It was not a city like Chicago or New York where you could simply step off the curb and hail a taxi. In most cases, you had to call and wait, like you would for a pizza.
Since I’d spent part of the day in the Lunchbox, I popped for a midsize car and rented a green Ford Taurus, a car that looked something like an aerodynamic frog. It had plenty of headroom though, so I was much happier.
I drove home planning to get ready and go to work at The Hawk. On the way, I realized I couldn’t go in. In fact, I couldn’t ever go in again. Hamlet Gilbody assumed I was a bartender, just as Richland Keswick had. Sooner or later, he was going to walk into The Hawk. I didn’t want to be behind the bar when he did.
After circling the neighborhood a few times, I went into my house, called the owner of The Hawk, and told her I had a stomach flu. Then I went downstairs and got a bucket from the kitchen, a book from the living room—K Is for Killer—and a bottle of Pepto Bismol from the upstairs shared bathroom. Then I set up in our bedroom to pretend to be sick for the next three days.
Ronnie got home around nine. When I told him I’d thrown up twice, he took my temperature (suspiciously normal), and ran to Ralph’s to get me ginger ale and crackers. When he got back, he asked, “Are you nauseous?”
“It comes and goes.”
“It’s strange you don’t have a fever.”
“I have a headache,” I lied, hoping that distract from my lack of a fever. “And chills.”
“Do you think you could hold down some Tylenol?”
I shook my head.
“How about an ice pack for your head?”
“I’ll be fine. Ginger ale and crackers are all I need.”
“I made an offer on the co-op. They have until end of day Monday to respond.”
“You think they’ll take it?”
“It’s not a bad offer. And they want to get rid of it.”
“So, they’ll take it?”
“Hmmmm. I think so.”
