TCOT Absurd Assumption C9
Decent public telephones were becoming harder and harder to find as car phones, those new phones in a bag and even 'mobile' phones proliferated, and Perry had to drive several blocks before finding a phone attached to a pole at the far end of a filling station lot.
Tragg picked up after three rings this time, obviously in no hurry to answer a call from a number identified as a public service station phone. "Is that you, Mason?"
"Yes, it's me. I told you I didn't want Della to know about this. I told her I needed to run an errand and I'm calling from a public telephone, so I'd appreciate a quick report."
"Soon there won't be a need for public telephones," Tragg opined. "My company is testing a new…"
"Tragg, I haven't much time. I really do have a couple errands to run. I left Della alone, and she doesn't like being left alone. Have you found Paul?"
"As a matter of fact, I have. And he wasn't in Vegas. He's been in Los Angeles the whole time."
"You have got to be kidding me," Perry seethed through gritted teeth.
"Would I kid you? He's been sitting in with the band at a joint called the Jazz Spot a couple nights a week. Mildreth and I went there once. Didn't like it. Has no edge and the crowd is too young to appreciate good music. All they want to hear is that watered down easy listening crap. Chuck Mangione," he snorted.
"We can get together and discuss music after Della is acquitted," Perry said sharply, his patience worn thin by lack of sleep, his conversation with Robin Calhoun, disappointment in his best friend's son, and being so close to Della but still so far away from her. "Thank you for finding Junior. He doesn't know he was hunted down, does he?"
"Hell no. I'm a professional, and I only twist the arms of other professionals to do me favors. You aren't going to cause a scene are you?"
"No, I'll go the subtle route and shame the boy."
"The first set is at nine. Would you like back-up? I'd be more than happy –"
"No, thank you, Arthur. I appreciate what you've done already, but this is one of those things I have to do myself, whether I like it or not. What's the address of this club?"
With the address of the Jazz Spot scribbled in his notebook and an appointment to have Tragg's security firm install an alarm system in Della's house in the next couple days, Perry pulled away from the service station telephone, his face granite hard.
Della regarded the little plastic box skeptically. "I don't know about this," she said uncertainly, brow puckered in dubious concern. "Can't we just hire Gertie to answer my phone for a few days?"
The security system Perry arranged with Tragg to have installed she accepted without much protest, but a silly little answering machine she was objecting to? Perry could never have predicted it this way.
Perry glanced up at her, phone cord held in his hand, preparing to plug it into the answering machine. "The salesman at the store said this is the easiest model to use. Everyone has an answering machine nowadays, even an old fuddy duddy like me. I can't believe you don't already have one. You love new gadgets. I almost went cross-eyed with all the waxing rhapsodic about the computer Gordon gave you." And while he was thinking about it, what kind of a boss gave an employee a computer to work at home? Wasn't it enough that she worked fifty hours a week at the office as well as at the estate? Did she really need to bring work home with her? But he had no right to complain about the hours she worked for Gordon Industries. How many times had he kept her going for twenty-four, thirty-six, even forty-eight hours without much more than a couple bathroom breaks and a sandwich?
"I don't know," she repeated, even more doubtfully than previously. "A home answering machine seems…intrusive somehow."
"Intrusive?"
"Maybe that's not the correct word for it, but when you have an answering machine you can't ignore those calls you want to ignore."
He snapped the cord into the designated slot and then into the phone jack. "Della, answering machines were specifically designed so calls could be ignored."
"I thought they were designed so that one would know who wants to talk to one, thereby creating a deep sense of obligation for one to call Aunt Hortense back to hear all about her bunion surgery. There is no hiding when someone leaves a message."
"What are you talking about? You've never ignored a ringing phone in your life, no matter what you say, which is why it's been unplugged for two days, and why an answering machine is such a good idea right now. Hand me the phone, will you?" Will you ignore my calls now?
She handed the telephone to him. "I didn't answer the telephone when we were, um, cavorting."
"That's a good euphemism for it."
"Thank you. Roget published a new thesaurus."
Perry tried not to laugh, which resulted in a snort. "You know you did..."
"I most certainly did not…"
"Then explain the question Junior asked his mother about…"
Della held up her hand. "Don't say it." She watched him plug a second phone cord into the answering machine and then into the telephone. "Now that you mention it, maybe Junior did get an earful once or twice because someone refused to put the cavorting on hold." Something the boy overheard and let slip to his mother had resulted in Paul Sr. being dragged back to family court to defend his joint custody rights. That had been difficult to explain to their aggrieved friend.
Perry snickered. "And Senior tried to be indignant with us for exposing his young son to…what did he call it?"
Della grinned. "Indecent, immoral, and inappropriate behavior." Then the former Myrtle Lamar* had been caught participating in such behavior with a man she eventually ran away with, and the petition with the Family Court had been dropped, quickly, and with a stunning outcome.
"Ah, those were the days."
Della snuck a glance at him beneath lowered lashes, but he was concentrating on coiling the extra cord length, securing the coil with twist ties, and tucking the coil against the side of the desk.
Perry lifted the receiver, listened for the dial tone, and nodded with satisfaction. "Now all you have to do is record an outgoing message and you'll be set." He popped the tiny cassette into the receptacle and snapped the lid shut.
"Chief will pull those cords out and chew through them in a minute flat," Della told him. Cats knew instantly when there was something new in a room and it was their nature to investigate thoroughly, which loosely translated meant they played with ab-so-lute-ly everything. "Also, they're unattractive."
"They're against the wall and will do for now until we find something better to disguise them," Perry retorted. "Would you rather have the cords tangled and lying on the floor?"
"As long as you're finally asking, I'd rather not have the cords at all."
"Della, people are worried about you and want to know how you are. We'll set the machine to pick up calls on the first ring, and you can return messages when you have time. By the way, did you call your family like a good girl while I was gone?"
"I did. I talked to Henny, who insists she and Carter will be here for the preliminary hearing no matter when it's scheduled for. I called Aunt Mae, but she was out of town and Betty couldn't get her to come to the phone."
"Where did she go today?"
"Baltimore."
Perry leaned against the desk, one hand lying flat on the blotter to prop himself. "Did she take anyone with her?"
Della shook her head. "No. She told Betty she was going to visit an old friend who had a small house that could only accommodate one guest. That would be her friend Miriam, who lived in Baltimore forty years ago."
Perry chuckled softly, both amused and saddened by Della's little story about Mae Kirby.
Della's aunt, seventy-nine years old and slipping deeper into dementia with each passing year, had been ensconced in a top-notch assisted living facility that specialized in caring for those who were strong of body but weak of mind. One of the quirks of what the phenomenal staff referred to as her 'funks' was that Mae hallucinated that she travelled to cities around the world, usually with companions conjured up from her past that seemed more real to her than those who were alive and present. They laughed about her trips, but only to mask the fear about Mae's eventual loss of all cognitive function.
The first symptom to occur was seeing shapes and colors before her eyes and her ophthalmologist changed her corrective prescription. Then came confusion and anxiety about everyday tasks such as bathing, eating, and dressing. She left food to rot in the refrigerator and didn't eat for days, wore layers of clothing because she thought she hadn't dressed, and applied make-up so heavily she looked like a trollop, according to her friend Caroline. When she had four fender-benders during a single drive to the grocery store, Della and Perry made an appointment with the best neurologist in the country, who immediately noticed a slightly stooped appearance and subtle foot shuffling and ordered a battery of tests. The probable diagnosis of Lewy Body Dementia had been devastating to them both, and they had immediately hired practical nurses to spend twenty-four hours a day with her, making sure that she ate and dressed properly, didn't harm herself, and could continue to live as normal a life as possible. Four years ago they had made the difficult decision to sell her Bolero Beach home and move her to Los Angeles to be closer to Della. Because she refused to live in Della's house and actually became quite violent in that refusal, Perry used his considerable influence to have her admitted to the highly regarded facility where she resided alongside former movies stars, directors, musicians, and executives from all types of professions suffering similar losses of their cognitive abilities. She thought it was an apartment building and that she still lived independently, and no one told her differently.
"She's been going out of town more and more lately," Perry said quietly.
"Dr. Carlson thinks it might be less than a year before she won't recognize anyone at all. The physical decline will intensify at that point." The life expectancy for Lewy body dementia was an average of seven years, and it terrified Della that her aunt's symptoms had first been noticed six years ago.
"When I saw her last month she thought I was Caroline's husband for an hour. Then all of a sudden she called me by my name and wanted to know if I'd overturned any interesting cases lately."
Tears glistened in Della's eyes as her hand covered his lightly. She tried to say something, bit her lip and lowered her gaze. She knew he had continued to visit Aunt Mae after they separated, because Betty, the nurse primarily responsible for Mae's care, was not embarrassed to admit she thought Perry Mason hung the moon and kept her up-to-date on his comings and goings, often much to her chagrin. But she was touched to the core that he cared so much about her Aunt Mae.
Perry leaned forward and cupped her chin with his other hand. Della resisted the gentle pressure of his fingers for a moment before finally looking up at him. "I love her too, and I'm going to spend time with her no matter if she knows who I am or not, even if you and I are no longer together."
"Thank you," she said quietly. "She tells me about your visits sometimes. Did you know you went to London with her last month?"
Perry chuckled. "We no doubt had a great time. Did you know she met your mother at the Taj Mahal?"
Della raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Really? She hasn't mentioned that woman to me in years."
"Does anyone know where Eve is?"
Della shook her head. "No one has heard a peep from her since a few months after Father died. Carter thinks she might be in California, though. She talked about looking up old friends in Fresno several times before she disappeared."
"Paul could check into her whereabouts for you."
"Why would I want to know where that woman is?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe to give her an update on her only sister's condition and let her know about her only daughter's predicament?"
"If she wanted to know, she could have contacted us. And if she's in California she could hardly miss hearing about my predicament." Della dismissed Eve Sherwood Street Akers Wyman Street with an ambivalence reserved only for the woman who was her mother. "If she's in California…" she repeated, and left the thought unfinished.
She'd said enough for Perry. "I get now why you're fighting me on this answering machine. If Eve calls and leaves a message, you'll feel obligated to call her back." And if Eve didn't call, Perry knew he'd be dealing with a completely different reaction from Della.
"I'll make a deal with you. If she calls, you call her back. I had to talk with Bart today."
Perry couldn't help but grin. "I'll take that deal. How is Bartholomew?"
"Disappointed in his baby brother."
"Oh hell, Della. He shouldn't have made this about me stepping down from the bench."
"He thinks you could have taken a leave of some sort to defend me and then gone right back to being a judge." She fingered the buttons on the answering machine with the hand that wasn't still resting lightly on his, her gaze lowered once again. "Could you have done that?"
"No." Perry sat down in the desk chair that had once been his, and still conformed perfectly to his body. "If you're asking would I have done that had the option existed, the answer is still no."
"So all I had to do to get you to come home was commit murder?"
Perry regarded her soberly, willing her to look him in the eye. Avoiding eye contact with him was the cataclysmic change in her behavior he should have detected sooner than ten seconds before she detonated the explosion that decimated his entire life. He had been blissfully unaware that anything was wrong, that he was anything but the love of her life, and when she admitted her involvement with Bryce Hummel she wouldn't – or couldn't – look at him.
Before he could form a response that wouldn't take them too many steps back in civility and with barely enough time to adopt a more neutral expression, Della lifted those miraculously temperamental eyes, deeply green and misty. "I'm sorry, Perry. That was a very bad joke."
He turned his hand beneath hers, interlacing his fingers with hers, locking their gazes. "Della…"
The telephone, which they had both forgotten, jangled, and Della squeezed his fingers fleetingly before withdrawing her hand.
If Perry and Della had kept score how many times in the past two days they had been interrupted by telephones, doorbells, or well-meaning friends and relatives appearing out of nowhere just as something potentially earth-shattering was about to occur between them they could have become discouraged. Instead, they did what they had always been able to do no matter how dire the situation was: they laughed.
The Jazz Spot was everything horrible about clubs nowadays: trying too hard to be hip by falsely creating a seedy ambiance the truly great clubs had achieved naturally over time, like a fine patina. Those older clubs were cool because they simply were cool. The Jazz Spot was cool because an advertising firm put up a billboard saying it was cool, in letters four feet high, and therefore the young crowd, in search of the newest 'in' place, flocked to it for insipid music, overpriced drinks, and unremarkable snack food.
Perry Mason had selected a table toward the back of the club, at the end of the bar, hardly hidden, but as inconspicuous as possible given the limited selection of available tables, and his size in relation to those tables. The club was poorly lit and enshrouded in a fog of cigarette smoke swirling lethargically above men wearing ghastly pleated slacks in pastel colors with sweaters knotted around their necks, and women wearing long shapeless skirts and matching shapeless blazers with ridiculous puffy shoulder pads. Fifty years ago shoulder pads had been the fashion rage, but the style had been crisper, more tailored, waists defined, hips either disguised or enhanced with flirty peplums. Perry thought every woman in the club looked lumpy and uncomfortable wearing what resembled two pillows glued to their shoulders – nearly as uncomfortable as those who chose a more casual wardrobe of head-to-toe washed-out denim or layers of tulle over shiny tights that ended at their knees. He ordered a double bourbon on the rocks to congratulate himself for knowing what tulle was, tipped the waitress to give a message to the saxophone player, and contributed to the bluish haze with two cigarettes smoked in quick succession as the band finished their set, reminiscing fondly about Joan Crawford and those powerfully sexy shoulder pads that could have put an eye out.
The last song in the set featured a saxophone solo, and Perry couldn't help but be impressed by Junior's talent, even if the tune was merely a light jazz reworking of a popular song currently being played on the radio. Tragg's disdain for the club became clear. It took more than syncopated phrasing and a random saxophone lick to satisfy a true jazz aficionado. Paul had heard enough good music growing up to know that what he was playing was substandard at best, no matter how well he played it, which made Perry wonder why playing such tripe 'cleared' the boy's head.
Perry quickly extinguished a partially smoked third cigarette when he saw Paul jump down from the stage, and follow the direction in which the handsomely compensated waitress pointed. Perry knew Paul recognized him even in the dense dimness, and after a moment of trepidation that the boy would turn heel and flee, relaxed when his best friend's and treasured colleague's son hurried through the crowded club toward him.
Paul approached the table at which Perry Mason sat, and extended his hand when he was still four feet away. Without standing, Perry took Paul's hand and shook it, chagrinned that the boy would so blatantly telegraph the distance that had grown between them. Paul Drake Jr. pulled out a chair and sat down facing the man who had been a constant presence in his life until eight years ago, just when he'd needed him most.
"Perry."
"Paul. Good to see you."
"Good to see you, too. And in case you're here to lecture me, I've been calling and calling and Della never answered. I finally talked to her right before the set began."
"You were too busy to drive to her house and check on her? She was worried about you when she should have been worrying about other things." They had eaten dinner together at a restaurant not too far from Della's house and then he had once again left her perturbed and alone.
Paul pushed up the sleeves of his loosely knit sweater, folded his arms across his chest and regarded Perry Mason with glittering eyes. "Actually, I was busy. And I knew you were with her."
Perry was quite taken aback by the hostility he saw in Paul's eyes. "I am glad you finally spoke to her."
"She sounded good. How is she really?"
"As she sounds."
"You know she means the world to me, and I'll do everything I can to help her. She said you wanted to hire me to work on the case."
"No," Perry denied slowly, carefully. "She wants me to hire you. I'm still on the fence." He took a sip of his drink. "Do you play here often?"
"A couple of nights a week. It helps to blow off steam. And I make the band sound good." He flashed a roguish smile.
"I didn't realize you still played." Della had more than likely told him, many times, he just couldn't recall. When had he stopped hearing what she said about the boy? About everything?
"It clears my head."
"Someone told me that. What about the agency?"
"It's still there."
"How many operatives do you have?"
"One."
"One beside yourself?"
"No, just one. Me."
"What happened to all the others?"
"I reduced my overhead. I'm doing okay."
"You think you can be a private investigator and a musician?"
"Why not? You're a judge and a jackass."
Perry swirled the ice in his glass with one long finger. "Well, I've fallen off that fence."
"I'm working on Della's case whether you like it or not, Perry. Della wants me to." Paul jutted his father's strong chin forward defiantly.
"I'm not so sure you're qualified to work on such an important case. How is your novel coming?"
"About halfway done. Give or take a chapter."
"You've been saying that for two years." He did remember something Della had told him.
"Perry, I know you don't approve of how I live my life, and I certainly don't approve of how you've been living yours the past few years, but I'm willing to look past that because no PI but me is going to work on Della's case. You got that?"
Perry stood abruptly and stared down at the young man he and Della had more than a little involvement in raising, lips pursed, eyes steely. "I got it. You're willing to look past what you have no knowledge of and no business talking about."
Paul jumped out of his chair and stood toe-to-toe with Perry Mason, cheeks flushed, eyes brittle and bright. "What I do isn't your business, either. Just because you're a judge doesn't give you the right to judge me."
"No, being your father's best friend, your ersatz uncle, and attorney for the woman you claim means the world to you gives me that right. You want me to respect you, Paul, but I can't respect you if you don't respect yourself." He pushed past Paul and strode toward the exit.
Perry was in the rented convertible and pulling out of the alleyway parking space when Paul caught up with him. The young man jumped into the passenger seat without opening the door, leaned over, and turned off the ignition. Perry shifted in the seat toward Paul. He had expected the boy to follow him after thinking things over.
"I'm working this case, Perry, for Della. You can hire a million investigators but not one of them will do as good a job as I will, because they don't love her the way I do. I'm a good investigator. And I have connections in LA that you don't. I've already talked to a contact of mine on the force and I think I can get into the property room and sneak a look at the evidence."
"I still have enough connections to get Della out on unconditional bail for a capital crime."
"Damn it!" Paul exploded. "I'm not talking about old cronies in the District Attorney's office who remember who you used to be. I'm talking about in the police department and on the street. Things are different than when you pretended to be a detective back in the day."
"I think my record speaks for how well I pretended. I also surrounded myself with people who were the absolute best at what they did. What have you got to show for yourself? A one-man detective agency, a half-finished novel, and a beat up saxophone are all I can see. I need an experienced investigator, Paul. Not an investigator-slash-musician-slash-novelist. This is Della's life we're talking about."
"Perry, I am an experienced investigator. I know what I'm doing."
"Paul," Perry sighed the name, "I've known you practically all your life. I know you're smart and would do your best, but I don't know if you're ready to take on a case like this."
"I'm working this case," Paul said through gritted teeth, very low, very firm. "Don't you dare tell me I can't help Della."
Perry Mason regarded the young man seated next to him. It was eerie sometimes how much he resembled his father. He made another snap decision. "Okay, I may quickly regret this, and you have a lot to live up to, but you're hired. Meet me and Della at your office tomorrow morning at eleven sharp."
Paul Drake, Jr. exited the car in a more traditional way than he entered and closed the door with an emphatic bang. "You won't regret hiring me, Perry. I'll work myself to death so that Della is acquitted."
Perry couldn't help but smile now. "I hope it won't come to that, but Della will appreciate the sentiment. Tomorrow at eleven, not a moment later."
If Perry hadn't been preoccupied with thoughts of his old friend Paul Drake and his quick, unexpected passing, he might have noticed the vehicle that materialized from the opposite end of the alley and nearly flattened the 'child' that had both deepened their friendship and inexorably pushed them apart.
*Refer to the novel TCOT Daring Decoy for a MUCH different take on Myrtle Lamar than the show.