Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [96]
Roger guided his razor underneath his jaw. Initially he’d hated running. He’d tried the treadmill at the gym his wife belonged to, but found that boring. Yet jogging through his neighborhood—Wilshire Vista, the upscalers called it—he had sights and sounds, and this kept him occupied. In the five years of this regime, including regular sessions with weight machines, he’d lost forty pounds. He ran a palm over his handiwork. For a man his age, his wife and girlfriend both told him amorously, he looked reasonably fit and even a little buffed.
He worked the razor on his upper lip, recalling fondly the moustache he’d also shed five, no, more like four years ago. That’s when he’d met Nanette. Finished, he toweled off the excess of lather and dabbed on aftershave, then stepped back into the bedroom.
His wife, Claudia, was up and moving about. He watched with lascivious interest as she bent over to search in her underwear drawer. Usually she wore sweats or pajama pants and a top, but this morning, this birthday, she wore only lacy purple panties.
Roger sat on the bed, picturing himself as David Niven in Raffles. “Have I mentioned how spectacular your ass is, honey?”
“You always know what to say to a woman.” She pushed him back and straddled him, nuzzling and biting his neck.
“Glad you woke me up this morning,” he said, pulling her down and kissing her full on the mouth. He was going to miss her. Yes, he certainly was.
“You didn’t do too bad for an old dog.”
“Careful, I might have to show you my double play.”
She smiled, biting her lower lip. This always got to him, even after decades of seeing it. “I’d like to, baby, but I have to hit that inventory this a.m. You know how that tight-ass Pelecanos gets.” Claudia managed a heavy-equipment rental service.
“Forget your clown boss. He couldn’t find balls in a bowling alley if it wasn’t for you.” He slipped his hand inside her panty and caressed that wondrous backside. His wife reluctantly broke free.
“Tonight we’ll have all kinds of time,” she said.
“Well, I don’t know. At my age, Lord knows, I need my rest.”
She shook a glossy purple nail at him. “You just be ready and don’t drink too much.”
He chuckled. “I won’t.” Damn, she looked good.
The phone rang. He reached for it but Claudia moved quicker and plucked the handset loose.
“Hello?” Then, “Oh, hi, sweetie.” She listened some more, glancing once or twice at her husband, frowning.
Roger languidly reposed on the bed, but a spring was winding in the base of his spine. That had to be their daughter on the phone. She attended Cal Berkeley up north. Was there some emergency? If so, what would that do to his schedule? But he had to be cool. Can’t let ’em see you sweat, he reminded himself.
“All right, honey. We’ll see you tonight.”
“Why’s she coming home?” he asked as his wife hung up. “There some problem?”
“Not really …” Claudia began.
“Not really?” he said more shrilly than he wanted. “This is the middle of the school year, Claudia.” Now what did he just tell himself? Keep it on low burn, man. Low burn. He rose, clasping his wife’s shoulders. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all tense. You know how us pensioners get mood swings.”
Claudia Crumbler-Morris looked preoccupied, fooling with a towel. “Janice’s coming home because she doesn’t have class until Monday, and wants to talk to us about something.”
Roger wondered aloud, “Dropping out?”
“Or pregnant.”
“Aw, hell no.” He began to stomp around the room. “We’re too damn young to be grandparents.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Jesus.”
Claudia chuckled. “I don’t think she’s pregnant.”
“She’s twenty and we’ve both seen how them knotheads with their pants hanging down around their cracks drool at her.”
Claudia was heading toward the shower. “She’s not attracted to those kind of boys.”
“Even boys with slide rules like a little—”
“Roger,