Free The Detective & the Pipe Girl by Michael Craven

that was a tunnel to another dimension. And then I moved my eye over to Suzanne’s building. And there she was.
    She was standing on her balcony. I did a quick count up, looked to me to be the twenty-first floor. The wind moving her hair. Up there, you could look out at the big green sea and hear it too probably. The palm trees below you, the cliffs of Malibu to the right outlined, accentuated, dotted by lights. California magic from hundreds of feet in the air. I guess that’s why you buy these places. Forget what I was saying earlier. You know about having to walk down the cliff and cross the PCH just to get to the water. I bet it was great up there.
    She was taking it all in, I could tell. Through the iron bars in her balcony I could see most of her body. I could see what she was wearing. White shorts and a light-colored T-shirt. The streetlights and the building’s lights and the moonlight silhouetted her, so instead of really seeing her I was taking the image of her face that I remembered and putting it on her way up there in the sky.
    And then a man appeared behind her. He too was in shadow, in silhouette, but I could see that he was pretty tall, and I could see the outline of a curl in his hair, and an intermittent flash of reflected light off his watch. I took my camera out and snapped a picture of both of them. I looked at the picture—you could make out Suzanne but the man behind her was nothing more than a shadowy outline. I looked back up at the balcony. Suzanne turned around to face the figure behind her. The man held out his arms, like he wanted to hug her. Or maybe he was gesticulating as he talked. Very hard to tell. And then, Suzanne walked back in the apartment. As she entered, the man put his hand gently on her back and guided her through the doorway.
    Is that why I had been dicking around down here, not getting to giving her the letter? Had the cosmos told me that someone else was up there with her? Had it been a message that had come through that orange portal in the sky? Probably not. But maybe . I asked myself: Was that Jimmy Yates Movie Star up there? Could be, again, maybe , but don’t think so. Seemed like a different guy. Different hair. The curl. But could not be sure. Could definitely not be sure.
    So, had another player entered my story? Just. Not. Sure. Was Suzanne some kind of kept woman up there in her Santa Monica pad? Or was she some kind of real professional? Man, if she was either one, Arthur Vonz definitely did not appear to know that. Then again, I didn’t know that either.
    And the other question was, the more pressing question was: Do I give her the letter anyway? Again, don’t think so. Don’t think Vonz would appreciate that. And that’s who I was working for. Shit, given the circumstances, if it was Jimmy Yates up there, or maybe another suitor, or even a friend, Suzanne probably wouldn’t appreciate it either. A letter handed to her unexpectedly from a private corner of her life, right in front of her guest. I decided to wait, and give her the letter the next day.
    I drove home.

10
    I live in Mar Vista. Just east of Venice, just inland a few miles, but still decidedly west of the 405. Decidedly Westside. It’s the perfect place, location-wise, to live in Los Angeles. I’ve thought about this. I’ve thought about this a lot. You’re almost to the beach. But on the south end of town. South of Santa Monica, Brentwood, the Palisades. All that nonsense. And, like I said, just inland from the funkiest place in the city, Venice. Just a quick drive or bike ride to Abbot Kinney, the canals, the Venice Pier. So you can easily enter that one-of-a-kind groovy scene. That scene that still has its roots in the culture of hippie, artsy seventies California. Yes, it has become trendy and full of hipsters and there’s too much irony, for sure, but it’s still good. Still has a great beach. Still has charm out the wazoo. Still a great place to grab dinner. Drink a beer, do a shot,