G is for Gumshoe Read Online Free PDF

“You have thirty seconds.”
    â€œHe’s smart. He’s funny. He’s caring. He’s competent . . .”
    â€œWhat’s he do for a living?”
    â€œHe’s a doctor . . . a family practitioner, but he’s not a workaholic. He’s really available emotionally. Honest. He’s a sweet guy, but he doesn’t take any guff.”
    â€œKeep talking.”
    â€œHe’s thirty-nine, never married, but definitely interested in commitment. He’s physically fit, doesn’t smoke or do drugs, but he’s not obnoxious about it, you know what I mean? He isn’t holier-than-thou.”
    â€œUnh-hunh, unh-hunh,” I said in a monotone. I made a rolling motion with my hand, meaning get to the point.
    â€œHe’s good-looking too. I’m serious. Like an eight and a half on a scale of one to ten. He skis, plays tennis, lifts weights . . .”
    â€œHe can’t get it up,” I said.
    â€œHe’s terrific in bed!”
    I started laughing. “What’s the deal, Vera? Is he a mouth breather? Does he tell jokes? You know I hate guys who tell jokes.”
    She shook her head. “He’s short.”
    â€œHow short?”
    â€œMaybe five four and I’m five nine.”
    I stared at her with disbelief. “So what? You’ve dated half a dozen guys who were shorter than you.”
    â€œYeah, well secretly, it always bothered me.”
    I stared at her some more. “You’re going to reject this guy because of that?”
    Her tone became defiant. “Listen, he’s terrific. He’s just not right for me. I’m not making a judgment about him. This is just a quirk of mine.”
    â€œWhat’s his name?”
    â€œNeil Hess.”
    I reached down and pulled a scrap of paper from her wastebasket. I took a pen from her desk. “Give me his number.”
    She blinked at me. “You’ll really call him?”
    â€œHey, I’m only five six. What’s a couple of inches between friends?”
    She gave me his number and I dutifully made a note, which I tucked in my handbag. “I’ll be out of town for a day, but I’ll call him when I get back.”
    â€œWell, great.”
    I got up to leave her office and paused at the door. “If I marry this guy, you have to be the flower girl.”

 
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    I bypassed my run the next morning, anxious to hit the road. I left Santa Teresa at 6:00 A.M. , my car loaded with a duffel, my portable Smith-Corona, the information about Irene Gersh’s mother, my briefcase, miscellaneous junk, and a cooler in which I’d tucked a six-pack of Diet Pepsi, a tuna sandwich, a couple of tangerines, and a Ziploc bag of Henry’s chocolate chip cookies.
    I took Highway 101 south, following the coastline past Ventura, where the road begins to cut inland. My little VW whined and strained, climbing the Camarillo grade until it reached the crest, coasting down into Thousand Oaks. By the time I reached the San Fernando Valley, it was nearly seven and rush-hour traffic had crammed the road solidly from side to side. Vehicles were changing lanes with a speed and grace that I think of as street surfing, complete with occasional wipeouts. Smog veiled the basin, blocking out the surrounding mountains so completely that unless you knew they were there, you might imagine the land to be flat as a plate.
    At North Hollywood, the 134 splits off, heading toward Pasadena, while the 101 cuts south toward downtown L.A. On a map of the area, the heart of Los Angeles looks like a small hole in the center of a loosely crocheted pink shawl that spreads across Los Angeles County, trailing into Orange County to the south. Converging freeways form a tangle, with high-rise buildings caught in the knot. I’ve never known anyone who actually had business in downtown Los Angeles. Unless you have a yen to see Union Station, Olvera Street, or