Lady Yesterday Read Online Free PDF Page A

of paperclips. The walls were soaked stud-deep in clients’ problems and they were all beginning to sound depressingly alike. Mr. Detective, my husband is missing. Mr. Detective, my employees are stealing me blind. Mr. Detective, my wife is missing. Mr. Detective, my daughter is marrying a man next month and so far no one knows who he is or how many wives he’s murdered. Mr. Detective, my son is missing. It was getting so I couldn’t see them for the furniture. The same pinched women sitting with their knees together and their fingernails lined up on their purses in their laps, the same middle-aged men in pinstripes and reps and something screaming behind their tired faces, the same couples grown to resemble each other at a rate identical to the rate at which they had fallen out of love, not quite hating each other yet but getting there. They all stumbled down my hole with hope in their faces and despair in their eyes, animated ore cars forced off their worn wobbly rails by the reason I was in business. Even when I was able to give them what they asked for I was never sure if I had given them what they wanted. People aren’t pencils.
    They call it burnout. They have a name for everything and it never sounds like what it is. Burning and rotting aren’t at all similar.
    I got out the typewriter and updated my report for Axel Rainey. That started me thinking about Clara, and thinking about Clara reminded me of Astaire’s steakhouse that used to be Harold’s Hotcake Hacienda and I called there. A bright feminine voice thanked me for calling and asked me to call back after noon. It told me it was a recording. Even that made it happy.
    Hanging up, I checked my watch. Ten minutes to twelve. I locked the door to the inner office and left the waiting room open and had lunch in the diner down the street, where the soup du jour tasted like yesterjour and the grilled cheese sandwich tasted like never again. When I got back Iris was in the waiting room.
    She had on a leaf-yellow blouse tied at the waist over a burlap-colored tube top and a long green skirt that when she rose from the upholstered bench turned out not to be a skirt at all, but loose flared slacks. Culottes, they’re called. Toeless shoes with cork soles. She wasn’t wearing the turban. Her hair was longer now, waving at the collar and pushed over on one side. She used to wear it cropped very close. The new style softened the Egyptian effect.
    I said, “You must be freezing.”
    “I came downtown to buy something warmer,” she said. “I’ve never been to your office before. It’s kind of like you.”
    “Old and cheap?”
    “You’re not old.”
    I dredged up a grin. “Wait till you see the rest.”
    I unlocked the inner door and held it for her without getting my arm in the way. I never could identify the scent she wore. Maybe it was just her. She looked around while I was climbing out of the outdoor gear. She’d left hers, a tan woolen coat and a yellow beret, on the bench outside. “Looks honest.”
    “I didn’t think it was that bad.” I pulled out the customer chair for her. I had unbolted it from the floor finally. Salesmen’s breath didn’t bother me nearly as much as it used to. Neither did salesmen. They didn’t have any problems to unload, just merchandise. We sat down.
    “I feel like I’m being interviewed for a job,” she said.
    “I’d use the sofa but you might suspect my intentions.”
    “Have you found out anything?”
    “Nothing to report. I’m pretty much where you were last night.”
    “Do you have to?”
    I had opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. I put it down without taking one. “I didn’t know you quit.”
    “I gave them up on the island. Couldn’t get my brand, and anything’s easy after you kick dope.”
    “I never thought you would. Not for good.”
    “Well, we won’t know I have until I don’t.”
    “Small talk.” I pointed at her purse, green satin with a bronze clasp, trapped between her hip and the arm