When I shifted into a confessional mode, Basko would scrunch up his brow and cock his head; my cue to shut up was one of his gigantic mouth-stretching yawns. When he started dozing, I carried him upstairs and tucked him in. A little Velveeta and brandy, a little goodnight story–Basko seemed to enjoy accounts of my sexual exploits best. And he always fell asleep just as I began to exaggerate.
I could never sync my sleep to Basko’s: his warm presence got me hopped up, thinking of all the good deals I’d blown, thinking that he was only good for another ten years on earth and then I’d be fifty-one with no good buddy to look after and no pot to piss in. Prowling the pad buttressed my sense that this incredible gravy train was tangible and would last–so I prowled with a vengeance.
Sol Bendish dressed antithetical to his Vegas-style crib: tweedy sports jackets, slacks with cuffs, Oxford cloth shirts, wingtips and white bucks. He left three closets stuffed with Ivy League threads just about my size. While my canine charge slept, I transformed myself into his sartorial image. Jewboy Klein became Jewboy Bendish, wealthy contributor to the U.J.A., the man with the class to love a dog of supreme blunt efficacy. I’d stand before the mirror in Bendish’s clothes–and my years as a pimp, burglar, car thief and scam artist would melt away–replaced by a thrilling and fatuous notion: finding _the_ woman to compliment my new persona. . . .
* * *
I attacked the next day.
Primping formed my prelude to courtship: I gave Basko a flea dip, brushed his coat and dressed him in his best spiked collar; I put on a spiffy Bendish ensemble: navy blazer, gray flannels, pink shirt and penny loafers. Thus armed, we stood at Sunset and Linden and waited for the Labrador woman to show.
She showed right on time; the canine contingent sniffed each other hello. The woman deadpanned the action; I eyeballed her while Basko tugged at his leash.
She had the freckled look of a rare jungle cat–maybe a leopard/snow tiger hybrid indigenous to some jungleland of love. Her red hair reflected sunlight and glistened gold–a lioness’s mane. Her shape was both curvy and svelte; I remembered that some female felines actually stalked for mates: She said, “Are you a professional dog walker?”
I checked my new persona for dents. My slacks were a tad too short; the ends of my necktie hung off kilter. I felt myself blushing and heard Basko’s paws scrabbling on the sidewalk. “No, I’m what you might want to call an entrepreneur. Why do you ask?”
“Because I used to see an older man walking this dog. I think he’s some sort of organized crime figure.”
Basko and the Lab were into a mating dance–sniffing, licking, nipping. I got the feeling Cat Woman was stalking me–and not for love. I said, “He’s dead. I’m handling his estate.”
One eyebrow twitched and flickered. “Oh? Are you an attorney?”
“No, I’m working for the man’s attorney.”
“So! Bendish was the man’s name, wasn’t it?”
My shit detector clicked into high gear–this bimbo was pumping me. “That’s right, Miss?”
“It’s Ms. Gail Curtiz, that’s with a T, I, Z. And it’s Mr.?”
“Klein with an E, I, N. My dog likes your dog, don’t you think?”
“Yes, a disposition of the glands.”
“I empathize. Want to have dinner some time?”
“I think not.”
“I’ll try again then.”
“The answer won’t change. Do you do other work for the Bendish estate? Besides walk the man’s dog, I mean.”
“I look after the house. Come over some time. Bring your Lab, we’ll double.”
“Do you thrive on rejections, Mr. Klein?”
Basko was trying to hump the Lab–but no go. “Yeah, I do.”
“Well, until the next one, then. Good day.”
* * *
The brief encounter was Weirdsville, U.S.A.–especially Cat Woman’s Strangeville take on Sol Bendish. I dropped Basko off at the pad, drove to the Beverly Hills library and had a clerk run my dead benefactor through their information computer. Half an hour later I was reading a lapful of scoop on the man.
An interesting dude emerged.