“And his name was Silk? As in the fabric?”
“That’s what I heard. Why, doctor, is something wrong ?”
“He didn’t say anything, just laughed.”
“Well that’s kind of crazy, but that’s your business, isn’t it, doctor?”
Evelyn Rodriguez answered on the first ring. When she heard my voice, hers went dead.
“How’s everything?” I said.
“Fine.”
“I know it’s a hassle for you, but I would like to see the girls.”
“Yeah, it’s a hassle,” she said. “Driving all the way out there.”
“How about if I come out to you?”
No answer.
“Mrs. Rodriguez?”
“You’d do that?”
“I would.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch, I’d just like to make this whole thing as easy as possible for you.”
“Why?”
To show Donald Dell Wallace I can’t be intimidated. “To help the girls.”
“Uh-huh. .. they’re paying for your time, right? His. ..
bunch a heathens.”
“The judge made Donald Dell responsible for the costs of the evaluation, Mrs. Rodriguez, but as we talked about the first time, that doesn’t obligate me to him in any way.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Has that been a problem for you?” I said. “The fact that he’s paying?”
She said nothing for a moment, then: “Bet you’re charging plenty.”
“I’m charging my usual fee,” I said, realizing I sounded like a Watergate witness.
“Bet it includes your driving time and all. Door to door, just like the lawyers.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Good,” she said, stretching the word. “Then you can drive instead of medrive slow. Keep your meter running and make them devils pay.”
Angry laughter.
I said, “When can I come out?”
“How’bout right now? They’re running around like wild Injuns, maybe you can settle em down. How about you drive out here right this minute and see em?
You ready for that?”
“I can probably be there in forty-five minutes.”
“Whenever. We’ll be right here. We’re not taking any vacations to Honolulu.”
She hung up before I could ask for directions. I looked up her address in my case file the ten thousand block of McVine Terrace in Sunland-and matched it to my Thomas map. Setting the dog up with water, food, and a bone, I left, not at all unhappy about running up the Iron Priests’ tab.
The 405 freeway deposited me in a scramble of northbound traffic just beginning to clot, facing hills so smogged they were no more than shrouded, gray lumps on the horizon. I did the L.A. stop-and-go boogie for a while, listening to music and trying to be patient, finally made it to the 118 east, then the 210, and cruised into the high desert northeast of the city, picking up speed as both the road and the air got clearer.
Exiting at Sunland, I hooked north again and got onto a commercial stretch of Foothill Boulevard that ran parallel to the mountains: auto parts barns, body shops, unfinished furniture outlets, and more roofers than I’d ever seen in one area.
1 spotted McVine a few minutes later and turned left. The street was narrow, with grass growing down to the curb instead of sidewalks, and planted haphazardly with eucalyptus and willow. The curb grass was dry and yellow.
The houses behind it were small and low, some of them no more than trailers on raised foundations.
The Rodriguez residence was on a northwest corner, a boxcar of mocha stucco with a gutterless, black composition roof and a flat, porchless face broken by three metal-sashed windows. One of the windows was blocked by a tilting sheet of lattice. The squares were broken in spots, warped in others, and a few dead branches wormed around them. A high, pink block wall enveloped the rear of the property.
I got out and walked up a hardpack lawn stippled with blemishlike patches of some sort of low-growing succulent and split by a foot-worn rut. Evelyn’s plum-colored Chevy was parked to the left of the pathway, next to a red halfton pickup with two stickers on the bumper.
One sang the praises of the Raiders, the other dared me to keep kids off drugs. A stick-on sign on the door said R AND R MASONRY.
I pressed the bell and a wasp-buzz sounded. A woman opened the door and looked at me through the smoke vining upward from a freshly lit Virginia Slim.