The Devil Met a Lady Read Online Free

restaurant on Spring Street trying to seduce Carmen the cashier into a romantic nightlife of cowboy movies and hot-dog stands on the beach. When not pursuing the ample Carmen, I prowl after the even more elusive Anne Mitzenmacher, my former wife who divorced me half-a-dozen years and a few thousand busted promises ago. My brother, who’s an L.A. Police captain, has no use for me, and I have some very lonely days and some damned good ones. This Monday was a damned good one.
    If I wanted to work, which I didn’t, since I was sitting on the vast wealth I had earned from Garbo, I could have done a night house-detective stint at any of five downtown hotels. No, I was preparing to go down to Levy’s restaurant and boldly invite Carmen to join me for a few days in Lake Tahoe. Maybe she would accept. Maybe she would let me pay for a sitter so her twelve-year-old son didn’t have to join us. Maybe she would utter more than a few weary words and display something beyond complete, widemouthed indifference.
    “Have you noticed,” I told Dash, who had been nibbling at an open envelope containing an invitation to join the Vegetarian Party, “that my vocabulary has improved as a result of my association with Jeremy?”
    Dash didn’t give a rat’s tail. He kept munching.
    “The key to success is convincing the world that you went to a school east of Denver,” I told Dash.
    Dash looked up with a strip of envelope flap glued to his nose. I reached over and removed it.
    The phone rang. I picked it up.
    “Toby Peters Agency,” I said, dropping my voice a few decibels to client-confidence level. With potential clients I was a baritone, at least for the first day.
    “My name is Arthur Farnsworth,” the man said in a back-East voice that suggested a good education or a top- notch language coach. “I’ve been told you might be able to help me.”
    “Mr. Farnsworth,” I said. “I’m afraid you caught me at a bad time. I’m about to go on vacation. If your case can wait a week, I’ll be happy to talk. If it can’t, I can recommend—”
    “No,” Farnsworth shouted loud enough to make Dash look up from his tasty envelope. “This is very important and the person who recommended you said no one else would do.”
    “Look—” I began.
    “National security is involved here, Mr. Peters,” he said. “Give me five minutes of your time. I’ll come right over.”
    “No,” I said. “I’ll tell you what. I was on my way out for lunch. You know Levy’s Grill on Spring Street?”
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Can you make it in fifteen minutes?”
    “Twenty-five,” he said.
    “Twenty-five,” I agreed. “Just ask the cashier who I am.”
    I hung up the phone and didn’t bother to check the watch on my wrist. The watch had belonged to my father. I got it when he died. It was the only thing I got from him besides vague memories and a lopsided grin. The watch had refused, in the more than three decades I’d had it, to simply quit. It also refused to come close to the right time. I loved that watch. It reminded me of me.
    “You want to come with me or stay here?” I asked Dash.
    He looked up from the confettied envelope and blinked a couple of times.
    “Why don’t you come with me?” I said, picking him up. “Shelly’ll probably forget to feed you. You can eat what’s left of the upholstery in my car.”
    This seemed a good idea to Dash. At least he didn’t protest.
    The phone rang. I debated answering. I didn’t have much time to make it to Levy’s, charm Carmen, order a Levy’s Patriotic Reuben—with Kraft cheese and coleslaw instead of Swiss and sauerkraut—and be ready for Farnsworth of the East.
    I picked up the phone.
    “Mr. Peelers?” blasted the voice of my ancient landlady, Mrs. Plaut.
    I put the receiver down on the desk. There was no point in telling Mrs. Plaut that I had to hurry to meet a potential client, or even that the Farraday Building was surrounded by savage Eskimos. I had learned through hard