Lauren and Paul or just Paul? There was only one way to find out—and it wasn’t through confronting Lauren while she was spending the night with Lou. But I’d run out of kid gloves and all my passivity. The weeks of emotional flip-flops had come down to right now. Lauren and Paul or just Paul. I was sick of maybes.

Vivian Rowe’s apartment was located in what the billboard proudly dubbed a Senior Citizen Housing Community. The project resembled any other townhouse complex, though the grounds were shabby and bathed in yellow crime lights. The sign had neglected to add “Low Income” to its proclamation.

It took two impatient drive-arounds through the sprawling low-rise community before I located Vivian’s vinyl clapboard two-story. At least I’d remembered to bring my list of addresses along with the gun.

But when I pulled to a stop it looked as if I’d have no use for either. Vivian lived on the ground floor and the apartment appeared pitch black. Maybe Anne had it wrong—or maybe Paul had already left for home.

I quickly toked off a joint before I decided to wake the old lady. And was relieved to hear a gravel voiced invite when I rang her doorbell.

I stopped as soon as I entered her apartment, my eyes struggling to adjust to the strange light. Vivian lived in a studio with only a freestanding screen separating her sloppy bedroom and sloppier living area. A half dozen end tables were scattered through the larger section, all of them loaded with framed black-and-whites of the same woman. The “bedroom” had mounds of clothes strewn about, as if different ensembles had been tried and rejected. When my eyes grew accustomed to the crime light’s yellow stripes filtering through the Venetian blinds, I saw that all the walls were decorated with photographs. The pictures presented Vivian from early childhood to her mid-thirties. There were none of anyone else.

Shunted off in a corner of the living area sat a tired, twelve inch TV. If, as Anne claimed, Paul came here to watch television, it wasn’t for his viewing pleasure. In any event, he wasn’t watching now.

“Why you’re not Paulie,” Vivian said without surprise or fear from the shadows next to the Formica table. “Much, much too big. Paulie doesn’t take up that much space,” she said, sounding delighted.

“I’m Matt Jacob, Mrs. Rowe. We met at Lauren’s party a couple weeks ago. I’m Lou’s son-in-law.”

“Come closer, boy, so I can see how that large body moves.”

The squat figure sitting just outside the small stripes of light made a noise that sounded like a throaty purr. “It’s turned into quite an evening, two men calling.”

Vivian paused to catch her breath. “I said come closer,” she ordered. “I simply will not wear glasses when a gentleman visits.”

Vivian didn’t bother with too many clothes when a gentleman came calling either. She sat on a red padded kitchen chair dressed only in a gigantic black underwired bra and a frayed black half-slip. Her wrinkled stomach protruded and her button winked a greeting. Regrettably, she made no move to cover herself. Didn’t matter, I found myself staring at her hair which hung halfway to the kitchen floor. Apparently, Vivian liked trying out different colors on different sections. Maybe she was trying to keep up with today’s styles, an eyebrow or belly ring next on the list.

The gray-flecked table was crowded with a pack of Lucky Strikes, a deep ashtray full of bright red, lipstick stained butts, a really old table radio, an assortment of hairbrushes, and cigarette scorch marks. I also noticed a half empty gin bottle and two drinking glasses—one half full, the other dry and empty.

Vivian held a freshly lit Lucky in one hand and a long-handled mirror in the other. She was clearly torn between me and the mirror. “You’re here early,” she accused. “Well, there’s not much I can do about it now. Pull up a chair, but don’t even think about naughty before we go out. This is one lady you have to feed.”

Vivian put down the mirror, stubbed out her smoke, and reached for one of the brushes. “I have to finish with my hair.”

I suddenly remembered Vivian’s problems with reality when she didn’t eat her meds. Paul’s absence and Vivian’s half deck slashed any hope for a quick conclusion. Fuck it, bye and back to the car.

But before I made my excuse, she spoke in a completely different rhythm. “So you’re Lou’s son, are you? I’ve a lot to say about that scoundrel father of yours. Be a good boy and hand me that robe?”

So much for an easy out. Vivian took the aged terrycloth, though instead of slipping it on, she placed it carefully beside her and went back to brushing her wild hair. “I’m too tired to move,” she complained. “Should be asleep but Paulie is going to need me.” Vivian’s hand fumbled as she placed a new, unlit cigarette between her painted lips.

“Light?” I asked, leaning toward her, forcing myself to look at her garish face while I lit her smoke. Tilting back in my seat I lit one of my own.

“A real gentleman you are. Too bad your father isn’t more like his son.”

“Actually my father-in-law is the real gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t steal another man’s wife or filch his property.”

Vivian puffed hard on her filter-less smoke, every so often spitting tiny shreds of tobacco behind her hand. “At least these have some goddamn taste,” she said, the earlier singsong springing back. “But they burn your tongue and force you to act unladylike. That’s why I rarely smoke outside.”

She finished the gin in her glass. “You might have offered to pour some more,” she accused, then softened. “I suppose if you’re sitting here while I’m half naked, we’re past polite.”

Vivian took a deep drink, staring at me as though I was out of focus. “Were we good together?” She suddenly grabbed the mirror and watched herself slowly, sensually, French inhale.

I glanced at the nearest wall. It was almost impossible to believe this bat shit crazy lady with her multi-colored hair had ever been that young, attractive child and woman.

“You never answered me,” Vivian said, the cigarette out and the mirror back down on the table.

“You were telling me about Paul,” I said.

“No, I was bitching about your father. Don’t worry, I don’t blame sins of the father on the son. Or, as I tell Paulie, sins of the daughter on her mother. I’ll never understand why he hangs on so.”

“Lauren and Paul are separated,” I said quickly. If I peppered, maybe I could keep her eyes away from the fucking mirror.

“Paulie thinks my daughter will come to her senses.”

Vivian snorted, her voice rising. “That child has never been sensible about anything! She’s tormented me my entire life, cock-teased a good man into marrying her, then destroyed their lives. Destroyed their children.”

Vivian frowned into her drink. “Let her blame me all she wants, I never had her advantages. I never had a father for my child, someone to work for me while I sat on my ass.”

Vivian lifted the mirror and jerked it harshly as if trying to shake her ghastly reflection into a different image. “The past is the past, that’s what I tell him. But he just won’t listen. Well, tonight I think he’ll listen.”

“Tonight?” I asked, flashing on Lauren’s odd mood during our last discussion about her family.

Vivian smiled sadly, “I’ll be here for him to cry on. Where else can he go? Who else can he talk to? That mousy live-in will just get angry.”

I was listening to the drunken ravings of a crazy old lady, but was Vivian’s madness hers alone? “Do you expect Paul tonight? It’s pretty late.”

“Not too late for you to be here, is it?” Vivian’s smile deepened her powdered and rouged wrinkles. “Paulie thinks everything will turn out the way he wants. But I know better, I always have.”

Sometimes the shortest distance between two points has little to do with straight lines.“Lauren’s relationship with Lou must have hit him pretty hard,” I said calmly, fighting a fresh rush of concern. Lauren and Paul were rapidly turning into just Paul. Some fucking Sherlock. Watson wasn’t gonna write this one up. I instinctively reached for the nearby gin bottle, caressed it with my fingers, then jerked my hand away. No need to compound my stupidity.

“Lauren brushed him aside like so much garbage.” Vivian was watching herself blow thick smoke rings. “I always drove men crazy, but I was never mean. I let them down gently.”

I didn’t want to hear about her men. “Has Paul been spying on Lauren?”

Vivian dropped the mirror onto the table and yanked at her patchwork hair. “He’s been protecting her. They’re only separated, that’s all. She had no business falling in love with your father. The man is so old he’s half dead.” Vivian was almost panting. “After everything she’s done to him, Paulie still wants her back.”

“Paul believes that Lauren will go back to him after all this time?”

“I’ve kept Lauren’s father waiting a helluva lot longer,” Vivian cackled, stroking then lifting the mirror. “There’s been nights I almost let him return, but I’m strong. Paulie is different, a kind and forgiving man. Joe Rowe would as soon slap your face than listen to you.” She stared into the chipped glass, “To love is to forgive, to hate is to remember.”

“You think Paul and Lauren are meeting tonight?” I asked, my concern turning into anxious horror.

“I’m sure of it. They were planning to meet at the Hacienda. Paulie’s chair was still warm when you took it.”

When Vivian realized I was leaving, she said she’d be dressed in a flash and we’d party the night away. She flew to the bedroom continuing her desperate chatter as she dropped to the floor and ripped through the piles of clothes. She finally stood, holding a fifties velvet evening dress in front of her, cursing as the door slammed shut.

I didn’t bother to call. Instead, I gunned the sedan toward the Hacienda. Call it vibes. Bad vibes.

And they got no better when I squealed to a stop in front of the big old house. Like Vivian’s, the place appeared deserted. But when I ran up the front stairs serenaded by the ocean slapping against the rocky shore, I spotted a low-power lamp in the cluttered room behind the bays. I let myself inside the unlocked door, rushed into the sitting room, and felt something shatter across my head.