4

Pace had to admit to himself that Misty Tonga interested him. He had for the most part shunned having anything to do with a woman that could have potentially resulted in an extended relationship—a word he despised almost as much as “awesome”—since Marnie Kowalski; and the thought of having to deal with a much younger woman had burned a hole in his cerebral cortex, an incendiary disaster delivered courtesy of the Cruz girl. Pace fought the feeling of wanting to check out Misty Tonga again, but a few days after first encountering her he returned to the entrance to Crusader Ralph’s Followers and knocked on the door. This time, even after repeated attempts to summon someone, nobody answered. Pace tried the knob but, as before, the door was locked.

Pace was mildly disappointed and he felt restless, so he walked down the street and entered Duguid’s Grill and Bar. It had been a long time, two years or more, Pace figured, since he’d been in Duguid’s. The original owner’s daughter, Rima Dot Duguid, had been in the movies for a while, then vanished from public view. Pace wondered what happened to her. He took a seat at the bar and looked around. It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday, past the regular lunch hour, so only one of the six tables was occupied, and he was alone at the bar. At least he thought he was until to his genuine surprise Misty Tonga came out from the ladies’ room and sat down four stools to his right. Pace had not noticed the drink on the bar in front of her. The bartender, a tall, thin but potbellied man with a dyed black mustache and bald head, came over to Pace and asked him what he’d have.

Pace nodded in the direction of Misty Tonga and asked him, “Is she drinking a White Russian?”

“She is. A double.”

“I’ll have one, too.”

“Your funeral,” said the bartender.

Misty Tonga was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt with the same words on it as the pink one had. She did not give evidence of having noticed Pace, but after the double White Russian was set in front of him he picked it up, moved down the bar and stood behind the stool next to hers.

“Hello, Misty Tonga,” he said, “remember me? Pace Ripley? From the other day? I just knocked on your door but nobody answered.”

Only her eyes moved his way. She lifted her glass and took a sip of her drink. Pace studied her left profile. In the semi-darkness of the room her ruby-red flesh glowed.

“Did you come for another teaching?” she asked.

“Not really. But I was surprised you gave me one for free.”

“What I told you was not a teaching. I just said that to make you go away.”

Misty took another sip of her White Russian. Pace sat down.

“In this soft light,” he said, “your skin looks like it’s on fire.”

“Did Merle Oberon have skin like mine?”

Pace grinned and said, “I don’t think so, although I never saw her in person. Are you the only one who works in the Crusader Ralph office?”

“You haven’t tried your drink.”

“I haven’t had a White Russian since I was in my twenties.”

He picked up his glass, took a sip, winced a little, and set it back down on the bar.

“Too sweet for you,” said Misty. “For me, too, actually. I order one every now and then to remind myself of a man who once told me my pussy smelled like a White Russian. I was twenty-two years old then. I’d never had one so I didn’t know what it was. I thought he meant a woman from Russia.”

“Where are you from, Misty?”

“Hacienda Heights, California.”

She turned and looked into Pace’s eyes.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Pretty damn old. Seventy.”

“I’m forty-six. Do you find me attractive? I mean, attractive enough to want to take me to bed?”

“Yes, Misty, I do.”

She smiled and finished her drink, then she stood up.

“You’ve made me very happy, Mr. Ripley. I hope we will meet again.”

Pace watched Misty Tonga walk out of the bar. The bartender came over.

“That woman’s been comin’ in here at about two o’clock every day for the last three weeks. Orders a White Russian, takes fifteen minutes to finish it, and goes. She’s a woman of mystery.”

“Seems to be,” Pace said. “But she knows what she wants.”

“Women always do.”

“You happen to know whatever happened to Rima Dot Duguid, daughter of the people used to own this place?”

“Wasn’t she a lion tamer or somethin’ like that?”

“She played one in a movie once. She was an actress.”

Pace picked up his glass but hesitated before taking another sip.

“That’ll be five bucks whether you drink it or not,” said the bartender.

Pace nodded, held the White Russian up to his nose, and sniffed it.