Page 108 of The Happy Month

He drove a 1982 Oldsmobile Toronado, mint green with a darker green landau roof. The car was in pristine condition, looking like he’d just driven it off the showroom floor. I waited while he pulled out of the garage, then got out to lock the door.

“Get in, get in,” he said.

I opened the passenger door. The seats were plush, forest green velvet. The dashboard was imitation burled wood. As carefully as possible, I folded myself and slid into the passenger’s seat. I tried to pull my seatbelt around me, but I couldn’t. I had to ask Junior to do it. When he was done, he said, “Well, off for a bigadventure.”

On the way we talked about cars. Junior told me about every car he’d ever owned. And then every car he remembered his parents owning. “The first car I remember is a 1941 Nash Ambassador. It was teal blue with a mint green top. Are you sensing a theme? When I saw this car, I simply had to have it because of the color. We kept that Nash forever. They didn’t even make cars for years during the war. What was your first car?”

“I had a 1960 Valiant. It had been in an accident, so the frame was bent. It went through tires like you wouldn’t believe.” It also had taillights that looked like they were squinting at you.

I should have shut up then and there. But I didn’t. I’d taken another pain pill before we left so my judgement was off. I told him about my baby blue ’74 Duster that had gotten blown up. And the sherbet green ’79 Nova with mag wheels I’d been given by a mobster.

“Okay, there are some interesting stories there… care to explain?”

“Oh, um, no… not really.”

“Well, I’ve never had anyone give me a car, no less a mobster. And I’ve been blown in a car but never had a car blow up.”

I was deeply regretting the conversation.

Finally, we got to Beverly Hills and Our Lady of Angels Care Home. Junior’s mouth fell open even before we parked. He bent over the steering wheel to get a good look at the place.

“Oh, my Lord. If we hadn’t driven here I’d think we were in heaven.”

We got out of the car. He had to come around and give me a hand getting out. Stopping at the reception desk, I gave my name and they let us in. Edward had done as he’dpromised. As we headed to Patrick’s room, a nice-looking, young orderly walked by. Junior leaned into me and said, “Oh yes, this is heaven.”

In Patrick’s room, we found him sitting in a chair by the window. The television was on as it had been before. Jennie Jones was interviewing Richard Simmons. I turned the sound down.

“Patrick. Hello. I’m Dom Reilly. I was here before. This is my friend Junior.”

He looked at us, seeming to attempt focusing. In a whisper he asked, “Where am I?”

“Oh darling, this is the most fabulous place,” Junior gushed. “You’re so lucky. I’d kill for a two-week stay.”

“A hotel?”

“Exactly.”

“Patrick, do you remember I asked you questions?”

“No.”

“Questions about Vera?”

He looked at me blankly. That concerned me. Had he forgotten Vera? Was the whole reason for my investigation a moot point? Not that it mattered. Sheila just wanted to know what to say to him. But, well, I wanted to know. I wanted to know who’d killed Vera.

Junior said to me, “You should sit down in that chair, Dom. I don’t want you falling on your face.”

I must have looked more unstable than I felt. I gingerly eased myself into a chair across from Patrick.

“Now—”

“Patrick,” Junior interrupted me. “Do you remember the movieThe Girl From Albany?”

That got a smile from Patrick. He said, “I was there.”

“You were there? In the movie?”

“Ivan had us to see the set. Do you know Ivan?”