That night we went out to eat after, at the diner.  I got the meatloaf.  She got a salad, but I remember that the way she tore into it was like a wild animal tearing into flesh, a fresh kill.  I was sopping up meat and gravy, but I was the one who felt like a vegetarian, half expecting to see her iceberg run bloody.  She asked me what I did, and I told her.

“I knew it,” she said, smiling, and when she did, I saw a hint of something that must have once been there, something she had lost along the way.  “I had a feeling about you.”  And I had a feeling about you, too, I thought, staring at the three piercings above one eye and the two above the other, all studded with little rubies, but I ignored it.  She told me she had a story to tell me, something important that maybe I could help with, something she’d lost that she hoped I could help her find again.  She said she wasn’t ready to talk about it yet, that we could talk next week, if that would be ok with me.  She said she had some rituals to do first.  I have to say, I thought that was strange, but what I’d learned about witchcraft that night wouldn’t have alarmed a nursery school teacher, so I said fine.  And anyway, she was beautiful.  It was a dark beauty, but it was beauty, and plenty of it.
           

When the next week came, I missed the class because of a surveillance I was doing of a devoted husband and father who was staying late at the office to screw his secretary, but we met again at the diner. There was one new piercing above the right eye.  Now they were even.  Three and Three.  And this time no make-up.  The effect of the tiny red sparks against her creamy white skin framed by the jet-black hair was mesmerizing, but I wrenched my head down to the menu.  I was surprised when she ordered a burger, but she said she needed to get grounded from all the work she’d been doing.  I didn’t question it.  When the burger was gone and half the fries, and she was on her second cup of coffee, she excused herself to go to the bathroom.  I admired the way her long, jet-black hair swung in rhythm over her perfect hips draped in a long black skirt.  She had on a tight fitting top that was flame red, and the effect was warming and chilling all at once.  When she sat back down, and I looked from her green eyes framed by the little rubies to the curve of her breasts beneath her top, I couldn’t even remember what my wife -- my ex-wife -- looked like.
           

“Now we’re ready to talk,” she said.
           

I took out my notebook and pen, took the last bite of my tuna melt, and pushed the plate aside.
           

“No laptop?” she asked, smiling.
           

“I’m old-fashioned,” I said, involuntarily returning her smile.  “I’ll type it in later.” 

So that was how it started.  Her son had died four years ago.  The police ruled it suicide.  But she said that she knew they were wrong.  Something had killed him.  She was sure.

“Something?” I said,

“Yes,” she answered.  “Whatever took my son from me was not a person.  It was a thing.  Not a person.  A thing” 

And it was at that moment that I realized that she had to be in her late thirties at least, going on forty. Without the make-up, I could see the little crow’s feet nestled at the corner of her eyes, and the smile lines around her mouth that must have been from some earlier times.

I told her that four year old cases can be very difficult to investigate.  That I would look into it if that was what she wanted, but that I couldn’t promise anything.  I started to mention my fee, but she cut me off.

“Money is not an issue,” she said, and I wondered how that was, but that train of thought was completely cut off when her face lit up with a beautiful smile in which I could see all that she’d ever been and could be, or might be, if not for the things in this world that can come and take away your son.

“So tell me,” she said, “What‘s your name, private eye?”  It was so strange, because I hadn’t even noticed that I’d never introduced myself.

“Jay,” I said.  “Jay Sapphire.  My friends call me Blue.” 

 

That night we went back to her house.  She lived north, a couple of blocks before Dog Beach, off Cable.  The wrong side of the tracks in Ocean Beach, though there are no tracks. That night, like I said, it was cold, even by San Diego standards. Forty maybe. And the mist was lightly falling, somewhere between fog and rain, like the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to cry.  And the sidewalk glistened, nearly sparkled, with flecks of sand and salt. I wanted to look at her.  I’d been looking at her all night.  I’d been looking at her in the magic store.  I’d been looking at her in the diner.  Out here in the dark, on the sidewalk, alone, I wanted to look again. I wanted to grab, I wanted to touch her. I wanted it so much that I knew if I didn’t resist then I never would.  I kept my head down.  Shivering a little in the cold. That sidewalk. Just that sidewalk, glistening.  And then when we got to her door, I looked.
             

 It was a little house, tiny actually, but not by O.B. standards.  From the street lights it appeared to be deep blue.  The trim showed up brown in the amber of the front door light frosted with delicate droplets of water speckled with salt, like god’s tears. I later found out it was red.   The front yard was a beautiful rock and cactus garden with a small decorative waterfall.  Just to my left sat an old VW in the short driveway. I looked from the house, to the garden, to the old Beetle, to Hope who was standing directly in front of me unlocking the door, her hair shimmering wet, and nearly grabbed her hips, but stopped myself.  “You own this?” I said.

“I got it in the divorce,” she answered, looking back over her shoulder as she pulled the key out of the door and stepped inside.  When she flipped on the lamp near the door, and another one across the room, I just looked, because everything was blue.  The walls, the furniture coverings, the rug, even one of the lamps. “Did you know I was coming?” I asked, motioning to the room. 

She looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed.  “Blue was my son’s favorite color.  Maybe that’s why I picked you.”

She pulled out a box, which was also blue, from the corner of the room where the remains of black and red candles stood on what appeared to be an altar.  A large blue candle stood, untouched, in the center of the altar.  From the box she handed me a large folder of papers.  “This is the information on my son’s death,” she said.  “They’re photocopies, so don’t worry.” I took the file and told her I had a court appearance tomorrow, but that I would look at it in the evening.  I walked toward the door, and she followed.  We stood in the open doorway, me on the outside, she on the inside, the cold giving me a shiver, Hope giving me a shiver, my lightweight not up to the temperature or her proximity, and she leaned into me and kissed me on the cheek.  “I knew the Universe would send me just who I needed,” she said.  “I’m so happy.”  And this time, I did grab for her hips.

“No,” she said.  “Not now.”  I took a little step back as she closed the door and almost whispered, “Good night.”

“Good night,” I answered to the closed door, and the ocean breeze swirling the cold mist around my spinning head slightly altering the force of gravity that should have told me something, but the throbbing in my heart – and elsewhere -- told me to ignore it.  And I did.

Chapter 5 coming New Years!