Mystery Girl: A Novel by David Gordon

and she pretended to be mesmerized by my babble. How happy she was to hear about (not read) my novels then. How wonderful she thought it was that I did what I did. So interesting! So brave! Even in failure I was noble as long as I glowed in her eyes. It somehow didn’t matter so much, if my job sucked or anyone read my books. If those attributes belonged to the man she loved, then he had to be a great guy. Here is the best thing anyone ever saidto me: once long ago, as I rambled and raved, no doubt about a book or movie, I looked across the table and noticed a dreamy, unfocused smile on her face.
    “Are you even listening to me?” I asked.
    “No,” she said, happily. “I was just staring at you and thinking about how handsome you are.”
    Now that very same star quality was horribly annoying, for one reason: it no longer shined on me. And what was she so fucking happy about anyway? That’s what I didn’t like. There were no tears dimming her eyes today. She looked radiant. So did Gladys, her wrap artfully hiding the wrinkles on her neck. We all settled in for a cozy chat.
    “So,” Gladys said, sitting forward and pressing her hands together in her characteristic gesture. “Who wants to begin?”
    “Me, I guess.” I didn’t really. I had no idea how to go about discussing our issues, or even what they were. But I felt the need to seize the stage. “My job is going well. I started a new case.”
    “Ooh,” she cooed, and blinked coyly at Lala, like a happy bird.
    Lala smiled. “That sounds fascinating.”
    “It does?” I asked. “Since when?”
    She shrugged, smiling coyly at her brightly painted nails. “I don’t know. I did a lot of thinking on this trip. Just walking for miles around New York.”
    “But you hate walking.” Lala was one of those Californians who circle the block endlessly until a spot opens in front. She adored valet parking, which I disdained, figuring, I hadn’t made it all the way from home to restaurant alive just to pay someone else to roll my car into a spot.
    “It’s different in New York,” she said. “I was out all day, just wandering in the crisp fall air.”
    “Mmm, that really clears your head,” Gladys said. “When I’m at the colony, out in the desert, I take a long nude hike every morning and watch the sunrise.”
    “It’s so true,” Lala murmured, “and I started thinking, maybewhat we need is some time apart, some space to discover ourselves and see the relationship clearly.”
    “A trial separation,” Gladys said. “That sounds promising.”
    It didn’t sound promising to me: those two words, trial and seperation, troubling enough on their own, were utterly depressing together. Lala warbled on.
    “I mean, why shouldn’t you be a detective if you want? Who am I to judge? Everyone should pursue their dream.”
    “But it’s not,” I said.
    “Not what?”
    “Not my dream. It’s just a job. I wanted to be a novelist. Remember?”
    She flickered but bounced back quick. “Of course, that’s what I meant, of course.”
    Later, at home, I looked online. The weather in New York that weekend had been awful, wind and rain. No climate for Lala, who hated cold and sidewalks and loved her very high heels. But I didn’t even have to check. It was as if Lonsky had infected me with a little of his gift. I looked. I saw. I knew: Lala had not been to New York, had perhaps not even left LA. The reason she was being so nice to me was guilt. The reason for her guilt was the same as the reason for her new joy. She had the sheen of a well-fucked woman. No wonder seeing her now felt like our early days, when she was so madly in love. She was in love again now. But not with me.

22
    I CALLED MILO AT THE SHOP and told him that I thought Lala was cheating on me. He said to come right over. He had an imported copy of the new box set of old Jackie Chan films from Hong Kong, unavailable here and watchable only on his hacked all-region DVD player.
    Milo and I debated which