Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

to his cave by the hair.”
    “You never really told me why it didn’t work out.”
    “His decision to live with me was the last one he ever made while we were together.”
    “What are you talking about? I always thought you and Gary had the most egalitarian relationship of anyone I knew. Larry thought so, too.”
    “Yeah, so did I. It wasn’t till much later that I realized I had a son instead of a lover. It was all very subtle, you see. Nobody is going to ask a feminist lawyer to cook his meals and do his laundry. He didn’t want a mother for that stuff.”
    “So what do you mean?”
    “He wanted to be told what to do: what courses to take, whether to listen to classical music or rock—even, I kid you not, whether to have a dalliance with someone else.”
    “Oh Jesus.”
    “I thought at the time we were merely discussing these things in a sharing, adult fashion, but I realized later that I was making all the decisions. And not only that; Gary had to be constantly reassured about his self-doubts and patted on the head and told what a good boy he was.”
    “It couldn’t have been that bad. If Gary wants a mother, what’s he doing now with a twenty-two-year-old peach blossom?” This was a bit of a sore spot, because Gary left me for said peach blossom.
    “He outgrew me,” I said. “You might be able to carry on a mother-son relationship forever, except that little boys grow up and rebel against their moms. If you recall, it hit me pretty hard when he left me for Melissa.”
    Chris nodded.
    “But now you have pigball.”
    “Parker.” I couldn’t help smiling. “Yes. And I meant it when I said he seemed solid. I think he actually might be a man who’s able to take care of himself.”
    “What are you two doing tonight?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Probably dinner and a movie. We’d better go back to the office so I won’t miss his call.”
    That was about the only reason for going back to the office that Friday, to tell the truth. I didn’t have any appointments, so I planned to spend the afternoon doing research on some pending cases. But I could have done that any time, and the longer I could put it off the better, in my opinion. The one thing I hate about law is poring over musty old law books.
    While I pondered, weak and weary, the telephone rang. Thinking it was Parker, I didn’t pick it up till the third ring, so as not to seem too eager. It was Elena Mooney.
    “Rebecca, I’m in a hell of a fix. Have you ever heard of the FDOs?”
    “No.”
    “It stands for Friday Downtown Operators. They’re a bunch of—oh, fifty or seventy-five young businessmen who meet for lunch every Friday just so they can invite whatever sweet young things they’ve had their eyes on. It’s supposed to be an honor to get an invitation.”
    I believe I may have snorted, but Elena went on anyway. “Well, apparently a lot of them wanted to go to the Strumpets’ Strut, but they couldn’t get tickets, so they got it into their heads to have their own. They called Jeannette von Phister and asked if she knew of a bordello they could rent for it, and she set it up with me. The girls and I will be there as hostesses, but it’s just a party—nobody’s going to turn any tricks. The guys will all have dates anyway.
    “The problem is, it’s tonight and I had a wonderful black guy who wears an ice-cream suit all lined up to play piano, but he’s sick. I know it’s short notice, but do you think you could possibly…”
    “Elena, I’d love to, but I have a date.”
    “For heaven’s sake, bring him.”
    “Oh no, I couldn’t. What if I ran into someone I knew?”
    “For Christ’s sake, it’s just a party. You were at the Strumpets’ Strut with every pimp and whore in San Francisco, and so were the chief of police and the sheriff. What’s the difference?”
    “That wasn’t at a bordello.”
    “Look, I live there. All it is is a party at Elena Mooney’s rather overdecorated Pacific Heights home. If no one’s turning tricks, how’s it a bordello?” She should have been a lawyer.
    “They got you last time for ‘keeping a disorderly house.’ How do you know the cops won’t raid it?”
    “Uh uh. Anybody gets disorderly, he gets thrown out. And don’t worry about the music. The fellow in the ice cream suit comes in every weekend and people are always dancing. The place is soundproofed.”
    I couldn’t see a single thing against it. If I bumped into some lawyer I knew, the incontrovertible fact