The Spring At Moss Hill

Russ eased onto a cushioned stool at Marty’s Bar off Hollywood Boulevard. Opened in 1972, it had survived the changes in the area because of its best and its worst qualities. Best, it served good drinks and good tacos, chili and burgers. Worst, it was a notch above seedy with its dark wood paneling, chipped tile floor and cracked vinyl cushions. Cheaply framed Hollywood photos hung crookedly here and there, featuring everything from black-and-whites of the Three Stooges to color shots of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. It wasn’t a spot to see and be seen, but since neither interested Russ, he didn’t mind.

His older brother greeted him with a big grin. Marty had chosen to put in an application there when he came to Hollywood eighteen months ago because they had the same name. To him, it was amusing, as good a place to tend bar as any before he got rich and famous. “What’re you having, little brother?” he asked.

“Heineken, thanks.”

It was one of a dozen beers the place offered on tap. Marty grabbed a pint glass—scratched but clean—and drew the beer. He was dressed head-to-toe in black. With his chiseled features, clear blue eyes and straight, medium-brown hair, Marty was classically good-looking. He had no visible scars, although plenty were hidden under his black attire. Russ had never been as good-looking. He was beefier, and more of his scars were visible, if from minor injuries. His eyes were a darker blue. A scary blue, a former girlfriend had told him. He didn’t know what that meant, but she’d insisted it wasn’t bad.

Marty slid the beer across the worn bar. “All set to head east?”

“As ready as I’m going to get. You still okay with driving me to the airport?”

“Yep. No worries.”

Russ didn’t see any sign of worry in his brother’s face, but Marty had been taking acting lessons. He didn’t like airports and anything that flew except birds and bugs, and not all of them. But it wasn’t something the two of them talked about. Ever.

“Daphne offered to drive me,” Russ said. “I declined.”

“She told me. Smart move on your part. She’d throw her back out driving your Rover. We’d never hear the end of it. I suppose she could take her car and leave the Rover with me, but I don’t see how that would get you to LAX alive. She tootles around here in that sporty little thing she drives, but I doubt she’s driven on a big highway in years.”

“It’s hard to tell with her.”

“I bet she’d have her own driver all the time if she could afford it. She must do all right, but no way does she have that kind of money.” Marty paused to take an order from another customer, then grabbed a pint glass and poured another beer. “It’s cool she likes this place.”

And because she did, Russ thought, he was working with Sawyer & Sawyer as an investigator, living in Julius’s guest room and on his way to Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. Russ had met Daphne when he’d come up from San Diego in February to check on Marty, make sure he wasn’t living under a bridge. She’d been sitting two stools down from where he was now, drinking a French martini and bitching about some nonexistent problem. She’d found out Russ was just out of the navy, doing security and investigative work on his own in San Diego, and put him in touch with Julius.

“This place suits Daphne’s contrary nature,” Russ said.

“She likes to surprise people. Also I make a damn fine French martini, if I do say so myself.”

Three young women came in and ordered margaritas, laughing and chatting about their plans for the evening as they sat on stools down from Russ. He left his brother to his work and took his beer to a small booth. He ordered fish tacos and settled in for the next hour, until Marty was free to take him to LAX. In exchange, he could use Russ’s Rover while he was back East.

After Russ finished his tacos, Marty delivered a fresh beer and set a squishy, tissue-wrapped package on the table. “A present for you. Don’t get taco grease on it.”

Russ unwrapped the tissue to reveal a well-made Hawaiian shirt. “It has palm trees on it, Marty.”

“Damn right. I figured now that you’re a real PI, you need your own Magnum, PI shirt, just like Tom Selleck in the ’80s—except you’re not as tall as he is and you don’t have his sense of humor.”

“I don’t live in Hawaii, either.”

Marty grinned. “A little devil-may-care attitude wouldn’t hurt you, Russ. Selleck was about your age when he was playing Magnum.”

“Thanks, Marty. A Hawaiian shirt with palm trees on it won’t stick out at all in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.”

“Go ahead, little brother. Put it on while I finish up.”

Russ held up the shirt after Marty disappeared behind the bar. The palm trees were relatively muted. What the hell. It would make Marty happy for him to wear it, and it would be comfortable on the long overnight flight across the continent.

He changed in the men’s room. When he got back to his booth, Marty was ready. “Looks great. You want to finish your beer or head out now?”

“Now’s fine. Thanks for the shirt, Marty. I feel cool.”

His brother laughed. “You are the definition of cool. Come on. Let’s get you to the airport.”

* * *

Marty drove. He hadn’t had any alcohol, and he wasn’t distracted by the prospect of spending the next few days in a little New England town to make sure Daphne Stewart could do her master class without incident. Not that anyone—Daphne included—was concerned or had any reason to believe there would be an incident.

Russ grimaced at the prospect of wasting the next few days of his life, but he said nothing.

“I’m buying a car,” Marty said. “A friend is giving me a good deal on a clunker. All I need.”

“You’ve managed to get where you need to go without a car.”

“Friends, Uber and public transportation. It’ll be good to have wheels for a few days. I won’t take off up the Pacific Coast Highway, though. Promise.”

“I recorded the mileage.”

“Of course you did.”

Russ hadn’t, which Marty knew, but it was the game they played with each other. Marty, the irresponsible dreamer. Russ, the feet-flat-on-the-ground military type.

Wasn’t that far off from the truth.

“Have you decided to take a permanent position with Sawyer & Sawyer?” Marty asked.

“I’m there now. That’s all I know.”

“You can’t camp out at Julius Hartley’s place forever. Unless the daughter who’s buying it is available?”

Russ wasn’t going there. He had no interest in either of Julius’s daughters. “Right now I’m focused on this trip.”

“I thought you’d worm your way out of this one. Daphne’s got you by the short hairs, doesn’t she?”

“She’s a valued client and a good friend.”

Marty sputtered into laughter. “You just did the civilian version of saluting smartly. Daphne’s great, but she knows how to get what she wants. Think she’ll go through with this class in this little town? We have a pool going at the bar. Most of us think she’ll twist an ankle or get a sinus infection to find some way out of it.”

“I resist any urge to predict her behavior. She’s talking about helping to start a children’s theater in Knights Bridge.”

“With the theater-major twins? Seriously? Where’s the start-up money coming from? Don’t let Daphne fool you. I’ve seen her calculate a tip. She’s careful with a buck.”

“I’m not getting mixed up in what happens with this theater.”

“You always were the smart brother.”

When Marty pulled up to the appropriate terminal, he had a death grip on the wheel but otherwise seemed okay being this close to aircraft. He cleared his throat and turned to Russ. “I’m doing fine, Russ. I mean it. Don’t insult me by worrying about me.”

“What makes you think I’m worrying about you?”