Find a Victim (8 page)

He didn’t answer. He was glaring past me at the boys in the back booth. “Look at the class of customer I’m getting. I lose the spending trade and inherit the goof-ball set. They nurse one piddling beer all night, just so they’ll have a place to park their drooping tails.”

There was a lull in the music while the jukebox changed its tune. One of the platinum forelocks was telling the others how he had made a booboo with a pig. She had howitzers like your grandma, he said, only it turned out she was Quentin quail, a fugitive from the sixth grade. Their laughter sounded like a distant little battery of machineguns.

“Will Jo be here soon?” I asked the bartender.

He shook his head, slowly and carefully as though it hurt him. “If it’s Jo you’re looking for, no dice. She ain’t coming.”

“Isn’t she working tonight?”

“Not tonight or any night. She quit. Which suited me fine. I was going to fire her anyway.”

“I thought Don Kerrigan ran the Slipper.”

“He did. Not any more. I bought it from him this morning. For which I ought to have my head examined. You a friend of Kerrigan’s?”

“I’ve seen him around.”

“Friend of Jo’s?”

“I had hopes.”

“You’re wasting your time. She isn’t coming back and even if she was you wouldn’t have a chance. That mouse is all fixed up.”

“With anybody in particular?”

He regarded me pawkily. “I’m a married man with four income-tax deductions. Would she confide in me?”

“If she was desperate. Does the name Tony Aquista mean anything?”

His bulging eyes seemed to retract, like a frog’s eyes when it swallows. “I know Tony. He comes in, off and on.”

“He won’t be coming in any more. He’s dead.”

His face went dull and sleepy with surprise. “What happened to him?”

“Shot. On the highway south of town. He was hauling a truckload of bonded bourbon. The load was highjacked. It was billed to Kerrigan.”

“How much bourbon did you say?”

“Seventy thousand dollars’ worth.”

“One of you is crazy. He’s got no outlet for it.”

“The order must have gone in several days ago. Didn’t he tell you about it?”

“Maybe he did at that,” he answered cautiously. “I got a very poor memory.” He leaned across the bar, peering at my face from under ponderous lids. “Who are you, mister? Law?”

“A private detective. I’m investigating the job for the Meyer truck line.”

“Hell, you don’t think Jo had nothing to do with it?”

“That’s what I want to ask her. She knew Aquista, didn’t she?”

“Maybe she did. I don’t know.”

“You know damn well she did.”

His mouth closed, and the broad planes of his face assumed a massive dignity. “Have it your way. I’m not saying nothing. The kid was no great nightingale, but she was always cheerful around the place. Why should I talk her into trouble?”

“Where can I find her?”

“She don’t check back with me,
paisan
. And you’re getting a lot of conversation out of a thirty-cent beer.”

“I’ll have another.”

“I won’t sell you another. Go back to old man Meyer and tell him to bury his head. Then you can bury yours.”

I thanked him for his hospitality and slid off the barstool. The jukebox had a female organ now, yearning for lovers. Two of the girls from the front of the bar, the brunette and one of the blondes, were dancing on the edge of the floor. The brunette was doing the leading. I cut in on them and took the blonde.

She was pretty enough, and young, in spite of the professional glaze in her eyes. She danced expertly and eagerly, her syncopated bosom bobbing against my chest. We whirled around in a cloud of cheap perfume. That or the aftereffects of the sheriff’s blow made me dizzy.

She looked up after a while and showed me a double row of fine white teeth. “I’m Jerry Mae. I love to dance.”

“I used to.”

“You got tired blood? You could always sit down and buy me a drink.”

“I’d rather lie down.”

She chose to interpret this as a pass and giggled mechanically. “You’re a fast worker. I don’t even know your name.”

“Lew.”

“Where do you hail from, Lew?”

“Los Angeles.”

“I spent some time there myself. Los Angeles is a great town.”

“A great town,” I agreed.

Her fingertips moved on the sleeve of my jacket, assessing the probable cost of the fabric. “What do you do there, Lew?”

“Various things.”

“I’d love to hear about them. Come on and sit down and buy me a drink and tell me about yourself.”

“Isn’t there any place we can be alone?”

She pushed me roguishly. “My, you certainly sweep a girl off her feet. If you really feel like a party, there is a room upstairs.”

“Show me.”

I followed her out, running the gantlet of the bartender’s hostile stare. But he didn’t make a move to interfere. Business was business.

A flight of wooden steps slanted up the blank stucco wall of the building. Her slim nyloned ankles climbed ahead of me. She waited for me at the upper door. Caught in the light from the roof, her face was ghastly, as if it had been stricken with yellow disease.

She led me down a corridor to the little anonymous room where her nights ended. A Hollywood bed covered with red chenille, a powder-strewn dressing-table holding an imitation-ivory radio, a sink in one corner. She closed the Venetian blind over the single window and paused by the radio.

“You like music, Lew?”

“I can do without it.”

There were no chairs in the room. I sat on the bed. Love or something like it had broken its back.

She stood looking down at me with a puzzled expression. Her eyes had the hard dismay that comes from seeing too much for too many years and understanding too little of it. Swallowing her doubts, she perched on my knees, letting her skirt ride up over her thighs. The dead-white skin was pocked with needle-marks.

“Don’t you like baby?”

“I like you fine.”

“Then how do you want me, honey? Peeled?”

“On ice.”

“I don’t get it. That’s a new one, isn’t it?”

“I’d rather have information than fornication.” I lifted her by the waist and set her down beside me on the bed.

She looked at me with a kind of smiling pity. “You don’t look like one of the talkers. I’m clean, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Nothing’s worrying me.”

“I have a regular weekly examination.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“For Christ’s sake,” she said. “If all you wanted to do was talk, we could of stayed downstairs. Now you got to pay for the room.”

“How much?”

“Five bucks. And ten for me. I charge the same for talking, that’s only fair. So what do we talk about, how I got into the racket? Or do you want to hear about the various fellows?

“I’m interested in one fellow in particular. Tony Aquista. Know him?”

“Sure I know him. He never went with me, though. Personally, I wouldn’t have him. I always thought he was a little psycho.”

“Is that what Jo thought, too?”

Her face hardened under its mask of paint. “I wouldn’t know what Jo thought.”

“Didn’t she go with him?”

“Maybe she played around with him a little bit, strictly for laughs. I guess she took him home a few times.”

“Recently?”

“Yeah, the last couple of weeks. The boss brought him in one night—”

“Kerrigan brought him in?”

“Yeah. He must of told her to be nice to him. I don’t know of any other reason why she would bother with Tony. He hasn’t even got white blood in his veins, and he’s a kind of a psycho, like I said, and an awful lush. You should of seen him last time he was in. He was loaded to the gills, practically blind. Rocco had to put the dry sign on him.”

“When was this?”

Her eyes rolled up in thought. “Three-four nights ago. Sunday night.”

“Was Jo here?”

“Naturally. He took her home. Or she took
him
home. He wasn’t navigating so good.”

“What does Jo look like?”

“Why? Don’t you know her?”

“Not yet.”

“Seems to me you’re awful interested in a girl you never saw.”

“I have a reason.”

“What reason?”

“It doesn’t matter. Describe her.”

“Well, she’s a little slinky brunette, if you like the type. I was a brunette myself at one time, until I got bored with it.”

“We were talking about Jo,” I reminded her. “I need a complete description.”

“What the hell for? I thought you wanted to
talk
to me.
Incidently, I haven’t got much more time, and you owe me fifteen.”

“Does Rocco time you?”

“With a stop-watch, practically.”

I took a twenty out of my wallet. It frisked away in her hand like a little green lizard with a homing instinct for the top of her stocking. The feel of the money seemed to encourage her:

“Wait a minute. If you want to know what Jo Summer looks like, I can do better than a description.”

She started for the door.

“Don’t forget to come back, Jerry Mae.”

I won’t.

She returned with a blue cardboard placard lettered in gold. “This is a picture of Jo—a glamour pose. Rock just took it out of the window yesterday.”

“The Golden Slipper features gorgeous Jo Summer,” the lettering said. “Songs and sallies, three times nitely, never a cover or minimum.”

Attached to the placard was the slightly beaten photograph of a young woman. She wore a sequined black evening dress with a neckline that plunged to the waist. Her half-restrained breasts were her most prominent features, but it was her face that struck me: a sloe-eyed face, lowbrowed under straight black bangs, with a sullen passionate mouth. I had seen her mouth a few hours earlier, hungrily pressed to the back of Kerrigan’s hand.

I looked up at Jerry Mae. “Is she Kerrigan’s girl?”

She sat on the bed beside me. “Everybody knows that. Why do you think he gave her a job in the place?”

“What kind of a person is she? Straight or crooked?”

“How can I tell? She isn’t exactly a mamma’s girl, but I can’t read her mind. Half the time I can’t even read my own.”

“Who are her friends?”

“I don’t think she has any friends, outside of Mr. Kerrigan. How many friends does a girl need? Oh yeah, she has a grandfather, she said he was her grandfather. He came in one night last month, a few days after she started. He wanted her to pull out of here and go back home with him.”

“You wouldn’t know where he lives?”

“Some place out of town, I think she said in the mountains. I told her she’d be better off at home. I told her if she hung around too long in the cabarets, the wolves would tear her to pieces. I gave her the best advice I could. She’s a little bit of a viper, see, and I tried to talk her out of that. She don’t know what it leads to.”

“What are you on, Jerry Mae? Horse?”

“We won’t go into the subject of me. I’m hopeless.” The corners of her heavy red mouth stretched in a bitter horizontal smile. “The kid wouldn’t take my advice, so she’ll have to learn it the hard way.”

“Learn what?”

“You don’t get any kicks in this life for free. You pay double for them afterwards, and after you run out of moxy you go on paying anyway. So now she’s in a real jam, eh?”

“Could be.”

“Are you a cop by any chance?”

“A private one.”

“Snooping around for Mrs. Kerrigan?”

“It’s a little more serious than that.”

She bit her lower lip and got lipstick on her teeth. “I hope I didn’t say anything to hurt the kid. She treated me kind of uppity—she thinks she’s an
artiste
, and we’re on different kicks—but I don’t hold that against her. I was kind of uppity myself at one time. So I’m paying for it.” Her hand closed on her thigh where the twenty was hidden. “How serious?”

“I won’t know until I talk to her. Maybe I won’t know then. Let’s see, she lives in an apartment house on Yanonali Street?”

“That’s right, the Cortes Apartments. If she’s still there.”

I got up and thanked her.

“Don’t mention it. I need the money,
how
I need the money. But you had me worried there for a while. I thought I was losing it all. Which maybe I am at that.” Her smile was bright and desolate. “Good night, Information. It’s been the most to say the least.”

“Or the least to say the most. Good night, Jerry Mae.”

CHAPTER
10
:
Driving east on Yanonali Street
, I remembered the evidence case in the back of my car. It contained several hundred marijuana cigarettes, done up in packs of five. I had taken them from a pusher in South Gate and was going to turn them over to the State Bureau in Sacramento. If five were missing, the Bureau would never know the difference.

The Negro boys had vanished from the corner. I parked in front of the Cortes Apartments, opened the rear trunk, and found the small key to the evidence case on my ring. I unlocked the steel case and took out one of the little packets wrapped in butcher’s paper.

The inner door of the lobby was locked. Cards bearing the tenants’ names were stuck in the tarnished brass mailboxes banked along the wall. There were eighteen of them, in rows of six. Only one card was printed. Only three of the eighteen were men. Miss Jo Summer, a large immature signature in green ink, was on number seven. I pushed her button and waited.

A low voice drifted through the grille of the speaking tube. “Is that you, doll?”

“Uh-huh.”

The buzzer released the door-catch. I mounted the rubber-treaded stairs into the obscurity of the building. A wall-bracket at the head of the stairs was the only light in the second-floor hallway. Someone had written a message below it with lipstick: “Chas am at Floraines see you there.” My shadow climbed the wall and broke its neck on the ceiling.

Seven was the last door on the left. Its metal numeral rattled when I knocked. The door came ajar, letting out a seepage of purple light. I moved sideways out of it. The girl peered through the crack, blinking at me astigmatically. She said in her kittenish mew:

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon. I was just going to take a bath.”