Noir(ish) (9781101610053) (16 page)

* * *

I sat on the sofa, in front of the fan, with the bottle of bourbon, a bowlful of ice cubes, and my glass, counting the money that had been in Lizabeth Duryea's purse. At some point during my labors Greenstreet wandered in, mewed softly, sniffed at the pools of blood on the carpet and the chair, mewed again, and jumped on the couch. He circled the bowl of ice, sniffed the money, and licked my hand. Then he curled up in my lap and started to purr. He fell asleep that way. I kept pouring and counting.

I stopped when the bourbon ran out. I'd hit twelve thousand dollars. There was plenty more to tally. I was tired; I'd do the rest tomorrow.

* * *

They'd been gone an hour or two when I finished the bottle. I thought about calling Stanwyck, but I had no idea just what I
was
gonna tell her. I was glad I hadn't had to ask her for the bullets; she'd have taken them out of the station over my dead body, or anyone else's. Lucky for me, the phone at my office had been a lot more agreeable.

Chapter 12

Thursday, July 3rd, 1947, 8:30 p.m.

The neon sign outside my open window blinked. The radio was playing softly; the classical station was still having problems, so I was listening to Pres soloing on
“I Can't Get Started.”
He was terrific, but the tenor sax has the loneliest sound of any instrument ever invented. It makes blues sound even bluer.

My office was warm. At least the air was dry. It would probably stay dry. One big storm in a summer is about all the city ever gets. The fans were helping, and there was a light breeze blowing in. Not exactly what I'd have expected of a Los Angeles July, but then, not much of what had happened the past two weeks
had
been what I'd expected.

Life was funny that way. I kept trying to stop expecting things. Either you got more than you bargained for or you were disappointed. I didn't know which was worse.

I'd spent the last week getting my life back in order. Everything was back in the office files—again. I'd even had the waiting room repainted and the three chinks in the wall behind the secretary's desk filled in. I'd gotten a couple of husbands as new clients whose wives were being indiscreet, and a couple of wives whose husbands were. There'd been a few other inquiries, people who wanted to find other people, or things, that had disappeared. I'd passed and told them to call McPherson or Marlowe. I didn't want to do nothing—being bored was worse than peering through windows—but I wanted nothing to do with any mysterious comings and goings. My “bonus” was making it possible for me to turn down any offer I didn't want. For a while, at least. Quite a while.

Jules Bezzerides had given his blessing to a handful of the bills Scott had given me and a few more that came out of Lizabeth Duryea's purse. I'd deposited it all in the bank immediately. I wasn't used to having large sums of money lying around, and it made me nervous. The teller looked at me a little oddly when I gave him all that cash, but he took it, counted it twice, handed me my bankbook, and offered me my choice of a comforter or a pillow. I told him he could pick whichever one he wanted and keep it. He thanked me but said that would be against the bank's rules. I nodded, took another pillow, and left. I didn't want to make anybody break any rules, and Greenstreet had already begun to thin his new pillow's feather count.

Scott was right—every trace of blood was gone by the time I got home Monday. There wasn't even any red dust.

I bought a new lamp for my living room, one with a fringed white linen shade. I'd never really liked the shantung, anyway. Then I shopped for a new Buick. The one I ended up with was deep blue. It had gray leather seats, white sidewalls, and a big trunk. Wally and McPherson and I (Bart Neff and Fred Keyes were otherwise engaged) made plans to go up to Santa Rosa in it over Labor Day weekend, with our fishing gear and all the bourbon we could fit in whatever space was left over. It looked like there'd be plenty.

After that, I thought I might take that trip to Paris, before the red beret got cobwebs.

I put an ad in the
Times
for a new secretary. References required.

And, finally, I called Stanwyck.

She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Bacall! I need coffee,” her voice boomed as she lifted the mouthpiece. I heard Bacall's voice in the background call, “Sure thing, Lieutenant Stanwyck,” as she said, “LAPD detective bureau. This is Stanwyck.”

“How you doin', Laur?” I said.

She sighed, then snarled. “Damn it, don't—”

“—call me Laur,” I said with her. “Yeah, sorry.”

“You still a smart-ass, Grahame?”

I leaned back in my chair and watched the floor fan spin. The streets were quiet: the evening before a holiday, I figured. Everybody was already at the beach or the fairgrounds or hidden away in some very private retreat doing things they hoped they'd never read about in the papers or hear about in court.

“I suppose so,” I said. “They give you an implant when you get your PI license.”

“Lasts a long time.”

“My whole life, I expect.” I tucked the receiver against my shoulder and took the Bicycles out of my drawer. They hadn't gotten much use lately, and I was getting out of practice.

Stanwyck snorted. “So how's the Seattle caper coming?”

“All over,” I told her. I kept the relief out of my voice.

“Good.” She paused and sniffed, then went on, minus her usual edge. “I'm, um, I'm sorry about . . .”

“Gloria?”

“She still hasn't turned up.”

“Yeah, I figured you'd have called. Well.” I flicked the three of spades at the hat. It went in. “She had a good life. And I have the feeling she's in an interesting place now.”

Stanwyck whistled. “I didn't know you believed in that sort of thing.”

The Queen of Hearts landed on the brim, face up. She was better off making tarts, anyway. “Oh, there are lots of things I've come to believe in recently, Lieutenant.
You
wouldn't believe half of them.” The six of clubs spun to the floor. I shook my head. “Anything new on the Siegel case?”

“No new leads, if that's what you mean.”

“Yeah, sort of.”

She laughed. “Moe Sedway's offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward to whoever makes the arrest,
if
there's a conviction.”

“Nice incentive. Good luck.” The four of hearts twirled in the air, hit the inside of the brim, and fell into the crown. I smiled.

“Somehow, I think his money's safe.” Stanwyck smacked her lips. “Strangest thing? Those bullets you gave me—
they've
disappeared, too.”

I said “Oh, yeah?” and tried to sound surprised.

“Yeah! You haven't been anywhere near the evidence locker, have you?”

“Hey: They won't even let me through the front door these days.”

“I didn't think so.” I heard her Zippo click, the
hiss
of a cigarette igniting. I still wanted one, after all this time. I reached into the desk again. The pack with the lone ranger was still there. I took it out and dropped it on the blotter. “And I don't think anyone
could
've taken them,” Stanwyck was saying. “Not only were they under lock and key, but
I
stapled the evidence bag shut, and I'm the one who opened it.”

“Gee. Tough break.”

“Yeah.” She inhaled deeply. “So why'd you call, Grahame.”

“Oh, no special reason.” I put down the cards and turned the cigarette pack over, then turned it again. “Just thought I'd say hello.”

Stanwyck snorted. “You never called anyone to say hello in your whole life, Robert.”

“Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf.”

“Yeah, maybe. And maybe the Chief'll retire and they'll give
me
the job.”

“You deserve it.”

“I deserve a lot of things, Robert. But I'm never gonna get them, 'cause I wear a skirt to work.”

“Mm.” I couldn't argue the point. “Maybe someday.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“And you'd hate it anyway, Stanwyck. Being stuck in an office all day?”

She blew the smoke out and spoke quietly. “There are some things I'd like to be offered the opportunity to hate.”

I nodded and said “Mm” again. I wasn't going to argue that point, either.

She dragged on her cigarette. The sound crawled through the telephone line and ended in a long silent moment. Then she said, “Call me when you wanna buy me another drink, okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

“And Robert?”

“Uh-huh?”

Stanwyck inhaled slowly, then exhaled and cleared her throat. When she spoke, her tone was casual but she sounded resolved. “It doesn't have to be anything more than a drink. I mean, we both lead busy lives, and it probably wouldn't work out.”

“Yeah. Probably not.” I picked up the cards again. “You're not cut out to be a homemaker, and I'm not cut out to be someone's home. And I'd make a lousy”—I grinned—“hobby.”

“Yeah, I hear it's a
full-time
job,” she said. The edge was back, but then she added, sweetly, “Grahame, I think you're rotten.”

“I think
you're
swell, Stanwyck,” I replied, hoping she could hear my smile, “and I'll keep thinking you're swell so long as I'm not your husband.”

She growled “Mm” softly into the phone. “Just go a little easy on the bourbon, okay?”

“Sure.”

“And don't keep looking for angels. There ain't none. Down here, anyway.”

I pulled the cigarette from the pack. “Yeah.” I put it between my lips. “They only look like they are, right?”

“Right.” She took a drag on hers and snorted. A snort.

“Well,” I said. “See you around.”

“Yeah. Around.” I heard her yell, “Hey, Bacall, where's that coffee?” Then she hung up.

* * *

I put the phone in its cradle, leaned back again, and looked at my watch. It was almost nine. Darkness was just setting in. The L.A. that I knew—elongated shadows, the clicking of footsteps in them, people who smoked and drank too much and people who vanished and the people who made them vanish—was out there, waiting. I debated whether to finish tossing the deck, go home, or visit a bar: It was Thursday
—that
Thursday. I pulled a full matchbook from the desk drawer and sat, turning it in my hands and looking at Paris and the newspaper pictures on the wall, for a couple of minutes. That got boring so I stood up and looked out the window. It was the shank of the evening, and I could see the blink of the neon lighting up the sky, then darkening it fifty feet past my window. I poked my head out and read the sign:
“Dreamland.”
A pool hall and penny arcade filled with a hundred men and women enjoying the
clack
of billiard balls and the
clang
of steel balls on the bumpers of the bagatelle games. They didn't have another care in the world at the moment. I'd passed the place a million times and never looked up.

I sat down again and opened the matchbook. “I Can't Get Started” ended; Woody Herman's recording of The Song began. Why not?—that made everything perfect. I was about to reach over to turn the radio off when the phone rang.

“Nuts,” I muttered. The somewhere-clock chimed nine times. I thought about letting the phone ring: It was probably a wrong number. I picked it up anyway. Ringing phones make me curious. At the office, anyway. “Robert Grahame, private investigator,” I said.

“I have a long distance call for Mr. Robert Grahame,” an operator enunciated syllable by syllable.

“This is Grahame.” I figured it might be my father. Besides the monthly letters we exchanged, he called me now and then, at home or the office, when he got really lonely—which, fortunately, wasn't very often. Holidays, birthdays. Things like that. He led an active life.

“Go ahead please,” said the operator, and clicked off.

The voice on the other end was soft, husky, and definitely not my father's. “Hello, Robert,” it said.

But it
was
familiar. “Hello,” I said back, a little uneasily. I tucked the phone against my neck again and tore a match out of the book.

“You're there late.”

“Uh-huh.” I twirled the match between my fingers.

“Well. I tried your apartment . . .” There were a couple of deep breaths; then the voice said, “Are you busy?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Good.” There were a couple more breaths. Then: “I hear you're looking for a secretary.”

Now it was more than just familiar. “I am,” I acknowledged. “Maybe.”

The voice—a girl's—paused, then asked warmly, “How are you, Robert?”

The cigarette was still in my mouth. I lit the match and looked at it. “I'm . . . okay. You?”

“Okay,” she said. “But I'm so cold
so
often, even in the summer.”

“Maybe you ought to get a coat.”

“Maybe I
ought
to go someplace where I don't need one. I really, really hate Chicago.”

I blew the match out. “Really?”

“I'm thinkin' about moving back to L.A. I'd need a job.”

“Uh-huh.” Suddenly my stomach flip-flopped. I wanted a drink. A double. On the other hand, I wanted to swear off the stuff forever.

“What do you think?” the girl on the other end asked.

I tried to grin. “You got references?” I said.

I heard the grin in her voice. “I hope so,” she said. “From the best private eye in Los Angeles.”

“Sounds good.”
Maybe
, I thought.
Be a little cautious
, I told myself. I picked up a pencil and wrote that on a pad, tore the sheet off, and looked at it. “I . . . think we'll have to talk about it. A long talk.”

“Yeah?”

I took the cigarette out of my mouth, broke it in half, and dumped it beside the burnt match in the crystal swan ashtray. The Doc would be very happy. “Uh-huh,” I said. “But I think we may be able to work something out.” I looked at the sheet of paper and read the message. Then I crumpled it and tossed it toward the metal wastebasket in the corner. It went straight in.

Caution is for pump jockeys and insurance salesmen.

“Good!” she said energetically. Then she sighed. Happily. “Good.”

We were both quiet a minute. Soft bursts of street noise came through the window, and the fans whirred. The Song kept playing. “Is that the radio?” she said finally.

“Uh-huh.”

She listened a long moment. “Nice song.”

“Yeah, it is,” I said, and cleared my throat. “One of my favorites.”

“It's not exactly classical music.”

I shrugged. “Unh-uh.”

“But it's sweet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I suppose it is.” I turned the volume up and closed my eyes. The music drowned out everything else.