Noir(ish) (9781101610053) (6 page)

Wilma picked herself up and brushed off her pants and coat. “Let's go,” she said. Elisha grunted his assent. She glared at me again, grabbed her hat, and stalked into the outer office.

Elisha grinned. His mouth looked like somebody had staked a claim on it: Half his teeth were gold. The other half were missing. He took a step in my direction and aimed his size 14 foot at my face. I threw my arms up, but he stopped in mid-kick, lowered the foot, and laughed. I was plenty relieved. If his kick was half as bad as his laugh, it would be plenty vicious.

The big guy looked at me a moment longer, then, gun still in hand, followed Wilma out. The door slammed behind them, and I heard footsteps pounding down the wooden hall.

I waited till I figured Whit had had enough time to close the elevator door behind them. I was still hurting—it felt like I would hurt for a month—but I raised myself slowly, taking breaths as deep as my belly would comfortably allow. I checked for broken bones. There weren't any. I stood up. Cautiously. I touched my face; there wasn't much blood, and what was there was almost dry. I had plenty of blood; I could do without those few drops. What I couldn't do was understand: who they were, how they knew about the package, why they wanted it. Somehow, Dan Scott had to be behind the invasion; I didn't know how, but I
would
find out.

I went to the desk, picked up my cup, and took a swallow of coffee. It was tepid, but it helped ease the tightness in my throat and stomach.

I walked gingerly to the cabinet Elisha had forced open, knelt down, and reached into the very back of the empty bottom drawer, in the concave ridge behind the file slide I'd moved last night, just before I left. I smiled. Ah, the magic of cellophane tape.

Moving slowly, I picked up my gun, the .38 Colt—most people favored automatics these days, but I liked, and trusted, the old-fashioned kind—and started on the rest.

I glanced into the waiting area: It looked like a quake had hit. Well, I'd deal with that later. I grabbed an empty box and began to fill it with the residue of Wilma and Elisha's spree that was strewn across my office.

I'd filled one box, and the second was still half empty when I heard the footsteps clicking in the hallway. The shadow of a figure was moving briskly toward the outer door. It was embracing something large. I was in no mood for another visitor, much less one carrying a surprise. I took out my gun and stood by the door to my office. I was hidden, but I could see anyone who came through the frosted glass. The footsteps stopped. I cocked the hammer. The figure adjusted its burden. I waited. The door opened. I raised the gun.

Arms filled, Gloria walked in. “I'm back, Mr. Grahame,” she called cheerfully. “Guess what I've—” She saw the mess and gasped. “Oh, my, what—Mr. Grahame! Where are you? Are you all right?”

I breathed a small sigh of relief and lowered my Colt. “I'm fine, Gloria,” I said, and stepped into the waiting room.

She dropped the package and her purse on her desk. “What . . . ?” she began. Her voice trailed off. She gestured around the disarray.

“I had a couple visitors. They weren't very friendly.”

“Oh, dear!” She removed her hat, then hurried toward me and began to dust me off. “Oh, you've got a cut! Let me get—”

I touched my face again. The blood was sticky, still not quite dry. “It's just a scrape, don't—”

“A scrape can be
just
as dangerous as a cut. Now you sit down and I'll clean it!” she commanded. I sat, more amused than injured, in one of the still upright, well-dusted chairs. Gloria had an unexpected maternal instinct. “Where's your kit?”

I pointed to a storage cabinet. The doors were open and its contents a mess. “In there,” I said. “Top shelf, unless they ‘moved' it.” She went to get it. “What's in the package?” I asked.

Gloria stopped. She turned toward me with a startled look. “The pa— Oh!” She laughed. “
That
.” She waved at her desk. “I got you a pillow. The bank was giving them away with a deposit of seventy-five dollars!”

“Greenstreet'll like that. He's torn half the feathers out of the one he sleeps on.”

She returned, the first aid kit in hand, and carefully ministered to my “wound.” “They were giving a choice,” she added. “A pillow or a down comforter, but I thought, this is Los Angeles. No one has to have a
comforter
.” She giggled. “Not even me. Actually, it was very surprising that they were giving them away at all.”

She applied iodine. I hate iodine. I squirmed. “That stings.”

Gloria patted my head. “Oh, it will be fine in a minute,” she said. “Shall I call the police, Mr. Grahame?” She tucked away the iodine bottle and peeled the back from a small adhesive strip. “Oh, my, there are things all over! All those poor flowers! But don't you worry about it, I'll take care of everything, lickety-split. Okeydokey?” She applied the bandage to the cut and pressed it gently into place. “Were they looking for something? Did they locate it?”

“They said they were. I don't think they found it.”

“What?!”

“I don't know.” There was no reason to tell her that. She'd just ask more questions and—for her own safety—the less she knew, the better. Wilma had said they'd be back, and I believed her. “I think that's fine, Gloria.” I reached for my face. She slapped my hand, something even my mother never did.

“Don't play with that!” she exclaimed. “You'll pull it off and it will start to blee—” The phone rang. “Oh!” she said.

“I think you better answer that.” I touched the bandage. I was sorely tempted to rip it off.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She straightened herself and went to her desk. She cleared her throat, put down the first aid kit, and lifted the receiver. “This is the office of Robert Grahame, private investigator. May I help you?” she said, the perfect and pleasant professional. She listened. “Who's calling?”

She shook her head and covered the mouthpiece. “He won't say,” she whispered. She sounded nervous about it.

“Ask him what it's about,” I said. I righted chairs and vases and repositioned the
Look
s and
Life
s on the magazine table.

Gloria cleared her throat again and lifted the phone. “Can I tell Mr. Grahame what it's about?” she asked, then: “Uh-huh. . . . Uh-huh. One moment please.” She covered the mouthpiece. “He won't
say
,” she whispered, still nervously.

This was tiresome. “Tell him I'm out and to leave a number. I'll call him back.” I wanted another cup of coffee, one I could drink while it was still hot. Then I wanted to go get a hard-boiled egg sandwich, or something else I'd be able to chew despite the growing ache in my jaw, and eat it while I read the
Times
and recovered from the morning's misadventure. That would have to wait, though, until I'd made a start on reordering the office. I looked at it again and frowned, wondering
why
.

Gloria pursed her lips and nodded. “Well, Mr. Grahame is out of the office, right n— . . . I'm, um, not sure. I don't
think
he'll be too long. If you can leave— . . . I don't
know
what time he'll be back, I can't say for—”

“Nuts,” I muttered, not loud enough for Gloria to hear. “I just walked in.” I took the phone from her. “This is Grahame,” I said into it.

The voice on the other end was mellifluous and friendly, just like an insurance salesman's ought to be. “Mr. Grahame?” it said. “This is Dan Scott. I think you're lookin' for me.”

Chapter 5

Wednesday, June 25th, 1947, 8:15 p.m.

The Pickup is a bar and grill on South Street, a ten-minute streetcar ride from my office that I could have walked in twenty if there hadn't been something I was vaguely aware of in my shoe, and if my body hadn't still been sore from its unplanned morning workout. It's nicer than most spots that cater to a crowd that would just as soon not be recognized the way they would be in the dens where the Hollywood hoi polloi and their admirers are known to lurk. It's dimly lit, the chairs are large and red plush, and the tables are dark wood planks studded together and far enough apart that you don't usually hear the goings on at the ones near you. For some reason there are large silk fans on every wall, and the gold-wallpapered bathrooms are spotless. At least the men's is. A guy about the size of a jockey is the attendant. He's easygoing enough, but he looks like he'd bite you if you dropped a soap wrapper on the floor or left your towel on the marble vanity.

It was also a place
we'd
frequented. In the past year, I hadn't gone there much. Alone, it was just another memo re: used-to-be. But it was a nice, public place, just the sort I wanted in case Scott decided to show up accompanied. By Wilma and Elisha, for example. I was especially concerned because when I left the office there'd been a guy in a brown hat leaning against the Hellinger Building, reading a newspaper, and chomping a two-for-a-nickel cigar that gave off the aroma of flies hovering over carrion. I saw him fold the paper and head off in my direction, keeping a dozen steps behind me. When I stopped, he stopped. When I got on the streetcar, he got on the streetcar, and when I got off, so did he. When I got to the Pickup, I turned around and waved to him. He didn't wave back. He just leaned against a building, opened his paper, and chomped some more.

It didn't make sense that he was working for Scott or Lizabeth Duryea, but I didn't have any idea who he might be working for.

I'd made a few calls that afternoon, but who Wilma and Elisha were—and where Scott might be—had remained a mystery. I hadn't been able to reach anyone in Seattle, but I figured there wasn't much reason to anymore. Wally Dietrichson had never heard of Dan Scott; he said he'd try to find out—then he asked whether I needed any more insurance—and neither Stanwyck nor even my buddy Mark McPherson had been able to help.

McPherson was a fellow PI. Like most of us, he was an ex-cop. I was the exception. I sort of wandered into it. I'd gone to Frisco—no reason except it sounded exotic—when I finished high school. I had fifty bucks saved up and a romantic notion of life on the docks, which I'd probably gotten reading Eugene O'Neill. I met Sam Spade a couple of years later in a bar there. He'd needed an office boy to run errands and now and then provide diversionary actions. I'd learned the business from him and got my license, then headed down to L.A. after the Maltese Falcon case—and Ruth Wonderly. She hit him harder than most people knew, or than he was willing to admit, even to himself; he went into seclusion for a year or two after it was over. We still kept in touch via Christmas cards and the like. Spade was a good guy—tough but not as tough as people made him out to be. He had a heart. And a conscience, even if he was having a fling with his partner's wife when Wonderly killed Archer. He passed the conscience on to me, and I was glad to have it. There are a lot of guys in this business without one.

That June morning, it wasn't my conscience that was bothering me. It was my stomach. But by one o'clock, it had recovered enough that I'd kept down my lunch, a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of seltzer. But a big purple bruise was sneaking its way out from under the Band-Aid, and my jaw was still plenty sore. So was my frame of mind: Having two hoods ransack my office and knock me around in the bargain always left me sore at whoever was responsible, and Scott was still my prime suspect.

While Gloria replaced and repositioned fallen files, flowers, and picture frames, Scott and I had talked on the phone. Then he suggested we meet, at my office. “We can talk there comfortably,” he said; he would “straighten everything out.” I almost laughed: Gloria and I would be spending the rest of the day playing King's Men to the office's Humpty Dumpty. I suggested The Pickup instead, at eight thirty. He asked if the chairs were large. I said they were. He said okay.

The funny thing was that Scott didn't ask me about the package until
I
mentioned it. He said to bring it along. I said I would.

Between calls, I told Gloria what had happened. She said “Oh, my!” and clucked sympathetically while I helped her try to re-create order out of chaos. By the time I left, things were finally beginning to make some sense again. She cheerily volunteered to stay late and put the rest back. I offered to buy her supper; she turned it down: a special diet, she said. I gave her another bonus: the pillow. Greenstreet would survive.

And I'd ordered a new file cabinet. With a combination lock.

* * *

Wednesday nights tend to be slow in the booze-and-hamburg business, another reason why The Pickup seemed like a good choice. The place was popular with cops
and
robbers; I was bound to run into people who knew me—yet another precautionary measure—but Scott and I could have our privacy.

It also had air-conditioning that worked beautifully in a Los Angeles summer and a good house bourbon; once upon a time
we
sat there, and I drank glass after glass while she sipped her extra dry martinis, the olives slowly disappearing between her glistening full lips, and smoke never got in my eyes. Or my throat. Nobody smokes in The Pickup. Smoke makes Sydney MacMurray, the owner, sneeze. The only drawback was the lousy jukebox: Every other record was somebody singing, or playing, The Song.

I wrapped up a little something before I left the office, and I walked through The Pickup's door about eight fifteen. Being early was a way to settle myself in, make sure I had control when Scott showed up. I was greeted by the noise that greets every patron at every bar and grill in every city in America: rumbling voices, some hushed, some loud; laughter; the clatter of glasses and plates and people coming out of and going into the kitchen and the bar. And the jukebox, which was playing
it
. The Dick Haymes version.
Nuts
. I remembered why I'd avoided the place for a year. Come next Thursday.

I waited by the entrance and watched while Sydney—a small, rotund man with a sly smile, the pigtail and elliptical black eyes of his Chinese mother, and the freckles of his Scotch-Irish father—ushered a guy and a girl into the seating area. The guy was in a black suit, and his hair was slicked back like that new congressman's, something Nixon. The girl was wearing four-inch heels and a black sheath that was one size too small in the hips and two sizes too small everywhere else. She was blonder than Blondie and had a chest that resembled two pristine volleyballs forced into eggcups. Most of each volleyball was fully visible.

“Right this way, sir. Madame,” Sydney said with perfect aplomb as he waved them through the crowd of tables like they were the Duke and Duchess of Woolworth. Sydney maintained his decorum whether his patrons were the rich and famous (or, as likely, notorious) or stargazers on the lookout for them. Or, like me, just in search of a little privacy to conduct business. “Thanks, pal,” the guy said. I saw him unpeel a bill from a thick roll. His companion was silent except for the snap of her gum.

“Thank you, sir!” Sydney said. He smiled, folded the bill, and tucked it away discreetly. “Oh, Vivian?” he called, and a waitress—tiny, with a sweet-smiling, childlike face and firm legs that disappeared under just enough cover to skirt anything the Hays Office might have found objectionable—sidled toward him. “This is Miss O'Shaughnessy,” he told Slick Hair. “She'll be your server.”

“Well!” the patron said appreciatively. “How do you do!”

“Oh,
I
‘do' really well, hon,” Vivian said. The corners of her mouth curled slightly into a smile that could have been a sneer if she'd put forth a little more effort. She talked like the kind of girl who put forth effort only if there was a large tip to be gleaned from it. Then she'd make any effort that might be required.

“Yeah, I'll
bet
you do,” he replied, and withdrew a cigar and a lighter from his pocket.

Sydney interrupted. “I'm sorry, sir. We don't allow smoking in The Pickup. Several of the staff are allergic.”

“Oh,” said Slick, and put them away.

“But” said Vivian, “we allow almost everything else. Hon.” The girl with the volleyball chest blew a bubble and popped it, then chewed impatiently as Vivian seated them. “What can I get you?”

“Two martinis,” the man said. “Easy on the vermouth, hon.”

Vivian's mouth curled again. “We're easy on everything here.”

He nodded. “I can tell. Especially on the eyes. Miss O'Shaughnessy.” He reached out and touched her cheek. She lowered her head and butterfly-kissed his finger. He grinned.

“
Samuel—Wilder!
” the Duchess exclaimed. “You oughta be ashamed of yourself!” She blew an angry pink bubble and snapped it back into her mouth.

“My friends call me Vivian,” said Vivian.

“Well. I'd certainly like to be your friend, Vivian,” noted the Duke. She smiled. He smiled. Everyone smiled. Even me.

Except Miss Chest. “I never!” she said. “She's young enough to be your little sister!”

Vivian kept her eyes on Slick, who kept his eyes on her as he said, “Ah, shaddup!”

Miss Chest stood up. “Well!” she said, and stormed out.

“I'll be over later, Barbara. Be there,” he called after her. Vivian licked her lips. Slowly. “Maybe,” Slick added.

Vivian took a small step back. “Be right back with both your martinis. Big brother.” She sounded like June Christy after one drink too many. Then she turned—slowly—and slinked to the bar.

I watched it all from the entryway. Barbara flounced past me the way only a black-sheathed blonde in four-inch heels can flounce, muttering, “
May
be,
may
be.” I leaned against the wall, looking around for a man alone, and was satisfied when I didn't find one. I'd have the chance to relax.
If
the darn jukebox would play something else. I decided to feed it a couple quarters. A dozen songs would give me half an hour of relief.

Sydney returned to the front, saw me, and broke into a wide smile, greeting me like a long lost sheep returned to the fold. “Mr. Grahame, good evening. It's been a while since we've seen you.”

“Evening, Sydney.”

“It's a real pleasure to have you back. Dinner, drinks, or both?”

“Probably just drinks.”

“Very good,” said Sydney. He bowed slightly and led me down the several steps to the main floor.

“I'm meeting someone in a few minutes. He'll ask for me.”

“I'll bring him to your table personally.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And if I could have one off to the side—way off to the side?”

“Of course.” He stopped and touched the shoulder of a passing figure. “Vivian?”

Vivian, holding a tray with two martinis, stopped. “Yes, Mr. MacMurray?”

“Take Mr. Grahame to number four, please. After you deliver those?”

“Sure,” said Vivian. She smiled and, all hips and legs, strutted away.

“Miss O'Shaughnessy's new here, Mr. Grahame,” Sydney told me.

I nodded. “Miss O'Shaughnessy looks new everywhere. Almost new
born
, in fact.” Sydney laughed easily. “Oh, and do me a favor.” I handed Sydney two quarters. “Put those in the box. Any twelve you like, except . . .” I pointed at a speaker. “Okay?”

“Of course, Mr. Grahame,” Sydney said with an inscrutable smile. He returned to the entryway, making the requested stop en route.

* * *

By the time Vivian returned, Nat King Cole was singing “
For Sentimental Reasons.”
I was pleased. She came toward me,
décolletage f
irst, curled her smile, and said “Right this way, hon” in a low, smoky voice and with a beckoning finger that, like the ones that weren't beckoning, was slim, perfect, and had a blood-orange nail. The nail was long and sharp and looked like it could slice open your jugular vein or your wallet—which depended on the lady's mood—to get at what was inside. Her nails reminded me of nights I'd spent in San Francisco twenty years ago. I used to think those were the days. Now I knew they were. I was almost forty. I couldn't live like that again even if I wanted to. Sometimes I did want to. Being a grown-up has its advantages, but I've never thought it was all it's cracked up to be. Like I said: Everybody has problems. But when you're nineteen, you can leave them in the bar and forget about them. When you're forty, you remember. Everything.

Vivian seated me at number four, in a corner where I could see the room. “You by yourself?” she asked.

“For the moment,” I told her. “Why? You thinking about joining me, or the size of your tip?”

Vivian put the tip of her beckoning finger on my shoulder. “Not the size of
my
tip, hon,” she purred. “What can I . . . get
you
?”

I looked at her finger. I said, “
Just
bourbon.”

She pouted with her full lower lip but didn't move the fingertip. “Straight?” she said, whispered, into my ear.

“I think a little ice would be a very good idea.” I raised my glance to her face.

She narrowed her eyes. They looked like Greenstreet's when he caught the scent of a girl cat in heat. “What-ev-er you say, Mr. Grahame. I'll be right back.” I watched her walk to the bar. Her tail swished in slow motion all the way.

I shook my head, mostly to clear it. Watching Vivian was like watching grease spatter on a floor you were about to walk across: You knew every step would be slippery, especially the first one. So I watched the entrance. Guys came and went, none of them alone and none of them looking like they were looking for me. Vivian brought my drink and a big smile. Then she brought me another—this time a double. At nine fifteen, when she brought my third, Dan Scott still hadn't shown up. I drank it in a single swallow—that darn song was playing again: Three drinks in, I didn't need a jukebox to keep hearing it. Vivian brought a refill. I closed my eyes, rested my head in my hands, and made a resolution.
This is the last drink. Then I go home and go to bed.